The Winter Palace (21 page)

Why cannot she smile more? Make a joke? Drink some wine and stop talking of books?

My father used to say that if a tree is bent, every goat will jump on it.

In her letters to me, Catherine wrote that she had overheard courtiers calling her cold and haughty. Her hand, they whispered, was like a tiger’s paw, her smile tight-lipped and cruel.

She was hardly ever allowed to leave Oranienbaum. And when she did, solely to accompany the Empress and the Grand Duke during the most important of court functions, she had to be cautious.
Don’t try to approach me, Monsieur
, she wrote to warn me.
This may put in danger one of the few consolations left to me
. And so I saw her only from afar.

She wrote of hours spent alone, staring at a book, often uncut, on her lap. The Empress seldom addressed her, and when she did, Elizabeth’s voice was gruff and impatient.
I’m quite convinced that the Old Fox does me harm with La Grande Dame. But what can I do? I’ve never given him any cause to be my enemy
, Catherine wrote. My few references to the likelihood of the “awaited news” met with either silence or an admonition:
Please, Monsieur, do not ask of what I cannot control. The happiness of friends is the only comfort for those who have no other comfort
.

Dogfights, the faro, the billiards. Fistfights, bears wrestled to the ground. Hours spent sweating at the
banya
, discussing the vagaries of luck.

They cheered one another on, the officers of the Imperial Guards.

Fortune is a woman; she yields only to the bold.

Good luck rubs off.

No one, the officers bragged, knew horses like my husband. Many could spot muscular necks and strong hind legs, heads with large nostrils and well-set ears. Many could point to the cannon bones that were too short, angles of joints that broke the proportions. But it took Egor’s master eye to assess which promise would live up to the challenge of the race, which flaw would cause damage on the track.

“Come with us, Egor Dmitryevich,” they called from the street, laughing and whistling with impatience. “Hurry up.”

A man, unlike a woman, did not have to grow bitter, I thought, sitting alone in our front parlor, flipping cards in the game of solitaire, staring at the unsmiling faces of queens, kings, and jacks.

The clock struck midnight. I pushed the cards away and stood. The sound of scurrying feet came from the hall. There would be whispers in the kitchen. The servants were taking sides, bestowing the blame.

I walked to the window and opened the shutters. Apothecary Lane, silvery with lingering moonlight, was deserted, covered in a layer of thick, wet snow.

In the morning I took a sleigh to the Great Perspective Road. In the French perfumery I bought
eau de fraîcheur
, smelling sweetly of cinnamon and cloves. In the Merchants’ Hall I chose a length of muslin and a pair of red silk stockings embroidered with jasmine blossoms.

Only a foolish gambler holds nothing back.

In the afternoon, when Egor came home from palace duty, I ordered Masha to bring us hot tea and some caraway-flavored vodka. I poured some vodka into my tea and drank it. It made my voice soft.

I spoke of the January freeze that painted ice gardens on our windowpanes, of the fox trails on the banks of the Neva I wished he had seen.

I closed the windows and the shutters. I let my hair escape its confining combs.

I laughed.

You have your world
, I thought.
I’ll have mine
.

I placed my hand on Egor’s, and I thought how we might look to someone watching us: a husband and his loving wife, sharing a moment of closeness at the end of the day.

That night, scented with my best perfume and dressed in the turquoise nightdress that set off my eyes, I temped him to lie with me.

It was a child I wanted. “Only mothers of healthy babies are allowed in the presence of the Grand Duchess” was the Empress’s order.

B
y January of 1749, St. Petersburg’s salons were rife with speculation about who among the Imperial Favorites would win the battle for a place in Elizabeth’s bed. For a while the Empress appeared frequently in the company of the actor who had played Susanin at the Russian Theater. Then some Cossack from Kiev, swiftly promoted to Lieutenant, dazzled her with his “Devil” dance. Next came Nikita Beketov, a choirmaster, rumored to be one of the Chancellor’s protégés. Beketov’s supremacy seemed assured until he was foolish enough to accept a gift from Countess Shuvalova, a jar of whitening cream, promising to smooth his skin. When his face erupted with bloated red patches, the Countess made sure the Empress feared for the pox. Beketov left the palace in disgrace.

Much was made of the fact that in the Imperial Bedroom, Countess Shuvalova scratched the imperial heels and told the Empress stories. “Might it have anything to do with the Roman nose of her handsome son?” I heard my husband ask with icy glee. He meant Countess Shuvalova’s youngest son, Ivan Ivanovich, whose father, Marshal Shuvalov, had once been one of Elizabeth’s lovers. There were more Shuvalovs at the court; one of Ivan’s uncles was the Chief Prosecutor, two more served in the Secret Chancellery. “Open a coffer and a Shuvalov will pop up,” Egor told me, “sniffing for his share of the spoils.”

Word spread of Ivan Shuvalov’s youthful charm, the soft, dark curls over his high forehead, the absentminded smile on his sensuous lips. “Eighteen years younger than the Empress. Always with a book in his hands. He has written a play. He wants her to rebuild the palace. He corresponds with Voltaire! He has given a pure white falcon to the Grand Duke.” St. Petersburg salons resonated with cries of astonishment, accompanied by an uncertain laughter.

The Soldier is like a child
, Catherine wrote.
He wishes to play at life while I want to live. He believes all flattery and gets annoyed at me for my warnings. Sometimes, I’m tempted to throw myself at La Grande Dame’s feet and implore her to send me home to Zerbst
.

There were too many drunken feasts in Oranienbaum and too many military parades, often interrupted by displays of Peter’s rage. Chairs had been smashed, a bottle hurled out of a window.
I believe that the Soldier’s heart is good
, Catherine wrote,
but his mind is getting feeble from too much drinking, and then he gets unpredictable
.

I reread her letters greedily before the flames consumed them. Some things should never be written, not even in secret.

If only we could talk
, I thought.

When the ice on the Neva thinned and yellowed, the hostesses of St. Petersburg salons repeated the rumor that the Empress changed her dresses five times during the day. Young Ivan Shuvalov was now reading to the Empress, a new play he wished her to stage. Ivan Ivanovich had been spotted walking through the palace with a dreamy look on his face, his hand over his heart as if he were taking a pledge. The Emperor of the Night began spending most of his time in the Anichkov Palace.

Alone.

“Imagine this,” I heard.

Imagine the Winter Palace where there is no more late-night switching of bedrooms, no shrieks of anger, no fear of the dark. Behind the bedroom curtains, imagine fiddlers playing, choruses singing old Russian ballads. Imagine a mechanical table always in use for the Empress’s late-night suppers. Imagine love’s blindness, a woman bewitched.

I tried to, but my thoughts drifted away.

To Masha’s delight, I sniffed rot everywhere and gagged at smells: the wet sheepskin coat of our coachman, the frowsy smell of Egor’s riding boots. In the mornings I was waking up feeling nauseated. For days I would eat nothing but dark, coarse bread and drink only kvass. The midwife had told me to fill my mind with pleasant thoughts.

I was again with child.

“Our son,” Egor kept saying, putting his hand on my still tight-laced belly. “Our little soldier.”

I heard the softening in his voice. I felt his hand move up to caress the skin at my throat. I thought of the butcher who had not been paid this month. Of tallow candles that smoked, for we could no longer afford wax ones, not even for the parlor. Of the string of pearls that had disappeared from my jewelry box.

In St. Catherine’s cathedral on the Great Perspective Road, where once I listened to Mass with my parents every Sunday, I knelt at the altar and crossed myself the Latin way. It was a daughter I prayed for, a daughter who would not refuse to be born. A daughter I could call mine.

Pregnancy suited me. As the child grew in me, my hair thickened, my skin glowed. I dutifully drank teas the midwife gave me; I never raised my hands above my shoulders, never wore a necklace around my neck. Masha fed me leeks and cooked prunes. I let her massage bear grease on the skin of my belly, tie a red ribbon around my wrist and mutter her incantations.

This time all will be well, she said, and I believed her.

The Chancellor of Russia was waiting for me on Millionnaya Street, his carriage parked a few steps away. I noted the shaggy gray brows, a maze of wrinkles that furrowed his cheeks, the shadow of a double chin. All this talk of imperial love was not to his liking, I thought, with a tingle of pleasure. The Shuvalovs were now openly dismissive of Bestuzhev’s anti-French policy, accusing the Chancellor of taking bribes from the English King.

Masha saw the red velvet jacket and gold rings of a grand man wishing to talk to her mistress, the manservant standing behind him, holding his cane, and I heard her mutter a hasty prayer, flustered and uneasy.

“Good day, Madame Malikina,” the Chancellor said. Bestuzhev’s rust-colored velvet jacket was straining at the seams, and I imagined it cracking open, revealing the white cambric shirt, the scars underneath.

“Good day, Varvara Nikolayevna,” he repeated, the missing teeth molding his lips into a grimace.

I walked right past him.

Masha scurried behind me along the Moyka Bridge. Panting, she tugged at my sleeve. I refused to stop. I didn’t look back, either, delighting in the sound of my steps on the paved sidewalk.

I heard the carriage door open and close, the horses’ hoofbeats on cobblestones, a snarl of a stray dog frightened away. By the time I reached the door of our house the Chancellor was there. Masha hesitated for a moment, but I told her to go inside.

He asked about my health and my husband’s.

“We are both well,” I answered coldly.

The summer heat brought out the smell of fish and rotting roots from the Moyka River. Without warning, I thought of myself in that first year at court, the child I had been, the scalding pain of my loneliness. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Bestuzhev had asked then. I pushed back a wave of nausea.

The shrewd eyes of the man who had once been my teacher noted my disgust. The Chancellor flashed me a brittle smile, followed by a grave nod, as if I were still a child in need of chastising.

It’s not over. You cannot afford to hate me
, the look warned. I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to give in.

“I’d like you to assure the Grand Duchess of my respect for her,” he said.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by his words, but I was. Once again the old palace game demanded a shift of alliances, a shameless turnabout. The Shuvalovs courted Peter, so Bestuzhev had to turn to the Grand Duchess.

“The little
Hausfrau
with a pointed chin?” I could not resist a sneer.

“I was wrong. I willingly admit it.”

“How willingly?” I challenged.

The Chancellor gave me an indulgent smile.
You can have your brief moment of satisfaction
, he seemed to be saying.
You have earned it
.

“Most willingly.”

“How can I assure the Grand Duchess of anything?” I asked. “I don’t ever see her now.”

“That mask of ignorance doesn’t suit you, Varvara Nikolayevna. Jewels become you far more.”

I heard the warning in his words, and I stiffened, knowing I would not sleep that night. I had suspected that the Chancellor might know of the letters the jeweler Monsieur Bernardi smuggled out of Oranienbaum but decided that he allowed them, a wise investment for the uncertain future. Each time I examined Catherine’s seals, however, they always seemed intact. What else did I miss that I should’ve seen?

“I’ll pass on your assurances to the Grand Duchess when I have the opportunity,” I muttered. A wagon loaded to the brim with birch logs rolled by. An onion seller wearing long braids of onions around his neck was spreading a dirty-looking blanket on a wooden crate. My stomach churned again.

“Good,” the Chancellor said, as I opened the door to the house. “This is all I wished to hear. For now.”

On November 25 of 1749, the Empress’s Accession Day, Ivan Ivanovich Shuvalov was appointed the Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the Empress, the position given to the official Favorite.

Ivan Ivanovich’s first invitation from the Empress had been to a pilgrimage. In the salons of St. Petersburg,
praying together
had become a synonym for the sexual act.

The Shuvalovs may have won, I heard, but success is fleeting. Ivan the Devout would not last long. There were limits to even the most ardent of prayers.

Each morning, when I woke up, I placed my hand on my belly, to feel the vigorous thumps of the tiny heels. From the kitchen wafted the smells of roasted kasha and warm bread. Masha made omelets for me with caviar. Egor’s commander, Colonel Zinovev, had sent us a basket of gifts. Honey that sweetened my tea came from his country estate. So did the cured hams and smoked sturgeon. Now that his favorite Lieutenant’s wife had to eat for two, the attached note said, she had to have the best.

I lowered myself into the rocking chair and let it sway gently. “Swedish,” Egor called it, on account of its glossy black finish decorated with red and gold.

He said he would name our son Dmitry. After his own father. Our second son could be Nikolay, after mine.

The dark November days were bitterly cold, the air smelled of sour smoke. The cherry tree outside my bedroom swayed in the wind. Flocks of sparrows descended on its bare branches, only to depart in a swarm of startled wings. “Open the window,” I begged Masha, but she refused, muttering of drafts and bad air and the evil eye.