The Winter Palace (28 page)

“Not yet five o’clock,” I said. Next door, Darya was quiet now, lost, no doubt, in one of Masha’s tales.

Egor leaned toward me. The war, he said, meant opportunities. There was a tone of triumph in his voice now. As if he had finally solved a puzzle that had defied him for a long time. “Real opportunities,” not empty promises of favors the palace was so full of, all so easily forgotten. There would be promotions, distinctions. Rewards for bravery. Battles he could tell our grandchildren about. Some of the Guards regiments would go; others would stay. In a moment of historical importance, it was essential to know where one wanted to be.

“We might have a future now,
kison’ka
,” I heard my husband say.

So that was it. No more hints and promises. My husband would leave the Palace Guards for the army. There was relief in this prospect. It seemed right. The true end to years of aimless floating. Egor could return a Major or even a Colonel. Our daughter would have a proper dowry. We could afford an estate.

“When?” I asked.

“Soon,” Egor answered, lowering his voice. “But don’t tell anyone.”

I nodded. I would not dispute the wisdom of not letting others know what you wished for.

“Any chance for that tea?” Egor was eyeing the tea urn.

The maid
was
taking a long time. I could hear her in the corridor, arguing with the footman.

“Serge Saltykov tried to borrow money off one of the new officers from the Izmailovsky Regiment. Orlov is the name. The man’s just arrived from Tver.” Egor’s tone was cheerful now. “Wants to put fifty rubles on some mare he’s spotted. Of rare strength and dexterity, he says. Wants me to check her out.”

“Tried?”

“Orlov is broke, like everyone else. Saltykov is going to Oranienbaum to ask the Grand Duke for a loan.”

Promising myself to scold the maid later, I opened the spigot, spilling hot tea on my hand; I rubbed it hastily away. “When?” I asked.

“He said tomorrow, but he says many things.”

“Let’s drink it while it is still hot,” I said, filling two cups. In spite of all my rubbing, the tea left a nasty red welt of a burn.

The conversation turned back to the chances of a war, but I no longer listened to what my husband said. Saltykov was returning to Catherine. Finally, she’d been given another chance. And this time, no one could question the paternity of a child that might be born.

T
here was to be one more year and one more miscarriage, but then in January of 1754 the Grand Duchess became pregnant again. This time, to my joy, the Empress brought Catherine back to St. Petersburg.

The orders were strict. No physical strain, no horse riding, and no dancing. Catherine was never to raise her hands or make any circular motions. She could walk but only slowly, with small steps. To prevent falls, the maids were to rub her thighs and legs mornings and evenings with a mixture of the oil of Saint-John’s-wort and brandy.

There would be no more corsets or masked balls. No wearing of necklaces so that the baby would not have the cord twisted round its neck. No salty foods, for salt could cause an infant to be born without nails or tears. Catherine had to be kept happy, for a crying mother would make a child melancholy.

Elizabeth told the Grand Duke to “approach” his wife at least once a month, to brand the shapeless mass in Catherine’s womb with his own stamp.

And Serge Saltykov?

“No need for the Grand Duchess to make a spectacle of her rutting any longer,” Elizabeth said, when she ordered Serge to stay away from Catherine. To be truthful, she had been cruder than that. By then the very thought of Catherine provoked Elizabeth to use the language of the tavern. Suddenly it was all about cunts and pricks, fucking and sperm. A German mare and a Russian steed. The mechanics of breeding.

I saw Catherine often in these days but rarely without companions. Still, there were moments when—in search of some lost item from the Empress’s
ménagement
—I was able to sneak into her bedroom alone. It was her departed lover she always wanted to talk about.

“Is Serge missing me? Why did he have to go? Why doesn’t he write?”

Her voice quivered on the verge of tears. She couldn’t believe he had not come to visit her for such a long time.

I thought of Sergey Saltykov’s swagger as he walked along the Great Perspective Road, his obvious delight with himself whenever the Grand Duchess was mentioned.

I spoke of the future of the Imperial Heir, of sacrifices. “Serge cannot see you,” I told Catherine. “He has to keep appearances.” But then she demanded the truth from me.

“She ordered him to stay away from me, didn’t she, Varenka?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The baby—” I began, but she did not let me finish.

“Why is everybody always talking about this baby, Varenka? Am
I
not important at all?”

She knew why. In her womb she was carrying a future heir, the ruler of the Empire, the son Elizabeth wished to command her Russia one day.

I often wonder what would have happened if I had not lied about Catherine’s faithless lover. But I, too, believed in the Kunstkamera warning: A mother’s thoughts and fears shape her child. I didn’t want Catherine to torture herself with jealousy and doubt. I wanted her baby to soak up the hope from her heart.

In monasteries and churches throughout Russia, crowds prayed for the safe delivery of the imperial child.

With each month of Catherine’s pregnancy, the Empress grew more hopeful. Her rages shrank into mere bursts of anger, short and fiery, burning themselves out as quickly as they erupted. As soon as the blessed event was mentioned, Elizabeth’s slaps and curses turned into the sign of the cross.

A boy or a girl? Everyone sought to penetrate the secret of Catherine’s womb. Was she favoring her right foot or her left? Was she picking up objects with the right or left hand? When she sat down sideways, which leg touched the ground?

She favored the right side of the body, the noble, stronger side, everyone said. She was carrying a boy.

The Empress bargained with God and fate. Ivan Shuvalov had not been barred from her bed, but more and more often, as soon as he left, Elizabeth called for her confessor. Any time, day or night, a servant might be dispatched to give alms to the poor. A night of drinking would be redeemed with a day of strict fasting and prostration in the chapel. On her knees, in front of the Holy Icon, the Empress of Russia beseeched Our Lady for the safe birth of
her
child.

Elizabeth called on Catherine every day. She asked if the Grand Duchess slept peacefully through the night. She made certain Catherine was fed rhubarb and stewed prunes; her bowels should not retain waste matter for too long, since this could cause premature labor. She sent Catherine goose lard to smear on her belly, believing it far better than almond or linseed oil. She ordered that the dogskin pregnancy girdle be washed in rose water and softened with fresh butter.

There would be no separate nursery. The Empress could not think of the
blessed
baby left alone with wet nurses far from her watchful eye. Catherine’s child would sleep in the Imperial Bedroom; the move to the temporary palace would be postponed until the baby was strong enough to bear it. The imperial diviner declared the Imperial Bedroom free of hidden currents, and an old woman was brought to purify the space every Friday with incense of wild herbs, “to keep the Prince of Darkness away.”

I found myself in the heart of these whirlwind preparations. Serf girls about to give birth were brought to the Winter Palace daily, each hoping to be appointed imperial wet nurse. The Empress screened every one of them. They had to be young, healthy and pretty, patient and mild-tempered, with sweet breaths and big breasts. I watched each of them kiss the crucifix and swear they would feed the imperial infant with love and tenderness and never use the herbs and roots of the Devil.

The pillows, quilts, coverlets were ordered, though not yet delivered, for fear of tempting bad fortune. Silver fox fur would line the ornately carved cradle; soft lace trimmed tiny bonnets and silken gowns; new curtains of quilted velvet would keep the draft away.

When the child is born
, the old saying warns,
beware the gust of cold air
.

Catherine had become a vessel, a womb. But as Darya snuggled at my side, as I felt her warm, plump arms around my neck, I truly believed that the moment Catherine held her own child would repay her for all the betrayals of these days.

In the summer, when Catherine was six months pregnant, the Empress refused to let her out of her sight. She ordered the ducal pair to move with her to Peterhof, where she could see Catherine every day. A midwife was to stay with the Grand Duchess at all times.

I spent most of that summer in St. Petersburg, where Monsieur Rastrelli, ordered to postpone the grand rebuilding for yet another season, was hastily completing the most pressing repairs of the Winter Palace. Charged with the preparations of the confinement room in the Imperial Suite, I watched the progress of repairs with growing concern. After weeks filled with noise and dust, in the Imperial Bedroom plaster still fell from the mold-eaten ceilings, newly laid wallpaper peeled off from dampness. By the end of August, when it became clear that the repairs would not be completed on time, the Empress abruptly changed her orders. Catherine would give birth in the small Summer Palace at the edge of the Summer Garden.

Egor was still awaiting his transfer to the army. His request had been languishing on yet another desk. Colonel Zinovev had died unexpectedly in a riding accident, and Egor’s new commander created difficulties. A commendation was lost. Yet another copy of his service record had to be ordered. My husband had already spent a small fortune in bribes.

With so much talk of the imperial baby, Darya was getting jealous. She wanted to know why she did not have brothers or sisters. Ever since Masha told her that storks brought babies through the chimneys, she checked our chimney daily. Once I saw her leave an apple there, for the stork. She was ecstatic to find that the next day it was gone.

It would be a painful delivery, I heard, every time I visited Peterhof to report to the Empress on the progress of the preparations. The mother’s body would be slow to adjust. The first child carried an extra duty of charting the way for its brothers or sisters. Once I overheard the Empress tell the midwife that in the event of unforeseen trouble, the child’s life was to be saved at all cost.

That, too, I kept to myself.

Catherine’s gowns grew fuller, their folds more supple. Her face was pinched with worry. In the Empress’s company she hardly ever stood up from her chaise longue. For fear of startling her, all loud noises were forbidden. The courtiers moved carefully, spoke in whispers.

Serge Saltykov was still at court, in the Grand Duke’s entourage, though the Empress had threatened to send him away.
I see him
, Catherine wrote to me,
but never alone
.

This was not for the lack of Serge’s trying, she assured me. The midwife,
the dullest woman imaginable
, as Catherine described her, was spying on her for the Empress and never left her long enough for anyone to come in unobserved.

Autumn had come early that year. On the last day of August the wind from the river was already biting and raw, tearing leaves off the trees. I was in the yard of the Summer Palace when I saw a carriage stop. Catherine’s voice called my name.

“I couldn’t let you know, Varenka,” she said, seeing my surprise, once Prince Naryshkin helped her from the carriage. Her little white dog, Bijou, was jumping about her ankles, happy to be let out.

“He kidnapped me, you know.” Catherine pointed at Prince Naryshkin. Her eyes were impish with mischief, making the dark stains under them disappear. She arched backward as she walked toward me, and I caught a glimpse of peach-colored silk underneath her woolen traveling cape. Loose and bulky—the child was a mere month away.

“Entirely my idea,” Prince Naryshkin said, laughing, as he described his clever subterfuge. He’d persuaded the Empress to permit this trip from Peterhof so that Catherine could see for herself the progress of preparations. Then he’d invited the Grand Duchess for a brief stroll with her dog so that the midwife would let her out of sight. Together, they had rushed to his carriage.

It was a washday. In the yard of the Summer Palace, giant vats were heated over outdoor fires. The air smelled of suds. The servants were everywhere, carrying baskets of sorted and unsorted linen, bringing out the washboards and barrels for the leftover soapy water that would then be given to the poor.

I led Catherine into the room that was being prepared for her delivery. A room with a small antechamber, alongside the Empress’s apartments, crimson damask on the walls, a table. A bare mattress stuffed with horsehair lay on the floor, as the imperial custom demanded. Bijou sniffed it again and again, making me wonder if the mice had not nestled in already.

“The linen will be soft, Your Highness,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “Well worn. And there will be a bed, for the time after.…”

Catherine surveyed the room, frowning. After the splendors of Peterhof, I knew how stark it seemed to her. In the corridor, someone was scolded for treading on table linens. Bijou began to bark.

“If I die, Varenka …” Catherine said. Her face turned so pale that I felt a stab of fear.

“You won’t die. You are strong.”

It was Prince Naryshkin who took her by the arm and led her to the window.

“Look,” he said.

In the Summer Garden, Serge Saltykov in a purple velvet ensemble bowed very low. His plumed hat swept the ground. Catherine gasped softly and clapped her hands.

“My second surprise of the day,” Prince Naryshkin announced, throwing the window open so that Serge could climb inside. “Remember this, Princess. Reward me with at least one smile.”

It took one jump, a quick turn of his lithe, muscular body, and Saltykov was in the room with us. His smile was triumphant.