The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (7 page)

As the years passed, Alexander found friends who shared his liberal consciousness. He invited Adam Czartoryski, Paul Stroganov, Victor Kochubey, and Prince Alexander Golitsen to join him in what they came to call the Committee of Friends. At the Winter Palace and the Tauride Palace, they drank champagne and cognac and dined on oysters and caviar at midnight. They talked late into the night. Together they pondered the question of liberating the serfs and making Russia a more democratic nation.

The heat of the great ceramic stove chased away the cold of the northern night. Prince Czartoryski lurched to his feet, a glass of champagne in his fist, his black curls plastered flat against his forehead, his black eyes shining. “You, Alexander, will lead this empire into enlightenment! What Empress Catherine has initiated will be your legacy in the future.”

He tipped up the crystal flute, finishing the champagne. Then he dashed the crystal glass to the floor.

“Here, here!” chimed in the rest.

The crash and tinkle of broken glass filled the room.

A servant in a starched jacket scurried to sweep up the shards.

Alexander looked at his friends, his eyes swimming with tears. He was warmed at Prince Czartoryski’s words and by the ceramic stove—and far too much champagne, vodka, and cognac.

“And what of my father’s reign?” asked Alexander, the liquor capturing his tongue. He smiled at his indiscretion.

Adam Czartoryski’s eyes narrowed. He knew Paul Romanov would do his homeland no favors.

“We have understood that our empress intends the throne to be yours, not your father’s, after her death,” he said.

Alexander glanced at the door. He leaned forward in his chair to whisper.

“She has told me that she intends for me to be the next tsar, yes. But I think the empress believes she is immortal! She has not signed the manifesto she proposes, at least to my knowledge.”

Adam Czartoryski exchanged looks with his comrades. His pale skin grew red, aggravated by liquor and temper.

“But I am not disheartened, comrades,” said Alexander, wagging a finger unsteadily. “My friends! Perhaps . . . just perhaps the Imperial Court is not the place for me.”

“What do you mean, Alexander?”

“Why should I be obliged to be in society with people I would not have as servants? Sycophants, all of them. The Russian Court! I have a need to find peace and refuge from such machinations!”

“But Alexander!” protested Pavel Stroganov, realizing the grand duke was quite serious. “We need you! You know the reforms that must be made.”

Alexander smiled sadly at his friend, remembering when they were children playing St. George and the dragon in the gilded rooms of the Winter Palace.

“I’ve been contemplating my future and the future of Russia. The Imperial Court is far too brilliant for my character. I am a colorless bird upstaged by strutting peacocks. I long for a more simple life.”

He rocked his head from side to side. The cognac burned his throat and dulled his inhibitions. “I will not usurp my father’s position as emperor. I’m not the strong man he is. Let the Romanovs roar!”

“But Alexander—” said Prince Golitsen. He lowered his voice to whisper. “Your father will destroy Russia if he gains the scepter! The people hate him. There are already rumors of assassination plans should he become emperor.”

Alexander waved his hand, silencing his old friends. “I have sworn to renounce the throne, one way or another! I would rather live a quiet life on the Rhine with my family than take the scepter of Russia.”

Every arm that had been reaching for a bottle, every glass that was moved toward waiting lips, froze. There was complete silence in the room except for the hissing in the ceramic stove.

“What do you say to that, Committee of Friends?” said Alexander, swallowing another gulp of cognac.

Adam Czartoryski broke the spell.

“We are grateful Empress Catherine has groomed Grand Duke Alexander to take the reins upon her death,” he said. “Destiny is not ours to see but may the will of the wise empress prevail. You shall be tsar, my friend. And a bright future of brotherhood shall dawn.”

Paul Stroganov clapped his friend on his back.

“After all, Alexander,” said Stroganov. “It is not merely your welfare but that of all Russia’s that our great empress seeks to protect.”

Alexander grunted into his snifter. Adam Czartoryski shook his head.

“You will come around, old friend. You cannot foresee the future. Alexander, you will not forsake your Mother Russia.”

“Or Poland,” muttered Alexander, smiling crookedly. The grand duke swayed unsteadily on his feet. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, my friend?”

Adam Czartoryski raised his glass of champagne.

“To our next tsar, Alexander I.
Vashe zdorovye!
”

“To your health!” chorused the room of young men.

The Committee of Friends went back to drinking until dawn.

Chapter 11

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

September 1796

The Swedish ambassador and Grand Duke Paul stood at the windows of the Winter Palace, overlooking the vast parade yard. A shaft of autumn light grazed their profiles, spilling a golden pool just beyond them on the marble floor.

“No one could have chosen a better day for a royal wedding,” said the Swedish ambassador, sipping his champagne. “Early September is glorious on the Baltic. The empires of Sweden and Russia share so much.”

Grand Duke Paul grunted a reply that the ambassador didn’t understand.

“I beg your pardon, Grand Duke?”

Paul turned toward the Swede, his bulldog face puckered and eyes bulging. “Will your boy king try to force my daughter to become a Lutheran? That is what I said. Now answer me.”

The ambassador coughed, taking a moment to compose himself.

“Monsieur Platon Zubov, your imperial emissary, made all arrangements when he was Stockholm. Of course the Empress Catherine has had ample opportunity to inspect every condition.”

“Princess Alexandra will remain devoutly within the Holy Orthodox Church of our Mother Russia. And this emissary Zubov—he is a complete nincompoop.”

“I—I am sure that our good King Gustavus will be generously fair and just—”

“You liar! All you ambassadors dance around the truth. I am her father. And I will tell you now, no daughter of mine will become a Lutheran! She was raised in the Holy Orthodox Church and will not give up her soul for a Swede. You tell that to your little boy king!”

With that, Paul threw his champagne glass to the marble floor and strode back into the palace.

The Swedish ambassador was left blinking at the retreating host.

These Russians! Always shattering their glasses!

Empress Catherine swept into the gilded ballroom of the Winter Palace, her gown and throat bedecked in glittering diamonds. She had spent many hundreds of thousands of rubles on this lavish wedding, for it spoke of Russian pride and future alliances that were vital to her empire.

It was seven o’clock and the bridegroom had not yet made an appearance.

The empress had worked hard to forge this marriage, this coalition with Sweden. The two nations were ancient enemies. Sweden’s Charles XII, a brilliant and ruthless warrior in the beginning of the eighteenth century, had repeatedly attacked Russia, defeating them soundly in pitched battles. Peter the Great had invaded Sweden’s territory on the Russian mainland, capturing the swamplands at the mouth of the Neva River on the Gulf of Finland and establishing the northern capital of St. Petersburg. The animosity burned between the two countries, always threatening to burst into flames with the slightest gust of provocation.

The wedding of Catherine’s thirteen-year-old granddaughter Alexandra to young King Gustavus would at last form an alliance. To host such an event in St. Petersburg, the brilliant city that Russia—Peter the Great—had created from a Swedish swamp was the perfect culmination of their combined history, at least in the empress’s eyes.

But he, the Swedish king—the bridegroom!—is not here. What unspeakable rudeness! Where could he be?

No one but his closest advisors knew that the young Swedish king had barricaded himself in his apartments. He was refusing to marry the empress’s granddaughter because she was sworn to remain Russian Orthodox.

In the meantime, flutes of champagne were replenished and the meal was postponed, hour by hour. One by one the courtiers felt the effects of the wine and lack of food. They began to speak too loudly, bump into one another, and erupt in giggles or indignation. The evening was stalled and the guests were simply drunk.

Grand Duke Alexander was among them.

“How ravishing Maria Naryshkina looks today!” said the grand duke to Adam Czartoryski.

The grand duke exchanged sultry looks with the Polish princess, glances brazen enough to make Czartoryski blush.

Czartoryski looked up to see Grand Duchess Elizabeth gazing down from the dais. Her grief-stricken face made him swallow in sorrow.

Why does Grand Duke Alexander torment her? In public no less.

Czartoryski nodded to Grand Duchess Elizabeth. She bit her lip and quickly looked away.

“I think the Grand Duchess Elizabeth has no equal,” said Czartoryski, sipping his champagne. “She is exquisite in all respects.”

“If only she would not present such a sad face at court,” said Alexander. “Look at her. She knows full well of my affairs, even of the children I have fathered.”

“I wonder if that isn’t difficult for her, Your Excellency,” said Czartoryski.

Alexander had shifted his gaze away from his wife to his mistress. He frowned. Maria Naryshkina was laughing, clearly enjoying her conversation with a dashing cavalry officer.

“I suppose the grand duchess must get lonely,” Czartoryski ventured. “After all—”

“I cannot confine myself to one woman! Ridiculous expectations! You think her father and his father before him did not have lovers? Besides, I have told her that we are on equal footing.”

“Your Excellency?” inquired Czartoryski.

“Ours is an emancipated marriage, Adam! Equality and freedom—I extend those principles to my wife. She knows this. Elise should take a lover. I would not object. I have stated so in writing! The grand duchess is a heavy weight around my neck. I am only nineteen. I will taste love from other women in my life!”

With this, the grand duke left his companion and made his way across the reception hall to his Polish mistress, who was laughing all too merrily in his opinion.

Adam Czartoryski saw the Grand Duchess Elizabeth lift her chin, watching her husband.

Never has there been a more beautiful consort in all Europe. Not just beautiful but sensitive. How I wish—

The grand duchess, who had not been drinking, shifted her gaze to the Polish prince who stared so ardently at her.

Adam Czartoryski nodded solemnly. The grand duchess inclined her chin and looked away.

But she glanced over her shoulder a minute later. The prince was still gazing at her, unable to look elsewhere.

The fact that the bridegroom refused to appear at the wedding was an acute insult to the empress. She found herself choking on bile, spewing rage.

By ten o’clock that night, no one had been able to persuade the Swedish king to make an appearance. The empress sat on her throne, enduring the humiliation in front of all the aristocracy of both Sweden and Russia. Women whispered cautiously behind fluttering fans while men grunted bellicose comments to one another. Swedes no longer mingled with the Russians, but congregated in small groups. Slowly those groups migrated toward each other until all the Swedes were gathered near the gilded doors, ready to make a hasty exit.

The empress at last rose from her throne to address her court. She opened her mouth but only unintelligible sounds tumbled out. Her face twisted as she staggered forward, collapsing on the marble floor.

For two months, Empress Catherine suffered, her condition gradually worsening, though she tried to carry out her imperial duties. The disaster of the botched marriage was never far from her mind.

“How could you have ab-ab-abdicated your responsibility!” stuttered the empress to her young lover, Platon Zubov.

“Lie back against the pillows, my Empress,” pleaded Zubov.

Catherine waved her hands furiously. Her lips twisted, white and trembling. “My granddaughter’s right—to practice her—her religion, you fool! Fool!”

Zubov opened his hands to her, his shoulders rising.

“But Empress!” he implored. “There were so many conditions in the contract—her dowry, the property holdings, the number of Russian staff who would stay on with her after the marriage, the—”

“But the Orthodox Church! E-e-rasing her R-russian heritage!” she groaned, lying back against the pillows.

Zubov did not know how to answer. Catherine had done everything in her power to curtail the Orthodox Church’s influence. She had liberated hundreds of thousands of serfs belonging to the church, seized the priests’ lands, and introduced the Enlightenment to Russia.

But now, suddenly, religion mattered—and Zubov’s mistake had brought on an attack of apoplexy in front of the entire Russian Court. And before all the dignitaries of Sweden, their archenemy. Instead of making peace between the two rivals, he had humiliated his empress and the entire Romanov family.

Catherine struggled up from her bed.

“Allow me to call one of your ladies-in-waiting, Empress!”

“No! Leave me in peace. I must answer the call of nature. I shall do it—alone, by God!”

“Of course, my Empress.”

Catherine disappeared into her dressing rooms. Zubov stared at the depression in the feather mattress left by the weight of her body.

His fingers traced the hollowed outline, still warm from her heat.

When Catherine did not return thirty minutes later, Zubov grew concerned. He asked the two ladies-in-waiting just outside the door to check on the empress.

The women found her lying on the ground in front of the toilet, facedown on the cold stone floor.

Catherine the Great, the most powerful and dynamic of all the Romanovs since Peter the Great, died two days later.