The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  Two strangers looking like Cossack heyducks – mercenaries and renegade bandits – dragged a woman’s plump body into the merciless morning light. They dropped her in the dust only to string her up like hunters would a deer: binding her hands and feet over a big stick, which they shouldered. When they set off, the woman’s head lolled back. The ruffled linen cap slipped and I could see her face. I recoiled, cupping my mouth, fighting to suppress a scream. Illinchaya’s eyes stared unblinkingly into the clean sky, reflecting its pale blue. Her face was black-tinged and swollen; her hands and feet, too, had ballooned, looking like bear paws. I gagged: Illinchaya had been strung upside down in the stable until the blood flow made her brain burst. What other crime would have warranted this ultimate punishment for unruly servants but disobeying the Tsar’s orders? She had told us about the Golosov Ravine, against Father’s command. Or, I had made her tell us. I strangled a sob so as not to wake Anoushka.

  Outside, the men stumbled towards the fringes of the forest with their load. Illinchaya’s arm came loose from its tie and hung limp. Her plump fingers, which had braided my unruly blonde curls when I was a child, and had stirred my kasha just yesterday, trailed through the dust. I choked on my own dread. Did Kolomenskoye have a graveyard behind the chapel, where I had worshipped as a child? But no priest joined the two heyducks as they moved towards the forest. The woods closed behind them like a green wall; they would dump Illinchaya’s body there as food for the wild animals.

  The morning light took on a bitter hue. I tore the window open. All was silent and cold air drifted in as I stood there, shivering and staring, blinded by tears. When I wanted to return to my bed, I tasted bile.

  I might as well have strung up Illinchaya with my own hands.

  When we came downstairs, a messenger who had arrived from St Petersburg the evening before – a tall, burly new man – lingered in the kitchen while we silently spooned our kasha. One of the maids cooked our millet porridge for us, over-salting it for Anoushka and not adding enough honey for me, while we listened to d’Acosta reading us Father’s latest summons. We were to join him as soon as possible in Peterhof, our summer palace on the Gulf of Finland, about twenty versty outside St Petersburg.

  While our maids were busy packing up our belongings, which had barely left the travel chests, d’Acosta had already climbed up and down on the coach box, swinging about like one of my monkeys, making Mother laugh as she got inside the carriage. Anoushka stood outside the house, frowning. ‘I wonder where Illinchaya is.’ She shielded her eyes against the sunlight, searching the bustling courtyard. ‘She would never let us go without saying goodbye, would she?’

  All the blood seemed to have flowed from my head and my heart raced. I myself had brought the Leshy’s curse upon Illinchaya, by coaxing her to tell us about the ravine. How could I admit this to Anoushka or to anyone? Nobody but I was to blame for our visit to the sacred oak grove – and beyond. My bookish and well-behaved sister would never have pushed to go there. I flushed with shame, remembering how intoxicated I had felt after sitting on the Lion Throne: silly me!

  As the carriage jerked into motion and the whimsical splendour of Kolomenskoye disappeared, Mother’s lady-in-waiting read her a second note from Father. Mother smiled at me and her voice was warm when she said: ‘We ought to hurry, Lizenka. Father has a special announcement to make. Might he have had word from Versailles?’

  10

  ‘If this is what it will be like in France, I shall be happy to live there.’ I shielded my eyes, looking out over the grounds of Peterhof.

  ‘Versailles is much more beautiful than this, I hear,’ Anoushka answered.

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ I said, as the beauty of Peterhof seeped into my spirit and my soul, purifying me. Our large Imperial barge had made slow and steady progress from the Neva estuary, and the boat had been well stocked with delicacies and chilled vodka; musicians had played while we lay on cushions beneath a large parasol, eating, drinking and chatting if I could convince Anoushka to put her book down, tickling her in persuasion if need be. In the end she had been so exasperated by the constant disruptions that she had read me the story. One of the frequent rain-showers in the area had soaked the poor musicians who played on, a sight that made even Mother laugh.

  We found Peterhof’s park bursting with blossom: we gazed in wonder along the sea channel where two hundred gilded statues lined a white gravel path leading up to the Grand Cascade with its sixty-four sparkling fountains. Light bounced off the water, making each drop sparkle. The earth excavated for the ponds and canals had been used to erect several rings of ramparts three-arshin high, which shielded fruit trees from the harsh sea winds. In the orchard, I spotted lilacs, jasmine and rhododendrons blossoming. The ground of the surrounding forest glowed indigo with thousands of blueberries waiting to be picked, their fullness interspersed with the crimson sweetness of wild strawberries. Anoushka and I would balance the berries on our fingertips, feeding each other, pretending to be robin fledglings picking at food.

  In Peterhof, Father blended together impressions he had gathered of the West, recreating what he had most admired there. No wonder that Peterhof was said to rival Versailles: countless huge windows in the graceful buttercup- and smetana-coloured façade overlooked the vast parkland where fountains sparkled brightly enough to rival the sunshine. Everything here promised a future of dazzling days, bright and golden.

  This comforting thought chased away any last lingering impressions of our gloomy visit to the Golosov Ravine. What remained was the memory of Illinchaya’s love for us. I prayed for her every night, when I settled down to sleep in the small pavilion known as Mon Plaisir – a long low building that Father had designed himself, which had just been completed. Its unique blend of Russian bathhouse and Dutch red brick, set amidst tree-lined canals, as well as its pantry full of incredible inventions, was so typical of him that I knew I should always sense his presence there.

  In Mon Plaisir I knew not even the Leshy and its prophecy could do me any harm.

  ‘Lizenka, little sunshine. Anoushka, my dove! Why are you sitting here idly while your mother toils?’

  ‘Father!’ Both Anoushka and I jumped up from the game of chess we were playing in the snug Chinese Cabinet of Mon Plaisir. Here our parents displayed the imported Eastern porcelain service they were so proud of – trade with China was notoriously difficult – and Russian artisans had toiled for months to master the art of lacquering black panels in red frames that were adorned with Chinese-style miniature paintings, to give it a suitable setting. We toppled the chessboard and sent the pawns we had taken prisoner flying.

  ‘Tsarevny!’ called Father and I flew towards him: a moment with him alone was valuable by dint of its rarity. He wore the old green-velvet dressing gown that hung off his giant frame – he stood seven feet tall in his boots – even though it was frayed at the hems and the cloth was threadbare and shiny along the pockets and seams. His dark, curly hair, which was threaded with grey, looked tousled, as if he had just stepped off a boat or had a lie-in – which never happened. The Tsar rose long before sunrise, firing off a volley of letters: correspondence abroad to his ambassadors, agents and foreign rulers; new laws and commands – the ukazy – went to his generals, admirals and the rural administrators – the voyvody – all over Russia. There was no exception to that rule, wherever he was, and however late and wildly he had feasted the evening before.

  He held me tight, rocking me and growling like an old bear. I just about refrained from pulling his moustache, as I would have done as a little girl, treating it like cat’s whiskers. Instead, I buried my face in his chest, sucking in the scent of tobacco, leather, smoke and the Tsar’s special perfume of vanilla and bergamot, which was mixed in Grasse for his sole use. That scent was as particular to him as sunrise was to the morning. His tall body was a curious blend of narrow shoulders, strong arms yet surprisingly dainty hands, which had easily held in check Finette, his nervy Arab steed, on every battlefield, ove
r a paunch grown soft due to countless years of feasting and his love of food – slow-cooked pork and sauerkraut was a firm favourite – and drink. He had invented his own huge chalice, the eagle cup, in order to down more vodka at his notorious ‘all-drunk, all-jesting synod’.

  I looked up at him: his face was puffy – the dewiness of youth depicted in his official portraits was long gone; his cheeks had turned to jowls and the once noble nose grown bulbous – but his blue eyes gleamed bright and clear, despite the dark shadows underneath them. He smiled at me momentarily. His expression was never still; he frowned a bit, nose twitching, lips smacking together or forming a silent whistle while his chin wagged. This was how I had always known him.

  ‘Have you slept, Father?’ I asked, concerned for him as I knew about his nightmares.

  He kissed my forehead. ‘Sweet Lizenka. Always worried for your batjushka. I did! Peterhof and Mon Plaisir do your little father wonders.’ I felt relieved and also astounded by his way of putting things behind him and moving on. If Alexey’s death and the lack of an heir still tormented him, he would not let on. Anoushka stepped up to us and now he embraced us both, kissing our heads in turn and laughing, while he said: ‘Other people shoot the messenger, but you kiss him. I like this! Listen to me: are you ready for a feast? I have given the cook leave. Your mother is preparing breakfast in the pantry.’

  He walked ahead on long, thin legs, his feet shuffling in felt slippers. Yet even while walking, he seemed to be tapping a rhythm and already impatiently clutched a bundle of papers, even starting to read them on his way to the pantry. His time and attention were the most valuable present he could give.

  ‘Just in time,’ Mother said, her face glowing as we entered the pantry. She wiped her hands on a clean, beautifully lace-trimmed apron and the warmth of the oven made her cheeks blush and her eyes shine. She, too, had recovered from the strain of the past. ‘Anoushka, fetch water for the samovar,’ Mother ordered.

  ‘I will have kvass,’ said Father, who preferred the yeasty drink of the peasants to chai laced with vodka. He sank into an armchair sturdy enough to take his weight and lit his ivory pipe, rustling through his papers – Vice-Chancellor Count Ostermann had concluded the peace treaty of Nystad, which put an end to the two decades of the Great Northern War – and studying drawings for new uniforms or palaces as well as the order of the new ‘Table of Ranks’, which restructured Russian society anew, establishing such new Western-sounding titles as Prince and Count. As my sister busied herself at the big stone sink – the tap was fed from the Sheaf Fountain and we marvelled at it: running water! – Father turned papers this way and that, before scattering them on the floor.

  Anoushka set the samovar to simmer and boil. I gawped at everything Mother had prepared: soft-boiled eggs and fresh grey caviar were heaped in dainty mother-of-pearl bowls; smoked trout lay on pewter platters, and she had added pickled whortleberries to venison pâté before piling gherkins and Baltic herring marinated in smetana, apples and onions onto plates.

  ‘Lizenka, help me with the bread. It won’t butter itself, will it?’ Mother said, but I made a mess of my duty as I could not resist eating half of it while I worked. I chewed hungrily and admired the blue-and-white patterned Delft tiles, which had just been placed on the walls. Each portrayed unknown flowers, animals and landscapes. I had never travelled abroad – as no Russian would, unless under duress. No Russian bar Father, who had left his realm for three years of travel in his younger days. Now he got up from his chair again, stepped carelessly on his papers and embraced Mother.

  She laughed. ‘Starik! If you hold me like this, we will never eat.’

  Father snatched a herring and ate it like an alley cat would, holding it upside down by its tail, marinade dripping, its scaly head disappearing first into his mouth. ‘Let us sit down then,’ he decided.

  ‘Will you tell us your important announcement now?’ I asked, burning with impatience and curiosity, sidling up to him on the bench, which was fashioned after the simple furnishing of a Russian peasant’s izba. They all had a ‘beautiful’ or red corner.

  ‘No, later. In my study. Petrushka, Ostermann and Menshikov are to join us there.’

  Anoushka and I stared at each other. Petrushka was to join us! This was unheard of. Normally, the Tsar abhorred the sight of his only grandson and would happily have seen the earth open and swallow him up without trace. We had not seen our young nephew ever since Alexey’s death five years ago. The poor boy grew up far from us: he was being punished every day of his life for having had our half-brother Alexey as his father. This announcement had to be important indeed – even Father’s closest friend, Prince Menshikov, and his most respected adviser, Count Ostermann, were to attend.

  It had to be about my engagement to Louis, King of France! Later, Father had said. How should I contain myself? It was impossible. Finally, all my dreams were to come true. But I had to pretend to be calm and prove myself worthy of the honour that Father would bestow on me. I was to be betrothed to the King of France. Until then, I was bursting with love and pride. In Mon Plaisir, we were not the Imperial Romanovs ruling Russia; we were simply a family at ease.

  11

  Anoushka and I were walking on towards the Grand Palace, crossing the chequered floor of the terrace, when I heard a boy’s voice calling out to us, tripping over the words in his excitement. ‘Lizenka! Anoushka!’

  I turned. ‘It’s Petrushka! He has arrived!’

  Anoushka and I swapped apprehensive glances. We stood surrounded by splendour, swathed in finery, smothered with love and attention. How should we greet the boy who was despised by his own grandfather? Before I knew it, I’d opened my arms wide to him, because nobody else ever did.

  ‘I’ll catch you, little bear,’ I said, calling him by his childhood nickname.

  ‘Yes! Lizenka! I knew it.’ The gangly boy at the other end of the terrace tore himself away from the stooped figure of his tutor, Vice-Chancellor Count Ostermann. The German followed at a slower pace, in his usual lopsided gait, steadying himself with a cane made of ebony, its ivory handle adorned with rubies.

  Petrushka’s narrow little face was lit by joy as he flew towards me, his long hair fanning out behind him like a dark halo. I opened my arms wide and caught him. He cheered and I drank in the sight of the freckles on his long thin nose, the light in his amber eyes.

  ‘Got you, Petrushka,’ I gasped. My nephew had grown heavy since I had last seen him – or since anyone had last seen him. He pressed into me, melting into my embrace, wanting to imprint my tenderness on his body, desperately seeking any sign of affection. At eleven years old he stood almost as tall as I did. When he looked at me, he resembled Alexey so much that my heart clenched with worry. Had anyone prepared Father for this similarity? I feared it might give him one of the dreadful fits that only Mother could soothe.

  Petrushka sighed with delight. ‘I am so happy to be here,’ he said, tilting back his head, his pale skin almost translucent under the bright summer light. ‘St Petersburg is plagued by flies and the drying swamp reeks. The Winter Palace is unbearably stuffy. I can hardly breathe when I have to sit there and study.’

  I felt sad for him, remembering the closeness and comfort of our morning in the pantry of Mon Plaisir. Petrushka had never known the like: a loving sister, a caring mother, a doting father. ‘It is wonderful to see you,’ I said, kissing his cheek, wanting to make up for the solitude and rejection he suffered. ‘Let us have some fun together. Tomorrow, we can ride in the morning and sail after lunch. The network of canals here is terrific. You will be captain of a boat in no time at all.’

  ‘Really? Captain of a boat? Grandfather will like that, won’t he?’ The hope in his voice pained me. Father would never like anything about Petrushka, especially not if he were growing into Alexey’s spitting image. ‘You’re sure you’re not just taunting me?’ the boy asked me, his gaze suspicious. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Of course! Why ever not?’

  ‘Co
unt Ostermann tells me to trust only him.’

  Perhaps the prickly Vice-Chancellor gave good advice after all. Even Father and Mother never made the priest’s son from German Bochum the target of their many practical jokes. Officials who delayed his requests by just a day too long found themselves demoted to Siberia, close to the Arctic Circle, where they bemoaned a year filled with days of either utter darkness or everlasting daylight. De Campredon, the French envoy, had once sent him a year’s supply of the finest cognac; it had been disdainfully returned, unopened, and worse still, one bottle broken.

  ‘Well, you brought him along to Peterhof. That’s very studious of you.’

  ‘He brought me along. I will tell you a secret. In truth, Ostermann is just like the fish in Grandfather’s pond, ’ he whispered, looking over to the ponds where the white- and orange-flecked backs of giant ornamental carp broke the water’s surface.

  ‘Don’t whisper,’ I whispered back. ‘It’s rude. I fear that Ostermann would never do our bidding as those fish do. Last year Anoushka and I trained them to come and feed when we ring a silver bell.’

  ‘That is wondrous!’ Petrushka marvelled. ‘Can we do that later, together?’

  ‘We can do whatever you wish while I am here,’ I said carefully, as – who knew? – I might be asked to leave for Versailles soon. I should be busy, I thought, my heart leaping: preparing a royal trousseau fit to impress the Bourbon Court was no mean feat. Making Petrushka empty promises would be callous, given the loneliness and rejection that engulfed him. ‘But why is Ostermann like our fish?’

  ‘Just look at those protruding eyes and his waxy skin. Also, he is just as warm and funny.’