The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  Things could always get worse: through treachery, threat and the disbursement of bribes, the former groom Ernst Biren, styled Count de Biron of the Russian Empire at Anna Ivanovna’s accession, was legally elected Duke of Courland. He was then dubbed His Royal Highness, a Sovereign Prince, taking up residence in the Winter Palace adjacent to Anna’s rooms. His household and plate impressed even Lestocq, who tended to view our kitchens as being provincial and barbaric. The Countess henceforward stayed seated in the Tsarina’s presence, just as Christine and I would, and her diamonds made even Anna Ivanovna raise her eyebrows. Their carriage was drawn by eight raven-coloured horses and accompanied by twenty-four footmen, eight running pageboys and four crude Cossack heyducks as guards. Nobody in the history of Russia had ever been so hated as de Biron had become; wherever his cavalcade appeared, people had to be whipped into cheering. The Bironyshkchina, the German Yoke, weighed heavier than ever on Russia’s shoulders; shoulders that were beginning to stoop.

  Harrowing fires devastated Russia’s capitals old and new. In June, half of Moscow had burned to the ground, including the Mint and the Arsenal, which furnished the army with cloth, weapons, ammunition and a huge amount of ready money. Thirty thousand dwellings were reduced to ashes, their inhabitants burned as on a gigantic pyre. A month later, St Petersburg was aflame: the fire consumed around a thousand houses and palaces, amongst them my own in which I had once lived with Aunt Pasha and Anoushka. The English envoy’s lady, Mrs Rondeau, had all her furniture dragged out of her flaming house; most of it was damaged beyond repair, so she used it for firewood in her makeshift new quarters.

  De Biron, the new Duke of Courland, seemed oblivious to all this, too busy inaugurating his riding school on Nevsky Prospect, a miracle of gilded façades and glittering windows. Nobody in Russia lived as splendidly as his horses did. Each of the two dozen finest thoroughbreds occupied a stall identified with the animal’s haughty name engraved on a solid gold plate; the stone slabs of the ground floor were imported from Solnhofen in Bavaria. Observation galleries were placed at first and second floors, their stucco walls adorned with paintings of the horses by the finest European masters. An entire ministry was created to look after de Biron’s brood mares and stallions. Anyone wishing to watch the Tsarina exercise her horses on Mondays had to wear a special uniform: a yellow buffalo jerkin embroidered in silver galloon, with a blue vest and trimmings to match.

  It was the age of disasters. As fires ravaged the cities, I suffered an unspeakable loss, the depth of which I could barely describe – not even to Alexis. Feofan Prokopovich was out for a walk one day after lunch when his heart failed him. He was felled like a tree, dying within seconds in his garden, his soul rising towards Russia’s endless sky. His death left me reeling. I could never do his memory justice. At least his funeral honoured this unique man: after the rites, I invited the officers of the Russian regiments for a drink; Lestocq footed the bill. The soldiers emptied the innkeeper’s cellar and then danced the polka on the empty tables, falling off, shouting, crying with pain and laughter. Swaying, they used the empty barrels for target practice, the bullets making them spin and somersault. It was the night of the first heavy snowfall; the officers and I climbed up on the icy roof, slid down it and fell headfirst into the drifts below. I laughed so much, my cheeks and sides hurt. Feofan would have approved. Yet his death caused me a physical sense of loss. He had been the last living link to my past and his wisdom had been endless. I would not forget the words he had read to me: Nothing will happen during this Tsarina’s lifetime. What about the next Tsarina then? I wondered.

  Another of Feofan’s wise words gave me solace: I see a lot of your father, Peter the Great, in you. If Russia should ask for me, I had my answer at the ready.

  Shortly before Yuletide, when Anna Ivanovna was about to enter the eighth year of her reign, she summoned me to a private audience.

  80

  The morning after the messenger came, I spent an hour deep in prayer. Russia could only be governed with God’s help. My cousin Christine’s problem was her Protestant faith, making her vulnerable to the advances of Ostermann’s niece and Count Lynar. Ekaterina Ivanovna had never welcomed her only child into the Russian Church, as she had been careless about so many things. No wonder Christine was being led astray.

  Days before, in preparation for the meeting, I decided to watch the Tsarina exercise her horses at de Biron’s riding school. As I set off, the air was so brittle with frost it felt as if it might crack; icicles as shiny as glass hung from roofs and windowsills, mirroring the city’s glory. Snow crunched underneath my sled’s runners and every breath of air I took further cleansed my spirit. Beggars were everywhere: in my Empire, the loaves of bread should reach the needy. Forced labourers toiled, their noses slit, threatened with death by knouting should they try to escape. I planned to ban capital punishment – no drop of Russian blood should be spilled on my account. At street corners shadows met and parted, young people up to no good in order to survive. It broke my heart. No child should starve: was Russia not fertile enough to fill her barns with plenty?

  ‘Tsarevna Elizabeth!’ A group of Preobrazhensky officers spotted me – they ran alongside my sled, hopping on the skids, asking a myriad questions.

  ‘Have you recovered from Feofan’s funeral?’

  ‘Are you off to see the Tsarina? Don’t forget us in this hour of your grace.’

  ‘My wife will give birth soon. Will you be godmother to another of our babies?’

  And so on.

  On Nevsky Prospect, sentries opened the riding school’s gilded timber doors for me. A marble staircase led to the upper reaches. I passed the first-floor gallery from which the manège could be viewed. A flash of colour there caught my eye. I halted, shrinking alongside the staircase wall.

  ‘Come with me,’ Julie von Mengden commanded, pulling Christine out of a door and down the corridor. ‘I know where to go.’ The two of them hastened off, skirts flying, in fits of giggles, exchanging hushed whispers, furtive embraces and even quick kisses. At the door leading down to the stables, however, Julie cupped Christine’s face and kissed her, slowly and scandalously, tousling her dark hair. Then they both slipped out of sight.

  I remained still, my heart racing. It took me a while to calm down: Christine was free to love a woman – each to their own. But she was falling prey to some carefully laid plans, I felt sure. I emerged on the second gallery. The warmth of the animals’ bodies and the sharp, clean smell of the sawdust drifted up, bringing me back to my senses. The gallery’s benches were filled with German and Baltic officers, all of them wearing shiny new Izmailovsky uniforms.

  ‘He rides them well,’ one joked, glancing down into the school where Count Lynar exercised a beautiful fox-red steed, looking cool and composed in his lilac jacket. ‘I hear he uses the pomade, which he spreads on his face each night, to smooth other things as well,’ one of the brothers Loewenwolde added; vulgar words that made the other men roar with laughter. His brother, Colonel of the hated Izmailovsky Regiment, frowned though.

  ‘Count Lynar might be too much of a stud for his own good. If Ostermann catches wind of this little story, Lynar’s in a pickle. We are talking about a royal brood mare.’

  ‘Two mares have never produced a filly,’ a third man chuckled.

  How low had things sunk when foreigners could speak unpunished like that about Christine, an Imperial Princess?

  Loewenwolde jested, ‘He certainly has a hold over all his mares,’ as down in the school, Count Lynar made his steed rise with expert hands so that she walked on her hind legs. I saw his lips move as he spoke to her, encouraging her softly and ever so lightly brushing her with his crop. My ears burned. I wanted to slap and kick these foreigners out of my country.

  My meeting with Anna Ivanovna was more urgent than ever.

  I saw no one but Alexis in the days remaining before I called on the Tsarina. We went for walks in the Summer Palace’s snowy garden, where all the statues had bee
n removed to prevent them from cracking in the cold, their pedestals left bare. In spring the gardeners put them back together as they thought fit: Venus’ torso on a Centaur’s feet; Paris with his strong male body on display above the pleated skirts of Athena. Seeing the palace’s simple façade, which had witnessed so many important hours of my life, strengthened and saddened me alike: I would not live here once I was Tsesarevna once more.

  The appointed hour finally came. Dusk was falling when I arrived at the Winter Palace. I had dressed carefully, wearing the lilac dress that the regiments had offered me for the Chinese reception.

  I followed the Tsarina’s gentleman of the bedchamber – who had replaced the Duke of Courland in his official duties – up Rastrelli’s huge marble staircase, trying to appear calm and composed. Upon our knock the Princess Cherkassky, the Tsarina’s principal lady-in-waiting, opened the door, greeting me with a warm smile and curtsying. She had always been a friend to me.

  In the Tsarina’s room, d’Acosta hunched next to a screen and Count Ostermann had settled by the fire, the warmth alleviating his gout. The flames cowered under the chimney’s draught, drawing frightful shadows on the wall that looked like witches’ fingers. I steeled myself: neither the vile Leshy nor her crazed prophecies were welcome memories here. I had been victorious, a true Princess of Poltava.

  Ostermann bowed his head to me ever so slightly. Opposite him sat the Duke and Duchess of Courland and next to them stood a fourth man. He had a bristling moustache under a gleaming bald head. One elbow rested casually on the mantelpiece but the tiny eyes that he turned on me were deep-set and dangerous, making him look like a snake. Russian and foreign medals covered his dark green uniform jacket. This was General Ushakov, since Feofan Prokopovich’s death the all-powerful military head of the Secret Office of Investigation. The sight of him frightened me, as it would any Russian – it was all too easy to fall foul of any written or unwritten legislation and find yourself tortured, hanged and drawn. Then I relaxed. Of course, my investiture was a matter of the highest importance to the State. No wonder Ushakov was here.

  ‘Tsarevna Elizabeth,’ he said and bowed to me just as the doors leading to the Tsarina’s bedroom flew open. I turned, wanting to smile – and froze.

  Anna Ivanovna stood on the threshold, holding the door frame to either side, furious of face and looking like a majestic mountain of Imperial green velvet, gold galloon and lace. Emeralds shone in her earlobes and around her neck. Behind her, her gun was propped up at the open window, its curtains open, ready for her target practice on the people of St Petersburg. She stormed forward, gasping for breath: her face was twisted with rage, but ashen and clammy. Maja caught up with her and steadied Anna by the elbow when she winced and held her side with one hand, as if in pain. In the other hand, though, she held a small book, which she flung at me, hitting me hard in the chest. I exclaimed, winded by pain and shock. Ostermann gave a small, sly smile while de Biron turned his head to look at the flames.

  ‘How dare you, vile, treacherous creature?’ Anna screamed, coming for me anew, shoving me hard. I stumbled backwards and almost fell but caught myself on her desk. She shouted: ‘You are a viper in my bosom. Read this and explain yourself. If not, I will have you arrested and tortured until you confess.’

  ‘Confess to what?’ I stammered.

  ‘Besmirching the face of Mother Russia by conspiring against her with foreign powers.’ She hurled this terrible accusation at me before screeching: ‘That is high treason! Worse than anything the Tsarevich Alexey ever did.’

  I stood petrified. The little book lay face down, pages splayed.

  D’Acosta picked it up, pity flashing in his eyes as he handed it to me. ‘Take it,’ he said calmly, and I obeyed, not knowing what to make of this.

  ‘Traitor!’ Anna wheezed. Maja gave her some smelling salts and led the Tsarina to her chaise longue, whispering reassurances. The fire crackled. I sensed a whiff of sulphur, as from the poisonous geyser that had bubbled away at the Leshy’s feet. The Tsarina rose once more: ‘Think of what happened to your half-brother and double his pain. That will be your punishment!’

  ‘Read, Tsarevna,’ General Ushakov said coldly. ‘Read and explain yourself. We are all listening.’ His voice rasped like the sound of silk tearing, blended with a hint of excitement. I had heard rumours of what happened to women who fell into his clutches. My blood ran cold yet I would be damned if I showed that bloodhound my fear. My fingers trembled when I read the book’s title on its spine. Lettres Muscovites was thinly embossed in gold on the blood-red calfskin binding.

  ‘Read!’ Anna Ivanovna gasped, sweat pearling on her forehead. She swayed, steadying herself on de Biron, but clenched her fists ready to punch me. I opened the book where a page was marked by a folded corner. Fear shot through me, red hot, like an iron struck on an anvil, as I read the first words, which doomed me. Every letter printed in the book, criticising Russia’s domestic policy, made it look as if I conspired with foreign powers to besmirch Russia’s image abroad.

  What a fool I had been.

  Today Tsarina Anna Ivanovna was not going to decide if I was to be her heiress; she was going to decide if I was to live or die.

  81

  My voice was faint as I read aloud the words that someone, probably Ostermann, had marked with a line of ink: ‘“What must we think about those foreigners who abuse the confidence of the best of PRINCESSES? Their whole aim is to fill their own coffers and to screen themselves against any future event. Rightly so: how will they escape the storm if ever the illustrious PRINCESS, who has an incontestable right to that crown, accedes to the throne? ”’

  I halted, my throat parched, voice shaking. Anna circled me, screeching: ‘Now, who could that best of Princesses possibly be, Cousin Lizenka? Viper! A nunnery is too good for you. Once you have read this, I shall tear out your forked tongue! To think of the patience and bounty I have shown to you. And you collaborate like a rat with foreign scum… ’

  I bit my lip. Foreign scum! Well, she knew all about that. Yet I was too scared to think straight: her menacing shadow on the wall was reaching towards me, fingers extended ready to claw and tear, just like the Leshy’s, demanding her payment – my soul. I wanted to run away with Alexis and hide in a little izba somewhere. But I knew I had to stand firm.

  ‘Read on! That is nothing to what follows, you treacherous creature,’ Anna howled. ‘With whom have you been working? Whom have you been feeding with your lies about Mother Russia and all I do for my realm? You besmirch your family, country, history—’

  ‘I have never collaborated with anyone. I would never speak against either you or Russia,’ I dared defend myself.

  ‘Don’t exert yourself, my dear.’ De Biron forced Anna to sit. She gasped for air, pressing her hands to her painful side. He turned to me. ‘Read, Tsarevna Elizabeth, please.’ Even in this situation he treated me with courtesy.

  I struggled for composure but continued. ‘“The manner in which the Princess Elizabeth is treated cries aloud for vengeance –”’ here Ostermann snorted, his gaze scalding ‘“ – for instead of respecting her as the presumptive heir to a vast Empire, they do not even allow her the wherewithal to support her dignity. Her loyal domestiques rather linger in misery than to quit her service. She is kept in bondage which deters anyone from making their court to her; she is abandoned by the whole world—”’ Here I halted, unable to read further. It was the truth, even if the words were not mine. This was how I had lived for almost a decade. Somebody had noticed: I was not alone! The thought was a relief, even if I had no clue how this information had left Russia, come to be published and was widely circulated and read in Europe. The damage it did to Russia’s reputation abroad was immense. How could Anna Ivanovna not blame me? I sensed a last trap. All they needed to get rid of me was a good reason. Yet were there right or wrong answers to any question they might ask? My ordeal was far from finished.

  ‘Yes, do listen, my Tsarina,’ said Ostermann. ‘The best
is yet to come.’

  ‘Spare me,’ I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. ‘This is unbearable.’ I was reading my own death sentence. Of course, nobody believed that this was the first I knew of the book. Instead of leaving the room as Anna’s heiress, I should go straight to the Trubetzkoi Bastion. Both Maja and d’Acosta sat hunched, leaning against the screen, like peasants would. The dwarf pressed his fists to his eyes. I met Ostermann’s gaze: my time was up. But something in his eyes – his sheer glee – steeled me. Your father was not born Peter the Great, Feofan had reminded me. I would show them how the Tsar’s daughter behaved. I read on; my voice strangled: ‘“This Foreign Ministry who excludes the PRINCESS will meet the fate it deserves once the native Muscovites give her their support.”’

  The threat in that conclusion was as clear as it was true: once I became Tsarina, the fat days of the foreigners in Russia would be over.

  ‘Which fate would that be then?’ Ostermann asked, adding snidely, ‘Princess?’

  This was more than I could bear. It was not him I needed to convince. The Tsarina and I were of one blood; we were Romanovs, both of us.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ I threw myself at Anna’s feet. ‘Beloved cousin. For all that links us—’

  ‘What would that be?’ she screamed, furious once more, her face tear-stained, wringing her hands. Each chubby finger was adorned with two or three rings up to the knuckles. They ground together.

  ‘By the blood of the Tsar Alexis, our grandfather, that runs in the veins of us both!’ I gasped.

  ‘Who knows who your father really is?’ Anna shouted. ‘Perhaps you were justly left illegitimate for so long?’ I quailed under the weight of that insult while she sank back on her chaise longue, sobbing and with her chest heaving with irregular breaths. She was like a massive tree fighting not to be felled.