The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  Grand Duchess Marie had insisted on coming with us, chattering without cease about everything that came into her mind during our ride across the bridge over the Neva to Zayachy Island, where the cathedral spire, topped by an angel, towered over the rest of the city. But the moment we entered the incense-drenched church, where tapers flickered and icons gazed from under the lime-green vaulted ceiling frescoed with depictions of a long-fingered Christ, Marie went quiet, holding on to her mother’s hand.

  We knelt before the tomb. There were no pews or cushions for our knees—Orthodox services were held to a standing congregation—and in our dark cloaks and dresses, we passed unperceived among elderly women in shawls, lighting tapers and praying nearby.

  I had brought a wreath of roses from the palace, which had a seemingly constant supply, arranged in vases on tables and marble tureens in the halls. Placing them by the tomb, I whispered my Orthodox prayer for him, carefully memorized.

  I heard the tsarina weep.

  Later, as we returned to the palace, the river choppy now, a winter chill in the air, Grand Duchess Marie asked, “Did you love my brother Nixa very much?”

  “Yes.” I smiled to conceal the sorrow her question roused in me. “I did not know him for long, but he was very kind to me. We…we were going to be married.”

  “But now you’ll marry Sasha instead.” She frowned. “Do you love him, too?”

  Lost in contemplation as she gazed out to the river, the empress appeared oblivious. Still, I cast a quick look at her, taken aback by her daughter’s perceptiveness.

  “I will,” I finally said. “It is my duty as his wife.”

  Marie considered this. “Well, if you love my brothers, then we must be sisters.”

  I leaned to her and kissed her cheek. “Then we are,” I said softly.

  * * *

  —

  MY TROUSSEAU, LIKE everything else, was staggering in its abundance. It filled an entire hall, set out on linen-covered tables and watched over by the turbaned Turks who guarded the tsar—sables, ermines, and lynx cloaks; coats, mantles, jackets, and dressing gowns; boots made of embroidered leather and gloves lined with fur; colorful shawls, delicate silk stockings, and exquisite silk undergarments; and piles of the ubiquitous lace handkerchief, essential for a Russian bride. Their fine quality confirmed that they indeed surpassed anything I had, even if I doubted I could bring myself to blow my nose with them.

  “Must I inspect all of it?” I asked Tania in dismay. The tsarina had retired to her apartments, her persistent cough causing me to fear she’d caught a fever from the upset of visiting Nixa’s tomb. Marie accompanied me, however, flitting among the tables, fingering articles as if they were toys, and making silly expressions at the stone-faced guards.

  “Not all,” said Tania. “Or indeed any of it, if Your Highness approves.”

  “I…I approve,” I said haltingly, but I spent several hours examining the trousseau anyway, enthralled by its largesse and aware I owed all of it to my father-in-law, the tsar.

  * * *

  THE NEXT WEEKS were regimented by scheduled activities from the moment I woke to the hour when I was permitted to collapse into bed, my head reeling.

  My conversion to Orthodoxy consisted of a somber two-hour ritual that obliged me to abjure and curse my Lutheran faith, spitting three times as I choked on the incense wafting from the swinging censers suspended from chains around me. Because I had to submit, I reasoned that having faith in God was more important than how one went about it. Adopting my new Russian name of Maria Feodorovna—the patronymic meaning “Gift of God” and common to most foreign-born brides—I was anointed and led to kiss the icons before my first Orthodox communion.

  At the gala held in my honor that evening, I was announced for the first time by royal decree as Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Maria Feodorovna. I was dressed in a shoulder-baring blue gown with a white satin sash and a star-sapphire brooch, and I wore the traditional Russian headdress, the crescent-shaped kokoshnik, glittering with diamonds and pearls. By the time the dancing began, I felt my attire weighing on me like lead. I danced in it nevertheless and took pride in it.

  But the ritual for my wedding ceremony I found completely incomprehensible, overseen by the haughty master of court ceremonies, who took my lack of knowledge as a personal insult. Tania was at my side every minute, advising me, translating into French when the master lapsed into ill-tempered German. I’d never bothered to learn German as well as I should have, considering almost everyone at the Romanov court spoke it, in addition to French. Russian, in fact, was the one language I rarely heard. It simply wasn’t spoken at court, Tania told me, making me wonder why they’d eschew their native tongue.

  Yet I knew from my laborious history reading that Peter the Great sought to bring Russia closer to Europe, and his successors had upheld his tradition. The Romanov line was not even fully Russian anymore; Catherine the Great had been born in Prussia, wedding into the Romanov family before she staged a coup to claim the throne. In its manners and way of life, the imperial court functioned like every other in Europe, only in Russia, its magnificence was overlaid by ancestral Slavic customs I was expected to learn in all their intricacy. And as I struggled to master them, I wished I had someone in whom to confide. Though my brother was still here, he was occupied by his own obligations as the crown prince representing our nation, often absent on visits around the city with Vladimir and the tsar’s officials. And I barely saw Sasha, save for the state dinners and receptions. He did indeed stake his distance, which only roused more anxiety in me. I’d never felt more ill equipped or alone. After the banquets and galas, in the privacy of my bedchamber I succumbed to despair. How was I going to survive? How could I bring Denmark honor by being a wife to a man I scarcely knew, who would one day, may it be many years hence, become tsar himself?

  On the morning of November 9, which dawned with the first fall of snow, I was finally herded into the Malachite Drawing Room for the ordeal.

  Robing me in my bridal attire took three excruciating hours. While the hairdresser licensed especially for the occasion plied my dark locks into the side curls once favored by Catherine the Great, I watched in the full-length mirror—which had belonged to Peter the Great’s niece and was the sole mirror a Romanov bride could use—as Dagmar of Denmark was submerged in folds of Russian silver tissue and the ermine-trimmed crimson mantle. Catherine the Great’s diadem was perched on my head, with its centerpiece pink diamond, and surmounted by the diamond arches of the bride’s crown and silvery veil. Jeweled bracelets and ropes of pearls encircled my wrists and throat.

  The effect was captivating but so heavy that it proved a test of my stamina as the tsar and my brother escorted me on the processional walk to the royal chapel. Under my grandeur, I was soaked in perspiration, so nervous that I swayed, feeling momentarily faint as I mounted the red-draped dais beside Sasha in his blue-and-silver regimental uniform.

  Without a shift in his countenance, he reached out a steadying hand. I went still, as if paralyzed, remembering how he’d steadied me after Nixa’s death.

  I promised him. Remember that.

  The metropolitan recited the service while we circled the altar three times. I wondered what Sasha felt, compelled to marry me because of a promise made to his dying brother. As I snuck glances at his stolid profile, I asked myself if he would care for me at all or come to loathe me because I’d spoiled his life, made him assume his duty not only as the tsarevich but also as my husband, responsible for begetting heirs on me, for my comfort and welfare—a woman who had loved his late brother, whom he himself did not love?

  I was still thinking of this when the ceremony ended. The prayer for the imperial family was recited, my name included. The tsar and tsarina stepped forth to kiss our cheeks. The tsarina whispered to me, “Remember, you are now one of us.”

  Outside, the salute of one hundred
guns rattled the palace casements, informing the people that they had a new tsarevna. We were taken through the enfilade of corridors past bowing courtiers to a balcony bunted in red velvet, overlooking the square. As we emerged into the icy air, snow drifting about us, the people assembled below—an anonymous mass, thousands for as far as my dazed eyes could see—lifted a resounding cheer. At first I couldn’t discern what they chanted, until in a sudden rush I understood the Russian words:

  “God save our tsarevna!”

  In that instant, as I beheld the people of my newly adopted country, crying out my newly bestowed title, a rush of heat surged in me, erasing the chill of the air. It was inexplicable, unexpected, but I truly realized then that in marrying the heir to Russia, I’d done more than bind myself to a stranger. I had bound myself to a dynasty and an empire, to centuries of women before me who’d done their duty for their country. I was no longer the impoverished daughter of a once-negligible family, a princess of no power. I was indeed a Romanov now, with all the challenges, privileges, and obligations my rank entailed.

  “Show Mother Russia that you love her, too,” Sasha said to me. He took my hand, raising our arms together as the people’s cries reached us in rapturous acclaim.

  “God save Your Imperial Highnesses!”

  No longer Dagmar of Denmark. I was Her Imperial Highness Maria Feodorovna now.

  * * *

  —

  I WAS PERMITTED to discard my mantle for the reception. Freed of its burden, I looked forward to the gala, attended by the entire imperial family and hundreds of the aristocracy, all of whom had secured coveted invitations to sit at the dining tables in the chandeliered Nicholas Hall, with its Corinthian columns and immense windows. By custom, we did not dine with the guests; we ate apart in a separate hall, then the tsar went to mingle with his guests, who were forbidden to rise in his presence—an informality I found unusual, given how everything else was governed by strict protocol.

  The presentations were interminable. The tsarina had provided Tania with the guest list, and Tania had prepped me on the proper pronunciation of names, corresponding titles, and tidbits of personal information, such as an eldest son’s rank in the Preobrazhensky regiment or a daughter’s recent marriage. I thought this surfeit of knowledge would fly right out of my head, yet I found myself recalling everything as each nobleman and his wife came before me. And by their delight at my inquiries, I saw I made a favorable impression.

  “A very good start,” whispered Tania before I followed the tsar out to our dining chamber. “They’ll not forget how gracious you were. Word will travel; nothing moves faster in society than gossip. When the Season begins, everyone will be desperate to invite you. This is how Your Highness will conquer society: name by name, and salon by salon.”

  It sounded tiresome, but, then, I’d been on my feet for over twelve hours and was famished. Even Sasha, who’d stood stiff beside me during the presentations, gave me a cursory look as I dug into the first course of roast venison in plum sauce. “Not a dainty appetite, I see.”

  “Should it be?” I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth.

  “Perhaps in Versailles,” he retorted. “Not here.”

  With our appetites sated, we went into an adjacent hall for the dancing, which Sasha and I opened with a mazurka. It wasn’t an easy dance. He stepped on my toes and seemed put out by all the attention. As soon as it ended, he pulled me aside. But then Vladimir bowed before me, red-cheeked from the wine, and Sasha glowered as I took my turn with his brother, whose gracefulness cut a swath through the dancing couples. It went on until well after midnight, leaving me invigorated. Dancing always had a salubrious effect on me; with my vitality restored, I now faced the next ordeal—my wedding night.

  By tradition, a Romanov groom and bride spent their first night away from court, at the tsar’s private dacha. I had hoped this custom might be discarded, given the cold and snow, but it was not. Accompanied by our new household, Sasha and I were bundled into a coach drawn by eight fleet horses and driven at breakneck speed out of the city into the countryside. The Russian night poured like ink upon the world; as we neared the torchlit estate, I heard a wolf howling somewhere in that vast snowbound wilderness.

  The traditional offering of rye bread and salt welcomed us. Tania brought me to private apartments, where I was divested of my gown and dressed in one of the embroidered night-robes from my new trousseau. Then I was taken into the garlanded nuptial chamber, with its bed on a silver dais. After kissing the blessed icon held to my lips, I was slipped between the sheets, damp from a sprinkle of holy water, and left alone.

  I heard my heart in my ears as I waited. And waited. Pulling up the luscious bearskin coverlet, I sank into it, almost drifting to sleep before the door opened. The room was dark, but whoever accompanied him bore a candle, so that he loomed, enormous, on the threshold. He had to dip his head as he entered to avoid hitting it on the lintel.

  “Well?” Sasha planted himself before me, his hands on his hips.

  I was so astonished that words failed me. He wore a turban, like one of the Turkish guards, replete with a peacock plume. On his large frame hung a metallic dressing gown that resembled armor. I lifted myself upright in bed as he stepped forward with a chime. His feet were shod in Oriental slippers, with tiny bells on their curled tips.

  I tried to stop myself. I felt it roil up inside me, an uncontrollable release of fatigue, disbelief, and mirth, but before I could curb it, my laughter erupted, and once I started I couldn’t stop. Tears leapt to my eyes, cresting over my cheeks as he stood, stunned, his face turning white, then molten, his eyes narrowing to slits.

  “It is the custom for the tsarevich’s wedding night,” he growled. “Would you make a fool of me?”

  As the memory of his hands twisting that silver platter passed before my eyes, I sobered at once. “Never a fool,” I said. “But you must admit, it is…unexpected.”

  “I’m a buffoon.” He shot a furious glance at the door, which his unseen attendant had closed after he entered, leaving the candle on a side table. “That mincing master of ceremonies will regret it. I told him I don’t care if it’s the custom, I’ll not be made—”

  “Forget the custom.” I eased over in the bed. “Come here, Sasha.”

  I’d not spoken his name aloud with any intimacy until this moment, and I gauged its impact, the way he lowered his eyes, his hands bunching fistfuls of his ludicrous ensemble.

  I was as unprepared as he was for this moment. All the rituals upholstering our marriage outside these walls would avail us nothing now. Here, we were husband and wife, expected to do what married people did. I wasn’t entirely ignorant of the requirements, but he held the advantage. If the rumor was true, he’d had a mistress. I was untouched.

  “Not if you laugh,” he said. “If you laugh, I will…” His voice drifted into awkward silence, as if he wasn’t sure what he could do without forsaking his dignity. I liked it. I liked that even if he could be uncouth, he was not without his sensitivity.

  “I won’t laugh,” I promised, and like a man readying to plunge into cold water, he gripped the dressing gown and heaved it over his head, knocking off the turban in the process and depositing both items with a noisy clatter onto the floor. It must have been heavy; underneath, his linen nightshirt was wet, yet when he clambered into the bed, I smelled no odor on him, not a hint of sweat. He smelled clean, like soap.

  He had bathed before coming to me.

  We lay side by side, without moving, before I heard him say, “I know you do not yet care for me, but if we can only…”

  “Yes?” I turned to him. The candle was guttering, tossing little light. In the encroaching darkness, his profile seemed etched. I could have traced it with my fingers.

  “If we can only try,” he said. “I want us to be happy, Maria.”

  “Minnie,” I replied. “Everyone calls me
Minnie.”

  He went silent. Then he said, “I prefer Manja. Here, we use it for Maria, but it also can mean rebellious….You remind me of it.”

  I had to smile. “My father also called me rebellious. Manja it is. And, Sasha,” I added, “I also want us to be happy.”

  What else could I say? We were married. Nixa was gone. I did not want the shadow of my love for him lingering between us. I had made my choice. This was the man to whom I’d pledged myself, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. He needed me as much as I needed him; he was as bound to our vows as I was.

  He reached across the space between us to tentatively touch my breast. I closed my eyes. He caressed me, edging closer, such a large man, reduced to uncertain tenderness, hovering in hesitation before he pressed his lips to mine. Our first true kiss. It did not stir any passion in me, but I didn’t find it unpleasant. His breath was clean, like his person.

  I felt his arousal against my thigh. He murmured, “You’re so small. Like a child. I…I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.” I reached down my hand. “Only, be gentle…”

  He was gentle. And I did not dislike what we did.

  To my surprise, I did not dislike it at all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Winter was magnificent, providing one didn’t stay outside too long. I had experienced harsh winters in Denmark, but the Russian winter was a different beast. Not that most Russians seemed troubled by the bone-piercing cold or months of snow, the glacial winds shrieking across the Neva, freezing the river and canals. Russians delighted in building ice hills and flying down these on toboggans, like pagans. No one, however, liked to walk much. Colorful sleighs and hired drozhki—a kind of open carriage—or the distinctive troika, drawn by three horses and designed to race across drifts, abounded, driven by bearded coachmen in fleece-lined caftans. Yet the streets remained busy as ever, people going about their business while fire cans warmed each corner. And in every well-to-do home, built with impermeable walls, burned the remarkable Russian stove, condensation beading the double-paned windows behind stout shutters and thick drapes.