The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  But Monsieur La Harpe recognized his student’s pose as total concentration. Alexander listened raptly, drinking in the philosophers—Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau. These ideas of freethinking, of the rights of man—even commoners—were radical, even dangerous. Yet his grandmother, Catherine the Great, had selected La Harpe herself.

  “Tabula rasa,” said Alexander. “The innocence at birth before corruption by society or government.”

  “The term tabula rasa was John Locke’s, not Rousseau’s,” answered La Harpe. “But the precept is the same in Rousseau’s philosophy. Before civilization can stain a soul, it stands as a blank slate, neither good nor bad. There is no innate desire to steal, lie, or murder, Mr. Locke would argue. Only when society, culture, or adverse circumstances make their ugly cuts into tender wood does the sapling bend or die. Each scar results in vices that erode a man’s character and the way the trunk will bend, either toward or away from the light.”

  La Harpe looked at the sunrise, stillborn on the horizon. It barely makes an effort to rise. Even the sun can’t face a Russian winter.

  “Monsieur La Harpe,” Alexander asked, toying with his quill. “I have heard it said that you organized the French cantons of Switzerland to revolt against Bern. That your ideas are radical.” Alexander did not meet his tutor’s eyes but sought out another sharpened quill from his writing box. He tested the point against his fingertip. “Is this true, Monsieur?”

  “Yes,” said La Harpe, his back stiffening. “The Empress Catherine knows as much. I am dedicated to the liberation of Bern.”

  “So you foment revolution?” La Harpe noticed a mischievous smile tugging at Alexander’s lips.

  “Only when it is just, Tsarevitch. As in the American revolution against the English. Thomas Jefferson borrowed John Locke’s words: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “Ah! I so admire this Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Perhaps you shall meet him some day as tsar,” said La Harpe. “But the point is when there is a long history of abuses it is not only the right of a people to revolt, but in fact their obligation.”

  “And the Russian people?” asked Alexander. “Do they not have a right to revolution, Monsieur? Or the Poles?”

  La Harpe’s eyes shot to the gilt-framed door.

  “Tsarevitch, I merely teach the doctrines of our most progressive thinkers, according to the express wishes of our gracious empress, Catherine,” the tutor answered in a loud voice. “She has charged me with giving you an enlightened and liberal education. I follow her orders explicitly.”

  Alexander caught his lower lip between his teeth.

  “I have heard that my grandmother expressed the keen desire to liberate the serfs when she first came to power.”

  La Harpe did not answer. He fingered his wide lapels.

  “But the aristocracy persuaded her to refrain,” continued Alexander.

  “The empress did succeed in liberating many serfs,” said La Harpe, sniffing. “That was no small feat.”

  “But many more were enslaved as spoils of war in Lithuania and Poland. The nobility say Russia would collapse without the serfs.” Alexander looked intently at his teacher. “Do you think that is true, Monsieur La Harpe? What would Locke or Rousseau say of that?”

  La Harpe leaned toward his student, whispering, “I think that the great philosophers would say that the question would be answered entirely differently if posed directly to the serfs. Or the Poles.”

  “When I am emperor,” said Alexander, his sapphire eyes glittering, “I will liberate the serfs as my grandmother intended. And I shall study the matter of the Polish people—that much I promise you.”

  La Harpe drew a deep breath. What more could I hope for in a student? To change the course of the most vast empire on Earth?

  He released his breath and a shadow crossed his face.

  He is almost tabula rasa now. With my tutelage, there are the first chalk marks of respect, the etching of human kindness. But what hands will seize the chalk after me?

  Two German princesses of Baden, Louise, age thirteen, and Frederika, age eleven, arrived at the final rest stop exhausted, their gowns powdered with fine dust. The coach had traveled with few stops between Karlsruhe and St. Petersburg. While Frederika chattered incessantly about Russia’s golden palaces and the barbarous tales of Cossacks, Louise remained silent. She gazed out the coach window at the scarfed heads of the serfs, men and women carrying loads of grass and fagots for their fires, strapped on their backs.

  “Are these old people slaves?” Louise asked her chaperone.

  Frau Weiss sniffed. “Never use that word in Russia. They are serfs. They belong to wealthy landowners and royalty who care for their needs.”

  Louise looked out at an old woman who dared to raise her eyes to meet Louise’s own. For one second their gazes met. Then the serf dipped her head in humility.

  “That grandmother is too old to be carrying sticks on her back!” said Louise. “Where is the wealthy landowner to lighten her load?”

  Frau Weiss said, “Beware of what you say. The footman may understand German. Never mention the serfs again in Russia.”

  Inside the rest stop, their chaperone ordered the valet to brush their garments and bring a washing bowl and pitcher so that the two little girls could wash their faces and hands before arriving at the Winter Palace.

  “You must kiss the feet of the great Empress Catherine,” said Frau Weiss. “Do not lift your heads until she gives you permission to rise.”

  “Yes, madame,” said Louise.

  “Must I rub my nose on the rug?” asked little Frederika. “Will it be very dirty from men’s boots? Will it be quite smelly?”

  Frau Weiss smoothed back the little girl’s hair, not addressing her. It was too easy to become tangled up in little Frederika’s imagination.

  “Do not look the young grand duke in the eye. It would be considered exceedingly forward,” said Frau Weiss, wetting a wooden comb and running it through Louise’s ash-blonde hair.

  How could the empress and the young grand duke not fall in love with this charming girl? Her almond-shaped blue eyes, the melodious voice, her height and carriage. And her intelligence and sensitive nature.

  Frau Weiss said a silent prayer that this Russian grand duke would be kind to her precious charge.

  “And me, Frau Weiss?” said Frederika, tugging at her guardian’s sleeve. “Should I keep my eyes lowered as well?”

  “Of course,” said Frau Weiss.

  “I shan’t look at him at all,” said Frederika, feisty as always. “I shall pretend he is not there. Poof!”

  Frau Weiss laughed. Empress Catherine had expressly ordered both young princesses be sent. But this little girl! What a nuisance.

  “Everything I tell your older sister applies to you, Frederika.” She signaled to the servant that the basin and pitcher should be removed.

  “All right,” she said, her fan tapping at the coach door. The footman nodded.

  The horses, refreshed with their draft of water, pulled the carriage forward at an energetic trot.

  When the girls were admitted to the great hall of the Winter Palace, they did as they had been schooled. They fell at the feet of the empress, studiously ignoring the handsome blond young grand duke.

  “Oh!” said the empress. “Look at this glorious cap of blonde hair! Like an angel. Do rise, princesses.”

  The two girls rose and curtsied in unison.

  “Très charmante!” exclaimed Empress Catherine, nodding her head. “Now, little one … Mademoiselle Frederika, you may return to your governess.” She turned to a lady-in-waiting, “But first take the young princess to see the musical peacock.”

  “Music? Does it sing?”

  “After a fashion. It is a precious treasure, quite unique in the world. It is made of solid gold. Go along with the mademoiselle and she will show it to you as it sings on the hour. You must hurry.”

  Frederika took the hand of the Russian lady and h
urried from the room to visit the strange mechanical fowl.

  “Princess Louise, let me look at you.”

  Louise smiled becomingly as she had been coached to do.

  “Such large blue eyes! And so tall for a thirteen-year-old!” Empress Catherine exclaimed. “Turn around. Oh, look. Such a fine figure and carriage. A Baden princess indeed!”

  Alexander wasn’t sure how to approach this German princess but did so to please his grandmother.

  And Louise also did as she was told, not looking at the boy who seemed, at very least, indifferent.

  “Such an exquisite creature, this German princess,” said the empress to Alexander in private. “Did you notice the cloud of ash-blonde hair, her perfect profile like a Greek cameo?”

  “She is pretty,” admitted Alexander.

  His grandmother fixed her steely eyes on her favorite grandchild. “It is time to grow up, Alexander. You are fifteen years old now. I cannot impress upon you how important it is to me—to Russia!—that you marry well. And I approve of this princess. She is from my homeland.”

  Alexander raised his head and straightened his spine.

  “Yes, Empress,” he said.

  “All right. As long as we understand one another,” said Catherine, nodding. “Now run along and visit with our guests. Make sure they feel welcomed.”

  As the months went by the young Alexander did manage to fall in love with the German princess. After a fashion.

  Louise wrote her mother: “Alone in my room, he kissed me lightly as he had done in church in Easter ceremony. But those kisses in church were supervised by the Empress Catherine. These were our secret. He kissed me ever so lightly just touching my lips. Not at all like Papa does when he scratches me with his beard.”

  Alexander confessed to one of his tutors, General Protassov, that while he had passionate urges toward some of the women he had met at the court—especially the Polish princess Maria Naryshkina—they were not the same as the feelings he had for the young German princess Louise. His sentiments toward her were something altogether different: a deference, a tender friendship. He felt a sense of calm with her, more agreeable than the fiery passions evoked by other young women. He thought of Princess Louise as more worthy of love than anyone he had ever met.

  When the empress read the general’s report, she gasped in joy.

  “Worthy indeed! I shall write her parents at once. Princess Louise must begin Russian lessons immediately, and her conversion to the Russian Orthodox Church must be completed before she can be married to my grandson. A year of tutelage I would judge. She seems quite bright.”

  Empress Catherine’s hips hurt. Because of her enormous girth, standing for hours was pure torture. But custom required that she stand throughout the lengthy Orthodox ceremony—and her delight at witnessing the wedding of her favorite grandson brought her such sublime happiness that she could almost ignore the pain. She tipped her chin up in a majestic gesture so that the tears—tears of joy not pain—did not spill down her cheeks.

  Grand Duke Alexander, age fifteen, wore a silver caftan with diamond buttons, the ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew across his chest. The fourteen-year-old Princess Louise, renamed Elizabeth by the empress, wore a matching gown of silver and brilliant brocade, interwoven with diamonds and pearls.

  Grand Duke Constantine held a crown over his brother’s head while Prince Alexander Andreyevich Bezborodko, Catherine’s foreign affairs minister, held another crown over Elizabeth.

  Cannons boomed from the Admiralty less than a verst down Nevsky Prospekt from the Winter Palace. A similar volley thundered across the Neva at the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. Church bells pealed endlessly.

  “The marriage of Cupid and Psyche!” exclaimed the empress. “Has there ever been a more handsome couple?”

  The ambassadors and dignitaries of Europe agreed: the young imperial couple was the most attractive the world had ever seen.

  Chapter 8

  Sarapul, Russia

  June 1799

  My father’s philandering caused my mother’s rage to burn like venom in her throat. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  Behind the closed doors of their bedroom, she screamed, “I have heard about the village girl! I know of your treachery!”

  “Do not listen to gossips, Nadezhda,” my father said. “The old wives relish spreading—”

  “I curse you and I curse the day we fell in love! The day I threw away my noble Ukrainian name to marry a villainous Russian. My father was right!”

  “Nadezhda! I swear the girl means nothing to me.”

  My mother opened the door suddenly and saw me staring at them both. She beat her breast with her fist.

  “I give you my love, my honor, my life. And look!” she said, pointing at me. “Look what I have in return! An ugly monkey of a girl child, a cursed brat. And a traitorous husband who looks for love in the gutters of Sarapul.”

  She fell to the floor weeping. My father turned on his heel and left. I remained paralyzed, watching my mother’s shoulders heave.

  That was the night I decided to ride Alcides.

  I had neither bridle nor saddle, only the halter and lead rope that tied him to a picket. He had taken to following me like a dog, knowing I had pockets full of sugared bread. I wore only my nightgown, for I no longer had clothes meant for outdoor activities. My mother had given them all away.

  I led Alcides out the gate, closing it as silently as I could. I knotted the rope on the halter under the horse’s chin and climbed onto the split-rail fence beside the road. In the moonlight I saw a trace of white that encircled Alcides’s eye as he swung his big head around, looking at me perched on the fence.

  “Just stand,” I said. “Stand, Alcides.”

  I vaulted onto his back. He took a couple of panicked sidesteps away from the fence, startled by my weight. I clung tight to his mane and squeezed my legs around his barrel. Again he swung his head around, but this time nibbling at my toes.

  I laughed. I gave him a gently nudge with my heel and we trotted off into the darkness.

  Those first few months I fell off quite a bit, especially at a trot. The walk is simple and his canter was rhythmic. But trotting shook me loose time and again and I tumbled off into the grass. Still, I was young and resilient. Alcides would wait beside me until I remounted him, never running away.

  How I loved the smell of the river during the warm nights of summer, the wet stones cooling in the darkness! The crickets’ chirps enveloped us, the wind shaking the moonlight high up in the birch trees. Ah! The intoxicating scent of freedom! All this revived me from the humiliation I suffered from my mother. Oh, to be out from under her roof! I cared not a lick for my bumps and bruises, nor for any dangers—real or imagined—of the night.

  By day, I was a prisoner in the house. But at night, I was a free-roaming spirit. Like most Russian children, I had grown up with tales of ghosts, corpses, wood goblins, and even water nymphs who would tickle their victims to death. And of course the child-eating witch Baba Yaga, who lived in a house atop long rooster legs. Those orange, taloned legs would run down even the swiftest and most cunning child, pluck him up, and feed him to Baba Yaga. That is, if Baba Yaga did not catch him herself, flying in her mortar, rowing the wind with her pestle.

  But I was not afraid of the night. I was part of its blackness, hidden from my mother. I could fly on the back of my horse away from her like a spirit of the netherworld.

  Freedom!

  Each night Alcides and I ventured farther and farther from home, traveling across the plains of Sarapul and along the Kama River. Finally, a year after I had first lit upon Alcides’s back, I rode up Startsev Mountain. The call of the nightingale met us as we climbed the stony path, and my hair was swept by the low-hanging branches of oak, maple, and elm.

  That night I had a fall. A hard fall indeed.

  I can’t remember what happened … I don’t remember much about that night.

  I returned home with a rip
through the sleeve of my nightgown and mud and bloodstains I could not wash out. My maid Ludmilla was my mother’s spy. When she saw the condition of my nightclothes, she suspected the worst. She reported to my mother that though I was only fourteen years old, I must be having a clandestine affair.

  “We will watch her tonight,” said my mother. “She must take after the filthy ways of her father. I will not let her further dishonor our family.”

  But when my mother watched me, she saw that I headed not directly for the gate, but to the stables. The stableman was a notoriously heavy drinker at night. His weekly pail of vodka was too often emptied by the very next morning.

  My mother saw me emerge from the stable with the wild Circassian stallion and gasped.

  “Rouse Karl!” said my mother, as I fumbled with the gate lock.

  The maid ran and shook the snoring stableman awake and he came running, as best as a drunkard can run.

  “Where do you think you are going, miss?” Karl asked, approaching me. He took the lead rope from my hand and led Alcides back to the barn.

  There was nothing to do but return to the house and my mother’s outrage.

  When my father heard that I had been riding Alcides, he did not punish me. Instead he vanished for a few days, returning with a package wrapped in tanned leather and tied up with horse-hair rope.

  “For my little cavalry girl,” he said.

  Never had I been so in love with my papa. He was proud of me! He wiped the tears from his eyes. “My Nadezhda, who rides a horse I can barely manage. You must be part Cossack.”

  “What is it, Father?” I asked, running my fingers over the smooth leather wrapping.

  “Open it.”

  My fingers flew over the knots, untying the twine. I could not believe what lay within.

  Indigo-colored trousers. A tall fur hat in the Turkoman style. And a blood-red tunic—a Cossack chekmen—with a leather belt, fringed with brass fittings and a small engraved box. Polished brass bullets were nestled in the small pockets of the gaziry set diagonally across each breast. Real bullets!