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 Gran
d 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.
Chapter 12
St. Petersburg
November 1796
Only hours after Catherine the Great’s death, Grand Duke Paul was notified in Gatchina. He mounted his horse, galloping toward the Winter Palace to claim his throne as emperor of the Russian Empire.
He was not unaccompanied. He led his Prussian-style cavalry and foot soldiers into the capital—his capital. Overnight the grandiose Winter Palace—full of exquisite art, music, and enlightened culture—became a fortress with sentry boxes manned every few yards of the perimeter.
The inhabitants of St. Petersburg watched in horror as their beloved palace, the jewel of Russia, was transformed into a military barracks, where chandeliers burned bright throughout the night as Tsar Paul wrote imperial edicts, bitterly erasing the mark of his mother, Catherine the Great.
“Bring me her personal papers!” he roared. One by one he burned all that he could, vowing to destroy the empress’s mark on Russia. He reinstituted the traditional laws of succession, specifically primogeniture—the crown would pass always and only to the tsar’s oldest son. He proclaimed there would be no more “reign of women.”
Paul had long detested his mother’s love of fashions, debauchery, and immorality. St. Petersburg under his hand would become more like Berlin, the Prussian capital—austere, disciplined.
Meals would be only for sustenance. Nobles must eat a frugal dinner at one o’clock. No tailcoats, no round hats, no folded-down boots. Hair must be cut round, powdered. No foreign books or music scores were permitted. Study in universities outside Russia was forbidden. Children could not venture into the streets without parental accompaniment. Ribbons would not be tolerated or any garment deemed frivolous. Side-whiskers were banned, as was the waltz.
Paul’s spite had no limits, especially when it came to his son Alexander. He seethed with jealousy at his mother’s intentions to pass him over and give the throne to young Alexander. He immediately demoted Alexander to a junior officer in the imperial cavalry.
And so began the reign of Paul Romanov.
Chapter 13
Winter Palace, St. Petersburg
April 1798
Grand Duchess Elizabeth picked up the quill, after brushing away her tears, and continued her letter to her mother in Baden.
Most of the public detests him. People even say the peasants talk about him with disgust.
He has said it is all the same to him if he is loved or hated, as long as he is feared. And he is. He is feared and hated, at least by everyone in St. Petersburg.
A French lady-in-waiting, Countess Golovine, knocked discreetly.
“Grand Duchess, the grand duke would like to enter and speak to you, if you are not ill disposed.”
“Please send the grand duke in,” said Elizabeth. She pr
essed her fingertips to her eyes, drying her tears. The morning sun glanced off the gold samovar, making a bright coin of light in the far corner of the room. The lady-in-waiting stood at a respectful distance by the door.
“Elise, I am sorry to disturb you.”
“I was only composing a letter to my mother. What is it, Alexander?”
“I would like you to accompany me to the military review tomorrow. We will appear on the balcony together—”
“Oh, Alexander! I am so tired of military reviews. I am tired of curfews and simple meals and plain dresses, no ribbons or pearls. How I miss the balls and gowns—the gay music of Germany and France. Books! Your grandmother’s literary salons and graceful society. All Russia misses Catherine!”
Alexander darted a look at the lady-in-waiting. He frowned.
“You are excused,” he said curtly to the French woman.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the woman curtseying deeply. The tumble of boiling water in the samovar punctuated the imposed silence.
When the door closed, Alexander said. “Elise, you must be careful what you say. She could repeat your words. My father would punish us most severely.”
“The Countess Golovine? No, she, like everyone else in St. Petersburg, detests your father. He has stripped all that is beautiful and alive from this heavenly capital! Replacing it with what? A garrison with not a trace of the grandeur your grandmother instilled.”
Alexander opened his hand, caressing his wife’s cheek.
“It is all right, Elise. We will survive … and so will Russia.”
Elizabeth clasped her husband’s hand, kissing it.
“Will we?” she asked.
Chapter 14
Alexander Palace, Tsarkoe Selo
July 1798
Tsarkoe Selo, the emperor’s village of summer palaces, was a two-day journey north from St. Petersburg. The entire court moved with the tsar, enjoying the festive months of nearly endless sunlight. The darkness had hardly time to settle into dim starlight when the fresh morning dawned.
“It will be a sultry day, I wager,” said Igor Ivanovich, cranking open the white canvas awnings as the maids opened the windows to let in the morning air.
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