The Chevalier

  “Your palace is already a harem as it is.” Woronzov clears his throat. “In the most delightful manner, of course.”

  “Jealous, my dear? Then I’ll bring your niece along with her. They can share a bed.”

  The proposal fills me with apprehension, but young Katya reacts in quite a different style – she sparkles and claps her hands, whereas I can only choke and look away.

  “Lia, won’t that be fun?” It seems her planned elopement with Prince d’Askov is forgotten. Instead, I am to be subjected to her constant, girlish joie de vivre.

  “Yes, what do you say, Mademoiselle?” demands the Empress.

  My tongue finds belated expression. “I am at Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

  Elizabeth leans over towards me. “Good. I’ll need you on hand – you can read me new books from France. And you must give me every single titbit of the gossip: it can’t be all enlightenment, my little governess. You’ll be on my leash.”

  I look at her and know it to be so; her face, her hands, her whole form radiate authority.

  * * *

  Outside the Woronzov Palace early next evening, Katya and I dodge the pungent horse droppings and watch the transference of my belongings. Two powerful imperial guards load my bags into handcarts and set off across the courtyard. Outside the gates, they turn up Sadovaya Street and head for Nevsky Prospect.

  “Going so soon, Mademoiselle?” Alexei sidles up behind us.

  “You’d have had me leave when I first came!” I cannot forget his superciliousness.

  “Ah yes, but that was before I saw what you had to offer.”

  “Thank you, Alexei,” trills Katya. “We’ll be away now.”

  “Until the next time, Princess.”

  “He always calls me that,” she laughs. For a while, I listen as the young girl chatters on, but my mind soon drifts elsewhere.

  This will prove my greatest test. No longer can I choose the moments in which I appear, and take the time to clothe myself in ways that will show me to advantage. Now I must be prepared to carry off my part through every minute of every hour of every day. I will have no space to myself. My face and hands are numb at the very thought.

  “Cold, my sweet thing?” Katya rubs my thumb between her fingers.

  It is a swift lesson that she misses very little. “I can feel a slight chill.”

  “Don’t worry. We shall keep you warm. Let’s follow the soldiers on foot and you will find your circulation soon restored.”

  We wander through the byways of theatrical St Petersburg, from the broad Nevsky Prospect and its hordes, down the less populous Bolshaya Morskaya to the wooden Winter Palace.

  As we enter the Empress’s quarters, a tall, strong and extravagantly handsome man is leaving. The country seems full of them. He nods to Katya and offers me a swift appraising stare and the most fleeting, most refined of smiles.

  “Who’s he?” I hiss at Katya, when he’s passed.

  “Oh, that’s Ivan Shuvalov – my uncle shares the Empress with him, as it were.” She titters, watching him strut into the distance.

  “Katya, you ought not to know about such things!”

  “Don’t be so silly. Everyone does.”

  “Well, what does she think? Does she not object?”

  Katya throws me a pitying glance. “My poor sweet thing, she insists upon it.”

  “But your uncle? Isn’t he mortified?”

  “He says he appreciates the rest. Besides, Ivan creates no trouble for us, or anyone.”

  I am being taught a lesson in cynicism by a babe-in-arms.

  Passing through the boudoir, its dining table spirited away, we enter the imperial bedroom. Now we are in the heart of this all-female court. The room has been decorated, no doubt at speed, by Rastrelli’s assistants in the high French style. It is a chamber designed for the night. Crimson bleeds deep upon three walls, carved panelling is etched in brilliant white, and the inkiest of blues bears down upon us from the ceiling. Around the shuttered windows, fleshy mermaids disport themselves in caves and rocks as purple sunset falls on a burgundy sea.

  “I love this part,” breathes Katya, drawing back the opaque folds of the surround.

  Red velvet canopies frame Elizabeth on a broad, resplendent bed, stacked with red and golden cushions. One maid is massaging her feet, another manicuring her nails, yet another brushing her glowing hair. The Empress lounges on her golden velvet counterpane in fetching déshabille, her silken nightgown draped around her shoulders, a strong bodice gripping her torso and puffing out her breasts, silk stockings casing her well-honed thighs and calves. Her undergarments with their glittering bows and ribbons shimmer in the light of many candles. If I were playing a man, I too should worship her.

  “Ah, my lectrice. What do you have for me tonight?”

  “I shall begin with the Encyclopedia, Your Majesty.”

  She takes the book from my hands. “Which is, precisely?”

  “It is a collection of instructional essays, mostly by Diderot and D’Alembert, wherein the subjects are arranged in alphabetical order.”

  “Let me choose the topic for myself.” She throws the book into the air – it comes down open at the letter D.

  I scan the two revealed pages. “Which one do you wish to hear?”

  She points to “decency”. “The lodestone of my reign.” Patting a cushion by her side, she smiles and I sense wickedness.

  Sitting close to her, I read from the slightly faded leather-bound volume, its spine edged in gold. “Decency is the conformity of our behaviour to the laws, customs, practices, spirit, morality, religion, points of honour, and prejudices of the society we belong to. It is therefore clear that the idea of decency varies from one century to another among the same people, and from one place on earth to another between different peoples. As a result, it is quite different from virtue and honesty, the ideas of which must be eternal, invariable, and universal. It is highly unlikely that we could have said of a Spartan woman, who killed herself because some misfortune or insult had made her life unbearable, what Ovid has said so well of Lucretia:

  Tunc quoque jam moriens, ne non procumbat honeste,

  Respicit; hoec etiam cura cadentis erat

  As she was dying, she took care

  She fell with decency. Making

  Sure she stretched out her limbs just there.

  We may think whatever we like about decency, but it is certain that this last attention of the dying Lucretia lends her virtue a special character, which one cannot help but respect.”

  I glance up from the pages. The three maidservants are drawing back from the bed with little mews of subservience. The Empress is breathing in a heavy pattern, Katya kneading her shoulders, perched over her upon the cushions. I think Elizabeth is asleep, but no. She unlids an eye, reaches out and draws me nearer to her breast with her free hand. I inhale her heady scent, thick with musk and lemons, momentarily reminiscent of my mother, whenever my father had been in town and was in funds.

  “So do you find me decent?”

  “I am judge neither of ethics nor aesthetics, Your Majesty.”

  “You read so beautifully.”

  “The words are very fine.”

  “The mouthpiece finer.” Elizabeth slowly shakes her head, but her consuming stare never leaves my face. She kisses me on the lips and caresses my cheek. Her blue eyes blink twice before closing again.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” I flinch at her intensity. Danger is about to snare me in her full embrace. Unless Elizabeth is really on the verge of sleep.

  She starts. Once more she quizzes me with that piercing eye. “Are you being reticent with me, dear little one?”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I swallow hard.

  A little laugh escapes her, and she begins to stroke the side of my neck. “Perhaps you are only accustomed to the kisses of men?”

  “On the contrary, I know nothing of them.”

  She snorts in derision. “But surely you have played a
little with your sisters?”

  “My only sister was much older. You will find me innocent, Your Majesty.”

  “How delicious,” she breathes, tickling me under the chin. “I was naïve at your age, quite the sheltered princess, but then I found the aphrodisiac of power. Now I enjoy the brief glory of men and the gentle flowering of women alike. You have much to learn.” Her smile radiates condescension.

  “I am at your disposal.” There is nothing else I can reply.

  Elizabeth removes my young friend’s hands from her shoulders. “Katya, time for your bed. Prepare it for the two of you. Lia will join you in due course.”

  Katya makes as if to protest, but she notes resolve in the Empress’s tone and sternness in her eye. “Good night, Lia,” she whispers, and looks back with longing at me as she leaves.

  “And Anya Dimitrievna, you and your ladies may leave us.” Anya, a luminous young beauty, smooth-skinned and blond, takes up her brush – she and the other two handmaidens vanish from the bedroom, crawling backwards on hands and knees.

  “Now, my little French lectrice,” Elizabeth beckons me to her side.

  I have only one chance to save my feigned female virtue. “Let me caress your neck while you tell me what I may expect from love, Your Majesty.”

  “We shall talk until late in the night, my sweet young thing.”

  And so we do.

  * * *

  My luck holds: the Empress indeed neglects to handle me, demanding my services as a personal masseuse to the exclusion of all else before she falls asleep, sated with wine. Nevertheless, I creep backwards on my knees out of the room – in case.

  With the annoying tenacity of youth, Katya is lying awake in the adjacent chamber. She beckons and, too tired to rise, I crawl towards her. Levering myself up, I join her upon the vast bed. Our bed. She’s soon squeezing my earlobe as I turn my head half away, my eyes on a distant mirror and the rest of my surrounds. The room is not as golden-lush as Elizabeth’s chamber, but still it is grand enough for any Bourbon prince. I roll over to lie on my back and examine the ceiling – it is an even darker blue, overlaid with depictions of moon and stars in the patterns of the great constellations.

  “Are you fatigued?”

  “A little,” I concede, yawning a lot.

  “You’ve got a nerve, Lia. Starting with Diderot. And finishing as you did.”

  “Eavesdropper,” I hiss. She shrugs, her lips making a pretty pout. “How do you know so much about our philosophers?” This ball of energy will never cease to amaze me. Turning back to the ceiling, I trace the belt of Orion to keep my tired eyes open.

  “From my uncle, of course. He alone among the nobility here encourages education among young women. You saw my room.” Of course. I am too exhausted to remember. “Lisaveta and I have both benefited.”

  In all directions, I muse. “I see. Well, I will continue to dip into the Encyclopedia. Next, I will give her Voltaire. You know him, of course?”

  “Certainly, but I’m not sure that she does. Or whether it will mean anything to her, even if she listens. I believe she just enjoys the sound of your voice and the shape of your face. Will that be your climax?” She lifts her hand a touch to stroke my hair. I’m striving to remain awake, for she is a sweet girl, blessed with fresh animal spirits.

  “No, I am leading up to Montesquieu. The Spirit of the Laws.”

  “I don’t know it yet. What laws are those?”

  “Natural laws, legal systems…” I flounder. It’s so late.

  “Do they say anything on sleeping with your sisters?”

  Such precocity! “I believe the Baron’s quiet on the subject.”

  Katya begins to knead my shoulders. I tense involuntarily at her touch. “Your muscles – you are so strong for a young woman.”

  “Not a fledgling like you, my dear.” Once more, despite my gibe, I mark she is perceptive. I do not think I’ll long survive this scrutiny at such close quarters. “Too much travelling, Katya – it’s hardened me.”

  The quickness of her mind is my best ally. She leaps ahead at my suggestion. “I envy you. I’d love to see the world. To go to Germany, France, Italy, Greece, even to England; to sail to China… to the Indies… to America.” Her hands slip from my neck as she lies back on the silk sheets.

  I turn to face her. “Perhaps the Prince will take you on your honeymoon?”

  “Lia! Now you’re teasing me.”

  “If not, your uncle could afford it. You should go when you’re of age.”

  “But I’m not a man. I must be accompanied. He’ll only take me with him if he’s posted abroad. Why was I born a girl?”

  I stroke her cheek. “You should not be so dismissive of our sex. What’s missing from your life?”

  “Adventure… excitement… freedom. A man has all of these.” She’s fully alive, transformed from brash tomboy to visionary.

  I stretch my arms, yawning again. “A man has troubles too, I’m sure.”

  “Such as?”

  “War… ruin… danger.”

  “I dream of danger. I want the thrill of being a man.” She’s lost in her dreams. In many ways they are the same as mine. I can only look at her with tenderness while the dawn birds sing us at last to sleep.

  * * *

  Elizabeth wakes us sometime after noon. Her large, full-busted silver form hangs over me, ready to swamp my head upon the pillows. Descending like a goddess from the skies, her voice caresses me back from the caverns of my fantasy of an all-female world: “My little angels, still drowsing in their fair celestial bed.” She pinches my cheek, gently at first, then with a sudden twist that jerks me awake.

  “We crave your pardon, Majesty,” I say.

  “Yes, yes, enough of that,” she scolds, her large hands fluttering about us. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Tuesday,” I reply.

  The Empress stands back, hands on fleshy hips. “And what happens on Tuesdays?”

  “The ball of Metamorphosis,” says Katya.

  I tremble at the word. This sounds most dangerous to me. “Can you explain these Metamorphoses, Your Majesty?”

  “For you, my sweet, I can. It’s quite simple. They are discreet balls, very select. I confine them to my inmost circle at court – only the gentlemen of the bedchamber and the ladies of the portrait attend. About forty or fifty in all. There is just one rule.” Elizabeth pauses a moment. “Everyone must wear a costume of the opposite sex.”

  This confirms my worst fears. Yet there is hope. “Who are these ladies of the portrait, Majesty?”

  “Those in the Court to whom I have given a miniature of myself, encrusted in jewels.” And there it is, hanging around her own neck, showing a younger, triumphant Tsarina soon after her coronation.

  “Then I will wish you all a pleasant evening and a joyful Metamorphosis,” I sigh in much relief.

  “My dear little girl, I have a portrait ready for you.” Elizabeth laughs with too much abandon to reassure me. “You are to be initiated.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you have washed, eaten and prepared yourselves. No need to wear a wig, Lia.” The Empress makes us rise from our bed, still in our loose shifts, and go to our washbowls to scrub away the sleep from our eyes. Food lies waiting for us when we are ready. I eat as slowly as I dare.

  At last I finish. Elizabeth hands us white robes and orders us to change, a feat I accomplish hidden by a chair. Satisfied with our appearance, she leads us towards the sanctum set aside for the ceremony. She withdraws a golden key from the depths of her gown. We stand before a mural of Ancient Rome on the far side of the imperial bedroom – hidden within it is a small door that Katya whispers she has never yet seen opened. Elizabeth claps her hands and the grave Catherine, coarse Lisaveta and beautiful Anya Dimitrievna join us, all in floating robes of white. The Empress unlocks the door; she bids us be silent and go in.

  The secret chamber is ablaze with light. Four long candles burn in each corner, and a golden cha
ndelier hangs from the mirrored ceiling. I notice next the room is close and windowless, the points of the compass marked in black and silver on the parquet floors. Gold leaf adorns the walls, punctuated by gilded mirrors that reflect each other infinitely, so that the five of us could be hundreds, even thousands, if one were to concentrate for time enough. I am lost in the illusion of space.

  The maidens of the portrait each take up position, Katya to the west, Lisaveta the north, Anya Dimitrievna east, and Catherine to the south. They kneel as one. At a sign from Anya, I come back to my senses and kneel between Katya and Catherine.

  Now also clad in white silk, trimmed with silver and studded jewels, the Empress enters and stands at the centre of the compass. She carries a small box in her hand. Smiling, she summons me towards her. I rise and advance from, as it were, the south-west. She holds up both palms; I stop; she lowers them; I kneel again in front of her.

  I feel a tight scarf being placed around my head and I can see nothing. Large hands ruffle my hair and Elizabeth begins to chant in her unfathomable language. Her voice, however, is most musical. Then her hands move away and I hear footsteps coming over to stand behind me. Now another voice takes up the chant, and there’s a different hand over my scalp. The sound of the voice soon shows it to be Catherine, followed by Anya and Lisaveta. Finally Katya’s restless fingers tickle me. Maybe it is also the feeling of the many hands running through my hair, but I begin to find the Russian chanting strangely uplifting. As I luxuriate, I sense the Empress return to my side.

  “Repeat after me: I promise to protect the Tsarina Elizabeth at all times and to uphold the sacred virtues of the ladies of the portrait.”

  My throat feels harsh and dry. I swallow hard. I give a little choking sound as I repeat her words.

  She removes my blindfold, opens the jewelled box, takes out a miniature upon a golden chain and hangs the pendant round my quivering neck. “Rise, my dear little thing. You are one of the ladies of the portrait now.”

  “Thank you. I shall do my utmost to honour you for your kindness.”