Great Catherine

by Erickson, Carolly, 1943-

  To make matters worse, Peter seemed to become more withdrawn, seeing less of her than previously and treating her with callous disregard. The empress too was for the moment remote and inaccessible. And Johanna, her capabilities as a mother never very high, was too self-absorbed to provide her daughter with comfort. To solace her own bruised ego she resorted to histrionics.

  One spring morning Catherine went to visit her mother in her apartments, and came upon a frightening scene. Johanna, who may or may not have known that her daughter was coming to see her, was stretched out on a mattress in the middle of her room, apparently unconscious, her frantic attendants rushing here and there and Dr. Lestocq bending over her, looking very perplexed. At the sight of her Catherine cried out in alarm and wanted to know what had happened. No one, it seemed, could give her a coherent account, but eventually she gathered that Johanna had felt the need to be bled and had summoned a surgeon. The man was so inept that, having been unable to draw blood from her arms, he attempted to cut into veins in both of her feet, whereupon Johanna, for whom being bled was always a fearsome ordeal, had fainted. Eventually she revived, but instead of being pleased to see Catherine nearby, she told her irritably to go away, bringing tears to Catherine's eyes and reminding her of all that estranged them from one another.

  Preparations went forward as the wedding day approached. Many nobles, in anticipation of the coming celebrations, had already ordered sumptuous finery for themselves and elegant livery for their servants. Some had sent orders to master wagon-makers in Paris and Vienna for new carriages, all were awaiting shipments of fine fabrics from Europe, Naples silk and English brocade, along with soft gloves and satin slippers from France and golden saddles and stirrups from the armorers of northern Italy. The empress dictated that those belonging to the highest grades of the nobility were to be attended by no fewer than twenty footmen, runners, pages and other servants during the wedding festivities, and that all the servants had to be expensively turned out in velvet coats and breeches with metallic trim, fine bag-wigs, silk stockings and lace cuffs.

  Elizabeth had made up her mind to stage the most splendid wedding ever seen at any European court. Taking as her model the wedding of the French dauphin, the son of Louis XV, she wrote to Versailles for details of the ceremony and aimed to surpass them. It was a lofty ambition, for the French court at that time was a gilded fairyland of ornament and bauble and decoration. There were said to be five hundred goldsmiths in Paris, all of them engaged in producing exquisite jewels and trinkets to embellish the wardrobes of the aristocracy. Hundreds of skilled craftsmen devoted their labors to carving wood and shaping metal, hundreds more turned out fine china, delicate furniture and objets d'art. The extravagance of Louis XV's courtiers was becoming legendary, and they had outdone themselves in celebrating the dauphin's wedding.

  Renewed warfare in Europe threatened to involve Russia but Elizabeth resisted the pleas of her chancellor that she turn her attention from wedding preparations to affairs of state. Emperor Frederick, whose incursions against Austria had begun five years earlier, was once again attacking the territories of the young Empress Maria Theresa and he had captured Prague. Bestuzhev was urging Elizabeth to face the danger to Russia which Frederick's aggression implied, and to send Russian troops to Maria Theresa's aid, but to his infinite frustration she all but ignored the Prussian onslaught. When in May 1745 the armies of Prussia's ally France won a stunning victory over the Austrians and their British allies at Fontenoy, Elizabeth was bemused—but fleetingly. She soon immersed herself in the wedding once again, and let the chancellor do her worrying for her.

  The effort to create in Petersburg an opulent and magnificent spectacle akin to that of Versailles led to difficulties. Not all the shipments of goods from the Western capitals arrived on time, workmen were slow, there were not enough seamstresses to cut and stitch the elaborate gowns or embroiderers to sew on the thousands of beads and jewels and seed pearls. No matter how keenly the empress supervised the renovations and repairs to the Winter Palace, the decorating of the cathedral, the plans for the banquets, balls and other entertainments to be attended by the wedding guests, things went wrong, and there were unavoidable delays. The date of the ceremony had to be changed, not once but twice. And still it was not certain that all the boatloads of foodstuffs arriving from the south would reach the capital in time, or that there would be enough fresh meat for all the guests, or that the actors, singers and dancers hired to put on operas and plays would be ready to take the stage.

  All but lost in the maze of arrangements were the future bride and groom. Peter, recovering his strength and his volatile temper, able to abandon his ill-fitting wig as his pale hair grew in once again, had a new obsession: his role as Duke of Holstein. He was emerging from the unwanted tutelage of Brummer, asserting his ducal authority, strutting through his apartments with a look of hauteur and giving orders. A troupe of Holstein soldiers had been sent to him, and he became their drill master, marching the men up and down for hours, making them stand at attention and perform guard duty, lecturing them in his high voice and playing at warfare. He no longer had his valet Roumberg at hand to advise and teach him; the empress had had Roumberg sent away to prison. But his newfound experience of command was teaching him how to govern a wife, and he included Catherine in his military games, instructing her to obey him as his Holsteiners did.

  Catherine, miserable and alone, often in tears, followed his orders, outwardly submitting to his newfound authority. She still found it hard to look at him. Though the swelling in his face had gone down, he was marked for life with the scars of the pox, his skin was a mass of slowly healing sores and his small eyes seemed even smaller now behind his pale lashes. Narrow-shouldered, with thin arms and legs and a fleshy belly, Peter was a poor specimen of manhood. Expensive jackets, fine lace and diamond buttons did nothing to improve him, and even in the German uniforms he loved to wear he looked puny and boyish, as if dressed for a role that did not suit him.

  To imagine him as a husband must have made Catherine cringe. Lacking experience, completely innocent of instruction about sex, Catherine brought up the subject of the difference between men and women in the privacy of her chamber, among her ladies. The wedding was only weeks away, and she was full of curiosity and dread. Not surprisingly, her attendants claimed to be as ignorant as she was. All of them had observed the coupling of animals, yet when it came to human anatomy and to that mysterious and sacred union between husband and wife, their imaginations could only take them so far.

  Catherine approached Johanna, and asked her bluntly about what happened on the wedding night. With her question she evidently touched a nerve—probably the sensitive nerve of marital fidelity—and instead of answering her Johanna scolded her severely. Far from recognizing any duty to dispel Catherine's ignorance, Johanna became suspicious, and on another occasion accused Catherine of having gone in search of sexual adventures one night when she stayed out late in the palace gardens with her women. Catherine protested; the accusation was unjust, she said, there had been no men present, not even a valet. But Johanna castigated her more harshly than ever before, leaving Catherine wounded and resentful—and as ignorant as before.

  At last the final, definitive date for the wedding was named: August 21. Catherine's wedding gown, made of thickly embroidered cloth of silver with patterns of leaves and flowers on the slender, low-cut bodice and yards of gold trimming the hem of the wide skirt, received its final fitting. The streets of Petersburg rang with the trumpeting and shouting of heralds, announcing the coming festivities. Drums beat, calling the populace to attention. The route the wedding procession was to take, from the Winter Palace to Kazan Cathedral, was cleaned and swept. In the palace kitchens, the baking and stewing, roasting and frying went on day and night. Barrels of wine were emptied into the fountains, bells rang, horses were groomed and carriage wheels polished.

  On the night before the wedding, Johanna softened and attempted to offer Catherine her advice an
d help. The two had "a long and friendly talk." "She exhorted me concerning my future duties," Catherine recalled in her memoirs, "we cried a little together and parted very tenderly." Love triumphed over injured feelings, mother and daughter prepared themselves for the momentous change that the morrow would bring.

  Elizabeth, resplendent in a gown of rich brown silk and glittering with jewels, came to dress Catherine very early on the wedding morning. One by one the layers of undergarments and petticoats were put on and tied in place, then the shimmering silver wedding gown, thick and stiff with metallic embroidery, drawn so tight at the waist that Catherine could hardly breathe. On a whim Catherine had had her bangs cut short and her valet Timofei Ievrenef brought out a hot iron to curl them. The empress became enraged, and shouted at Ievrenef, insisting that Catherine could not wear her crown over a puffy mound of curls. She stomped out of the room, and it took all the tact of the valet and of Catherine's household mistress Maria Rumyantsev to bring her back. In the end Catherine's curly brown hair, left unpowdered, was gathered back off her face and the diamond crown secured in place. Having created a scene, Elizabeth grew calmer, and surveyed the attractive, slim-waisted sixteen-year-old bride with approval.

  The empress was a great believer in cosmetics, and Catherine may have been understandably pale that morning; pots of rouge were brought out and artfully applied to Catherine's long face with its broad jaw and strong chin. Finally Elizabeth offered Catherine all her jewels, letting her choose for herself strands of diamonds for her throat, sparkling earrings, bracelets and rings. A long cloak of silver lace floated over her shoulders.

  Tall and graceful, smiling yet virginal, Catherine was an enchanting sight, and as she walked toward the waiting coach beside the empress and Peter she did her best to conceal her discomfort. The magnificent silver gown weighed nearly half as much as she did; in it she felt more like a knight in armor than a carefree young bride, and each step cost her an effort. And in any case she was far from carefree. Peter, never comfortable at public functions, walked stiffly beside her in his silver doublet, no doubt wishing that the whole distastefully Russian ceremony were over so that he could go back to his Holsteiners. She sensed his unease, and was acutely aware of her own misgivings. But there was no turning back. Fate had chosen her, and she had accepted the challenge, blindly but courageously. She would see it through, even though she could hardly bear to glance at the odd, disfigured boy she was about to marry.

  The new painted carriage Elizabeth had ordered, with panels that were works of art and wheels that gleamed with gold foil, pulled by six fine horses wearing jewel-studded harnesses, led the long procession of one hundred and twenty coaches that took three hours to wind its way from the Winter Palace to the cathedral. An immense crowd had formed to ogle the splendid parade. People stared open-mouthed at the gorgeous carriages with their gilded cherubs and flashing mirrored wheels, and did their best to catch sight of their resplendent occupants, for the lords and ladies inside each sumptuous coach were nearly as beautifully dressed as the empress and the bridal pair. The delicate pale silks and gems of the women, their pearl-studded gowns and waving plumes, the men in suits of embroidered brocade or rich caftans trimmed in gold, silver and diamonds, were a feast for the eyes to rival any in recent memory. "Of all the pompous shows in Russia," wrote an English traveler who was present, "the appearance made upon the great duke's marriage, in clothes and equipage, was the most magnificent."

  The religious ceremony in the huge echoing cathedral took three hours, and long before its end Catherine, weighed down by her tight and bothersome dress, must have been weary. The Archbishop of Novgorod droned on and on, exhorting the couple to love and cherish one another, exhorting the deity to grant them long life and many children, while delicate openwork crowns were held over their heads and the rich resonance of the choral voices filled the dimness. At one point one of the court ladies, Countess Chernyshev, whispered something in Peter's ear, and Peter in turn whispered to Catherine that the countess had cautioned him not to turn his head while standing before the archbishop. According to an old superstition, when the bridal couple stood before the priest, whichever of them turned his or her head first would be the first to die. Catherine thought this a rather ghoulish sentiment for a wedding, but let it pass. (Later she learned that what the countess had really said was "Get on with it, what nonsense!" It had been Peter's whim to bring up the old superstition.)

  When the ceremony finally ended, and Catherine and Peter had exchanged rings and received the archbishop's blessing, they returned to the palace. But the tiring day was far from over. They were to be guests of honor at a lavish banquet, attended by all the dignitaries who had been present at the wedding. In addition there were fireworks, music and dancing, a long parade of boats on the Neva, all of them decorated with bright banners and painted sails.

  Outside, in Admiralty Square, tables had been spread for the citizens of Petersburg. Wine bubbled up in the fountains and in the taverns, men toasted the bride and groom until they fell into a drunken doze. Work was suspended while the entire city enjoyed a long holiday. This, the wedding day itself, was only the beginning; there would be nine more days of celebration, during which food and entertainment would be supplied in abundance.

  In the long banqueting hall, the wedding guests drank deeply of the empress's wine, and stuffed themselves with her viands. Wearily Catherine complained to Countess Rumyantsev that the heavy dress and crown were giving her a headache. Would the countess be willing to remove the crown, just for a moment? Maria Rumyantsev refused, saying it would be a bad omen, but she was willing to carry Catherine's request to the empress. Elizabeth sent back word that the grand duchess could remove her crown temporarily. But Catherine barely had time to take it off before she had to put it on again, for the ball had begun. For yet another hour Catherine sat and listened as the court musicians played polonaise after polonaise—no livelier dances were permitted on this night—and tried to look alert and cheerful.

  At last the ball ended and Catherine was able to retire to the bridal chamber. It had been newly redecorated under the empress's supervision, the walls covered with crimson velvet and the great high bed with its embroidered coverlet decorated with posts of carved silver. The bedchamber women took off Catherine's heavy wedding gown and put on her soft, lace-trimmed nightgown. They brushed out her long brown hair and put her to bed, leaving only a dim light burning in the room. All was in readiness for the bridegroom.

  Suddenly apprehensive, Catherine pleaded with the Princess of Hesse to stay with her for a while, but the latter refused. It would not be seemly for Peter to come in seeking his bride and not find her alone. Everyone left, and Catherine lay in bed, waiting, tense with anticipation, unable even to doze yet uncomfortable in her wakefulness.

  An hour passed, then two hours, and still she was alone. What could have happened? Ought she to get up or stay in bed? Confused and nervous, she listened for the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. Finally she heard them. But when the chamber door opened it was not Peter who came in, but Catherine's new attendant, Madame Kraus, who informed her with much suppressed merriment that her husband was still waiting for his supper. After he ate, he would join her.

  Catherine lay on the bed, listening for the clocks to strike midnight, her mind a maze of speculations and worries. After what seemed an eternity the door opened once again, and there stood Peter, swaying uncertainly in his silver doublet, a drunken grin on his disfigured face. He lurched toward the bed, clawing at his clothing to loosen it, and collapsed beside her. In no time at all he was snoring, and Catherine, more bewildered than relieved, closed her eyes and attempted to go to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  UNPREDICTABLE, SUSPICIOUS, VORACIOUSLY APPETITIVE, magnificent even in her stoutness, Empress Elizabeth bestrode the Russian court like a colossus and kept everyone around her in a constant state of fear. That she could be generous and sympathetic, even affectionate, did nothing to dispe
l this fear, for her discrepant nature was at the heart of her power; no one knew when her charm and sunny disposition would be replaced by violent anger leading to savage reprisals.

  Every time she did something unexpected, the courtiers trembled. If she did not arrive on time for the start of a ball, they watched for her, keenly aware of the passing of time and increasingly nervous, speculating among themselves about why she was late. Was she interrogating someone who had displeased her? Was she instructing Bestuzhev to send someone to Siberia? Thousands had already been banished there, and more were sent off every month. Was she investigating some plot, real or imagined, to dethrone her? And if so, who would fall under suspicion next?

  When she traveled, any departure from her scheduled itinerary was taken as an indication that something, most likely something unpleasant, was afoot. On a journey in 1746, on her way to Riga accompanied as usual by most of the imperial household, she

  suddenly ordered the entire gigantic procession to halt. No one knew why. Alarm spread among the servants, the officials, the nobles along the route of march. Hours passed. Eventually her carriage was glimpsed, racing along the road in the direction of Petersburg. Why had she suddenly decided to turn around? Many anxious hours later, it was whispered that she had received a mysterious warning from a Lutheran priest. Assassins waited for her at Riga, he said. If she did not turn back she faced certain death. Immediately everyone fell under suspicion, and the journey was aborted.