Great Catherine

by Erickson, Carolly, 1943-

  "In truth, I didn't care at all for hunting," she wrote, "but I loved passionately to get up on my horse. The more violent the exercise was, the more I loved it, so much so that if a horse ran away, I galloped after it and brought it back." She was so agile that she became adept at jumping up onto her horse's back, letting her split skirt fall into two mounds of silk on either side. It was a trick that made the empress cry out in astonishment, and praise her niece's athleticism. "One would swear she was on a man's saddle," Elizabeth muttered, and in truth Catherine found a way to convert her sidesaddle so that she could ride astride most of the time.

  Catherine found a worthy rival in one Madame Arnheim, who rode superbly and could jump into the saddle with nearly as much grace and aplomb as Catherine could. The two women competed, each eager to outdistance the other, and when their day of riding was over they carried their competition onto the dance floor. Madame Arnheim was an even better dancer than she was a horsewoman, and one evening she and Catherine had a friendly wager over who could go on dancing the longest. The evening wore on, Catherine and her rival went on jumping and turning and curtseying, until at last Madame Arnheim became exhausted and fell into a chair. Catherine, however, was still spinning and leaping, and by the end of the long night she had put all the other dancers in the shade.

  From the empress's point of view, all of Catherine's vigor and stamina, her gritty cheeriness and hardihood, and in particular the charms of her fit, taut body mocked the court. What use were her gifts when the only role that mattered—motherhood—still eluded her? People smirked and tittered and whispered that she was still a virgin; Chancellor Bestuzhev shook his head and threw up his hands; the empress stamped her foot and swore that Catherine must have some secret "deformity of structure" that prevented pregnancy. She ordered Maria Choglokov to have Catherine examined by a midwife and Peter by a doctor, to find out once and for all why they had not followed nature and produced a child.

  But the empress's irritable threats were as empty as they were rare. She appeared to take scant interest in the succession, avoiding her abhorrent nephew whenever possible and throwing herself headlong into pleasurable diversions. Thinking about the succession forced her to think about her own mortality, and she dreaded that. It reminded her that she was aging, that her plump cheeks were growing pale and her lovely hair was streaked with gray.

  Thick rouge could no longer conceal the dark hollows under her eyes or the lines that creased her sagging skin; she still possessed vestiges of her former beauty, but they were fast disappearing, while her body took on unhealthy bulk. Her thousands of gowns had to be altered to accommodate the rolls of fat that now encircled her bloated waist and belly, yet she continued to stuff herself past satiety. Her body rebelled in a dozen ways, her stomach was colicky and her bowels compacted. Yet she drove herself on, even when pain doubled her over and her physicians pleaded with her to rest and take her medicine. The courtiers shuddered at the sight of her, acutely ill and pale, riding in her carriage, her mouth set in a grim line, determined to follow the hunt.

  Elizabeth continued to exasperate her chancellor by avoiding business and fleeing responsibility. Sometimes she balked at signing an important paper because, having placed the paper beneath her favorite relic of St. Veronica, her heart told her that it would be better not to sign it. Sometimes she refused to read a document because a fly landed on it, and she took this to be a bad omen. She shut her eyes to political pressures, and did her best to ignore reports of unrest within her realms. When three thousand serfs mutinied, armed themselves and overthrew a regiment of dragoons, she shrugged off the news and appeared to disregard the alarming fact that six regiments were needed to put down the rebellion.

  Such incidents could not be helped, and she left it to local officials to deal with them and relied on her Secret Chancery to root out those who stirred up discontent. Agents of the Secret Chancery were everywhere, listening at keyholes, gathering information from paid informants, worming their way into every government bureau and sniffing through the records of every case at law. They had only to come out of the shadows and invoke the empress's supreme authority—"By the word and deed of the sovereign!" was their battle cry—to strike terror into the hearts of the empress's subjects. It was the business of the Secret Chancery to uncover treason, and to this end they arrested, tortured and punished anyone whose name came to their notice—even those who were demonstrating their loyalty by providing information.

  At the head of the Secret Chancery was Alexander Shuvalov, brother of the empress's new favorite Ivan Shuvalov. Elizabeth's morganatic husband, Alexei Razumovsky, had been superseded, and had withdrawn gracefully into the background. Ivan Shuvalov now reigned. But Shuvalov too had rivals, for the empress, as she aged, surrounded herself with many good-looking young men, clutching them to her as if in the belief that some of their glow and youthfulness could restore color to her cheeks and vigor to her gait. She had the young cadets of the Guards regiments stage Russian tragedies at court, and brought them into her private apartments where she picked out their costumes and applied their makeup with her own hands.

  The cadets were exceptionally handsome, Catherine recalled, with eyes as blue as flowers and soft smooth faces. One lovely young man named Trebor came in for more attention than the others. The empress put rouge on his cheeks, dressed him in her favorite colors, and continued to keep him near her even after the tragedies were ended. Trebor became a kind of erotic pet, the empress's special mascot; she fondled him like a lapdog and heaped gifts and favors on him.

  Though she did not often see the empress Catherine did her best to keep herself informed from day to day about the state of Elizabeth's health. Dr. Lestocq was gone, the empress had become suspicious of him and banished him to Siberia, but other doctors and priests were reliable sources of information and Catherine's most trusted servants went to them—or to their servants—for news.

  In February of 1749 Elizabeth failed to make her customary court appearances for several days and rumors began to fly. The doctors announced that she had retired to her apartments suffering from constipation, but more days passed and still there was no sign of her. Peter came to Catherine in great trepidation. What if the empress were really gravely ill? What if she were to die? What would become of them? Would Peter be acknowledged as the next ruler, or would others attempt to kill him and seize the throne? He was so frightened, Catherine remembered, that "he didn't know which saint to vow to."

  Catherine, in some anxiety herself, tried to reassure her husband. The apartments they occupied just then were on the ground floor; if they were menaced by assassins or political kidnappers, she told him, they could escape by jumping out the windows into the gardens. They were not friendless, Catherine reminded Peter. They were assured of the loyalty of at least a few Guards officers. And there was Zachary Chernyshev, Catherine's erstwhile admirer and household officer. He would come to their aid, and could rally others to join him.

  Catherine tried to put heart into Peter, and their sense of shared danger no doubt brought them closer, if only temporarily. But in truth they were very much captives of their situation; kept in official ignorance of the actual state of the empress's health, confined to their rooms, not told of important decisions that were being made and important discussions that were going on in secret. Amid the general uncertainty and apprehension, not everyone was guarded. Things leaked out. Catherine found out shreds of telling gossip, she and her servants caught glimpses of Chancellor Bestuzhev and the empress's other current adviser, General Stepan Apraxin, hurrying along the palace corridors looking purposeful and worried. Word of clandestine meetings reached her, though she could only guess at what might be said or planned. Agents of the Secret Chancery were suddenly everywhere, watching everyone, noting down any suspect word or deed that might be construed as treasonous.

  One thing was. clear. The empress was very ill, quite possibly fatally ill, and arrangements were being made for the imminent transfer of power in the
event of her death.

  For several weeks the suspense and tension continued to grow. If the empress was on her deathbed, Peter and Catherine reasoned, she would not be likely to confide in them or help Peter secure his position as heir. She was displeased with Peter. She told Ivan Shuvalov, "My nephew is a horror, may the devil take him!" She felt cheated, angry at Peter for not having had a son. For all Peter and Catherine knew, the empress had made secret arrangements for the imprisoned Ivan to succeed her, under the guidance of a regency council. Or conspirators were at work plotting to make it appear as if Elizabeth had changed her mind about the succession, forcing the half-conscious, dying woman to give her consent to their schemes.

  When after several weeks the empress emerged from her long isolation, looking paler than usual but otherwise much as before, Peter and Catherine felt tremendous relief. Yet they knew that her return to relative health was bound to be transitory. Elizabeth's brush with mortality did not make her more prudent or abstemious, rather the reverse; almost at once she resumed her unhealthy habits, and her stomach pains and digestive upsets came back just as before. No one knew when another episode of "constipation" might carry her off.

  There came a change in the temper of the court. The succession dominated all, and both Catherine and Peter were made aware of the extent to which they were pawns in others' plans.

  One day while on a hunt, away from the searching eyes of the Secret Chancery agents, Peter was approached by several of his huntsmen, who told him that an admirer was eager to meet him. He agreed, and sometime later saw a young guardsman ride up, a lieutenant in the Butyrsky regiment. The young man gave his name as Yakov Baturin, then dismounted, went down on his knees and vowed that from that moment on he considered Peter to be his "sole master" and that he was prepared to "carry out all his orders."

  Peter, who had been giving make-believe orders to make-believe soldiers for years, now quaked in his boots. Something in the reckless young man's manner told him that Baturin was an adventurer, a rash and dangerous character and a political opportunist. Without waiting to hear more, Peter rode off in search of Catherine, and still frightened, stammered out the whole story to her.

  By this time Lieutenant Baturin had been arrested, along with the huntsmen who had helped him gain access to the grand duke. The men of the Secret Chancery had learned of Baturin's elaborate plot to kill the empress, burn the Golovin Palace, and, in the confusion, muster a rebel army of soldiers and laborers who would put Peter on the vacant throne. Even under torture and the threat of death, the conspirators did not betray their idol the grand duke. They said nothing of Baturin's meeting with Peter during the hunt and so Peter escaped suspicion and the empress's retribution. Baturin was imprisoned, and Peter, still quaking, managed to keep his mouth shut and survive the incident.

  At about the same time Catherine became the target of a more sinister plan. Perhaps because she had so far failed to become pregnant, but more likely because her intelligence and astuteness were perceived as a threat to those who hoped to control Elizabeth's successor, an attempt was made to infect Catherine with smallpox—which was usually fatal, particularly for young women. Catherine had never had the pox, and so was highly susceptible. She was invited to General Apraxin's house and entertained in a room where the general's infant daughter had recently died of the disease. Throughout the evening she was led in and out of this highly infectious room, in the hope that she would contract it. To the plotters' dismay, she remained healthy, though when she learned later about the fate of the general's daughter and the danger to which she herself had been exposed she knew she could never feel entirely safe again.

  Clearly, both Catherine and Peter had enemies. Even those who wanted to support them and advance their interests were a danger to them. If only Catherine could become pregnant and bear a healthy child, the danger would recede, though it might never vanish entirely.

  In the late spring of 1752, when Catherine was twenty-three and the court was in residence at the summer palace, she noticed that one of the chamberlains, the dark, suave, very handsome Sergei Saltykov, was more assiduous than usual in attending every function and social gathering. She could not help noticing him, he was "handsome as the dawn" and he stood out in contrast to his older brother Pierre, a hideous man whose pop eyes, snub nose and gaping mouth gave him the air of an idiot. Sergei and Pierre were of high birth and good breeding. Pierre was a talebearer, Sergei had a reputation as light-minded and narcissistic. Sergei's wife Matriona Balk was well known to Catherine, for she was among the women who devoted their time to making clothes for Catherine's clever little dog, Ivan. Eventually the dog became so attached to Matriona that Catherine made her a present of him.

  In personality Sergei and Pierre were completely overshadowed by their constant companion Leon Naryshkin, a chamber gentleman barely out of his teens who was a natural clown. Leon was a big, corpulent, clumsy man who looked out of place in the resplendent garb of the court and whose grin and perpetual comic patter were disarming. "He was among the most singular people I've ever met," Catherine wrote in her memoirs, "and no one ever made me laugh harder. He was a Harlequin born, and had he not been born of high rank he could have made his living through his comic talents."

  Among Leon's gifts was the ability to deliver a convincing lecture on any subject, whether he knew anything about it or not. He went on and on about anything and everything, from painting to chemistry to architecture, "using technical terms and going on for a quarter of an hour and longer, and at the end neither he nor anyone else had the faintest idea of what he was talking about." Everyone, especially Catherine, was reduced to helpless laughter.

  While Leon Naryshkin was distracting the company with his inspired nonsense, Sergei Saltykov was ingratiating himself with the Choglokovs. With all the surface charm of a twenty-six-year-old man of the world, he insinuated himself into their circle, flattering the vain Nicholas Choglokov by telling him he had a gift for writing music, and turning all his solicitude on the pregnant Maria, who was often unwell. Catherine noticed what was going on, but did not mind. She liked looking at the man Petersburg society called, with a hint of disdain, "le beau Serge." His black hair, black eyes and rugged-looking dark skin seemed manly compared to her husband's adolescent pallor. Sergei remarked self-deprecatingly that, dressed in the prescribed white-and-silver "uniform" worn for court days, he looked like "a fly in milk." But Catherine found his looks compelling—as he thought she might—and could not take her eyes off of him.

  Sergei was honey-tongued and full of compliments. It was obvious to Catherine that he wanted something—no one would deliberately seek out the companionship of the dull Choglokovs for their own sake—but she couldn't see clearly what that something was. Night after night Maria invited Sergei, along with Catherine, Leon Naryshkin, Pierre Saltykov, Catherine's friend Princess Gagarin and others, to join her in her apartments. There Sergei would amuse himself by drawing Nicholas Choglokov off into a corner near the stove and entreating him to compose a song—which preoccupied Nicholas for the remainder of the evening. (His songs, Catherine recalled, were quite pedestrian; he was, after all, "the most dull-witted man, without an ounce of imagination.")

  With Nicholas out of the way, and Leon entertaining the assembled company with his hilarious absurdities, Sergei proceeded to attend to his deeper purpose. Night after night he displayed his wit, his savoir-faire, his self-deprecating charm. He knew full well that he had no equal in looks; now he showed his polish, his urbanity, the debonair manner that had always, until this moment, won him the prize he sought.

  Then one night, choosing his time with great skill, he turned to Catherine and told her candidly that she was the reason he came to the Choglokov's apartments every night. She and she alone was the object of his desire.

  At first she didn't answer him. Quite possibly she was genuinely taken aback by his words, and feared to acknowledge by whatever response she gave that she was attracted to him. He persisted, however, and would n
ot leave her in peace.

  What could he possibly hope to gain from a liaison with her? Catherine asked Sergei boldly. Just how far did he think it could lead?

  It was the opening the deft seducer had been waiting for. He began to pour out his fantasies to her, drawing her in by confessing to her the depths of his ardor, the joy he would know when she was his at last. "He set himself to paint a picture of the happiness which he promised himself," Catherine wrote years later. "Actually it was rather laughable, as laughable as it was passionate." Laughable or not, Catherine was clearly vulnerable, and Saltykov knew it.

  "I said to him, 'And your wife, whom you loved to the point of madness—as she loved you—and married only two years ago? What will she say about all this?'

  Here Sergei bent to his task. Handsome head down, eyes averted, he confided to Catherine that what appeared to the world to be a loving marriage was only a sham. He was in torment. Every day he paid a heavy price for the one heedless moment of blindness when he had deceived himself into thinking he loved Matriona.

  "I did everything in the world to make him give up this idea," Catherine recalled. "I really thought I could succeed." But he elicited her pity; she listened, she succumbed.

  Sergei knew how to play on a woman's emotions, and how to hide the calculating cynicism that lay behind his words. His honey-tongued glibness got around her defenses. His dark eyes, when he lifted them to her face, melted what resistance remained.