63
The wet and cold in Mecklenburg made me miss the dry, mysterious winter of St Petersburg and its crisp Baltic air. I wished myself on the Nevsky Prospect, sensing snow in the crystalline atmosphere and spotting patches of ice forming on the Neva. The short daylight hours of winter tinted the walls of the palaces and houses in richer hues than before, and people went about wrapped in furs, using the few hours of brightness to hurry through their business. Early dusk cast a spell over the city and its many sounds, from the shouts of the chestnut merchants and the ringing of the bells at the entrances to kabaki, to footsteps crunching in the snow and sleds tracing their way home with a shushing sound. Their sharp metal skids struck sparks on the ice, which froze in mid-air like crystal stars.
And, God, how I longed for my children. Little Peter Petrovich was growing from an infant into a toddler unseen by his parents. Anna and Elizabeth’s most faithful playmate was loneliness; they could not have accompanied me to the fields and camps of the Great Northern War, where I had always been by Peter’s side. Instead I made sure they were kept safe elsewhere, first in my own vast, dilapidated palace in Kolomenskoye and later with Praskovia’s motley household. They lived, and their continued good health was a gift from God, I felt – I must have done something right. Now I must give birth to my next child while separated from the ones I loved.
On a wet January afternoon I was delivered of a son, Paul Petrovich Romanov. I had rested at an inn in a Northern German state. It was an easy and fast birth: after only two hours of pains, the strong little boy lay on the sheets between my thighs. A midwife bathed him and the prince fed at the breast of a hastily employed wet-nurse. The messenger with word of his birth left for Amsterdam, to which Peter had pressed on. He congratulated me by return, full of pride at the healthy birth of yet another recruit, while also announcing Paul’s birth to the courts in London, Paris and Madrid. But before those letters had arrived, our son had already died in the disorder of too many people, luggage, wet cloaks, icy draughts and overheated stoves. The tender features of my little boy were still with me in memory months after his coffin lid had been nailed shut.
The Tsar wrote to me from Carlsbad while I recovered: ‘This place is as funny as a prison; the hills are so high that I hardly see the sun, and the beer, if I find any at all, is warm, without foam, and tastes of cow piss. The worst thing is that they soak me every day like a horse with this filthy water.’ Upon our meeting again, we celebrated with a dinner and he beamed: ‘You know, I’m glad we can return home soon. Let’s not stay too long in Berlin. Otherwise, Peter Petrovich will grow up before we meet him again.’ He shouted into the drunken round, ‘Fill the cups. Three salutes for Peter Petrovich; a toast to the Tsarevich!’
Our guests all knew that the rightful Tsarevich Alexey – a grown, healthy and able-bodied man – was on the run from his own father, frightened out of his mind and threatened with death. Still, they drank obediently to the well-being of a child who had only just taken its first steps.
Did Alexey know which bloodhound his father had put on his heels? Did he taste the bitterness of Tolstoy’s sweat; feel the pain in his limbs after weeks of tireless pursuit? Tolstoy’s hatred, zeal and disdain ought to have pierced his dreams and poisoned the warm Italian wind when Alexey stood high on the battlements of St Elmo near Naples. He and Afrosinja took shelter in the fortress with its shady garden, filled with the scents of almond and orange trees, and a view far over the Bay of Naples. Tolstoy heard that Afrosinja was with child and that Alexey himself was half mad with fear of his father.
‘They have been found.’ Peter’s face was pale with tension, but he clenched his fists in triumph. ‘The Emperor believes Alexey to be safe in St Elmo, but in truth he is trapped there, like the dirty rat he is. Let me write to Vienna at once. That shopkeeper on the Austrian throne wants to fool me, but I shall teach him a lesson. We’ll pay Italy a visit, and I shall take forty thousand soldiers along, just to keep me company. Maybe then His Majesty will be a bit more talkative.’ He opened the door and barked into the study opposite, where the cabinet secretary was reading the last dispatches from the Great Northern War, which dragged on into its second decade. The Swedes would not lightly abandon their supremacy in the Baltics and to the west of Peter’s realm. ‘Makarov, move your arse or I’ll put it on a stake,’ Peter called. Was he joking? No. These days, his voice lacked any trace of a jest. I wanted to leave, but he held me back: ‘No, stay.’
Peter waved impatiently towards the desk when Makarov came in, a blank paper scroll in one hand, quill and ink in the other. For the first time I noticed the silvery hairs on the cabinet secretary’s temples as well as the puffy bags under his dark eyes. Keeping up with Peter without having his physical strength was an impossibility.
He dictated, ‘“My cousin, it pains me to learn that my beloved son, who has left Russia without my permission, is in your realm. We ask Your Majesty to make an appropriate statement and for this we send Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy to you, who knows of the Tsarevich’s whereabouts and will appreciate an encounter with him. We will not suffer any contradiction, as the laws of God and of nature are on our side. Russia’s next step is in your hands. Your Majesty’s most loving cousin – Peter.”’ He watched Makarov’s quill flying over the paper, before sand was dusted over the ink and molten wax sealed the letter. ‘Yes, that’s good. The scoundrel will understand . . .’ Peter muttered.
‘Which scoundrel?’ I asked, astonished. ‘Alexey?’
Peter smiled. ‘No, silly. The Emperor of Austria, of course.’
The Emperor in Vienna did indeed understand. He weighed Alexey’s well-being against a possible Russian attack on Silesia and Bohemia and soon Tolstoy again travelled south, but this time under the Imperial flag. The Emperor himself had begged him for mildness with the Tsarevich and during Tolstoy’s ride to Naples, it rained for weeks, as though the heavens were crying for Alexey’s soul.
He waited in Naples with a trembling heart and a brave face. Tolstoy had words of forgiveness on his lips and treason in his soul. He promised Alexey what he wanted to hear: yes, the Tsar loved his son and forgave him; yes, Alexey could hope for a free passage out of St Petersburg; he would be allowed to marry his mistress as soon as they arrived in Russia and then to live with her in peace and quiet, wherever he wanted. When Tolstoy wrote: ‘It is astonishing how much true love and care the Crown Prince shows towards this girl,’ Peter just snorted in contempt. Yet I thought to myself that Alexey, too, was nothing but a human being.
64
We reached Berlin in August. The landscape was lush and fertile. Lakes sparkled between green meadows; cool, shady forests gave way to clean and tidy villages. Peter trotted his horse beside my carriage. From time to time he peered into the dim, steamy interior and blew me a kiss. ‘How do you like it in Prussia? Everything is a bit too clean, huh?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘So much order would drive me mad, I believe!’
He chuckled. ‘True. In Russia, such wealth and contentment would lead to a revolt.’
The farmers stopped their work in the fields when our train of over a thousand carriages passed them by in a cloud of dust and noise, followed by the same number of riders and then servants on foot. The land we left behind had been razed as if a plague of locusts had set upon it. Excited children and girls from the villages ran along with us, staring at the last group in our retinue, men who were so tall that their legs and feet hardly fitted into the stirrups. Peter had plucked them from all over Russia as a living, breathing gift to the Prussian King, who loved tall soldiers in his regiments. King Frederick William had had the wisdom to encourage into his country settlers such as Lutheran refugees from the Palatinate, Franconia, Thuringia and Austria, as well as many Huguenots from France. Peter was jealous. Berlin remained unmatched as a city, while he had to pay every gifted foreigner dearly to persuade them to come to St Petersburg.
Seeing Berlin, I could not help but remember handsome Andreas Schlüter, w
hom I had welcomed many years ago at the Neva pier. He had built tirelessly for Prussia until he failed to lay proper foundations for a tower that was to reach as high as the clouds, and fell into disfavour there before his early death. What could Schlüter have given St Petersburg, had he lived? The new city of Berlin had peeled itself away from the once dirty, stinking village it had been, like a butterfly from its cocoon. Tall lime trees cast cool puddles of shade over the strollers beneath; people met in coffee houses or examined the wares of travelling merchants. Stately homes rose along the Spree; both the city-castle and the Charlottenburg Palace were impressive in their splendour and size.
‘Peter, my Russian cousin. At last!’ the King roared as he greeted us.
The two big men embraced each other while the Queen and I exchanged gentle compliments. ‘Sister, welcome to Berlin,’ she greeted me. ‘How does your niece like it in Mecklenburg? Did you bring a portrait of your lovely daughters? Our Frederick will soon be of marriageable age.’
She looked exhausted. Her husband was not called the Soldier King for nothing but favoured a spartan lifestyle, continually travelling to inspect and improve his standing army of fifty thousand men.
‘Are these your ladies-in-waiting?’ the Queen asked me cautiously, eyeing the women behind me. I blushed with shame: as a practical joke Peter had swapped my noble Russian ladies-in-waiting for some rough peasant girls without rank or manners. The sight of the wretched women in their blotchy make-up and slovenly clothes made him roar with laughter. My real ladies were probably at home with their children.
Just then, the young Princess Wilhelmine tugged at the countless icons sewn to the hem of my robe. ‘Why do you have these colourful pictures dangling from your dress? Les images font beaucoup de bruit,’ she noted.
‘This is the fashion in St Petersburg, Wilhelmine. In different places, you dress differently,’ the Queen scolded her daughter, but I stroked the child’s head.
‘These icons shall keep me from evil and misfortune, my Princess,’ I told her. She could scarcely be older than Elizabeth, and seemed curious and intelligent.
The King spoke in a strangely abrupt way, as if he wanted to save himself time and breath. ‘If we survive that damn’ state dinner today, come to my chambers tomorrow. Simple fare . . . pea soup and roast pork with crackling.’ He poked the Tsar in the ribs. ‘And our good German beer, of course. You will need that after visiting Holland. Can’t even water your flowers with that brew. Tastes like piss.’ Peter nodded, delighted, and Frederick William looked at me kindly. ‘Do not know how the Tsaritsa feels about this, but any courtier who bows, I just want to kick in the arse. Nothing better than a straightforward, upright Junker I can trust.’
The Queen added, ‘My son Frederick can play the flute beautifully. He might give us a little concert tomorrow night.’
‘Flute!’ spat the Prussian King. ‘Crown Prince Frederick should exercise or study instead of playing the flute. I will whack all that fluffiness out of him.’
Wilhelmine looked at her father gloomily, but Peter chuckled. ‘I know what you’re talking about, my royal brother. I am already looking forward to our dinner together.’
Peter’s gift, the tall Russian men, howled like dogs when they took leave of their fellow guards but Peter did not pay any attention after this first meeting with the Prussian royal couple. ‘Prince Frederick plays the flute and my son flees, drunk, with his whore all over Europe. Well, what fun we’ll have tomorrow night,’ he observed when he got into the carriage and knocked the knob of his silver cane against the back window as a signal for it to depart. On the way to our guest quarters in the palace of Mon Bijou, a favourite house of the Queen’s which she had offered for our use during the stay in Berlin, I tried to cheer Peter up, but he remained sullen and deep in thought. He uncorked a bottle of Rhine wine and emptied it to the last drop.
Wherever we were, it seemed, Alexey cast a long shadow upon us.
‘By God, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Has it really been created by human hands?’ Peter’s fingertips skimmed the walls of a chamber that glowed in shades of gold, rust and honey. ‘How can you work something as brittle as this? Schlüter was truly a master,’ he said in wonder. The whole room in the Berlin City Palace, the Stadtschloss, was panelled seamlessly with amber, and the candlelight brought the mosaic images to life, breaking the golden hue into dozens of facets. I, too, was in awe of its beauty and splendour.
The Queen laughed proudly. ‘We too are stunned each time we see Schlüter’s Amber Room. Nothing compares to it in the whole wide world.’
‘Oh, really? Nothing?’ Peter asked, eyeing the walls with newly awakened interest. I thought I could read his mind then but hoped to be proved wrong.
‘Nowhere,’ the Queen confirmed. ‘This room is my joy and my pride. I originally wanted to put it into Mon Bijou, where I keep everything that is dear to me.’
We had eaten pea soup and bread, then strolled through the palace’s state rooms until the roast pork was ready to be served, its flesh crackling and sweet, and afterwards young Prince Frederick was to play the flute for us.
‘What is behind there?’ Peter tugged at a curtain covering one wall. Frederick William chuckled and pulled a cord: ‘The pride of my collection.’ The curtain opened and the King held a candlestick high above his head. ‘Look.’
I saw a statue placed on a pedestal. Peter cheered and the Queen giggled behind her fan, but I blushed deeply: it was a depiction of a disgustingly ugly man, half turned away from us, holding his stiff oversized cock between his hands.
‘That must be a fertility god. Kiss him, Catherine Alexeyevna,’ Peter said huskily.
‘What?’ I whispered, stunned.
‘Kiss him. You heard what I said. With his help, we can have even more children. Sons, of course.’
‘Really, I do not know if a kiss on a pagan statue will help with that,’ the Queen said, embarrassed by the situation.
Frederick William hastily tried to close the curtain and said, ‘Shall we return to table?’
But Peter seized his arm, stopping him. ‘Kiss him, Catherine,’ he ordered. Peter drew his flat hand over his throat. Our hosts went silent with shock, seeing his dark, serious expression while he threatened me with beheading. He would not countenance losing face, I knew, and so I bent forward and kissed the cold stone of the statue. ‘There you go. Easy!’ Peter slapped Frederick William on the shoulder. ‘My brother, if this is your greatest treasure here in Berlin, I will gladly accept it as a gift and take it back with me to St Petersburg.’
The King was speechless and I feared what might happen next: in Denmark the King had denied Peter a rare mummified body from Africa as a keepsake. Peter had been so upset he had broken off the mummy’s nose and turned to the King with a sunny smile, the nose in his hand, saying, ‘Now you can keep your mummy!’
But courtesy forbade the Prussian King from refusing Peter’s wish. ‘Of course. Would you like another keepsake from Berlin?’ Frederick William asked, with an attempt at humour. ‘Porcelain maybe? Or some vats of pickled herring?’
‘No, thanks, I have enough at home.’ Peter looked at the Queen, his beady eyes glittering with both greed and joy. ‘But since you ask, I’d like to have the Amber Room. I’ll put it in my most beautiful castle as a sign of the blossoming Prussian–Russian alliance. Long may it last!’
‘I am not sure . . .’ the Queen began, paling and looking around her glorious gold-tinted room, this unique wonder of craft and beauty.
‘It would be damaged, my cousin, if dismantled. Also, it takes up a lot of space for transportation. At least forty crates or so,’ the King added, steadying his wife by her elbow. She looked as if she was about to faint. I felt for her.
‘Bah! Never mind. If it breaks, I shall have it replaced. After all, I have access to the finest amber once more, just north of Danzig. And do not worry about space in my train. I shall leave more people behind than merely the tall men I offered you. They w
ere my most generous gift to you, after all.’ Peter smiled, leaving neither the Queen nor King of Prussia any room for refusal.
*
We left Mon Bijou two days later. I felt sorry for the Queen of Prussia once again as I walked through her small palace’s once perfectly presented rooms. Many of the high, polished windows had been shattered and shards of glass lay everywhere. The Persian rugs were trampled and I spotted burn holes from cigars or careless fire-laying. Belgian damask curtains hung in tatters and the gilded wall panelling in one room had been demolished. Chandeliers of Bohemian crystal and candlesticks of ivory had been smashed; Delft tiles lay broken while soot covered the fine parquet. On the furniture, carving skills had been practised. The faces in some of the gilt-framed portraits had been cut to pieces by countless blades. Oh, yes, Peter’s men had felt at home in Berlin. I doubted we would be invited there again.
Our baggage train to Russia contained six more carts. The Amber Room was hastily peeled from the walls and packed into forty crates, just as the King had estimated. Peter had them opened twice so that he could check their contents and finally marked and numbered the panels himself before nailing the boxes shut, hammer in hand, nails squeezed between his lips. Back in Russia, he asked his craftsmen to look at Schlüter’s masterpiece and better the room. It was impossible. Peter lost interest then and the crates were moved, nailed shut once more, to the storerooms of the Winter Palace, where they gathered dust. The disgusting pagan idol, however, had travelled in my coach at Peter’s behest. I hung my cloak on its cock, but perhaps he worked his horrid magic after all, for when we reached St Petersburg with the first autumn storms, I was pregnant again.
Sometimes, when I lay awake at night, listening to Peter mumbling and cursing in his sleep, I thought of Wilhelm Mons and his ring of solid gold: as valuable and indestructible as true love.
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