The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (11 page)

Chapter 19

St. Petersburg

November 1801

Alexander’s bedroom at Mikhailovsky Palace looked out over a grove of linden trees. The torches on the drawbridge below leapt, flaring with gusts of wind. The dancing flames reflected in the dark waters of the moat, orange-yellow against black.

The young grand duke moved away from the cold window and returned to his book, Voltaire’s
Brutus
, a play greatly admired by his old tutor La Harpe.

Voltaire, the old radical, had maintained a friendship and correspondence with Catherine the Great. Wistful both for his grandmother and for the guidance of his tutor, Alexander read the play to while away the long Russian night.

Now he drew a deep breath, expelling it into the cold air of the room. He remembered a long-ago night, a father and his young son nestled snugly under bearskins, their ears and noses red with the cold.

Alexander was yanked from his reverie by the crash of doors flung open. He jumped to his feet, lunging for his sword. He recognized two personal servants of his father.

And right behind them, the Tsar himself burst through the doorway.

“What are you up to?” demanded Paul. “Planning my demise?”

“Father!” Alexander said, dropping the sword. “All I am doing is reading!”

“Ha! Let me see,” said the Tsar, seizing the book. He scanned the spine. “Ah! Just as I suspected. Voltaire, my mother’s old friend. I know the play too well.”

“Perhaps you can tell me the ending, then,” said Alexander, shaking with both fear and rage. “For I have not finished it, Papa!”

Paul ignored him, flipping through the pages. His hands were brutal, like a dog scratching wildly to unbury a bone.

“Ah! Here it is. ‘Rome is free: that is enough. . . . Let us give thanks to the gods!’”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” said Alexander, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. “What has that got to do with—”

“Treason! Words to incite rebellion—are you plotting along with others?”

Paul hurled the book to the floor and departed.

Alexander stood stunned, staring at the little book on the Persian rug. He picked it up, holding it with trembling hands.

My father is truly mad!

A few minutes later, Ivan, Paul’s servant, returned.

“Pardon my intrusion, Grand Duke. The Tsar has commanded that I read you a few pages from
The Life of Peter the Great
.”

“Now?” asked Alexander.

“Yes, Your Excellency. At once.”

Alexander sat down in a chair as the servant remained standing.

“The tsarevitch resented his father. . .” he began in French.

Alexander immediately recognized the passage. The story of the Tsarevitch Alexis, accused of rebellion against his father, Peter the Great.

“You do not have to finish. I know very well what became of Prince Alexis! I am not wholly ignorant of my family’s—”

The servant continued his reading.

“Tsar Peter persuaded his son to return from sanctuary in Austria under the care of Charles—”

“Yes, yes. The tsarevitch is duped and returns to Russia, thinking his father has forgiven him. Alexis is imprisoned and tortured. He dies in prison. By Christ’s name, stop!”

But Ivan did not pause in his reading until he had finished the passage detailing the exquisite torture and death of Tsarevitch Alexis. When he was done reading the gruesome scene, he closed the book with a thump and bowed as he backed out the door.

Alexander slept little that night. He thought of Pahlen’s conspiratorial whisper, Panin’s glittering eyes.

My father may be mad, but he is right. A plot is afoot, I can smell it. I should join them, what choice do I have? My father will never abdicate. He will murder me first.

My dearest Elise,

I send my brother with this missive in the utmost confidence. My lips pressed the paper in anticipation of touching your beloved hands.

How I grieve not to be by your side and stroke the black curls of our darling baby girl.

My brother tells me that she indeed looks like me, an identical image.

Our baby girl! Never have I had such joy as you have given me. How I long to hold my daughter in my arms again. To hold you, my dearest Elise.

Sardinia’s charms lie not in the court, but the enchanting blue sea that surrounds this island. And the green hills dotted with white sheep remind me of Tuscany.

If only we could walk hand in hand here. I walk the coast alone, the wind tugging at my jacket. I look north, across the sea toward Russia. The wind here blows from the west, but occasionally it turns and comes from the north, fresh and clean—from St. Petersburg, I fancy. It is your breath it carries in its whistling sigh.

Ah, and when I was in Rome—its grand beauty—I thought constantly of you. As I did when I walked along the Arno in Florence. Let me take you to every great city on this planet!

Alexander has written me of another plan, should he become tsar. He wishes to abdicate the throne, not to Constantine but to Nicholas! Then he would divorce you and marry Maria Naryshkina. They would sail on to America where they could live in peace.

And we would be free to marry, my darling Elise, and remain in Russia—or Poland if I could so convince you. I would live anywhere with you, my love.

Please be my wife.

Yours in love always,

Adam

The little Ethiopian door servant was ordered to stand outside the grand duchess’s door. In her hand Elizabeth clutched Adam Czartoryski’s letter, shaking it in rage in her husband’s face.

“Alexander!” The grand duchess began, her voice rising in anger, as soon as the last servant had left her bedchamber. “How dare you confer with Adam Czartoryski before you address me with your plans!”

Alexander walked toward his wife, taking the letter from the grand duchess. He cupped her hands in his.

“What news do you have of our mutual friend? Has he proposed to you?” said Alexander, a broad smile on his face.

Elizabeth dropped her mouth open, aghast.

“Is this really how you intended to break the news of a divorce? How dare you—”

Alexander squeezed his wife’s hands gently.

“Elizabeth! I have been honest with you from the beginning. I have no wish to be tsar. I see what it has done to my father—he’s raving mad, crazed with power! I want to live a simple life.”

Elizabeth stared at her husband, incredulous.

“Along with Adam Czartoryski, I have no truer friend than you, ” he said.

Elizabeth tore her hands from his as if they were on fire.

“I don’t want to be your friend, Alexander! I don’t want to be left behind in Russia, a divorced empress. Take me to America, not that Polish whore!”

“I will not allow you to insult her, Elise,” said Alexander, the kindness melting from his face. “She and I live together as man and wife. She will have a child soon.”

Elizabeth turned away, hiding her face.

“How you torture me, Alexander! You do this because I cannot conceive with you. But you are so rarely in my bed, how can I?”

Alexander’s face contorted in anguish.

“Elise!” he groaned. “How can I make you understand! I do this because I am not meant to be an emperor. You know me, my darling. I am not the strong man Russia craves, the iron fist she needs!”

“But what of the reforms you planned?”

For a moment, a smile touched his lips.

“Yes, Russia needs reforms . . . badly. Oh, Elise! Don’t torture me. You know how I love my country.”

“Yet you talk of abandoning it!” she said. “And running off with a Polish countess who is already married.”

“I can’t stay here and rule. I’m not my grandmother, strong and ruthless. I’m not even my father, who is an impossible tyrant. Russia has grown accustomed to a rough hand on the reins.

“I want to live a simple life, free from the wars and the politics that a tsar must contend with every second of his life. And I want to be monogamous—”

“Oh, Alexander! How long will that last?” Elizabeth jerked her tear-damp chin up at him. “Until you see a pretty actress or a new lady at court you have not bedded down?”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. He began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

He stopped, looking into his wife’s eyes.

“Do you not love Adam Czartoryski?”

Again Elizabeth tried to hide her face.

“Look at me, Elise!” he said, grasping her by the shoulders. “I will do you no harm, but I will have Maria Naryshkina as my lover. Just as you have Adam. Look at the precious daughter you—”

“You
thrust
me into Adam Czartoryski’s arms. And him into mine. Do not pretend you did not.”

“Do you love him, Elise? Answer me that. This situation must be remedied.”

“Yes! Yes, I love him. But I love you best, Alexander. I always shall. I cannot leave you, my husband. Ever.”

Alexander regarded his wife, chewing at the inside of his cheek.

“Did Maria Naryshkina put you up to this?” asked Elizabeth, her face coloring with rage. “You owe me this much.”

“She wants me to divorce you, yes.”

“There it is. She would be empress. Empress, yes. But would she really sail to America with you without a royal title? Would she leave all she owns, her prestige in St. Petersburg’s court, to marry a man who could be tsar but refused?”

“Stop, Elise!”

“No! No, Alexander, I shan’t stop until you answer me! Do you really think that Princess Naryshkina will sacrifice everything in order to leave Russia with you?”

“She would. She loves me passionately.”

Elizabeth uttered a bitter cry.

“You are a fool, then. You do not know women—certainly not
that
woman—as well as I do. I tell you she will be unfaithful to you in the future even if you
are
tsar of all Russia.”

“Stop!” commanded Alexander. “Stop this now!”

Elizabeth shook her head bitterly. “Oh, no! She will leave you for a better lover, Alexander. One with passion!”

Her chin jutted in rage.

“You aren’t the most artful lover, my darling husband. And an ardent whore—a Pole!—like Maria will need more between her legs than a quick poke by a bloodless fool.”

Alexander stormed out of the room, pushing aside the Ethiopian serf who waited on the other side of the door.

There was no more talk of divorce or of Czartoryski’s proposal. Fortunately, her baby girl Maria still filled the grand duchess’s days with joy. She gave the baby a German nickname, “
Mäuschen
,” little mouse. The child had a heart-warming smile, her black eyes sparkling with laughter. The grand duchess’s ladies-in-waiting were enchanted by the beautiful baby.

Elizabeth wrote to her mother in Baden constantly, informing the new grandmother of every stage of Maria’s development.

Even if she is unwell, she is such a nice girl. She is teething but behaves bravely and is of good temperament. All who see her remark of her good nature.