The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (38 page)

Alexander’s mouth snapped tight, his hand shook. A fat drop of ink pooled where his pen lay motionless on the page.
Alexander Pavlovich Roma—

“You know how much I love her,” said Czartoryski. “We have rekindled our love. All has been forgiven. I only wish to have her as my wife.”

“Elise! Marriage? You—you must be mad, Adam!”

Prince Czartoryski shook his head. “I was mad to ever leave her, even with your father’s threat to my life. I’ve have always loved her from the day I first saw her, so many years ago. I want to take her to Poland.”

Alexander rose from his chair. “Adam! How could I ever give you permission? I would have to divorce her—could you imagine the damage to the House of Romanov and my reign? The instability of Europe—”

“You cannot love her and give her the happiness I can, Alexander!” said Czartoryski, tightening his hands into fists. “Everyone knows of your liaisons: Princess Liechtenstein, Princess Esterhazy, Sophie Zichy, Princess Auersperg, Madame Bagration—”

“That is none of your affair!”

“I don’t claim it to be. I only want to take Elizabeth away from her unhappiness, to love her with all my heart as my wife.”

“No, Adam. What are you saying? The scandal would topple the Holy Alliance. And the future of your beloved Poland! It will undermine all that you have worked for all your life.”

Czartoryski uncurled his fists. “How could my marriage possibly affect Poland?”

“Don’t be a fool, Adam! Consider: the Tsar of all Russia has granted Poland liberties unparalleled in Russia. And now the Tsar offers his wife, the tsarina, to the Polish prince most likely to lead revolt against us for independence? I might as well shoot myself in the head now.”

“Alexander! This is political banter. I speak of love, of happiness. You don’t love Elise.”

“You are wrong, Adam!” said Alexander. He walked to the window looking across to the Ballhausplatz. “I do love her and I always have. But now I realize—I need her. I need her counsel, her wisdom.”

“Does she not deserve to be happy?”

“You think me selfish.”

“Utterly!” said Czartoryski. “Selfish and cruel.”

“Cruel? Because I do not visit her bed? You think we have no relationship, Elise and I? But of course we do. There has been no greater comfort to me. It was Elise who pressed a Bible in my hand as I fought back Napoleon.”

“Napoleon? I speak of profound love of your wife and you—you speak of Napoleon!”

“I speak of worldly consequences, Adam! You misjudge me. And Elise. She has given me counsel and directed my spiritual path. She alone understands me. I need her now more than ever.”

“And for this understanding you would destroy her happiness?”

Alexander turned away, wincing. Outside the window in the brilliant sunshine, he could see carriages rolling along the cobblestones, driven by men in top hats. The formal draft of the Holy Alliance would be presented within the hour.

“There are matters more important in this world than an individual’s happiness. I represent all Russia, the power that defeated Napoleon. And now the villain is on the loose again, raising an army. More blood will be shed but I stand for the Holy Alliance, the pact of powers sworn to uphold peace throughout Europe. If I divorce Elise, that power is finished. An eagle with a broken wing! I would be considered a fool. This Congress, Poland’s future, Europe’s security! All would crumble.

“Alexander, I beg you—”

“No, Adam,” said the Tsar, raising his open hand to block any further discussion. “I shall never divorce the Tsarina Elizabeth.”

Chapter 62

On the road to Lithuania from Polotsk, Belarus

April 1815

Napoleon Bonaparte’s escape from Elba put all of Europe on the march again, damn him!

Our uhlan pennons fluttered once more, and our lances flashed in the sun. Our horses’ spirits were high, inhaling the excitement of movement and battle. All of this made my heart race as it always had. But after years of war, there was a new sentiment that cut into the excitement.

I had been a cavalry soldier from the cradle. But now I had seen too many deaths, too much blood and suffering. The menacing beat of the war drum, the sight of gallant lads galloping their mounts to meet the enemy, their lances or sabers flashing, filled me with both reverence and overwhelming dread.

How strange I still found it that one moment, the moment of wringing a goose’s neck—such a simple task any farmwife would do!—had brought a profound realization up from the depth of my soul.

I hated killing. And war meant death. Always.

But I was still a cavalry officer and I packed my emotions away. Perhaps during peacetime I could reexamine them. But not during war.

And so we marched to Kovno, in Lithuania.

I commanded new recruits who had seen little or nothing of battle. They were eager “to defeat Napoleon once and for all.”

But they were as ignorant as they were excited.

We veterans were tired of war. How could the allied monarchs have allowed Napoleon to escape? What of the French, who had sworn to protect the Bourbon monarchy? The Austrians stationed on the island? The British frigate keeping watch on the sea? And our glorious tsar—may God forgive any untoward criticism—why did he and the allies not send the devil packing to the middle of the Atlantic?

But what was done was done—and we were on the march westward as our allies mobilized. Word came that England and the Prussians were amassing their armies to stand against Napoleon.

My new recruits lacked discipline. They thought nothing of pillaging, stealing. Once at midnight, I passed a field sown with oats. I saw something white flit among the stalks of grain.

“Who goes there!” I demanded.

I heard a rustle in the grain and then a face appeared in the moonlight.

“It is I, Captain Alexandrov. Recruit Golsky from the Fourth Platoon.”

“What the devil are you doing there in the dark, Golsky?”

“I’m trying, your honor.”

“Trying”—the Russian equivalent of taking what is needed. In order to fatten up his horse, Golsky was stealing oats!

“You must stop this instant! Back to camp, Golsky!”

As I rode to my quarters, I heard a whacking sound. Voices cried out for mercy. I pushed my tired horse into a gallop and soon saw Lieutenant Kolovsky’s soldiers beating several of my platoon with a rod.

“Desist!” I ordered.

“Ah! Alexandrov,” said Kolovsky. “Excuse me, but I was taking care of this chore for you. Your soldiers were accused of stealing eighteen jugs of vodka from a Jew. Don’t be angry, brother.”

“Why should I be angry at you,” I said, my rage turning in a moment against my own men. “On the contrary, I am grateful. Scoundrels! A disgrace to the name of Tsar Alexander. Continue the punishment!”

I was sick of war. I was miserable trying to train young rascals who had no idea of what sacrifices our Russian soldiers had already made on their behalf, on Europe’s behalf.

Then word came that the Duke of Wellington and General Blucher of Prussia had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.

The hundred-day war had ended.

And instead of sorrow at missing action and a chance for new glory, I felt only relief. Relief so deep it was almost painful.

I was given leave to spend time with my uncle in St. Petersburg. I attended a concert at the Philharmonic Hall. The auditorium was filled with society women all dressed in their finest. I loved to inspect their gowns made of silk, flowered embroidery, taffeta, deep plush velvets. They were fine birds indeed, but my uhlan officer’s jacket was far more admirable. I would not have traded it for the world!

As I studied the women around me, I noticed one particularly gaunt and swarthy face, her eyes luminous with intelligence and character. Although she was dressed in fine lavender silks and a rose beret, I knew instantly that woman’s skin had seen nature’s forces: wind, storms, sun. This was no ordinary lady.

I whispered to an uhlan captain who was sitting beside me. “See the woman seated next to General Khrapovitsky.”

“You mean his wife?”

“Ah! Is she the woman who rode beside him—”

“Into Paris? Yes, she fought in the war dressed as a page and received a medal for the taking of Paris. There are not many like that one!”

I felt a prick at my pride.

“I hear that there was another,” I said. “One who fought since the beginning—”

“Oh, that one. Nadezhda Durova,” he said. “No, she died. She couldn’t take the hardship.”

I had died? I couldn’t take the hardship of battle!

“I see that you don’t believe me,” said my companion. “Well, consider. Madame Khrapovitsky there had her husband to look out for her. That young Nadezhda Durova joined the army and fought at Guttstadt, Heilsberg, Smolensk. Even Borodino. And she was all alone, what can you expect? At least Madame Khrapovitsky was a page riding beside her husband, a general. Durova was on her own. Of course she couldn’t last.”

As I considered my growing legend—and my demise—I began to think of my father, alone at home. My sisters had married, and my brother was an officer in the army.

I was a legend but a ghost already.

A sudden feeling for my roots, for my old family home, seized me.

Not long after that evening, I announced my intention to leave the army.

Chapter 63

St. Petersburg

1816–1825

In the first years after the Patriotic War of 1812, Alexander enjoyed the adoration of the Russian people, but that adoration went to his head.

He did not heed his long-ago tutor’s lessons about reform and freedom. Alexander was finished with his Committee of Friends. His faithful counselor Adam Czartoryski never returned to Russia. The Tsar, who had defeated Napoleon, lost the strength to rule. Exhausted, he tossed the reins of power into the unworthy hands of Count Arakcheyev, who changed the tenor of Alexander’s government, billeting soldiers in Russian homes, crushing freedoms, and exiling or imprisoning opposition.

The despotic tone of government was mirrored in Poland, under the rough hand of Alexander’s brother, Grand Duke Constantine.

Adam Czartoryski wrote:
“My Lord, the Grand Duke Constantine seems to have acquired a hatred for this country and everything that goes with it. An enemy could not do more harm to Your Imperial Majesty.”

But the Tsar did not bother to write back. Alexander had ceased to care. His beloved sister Ekaterina had succumbed to a vicious infection of the skin and finally pneumonia. She died in 1819.

Alexander grieved mightily. He developed the same wretched skin infection as his sister, on his left leg. He spent more and more time either traveling or hidden away from Russian society. Finally, sensing his own desperation, he decided to go back to the starets Sevastianov to seek his advice.

Entering the starets’s hovel, Tsar Alexander recognized the earthy smells from long ago as he ducked his head to avoid brushing against the bundles of dried flowers and herbs that hung from the low ceiling.

The mystic Sevastianov had aged mightily since the year of the Battle of Austerlitz. The holy man stared at the Tsar with milky eyes, unseeing. He waved his hand in greeting, motioning to a chair.

“Your Majesty, approach. Please sit next to me,” the starets croaked. “Forgive me for not rising—I would only topple over. I have a young boy who attends me but I have dismissed him for our meeting.”

“Thank you for receiving me in private, Sevastianov.”

“It is my great pleasure, Your Majesty. I’ve waited for you to return for seventeen years. They tell me you defeated Napoleon.”

This man speaks of Napoleon as if he were of as little consequence as a weed in a cucumber patch.

“Yes, he is imprisoned now in the middle of the Atlantic,” said Alexander. “Thousands of miles of salt water on either side of him. He shall not be raising an army ever again.”

“That is good.”

“You were right, Sevastianov, that I would not defeat him right away,” said Alexander. “In 1805. How did you know?”

The holy man shrugged. “I know what I know. It is not for me to question. Why do you return to me, Tsar?”

Alexander hesitated. He looked away from the starets’s eyes even though he knew the man was blind.

“I am lost, Starets,” said Alexander. “I was miscast as tsar. A tsar must rule with an iron fist and I have not that character.”

Sevastianov fingered the ends of his long gray beard.

“Your Majesty, did you follow my advice? Did you surround yourself with good advisors?”

Alexander again looked away from the sightless eyes and up at the dried flowers and berries hanging from the roof.

“I did for a time . . .”

“And now?”

“I . . . I fear I have chosen poorly. I am surrounded by threats, assassins, and plots! My minister Alexei Arakcheyev snuffs out the spark of rebellion. But he is harsh, I know. His hand is heavy on the people.”

The starets nodded, moving his lips in silence.

“But does this Alexei Arakcheyev represent your will?” he asked after a few moments.

Alexander ran his hand over his face.

“I never wanted to oppress my people. But the Tsar of all the Russias must wield an iron hammer over dissenters.”

Sevastianov ran a pale tongue over his wrinkled lips.

“Are you that iron hammer?” he asked.

“No, Sevastianov. I am not.”

“But you assign ministers who have the stomach for despotism.”

Alexander frowned.

“I suppose I am emulating my ancestors—”

“Your father?”

Alexander nodded.

He reached around his neck and withdrew a small cloth bag attached to a leather cord. Untying the knotted sack, he extracted a scrap of paper.

“This is the coded note my father wrote the night he was murdered,” Alexander said, placing the paper into the starets’s hands. “I asked you to decipher it before and you could not. Can you try again now?”

“But Your Majesty! I am blind.”

“I know. I thought by the holy spirit . . .”

“There are some things that are simply beyond even a starets’s power,” said Sevastianov. He touched the paper with his fingertips.

“It is very creased,” he said. “It has been folded and unfolded many times.”

“I cannot help but read it over and over again,” said Alexander. “It is a mystery that haunts me.”

“It haunts you? Why?”

Alexander dropped his gaze from the starets’s eyes staring blindly at him.

“I—I don’t know. It could have been my father’s last message before he was murdered. What was he trying to tell me? Or say about me?”

The starets reached out and handed back the scrap of paper.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I still think you are the only one still living who could possibly answer that question.”

Alexander folded the paper, tucking it back into the bag. He stifled a great sob.

“I promised God that if I could defeat Napoleon, I would be a servant of his will. But what am I to do? Throw the Romanov family, the scepter, and the future of Russia to these hungry wolves? The men who thirst for my power would destroy our country, snarling and ripping at one another’s throats. There would be no democracy, only anarchy until another strong man emerged, worse than any Romanov.”

“Your Majesty, you say you promised to serve God’s will. Have you found him in St. Petersburg? In the battles against Napoleon?”

Alexander threw up his hands. “I have sought spiritual guidance everywhere. I’ve studied the Quakers, the Masons, mystics . . .”

Sevastianov grunted.

“I founded the Bible Society,” offered Alexander.

“I have heard of your Bible Society. Pietism, Illuminism, Martinism . . . and Freemasonry—all cults.”

“I explore all avenues to find God,” said Alexander.

The starets drew a deep breath. When he expelled the air, Alexander heard the rattle of age from his throat and lungs.

“Your Majesty,” said Sevastianov. “Have you considered finding God on your own?”

Alexander cocked his head, leaning toward Sevastianov with his good ear. “On my own?”

“Without spiritual leaders or their philosophies. Dedicate yourself to God in the purest form, approach him as the poorest pilgrim.”

“Like you?”

“Perhaps.”

“But I am Tsar of all Russia! I can’t live like you as a hermit. I have the gravest responsibilities.”

“Yet you made a promise to the Almighty. Is there no higher purpose?”

Alexander did not reply. In the silence he listened to the call of the seagulls over the Gulf of Finland.

That night Tsar Alexander wrote to the Prince of Orange, husband of his youngest sister, Anna Pavlovna. Since the death of his sister Ekaterina his brother-in-law had become his new confidant:

I shall forsake the throne when I reach fifty. I know myself well enough to feel that by then I shall no longer have the physical and mental strength to govern my vast empire. Nicholas is a reasonable and comprehending person, the right man to guide Russia down the right path. On the day of his coronation I shall be among the crowd at the foot of the great stairs of honor of the Kremlin, and I shall be among the first to shout, “Hurrah!”

A few nights later while dining with his younger brother Grand Duke Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra Feodorovna, Alexander said, “Nicholas, you must prepare yourself to become tsar.”

Nicholas wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Whatever do you mean, Your Majesty? After your reign, Constantine is next in line for the throne.”

“We have discussed the matter,” said Alexander. “Should I abdicate, Constantine will follow suit. He has a morganatic marriage to the Polish Joanna Grudzinska—he cannot produce a legitimate heir. You will inherit the throne. Besides, Constantine is not suited to the task. His harsh conduct in Poland brings no honor to the Romanov name.”

“The Poles need an iron hammer over their heads!” said Nicholas. “Constantine does what is needed.”

An iron hammer. Is that truly what they need? It seems to be what everyone clamors for, this blasted hammer!

Alexander sighed. “You will be the next tsar. And someday soon.” The Tsar saw a minute movement across the table from him. The Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna’s eyes widened.

“Ah, my dear sister-in-law!” said Alexander. “Do not worry. I am in fine health. But your husband must prepare for the role of tsar. I shall cheer him from the throngs as you pass by in the imperial coach.”

The grand duchess was speechless.

As they left the dining room, Alexandra Feodorovna whispered to her husband, “He speaks as if he will abdicate. And soon.”

Nicholas gazed up at the gilded moldings of the ceilings and the magnificent spill of the Jordan Staircase illuminated by hundred of candles.

“My brother the Tsar renounced the throne even before he was given it,” he said. “I wonder what he means to do.”

In the first week of November 1824, the Baltic Sea churned with hurricane-force winds. The storm beset St. Petersburg from the southwest, driving the ocean water up the Neva River and causing a flood of catastrophic proportions. The entire city was deluged, drowning more than five hundred people in a little over five hours. Brave souls rowed boats in the tempest, trying to save the desperate in every part of the city.

Alexander and the royal family took refuge in the highest level of the Winter Palace. Below them they saw animal carcasses, bloated human bodies, houses, timbers, and bridges carried swiftly away in the sea that rose inch by inch, foot by foot.

When the waters finally subsided, a cemetery cross carried across the Neva wedged itself directly in front of the Winter Palace.

Alexander looked down at it from the third floor.

“It is a sign,” he said to Elizabeth.

Alexander descended the sweeping Jordan Staircase, the most stunning hallmark of the palace, now littered with thick mud and debris. The rose-colored marble was ringed with watermarks and the alabaster statues of Wisdom and Justice laced with filth.

What harbingers are these? How fares the rest of my capital?

The Tsar insisted on inspecting the city immediately to survey the destruction.

What met his senses was the low wail of despair, the sobs and laments of those who had lost their loved ones. All St. Petersburg moaned, the howl permeating even the Tsar’s one deaf ear.

He clapped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, the stench of decay overwhelming him. He remembered that a similar flood had struck the city in 1777—the year of his birth.

Alexander stepped out of his carriage at the beginning of Nevsky Prospekt. His cheeks were wet with tears as he stood and listened to the mourning of St. Petersburg.

The Tsar of all Russia sobbed. The footmen and escorts stood motionless, not knowing what to do.

An old man hobbled by and seeing the Tsar’s tears, spoke to him.

“God is punishing us for our sins!”

Alexander looked at the old man and shook his head.

“No, Grandfather. Not for
our
sins. For mine!”

Alexander turned away, his head in his hands.