Empress of the Night by Eva Stachniak Read Free Book Online

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    Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst has a new Russian name: Catherine Alekseyevna, after Elizabeth’s own mother. According to the Russian custom, she should be called Catherine Christyanevna, for her father’s name is Christian, but the Empress decided that it would’ve sounded too foreign to a Russian ear. And a Russian Grand Duchess, a wife of the Crown Prince, should not sound foreign.
    Varvara Nikolayevna, who knows the ways of the court, says that the Empress has declared Prince Christian of Anhalt-Zerbst a man of no substance. A parasite who feeds off his wife’s connections. A man whose name would only have impeded his daughter’s position. “Don’t let anyone see your tears,” her new friend whispers. “It’s not that hard!”

    In her notebook, Catherine Alekseyevna is carefully writing down the Russian proverbs her tutor is giving her to learn by heart:
    Delit’ shkuru neubitovo medvedya . It is foolish to divide the pelt of a bear that has not been killed yet.
    Every night, the maids untie her stays, wipe her breasts with almond milk, rub her nipples until they harden, brush her hair. Slip thin cambric undershirts over her perfumed body. Her breasts are full, her womb is alive.
    They lead her to the marital bed—the bed blessed with a Holy Icon and sprinkled with holy water—and leave hastily.
    She waits. Sometimes she sits in bed holding her knees. Sometimes she runs her hand over her breasts and then her belly and her thighs. Sometimes she runs her fingers through the curls of her pubic hair, which is black and thick like a mink pelt.
    She thinks of the day she arrived in Moscow, when she was stripped naked and her German clothes were taken away. How she was dressed in a silk chemise, light as gossamer, and a brocade dress. She thinks of the wedding in the Kazan cathedral—when she stood beside Peter and the Archbishop blessed them and anointed them with holy oil. Of the wedding feast, where whole landscapes were made of sugar: a sugar castle with a sugar garden, sugar trees laden with sugar fruit. She thinks of the Empress putting her ringed hand on her flat belly, ordering her to give Russia another heir to her throne. A healthy Romanov boy to succeed his father. She thinks of Mother, who has left for Zerbst without a word of farewell and who hasn’t written to her yet. Of Father, who wasn’t invited to her wedding.
    Sooner or later, Peter, her husband, the future Tsar, always comes into the bedroom. He, too, has no choice.
    There are many faces Peter may put on. Of boredom. Of indifference. Of petulance. Or of rapt concentration, but this happens only when he manages to fool his minders and smuggle his toy soldiers into the bedroom. Then she, his bride, can watch him place them in formations, re-create battles long ago lost or won, battles over which he has total control.
    She can ask him questions, then, and Peter will answer. Explain atricky maneuver, a clever evasion that once assured a Prussian victory. Or she may make herself useful. Straighten the line of pikemen with spears held at an angle to keep the enemy horsemen at bay. Or pick up fallen heroes.
    She reminds herself how a few months ago Peter almost died of smallpox. How she despaired when those who called themselves her friends withdrew from her, knowing that if Peter died, the Empress would send her back to Zerbst. She might be fending off Mother’s scorn now, sifting through threadbare marriage offers. Hearing that she was always both too proud and unlucky. Always hungering after what was not meant for her.
    “It’ll happen, you’ll see.” Varvara Nikolayevna always knows what to say at the worst of moments when hope vanishes. “Some men get easily scared and grow soft.”
    The smallpox swelling is almost gone from her husband’s face. The redness, too, has dissipated or has been hidden under a layer of concealing cream. Besides, she tells Peter, a man doesn’t need to worry about a few pockmarks.
    “I know that,” he