Empress of the Night by Eva Stachniak Read Free Book Online Page A

snaps.
    He eyes her with suspicion. He hears her with impatience. He thinks her too clever for her own good. Madame Resourceful, he mocks her, who always has a solution to all problems—whether anyone wants it or not. In the palace corridors he hastens his steps to avoid her. In their marital bed he gives her a wide berth. When she tries to touch his hand, he recoils.
    “Stand up, wife,” he yells. “ Schnelle! Schnelle! ”
    Sophie jumps out of bed and stands at attention. He tells her to bend and pick up his sword. He orders her to march across the room. Present the sword as if it were a musket. Lift her legs high, like a good Prussian soldier on parade.
    He forbids her to speak. He watches her from the bed as she marches, his head resting on his hands.
    “Why are you so silent, wife?” he asks.
    “Because you told me not to speak, Peter,” she answers, and for a moment her obedience pleases him and his face brightens.
    “Enough!” he yells. “Come back!”
    She puts the sword away and gets into bed beside him. The mattressis warm and smells sweetly. The maids have spread jasmine and rose petals under the sheets. Varvara has told her not to lose heart. To be patient. Men are like that sometimes. Shy. Afraid to show their weakness. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
    She is patient.
    She is waiting, in silence, until Peter laughs, turns his back on her, and begins to snore.
    In Russia, death is pictured as an old, bony woman with a scythe. Silent and relentless, impossible to outwit. A hag asking through her toothless mouth: “Who will govern when I come to the Empress’s bed?”
    In the inner chambers of the Imperial Palace there is no need for subtlety. A country needs an heir, a child patiently groomed for power, a Tsarevich of imperial blood.
    A fruit of the imperial marriage. A Grand Duchess’s sacred duty.
    So why is her womb still empty?
    Her ill wishers, her slanderers, hide in the back passageways, in the corridors, behind two-way mirrors. They call her a barren tree, a withered blossom dropping without forming fruit. To the Empress, who has brought her to Russia, they whisper: Another year has passed. What is the use of a tree that yields no fruit? Hours flow faster than we think. What if what we took for signs of divine approval were the whispers of the Devil?
    A woman has to please her husband, not to hide in books. Or ride a horse astride like a man. Or ask too many questions.
    If Catherine smiles, her slanderers call her flippant; if she wipes the smile from her face, they call her proud.
    She has made a bargain and has not delivered. Her punishment has only just begun.
    She has no more friends at court. Anyone who has dared to show her any kindness has been sent away. Prince Naryshkin has been told the Grand Duchess has no time for idle prattle. Maids have been dismissed for whispering a few words of comfort. Varvara Nikolayevna, too, is gone, married, already awaiting a child. Varvara, who once warned: “Thiscourt is a dangerous ground. Life here is a game, and every player is cheating.”
    “I’ve chosen you over others,” the Empress seethes, poking at her belly. A punch, harsh and insistent, is meant to hurt, and it does. “Where is my heir now? How much longer do I have to wait, Catherine?”
    Six years she has been married, and her husband has not touched her. This is her shameful secret. For isn’t it always a woman’s fault?
    She must have repulsed him somehow. With her looks? Her words? Her actions? Was she too haughty? Too quick to speak? Not obedient enough?
    Sometimes when she is alone, she opens her shift and sniffs at her body. Is it her smell that stops Peter from desiring her? Or her bony hips that refuse to take on a layer of soft fat? Are her breasts too small, or too big? Her skin too rough? Her chin too pointed? Her teeth too rotten? Her lips too parched?
    In the palace chapel, Russian saints look at her with empty eyes. We have suffered in silence , they say, and so