This is not my story.
This was never my story.
This will never be my story.
But I will tell it anyway.
I was young. Only nineteen years old. Too proud to call myself naive. Too intelligent to call myself ignorant.
To learn what she had already known: there is only room for one powerful woman in the history books.
The bells rung hollow across the opulent, cavernous room, echoing off handcrafted wooden staircases, the ivory sculptures, the vases painted with stories, the gold stitched books pressed together as stars from squinted eyes. I shifted in my skirts self-consciously. My fingers grazed my book protectively, its leather soft like the cheek of one of my young children. I hunched over the Historical and Critical Dictionary, startling as if I had been caught doing something illicit. I considered Pierre Bayle an old friend, although we would never meet, stranded by death and distance. I imagined we could have had marvelous discussions. I folded the book down carefully, many considered Bayle controversial, as he readily criticized the church, I enjoyed simmering in the skepticism, like an eau emanating from its pages, both as a burgeoning philosopher and a supporter of the church. I retrieved the letter at my side, delivered by a courier this morning.
Father had sent me one of his rare letters: a year late. General Roman Illarionovich Vorontsov of the noble Vorontsov family, "Roman the Slasher", had scarce contact with his third daughter, that being me, of course. I had been propelled into the hands of my uncle, Mikhail Vorontsov, at a young age, now the Imperial Chancellor. My mother passed before my third birthday. All I had left from her were the memories, not my own, imparted to me from half-minded ramblings of my father, long after the guests had left.
I read over the elegant text, congratulating me on the birth of my daughter Anastasiia, who has already surpassed a year in age. I thought of my husband, of his would be sly quirk at my father's convenient delay. I had fallen quickly and hopelessly in love with Prince Mikhail Ivanovich Dashkov, becoming Princess Yekaterina Romanovna Vorontsova-Dashkova before my sixteenth birthday. My hand cramped while writing out my full name. Our two children were born before my nineteenth. The children were both with Mikhail back in Moscow with his family. I was relieved to be out of the scrutiny of my in-laws, parsing out my poorly spoken Russian, yielding a disproportionate amount of time to the care of my children and forced to carry out card games, instead of perusing philosophical texts. I fancifully thought my books missed my company as I felt misplaced among my extended family. The prim princess they expected, apt at small talk, party planning, and pleased ignorance, was not found within me.
One thing my father did excel in was granting me an education. As a woman of the 18th century, I was lucky to be fluent in French, Russian, German and Italian, with a passion both for math and philosophy. After I attended the funeral of my godmother, Tsarina Elizaveta, I planned to return to Moscow to study mathematics at the University of Moscow. In many regards, I felt separated me from the fellow woman. Sometimes when stranded from my library, from academic society, I felt isolated.
The Winter Palace, built under the direction of my godmother, felt empty in her monumental absence. The palace felt listless. My godmother, the Empress was beloved, both for her steadfast opposition to Prussian policies and for her empathic decision to decline from any executions during her reign, but also beloved by me. To hear her speak of my mother made me love her more. For a time, I lived for the stories she relayed to me.
She was one of the first to know of my imminent marriage with Mikhail, the first to congratulate me. I remember the sway of the carriage, Mikhail's gentle hand at my back, as we broke the news to her. Her smile was much wider than the public ever saw. I was still new to life, knowledgeable, but innocent to politics. It was a time before. Before I became a wife and a mother when I had yet to experience the world, to know its tragedies.
It felt thrilling to be back in Saint Petersburg, so strongly reminiscent of my childhood, free of expectations, free of duties to husband and child. Here, I was only little Yekaterina darting between and striking up a conversation with members of the Russian Court. Yet, I could feel their perception already change, the shift in their tones, the adult respect that I clutched after as a child. It was Princess Dashkova now, with the mighty families of Vorontsov and Dashkov behind me.
I was curious to see Catherine, although 14 years my senior, she was one of the only ones who I remember, at 15, who held my opinion of importance. I found a kindred spirit in her ambition, in her disregard of the limits of gender. Catherine and I were often confused in conversation, the older Catherine and the younger Catherine. But while she, originally Prussian, went by anglicized version, and I by Yekaterina. Catherine was married to my godfather, Peter III, who was soon to be the Tsar, and the nephew of the deceased Tsarina Elizaveta. The last time I saw her was at my wedding before I was whisked to Moscow. But my return, although without my husband, signaled my reinstallation in the Russian Court.
The Court was renown around the world. It was the diamond onto a bracelet, the lion among gazelles. My memories of the Court ring clearly in my mind. The ridiculous lavishness of our affairs, the balls, and masquerades that would swing into the morning, the stars joining the guests in dance, the food sumptuous and laid out like a gown. I had already attended several of these events since arriving back in St. Petersburg, learning quickly that the vodka went straight to my head, and had me revealing the most dastardly things, but thankfully it seemed to be the case for all the guests, along with the collective amnesia the next morning. In the future, I hid under the guise of drunkenness, to procure the secrets from the highbrow ladies of the court. Catherine had been away on travel, Peter consorting with different women at each event. I saw how the ladies mocked him behind his back, saw how their husbands nodded infinitesimally in agreement.
A maid sidled into the room, hesitant of a prospective harsh remark. I folded up the letter neatly, tucking into a square to fit within my corset. My dark hair pooled around my shoulders, I had slipped out of my chambers before my maid could do my hair into the torturously uncomfortable fontanges. Mikhail hypothesized they were invented to keep women from thinking by inducing searing headaches. Since then, I've refused to wear them on principle. I did usually tie my hair back with a pin, preferring it out of my face.
It was time to join my godfather, the Grand Duke Peter III, and the Grand Duchess Catherine II for breakfast. I set my book back on its shelf, unfurled my dress, and marched as confidently as could down the halls. I tried to capture the stride of the men I saw traipsing across the halls, the innate authority in their step that was deliberately polished out of the ladies of the court. I was a curiosity without my husband beside me. I had heard the whispers, but I would regain my place, I would earn my place.
I soon arrived at the Green Dining Room, delicately ornate, white walls intricately carved. In the absence of color, the texture of the room propelled out from the walls. Peter and Catherine stood at the sight of me. Peter was already inebriated at this early hours, his eyes slow and glassy. He stumbled to me, her face almost a sickly pale, his eyes large and pronounced. He took my hand, which he hastily pressed his lips to. "Kat, I see you're looking-" his eyes lazed over me, "healthy." I flushed, although I was never known for looks, his dig still flustered me.
"And you, dear godfather, are looking positively wretched. Drunk at what? Nine o'clock in the morning. Once were the days when you would remain sober until 10."
A tense pause. Then Catherine laughed, a full belly laugh strangled by her corset. Peter smiled, patting me absentmindedly on the shoulder, "Still the indecently witty young lady I remember. Mikhail hasn't yet reformed you yet?"
I bristled, "If one needed to be reformed, it would be you." I glanced over at Catherine, "but I'm afraid that's too mighty a job to wish upon anyone: man or woman." I walked over to Catherine, before I could respond with anything else incendiary. Peter could only take my insults so far, before his temper was revealed.
"Grand Duchess Catherine," I greeted, curtsying. Peter huffed as I paid greater courtesy to his wife than him.
"Princess Dashkova," she tilted her head, mirth softening her strong figure. She was smaller than you'd expect, but this was negated by her head held high, her all observing eyes, shoulders straighter than soldiers. "I look forward to your presence on the court." She sat, disregarding her still standing husband, "Join me as I make the final arrangements for the funeral and coronation."
I could see Peter wince, stumbling back into his seat. Grief thick as his fur coat curdled around him.
I lifted my eyebrows. While I was close with the Tsarina, the physical distance between us shortened our connection. Her death was no great sorrow to me, similar to mourning the ending of a season. It was predictable. All humans must die. Tsars were not excluded. As the future Tsar, Peter needed to be strong, a formidable force to guide mighty Russia, not beguiled by grief and drink. Silently, I compared the two future leaders seated before me. One slouched, intoxicated, hazy with emotions. The other back straight, eyes sharp, mind clear. I ruminated on the discrepancies as I fielded questions about the well being of Mikhail, my young children: Pavel and Anastaiia. We were served bliny, and chai.
Peter was softer when drunk, the cruel callouses the court had left on his countenance caroled away by drink. When sober, he would fling insults, shield himself off, attempt to humiliate those considered close to him. The vodka made him manageable.
I was never gladder for my marriage to Mikhail than while watching the strained interactions between Peter and Catherine. The way she would tense when his arm brushed past hers, how their conversation was stilted, how silence, while their modus operandi, still felt uncomfortable between them. I hoped the desolate state of the union was not a result of time, but a true disparity of spirits.
A courier scurried into the room, holding a long scroll. "Grand Duke, Grand Duchess," he bowed deeply, "I have been sent to inform you that Prussia requests Russia's assistance against Sweden in Pomerania." His words were fast, stumbled over each other, like toddlers curious for the last sweet.
Catherine stood at once, while Peter barely registered the arrival. "Prussia requests?"
The courier nodded quickly. "Yes, Grand Duchess, considering you and the Grand Duke are Prussian."
Although not possible, it felt as if Catherine grew larger. Her hair changed from stylish to menacing. Her eyes from welcoming to cold. "It would do you well to understand that we are no longer Prussian. That regretful title does not belong to me. It belonged to Sophie von Anhalt-Zerbst. Do you know my name, courier?"
"Grand D-duchess Ca-Catherine," he repeated nervously.
She harrumphed.
He nodded spastically, exiting from the room, forgetting he was supposed to bear a response.
A faint horn sounded to announce another guest's arrival. My older sister of four years appeared in the doorway. While neither of us were lauded for our looks, I at least took care of my appearance. I kept myself clean and respectable, while she, as I remembered from the last time we talked, left noses curled in her wake due to her distaste of washing. She also employed a discourteous vocabulary, filled with words never a lady should speak. I feared we both adopted a brashness from our father, but I was surprised at her galeness to show up, uninvited from the forced smile on Catherine's face, at the Royal Palace.
"Yekaterina," she called out. I stood to greet her, her arms grappled around me in a clumsy hug. "You look well, sister of mine." Spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.
I patted her gently. Although, I was four years her junior, it was I who held the court's respect. Intelligence wins out over age many times over. "It is nice to you see you again Eliza."
"Semyon and I have been looking forward to you visit," she noted. Semyon was our younger brother. The brother between us in age Alexander, was off in London, representing Russia at the Court of St. James.
"We will have to all have dinner during my visit."
"Yes, we must. Perhaps Uncle Mikhail as well."
I nodded, then respectfully tilted my head to the Catherine and Peter, who Eliza had failed to acknowledge.
Peter lumbered over, his eyes clearer than before. Eliza draped herself over him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He casually wrapped an arm around her waist.
I sipped on the scene: tensed Catherine, Peter, and Eliza comfortable in each others' arms. Breakfast continued on with Peter and Eliza babbling to each other, their intimacy mocking Catherine. Finally Catherine stood, distaste shuddering her stance. "Princess, I must show you where we intend to host the parade for the Tsarina Elizaveta."
As Catherine and I exited the room, our footsteps echoing down the long hall, wisps of our breath visible in the frosty air, I spoke, "I didn't realize you regularly dined with my sister."
Her laugh was light, "I do not dine with her, my husband though...dines with her often." She raised her eyebrows.
¨Ah.¨
"You must not mistake our marriage for one of love like yours. Ours has been purely political." She raised her brow, "Although his continual, blatant disrespect in front of guests, drives me...bonkers.¨ Her lips lifted upwards at the unfamiliar word. "How are your studies?"
"Excellent. I'm rereading Bayle and Boileau while I'm here, taking advantage of your extended library. I've also been reinforcing my Italian and German. After the coronation, I plan on continuing to University of Moscow." My words were rehearsed, waiting for the remark distasting how a girl of my promise was wasting her time on education, but Catherine surprised me.
"What are you intending to study?"
"Mathematics."
"You were always such a bright girl."
"Thank you Grand Duchess."
Her eyes narrowed, "Don't you think we are beyond that? With Peter and Eliza, we are practically related, no?" A barely imperceptible pain splintered her words. "Catherine will be fine when it's just the two of us."
"Alright."
"Now I want to hear more of Bayle. I believe I've read half, but I lost my copy and have not yet retrieved the palace copy. My duties of late have not left much time for reading."
We got lost in conversation discussing the different philosophers I had been studying. Catherine was quick with her wit, possessing surprising knowledge of thinkers both popular and obscure.
"May I speak frankly...Catherine?"
"I have not known you to speak anything but."
"I think Peter will be a woefully inadequate King. I know my godfather. He is unsuited for the throne."
She froze, stunned by my bluntness. "Tsarina Elizaveta picked him out," she repeated back rotely.
I nodded, "Do you agree with her choice?" I continued when she stayed silent, ¨Because from what I've seen I think you would be a better Tsarina.¨
¨I will be Tsar Consort,¨ she contended.
¨-which is nothing more than a pretty face at the Tsar's side. We need a Tsar like you. One who knows politics, one who actually possesses intelligence.¨ My age gave me an unhesitant brashness in pursuit of her concession. ¨Peter need not ruin the Russian Empire, playing with his toy soldiers.¨
She smiled, a bitterly fond twist to her lips.
"It is you who takes charge of the situation like you did the courier in there."
¨And how do you suppose launching such a...coup?"
"Details can always be worked out later. First, we would have to make you regent, the sole heir, for your son and dispose of Peter. "
She raised her eyebrows. "You are only nineteen Yekaterina. You should be learning, not plotting overthrows."
"What better way to learn?" I commented somewhat upset. I crossed my arms. "I thought my age didn't matter. You told me it didn't matter, that if I was capable nothing could hold me back."
Her eyes narrowed, "Your confidence is admirable, but it may cross you one day. Not many men tolerate a confident woman; they would call her arrogant, they would tell her she was filling a place meant for a man."
"How others perceive me does not matter." I shook off her words.
"We both know that untruth. Unfortunately it matters very much so."
I sighed, "Good thing I don't want to be Queen. I want you to be."
"Yekaterina, I will think about it."
"See, you've managed to appease even me. What better ruler could there be?" I joked.
She laughed. I can remember still, how weighty a pride it was to have Catherine's attention focused onto me. "Let's keep in touch, Yekaterina. I could use a young woman like you to keep an eye on the court."