The Beginning of Love
December 1755
It is late when I creep out of my apartments in the clothes I feel most comfortable in, the ones I’ve borrowed from my little Kalmuk hairdresser. Breeches, a ruffled shirt, and a jacket, with a dark cape thrown over for warmth. My long hair is pinned under the tricorn. During the day I would fool no one. But in the dark I can stride through the streets to Naryshkin’s mansion, unnoticed on a winter’s night. A bracing walk of a mile or so along the river. I attract no attention dressed as a man. I must confess, however, I enjoy it too much. The freedom, the power. Even my step is stronger and I begin to feel that I will be able to do what is necessary when the time comes.
Naryshkin’s sister greets me in the salon. I remove my tricorn and let my hair fall loose over my shoulders. Here, like last week and the week before, eight or ten young friends from court are assembled, mostly in pairs. There is a characteristic low murmur, sometimes the peak of a familiar voice. The corpulent, good-natured Naryshkin is holding forth with a joke as usual. The individuals rarely change, only the arrangement of pairs. They each take a moment to give me an informal bow of the head before they return to their wooing. They are accustomed to my men’s clothes and no longer blink at the sight of them as they once did.
Ten minutes after my arrival, Naryshkin’s sister greets a new guest. I am teasing a young countess about the attributes of her latest choice of lover when my eyes are drawn to the door. There stands the comely young man I have seen with Hanbury-Williams. Extraordinary, intelligent eyes take everything in. Take me in. He appears somewhat uncertain — perhaps my ruffled shirt and breeches baffle him — but his lovely bow-shaped lips hint at a smile.
Naryshkin brings him to where I stand. “Count Stanislaw Poniatowski, Your Highness,” he says. The low murmur stops abruptly.
I offer him my hand. His eyes drop shyly as he bows, kisses it. His fingers are long and slender, graceful for a man. His face has such delicate features, yet a strong nose. I admire the contradiction.
“Your friend, Hanbury-Williams, speaks very highly of you,” I say. I make a point of turning my face to the small group so that they may carry on as usual.
“He is a dear friend and mentor,” says he with a slight smile. “He advises and I listen.”
“He is a wise man of the world and you are fortunate in his friendship.”
“I hope, Your Highness, I will be as fortunate in yours.” He locks me in his arresting brown eyes, and I am entranced. If the others are watching, let them all go to the devil.
“We are all friends here,” I say, drinking in his milky white skin. “You may call me Sophie.”
His long lashes sweep down, hiding his beautiful eyes for an instant. I have embarrassed him with my familiarity. Oddly enough, I delight in his shyness. It is a refreshing change from the conceited self-assurance of the louts who frequent the court.
“I am honoured,” he murmurs.
“And what may I call you?”
“My friends call me Stanislaw.”
I lower my eyes and incline my head at the exchange of familiarity.
“I compliment you on your attire,” he says, mischief in his eyes as they sweep down to my breeches. “It is wickedly becoming.”
I have had my effect on him. I am well satisfied.
“Why, I thank you, sir. It is the price I pay to leave the palace unobserved. Pray, come, meet my friends.” I lead him toward the fashionable young men and women who, of a sudden, turn to each other with more animation than is their usual wont. Even then, I begin to plot such scenes as my friends will never take part in.
He and I spend the evening discussing Montesquieu and Diderot, bandying about clever words, sometimes lobbing them at each other. I am quite entranced by him, drinking in the heart-shaped face, the brown eyes that sparkle at me with quiet intelligence and mischief together, the graceful mouth.
For his part, he barely takes his eyes off me, inclining his head as I speak as if each word from my mouth is a jewel he must capture. At the end of the evening I am quite heady with his attention.
When it is time to go, he offers to accompany me home.
“You look extraordinary in those clothes,” he whispers, eyeing me sideways as we leave Naryshkin’s. “Even lovelier than in a ball gown.”
I take his arm as we stroll back toward the palace in the dark. The night is very brisk and our breaths become visible clouds rising in the air.
I take him in a side door to which I have the key. Inside the dim hall we are suddenly diffident with each other.
“Meet me here tomorrow,” I murmur. “Instead of Naryshkin’s.”
His eyes widen, unsure. Do I see excitement as well?
I bend toward him and kiss his cheek softly. “I’ll wait for you at midnight.”
And before he has time to answer, I fly away.
The whole of the next day I am filled with anticipation for the evening: Will he come? Is he as enchanted with me as I am with him? It is no good looking at a book or exchanging serious words with anyone. I am truly distracted.
At midnight I creep along the hallway toward the back entrance, carrying a candle. No one is about. My heart is fluttering and makes me quite giddy.
I pull back my shoulders, preparing for his absence. Holding the candle aloft I creak open the door. In the dimness I see no one before me. I can taste the disappointment.
Then an abrupt movement! A figure leans in a corner of the doorway. I bite my lip to keep from shouting for joy. It is him, arms wrapped across his chest for warmth. He straightens up and approaches until the light from the candle reveals him. His eyes shine at me with a warmth that spreads around my heart.
I open wide the door, the chill air rushing about me. He steps inside, the fresh scent of the cold night clinging to him.
“Is it very cold?” I say, trying to keep the elation from rising in my voice.
He removes his hat to reveal the wondrous blond hair tied back. “Very cold,” he says. Playfully he touches my face with freezing fingers. “Cold as Siberia.”
I exaggerate a shiver. “I will warm you,” I say and take his chilled hands between mine, rubbing them softly.
“Siberia is where I will be sent if your husband finds me.”
“Are you afraid?” I ask.
“I tremble with fear.”
His hands are soft between mine. “But is it my husband you fear? Perhaps you fear me.”
“Do I have reason to fear you? Are you a dangerous woman?”
“I am when I am crossed.”
“Then I will be sure not to cross you.” He smiles into my face like a cherub and my heart rises toward him.
I step up close to him and lift my chin so that I may stare into his eyes, golden in the shadows. He bends his face slowly toward mine. My throat goes dry. At long last his lips touch mine, sending a flame that spreads through my body.
I take him by the hand and lead him to my apartments.
The first time we make love is a revelation. I admit I have not the experience of some, but that a man can be tender and at the same time strong, stalwart yet generous, is a joyful discovery. Tho’ I have taken him into my bed, we spend half the night in discussion of philosophy, literature, and our respective countries. To my astonishment, he finds my opinions of interest and seeks to find the basis for them. No man before has been curious about my convictions.
From then on we meet as frequently as is possible. At times we transfer our liaisons from the palace to Naryshkin’s house. In this routine, I undress for the night and my most trusted chambermaid lights a candle on the windowsill to signal that all is clear to Naryshkin, who waits outside.
He is a boisterous clown and has devised his own signal.
“Miaow!” I hear. A much louder cry than any cat could utter.
At this I leap from my bed and pull on the breeches and jacket that have become second nature to me. Naryshkin hires a modest droshky that will not arouse interest to drive us back to his house. There my Polish love awaits me.
Lovemaking alternates with serious discussion. Even after several months his eyes shine while I ramble on.
“This is why Voltaire is the man of the century,” I say. “With but his pen he combats the enemies of mankind: ignorance, superstition, the tyranny of the church, the abuse of power…”
“May I say, Your Highness,” he taps me under the chin, “for someone in your exalted position you have a surprisingly enlightened attitude. I hope you are able to maintain those opinions when you are Empress.” He leans back upon my pillows, one arm behind his head.
“I intend to keep what I want,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him suggestively.
“And is the list of things you want very long?” he says, pulling me down toward him with his free hand.
“Not very long,” I say. “It starts and ends with you.” I kiss his sweet bow lips. A flutter in the pit of my stomach.
“I perceive that’s a lie,” he says, “but a very tender one.” He pushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “What else will you want? When you are Empress.”
I examine his heart-shaped face to see if he truly wants to hear. The curiosity in his delectable eyes convinces me. I lean against his chest, at ease.
“My premier concern — that Russia be not left behind. The tolerance and reason that are sweeping through Europe must visit here. Russia is a great empire, but it must change.”
“Do you imply,” he says impishly, “that Russia suffers from a lack of reason and tolerance?”
“I do not imply. I shout! But who would bother to listen? Reason and tolerance are commodities the court has little use for. Power and greed are the only coin of the realm.”
“Strong words for an Empress in waiting. Perhaps things will change when the crown comes to rest at last upon your head.”
I turn and find his eyes to see if he jests. He is all seriousness.
“I will never succumb to power and greed,” I say.
He smiles. “I believe you, but I am curious about specifics, Your Highness,” he says. “How will you visit reason and tolerance on this barbarous land?”
I pull myself up on an elbow so that I can see his face. He cocks his head, waiting for me to expound. I see the admiration in his eyes. I revel in it. With him at my side I could achieve almost anything.
“For one, we must establish just laws and enforce them humanely. There must be no arbitrary rule, but legal procedures must govern the exercise of power.”
“Hear, hear!” he says, clapping his hand against my arm.
I am encouraged to continue. “We must build schools and educate everyone, to teach them to reason and think judiciously.”
“Bravo!” he says. “You are a marvel.” He pulls me down to him again. “You are a goddess. Give me leave to worship you.” His tone is ironic, but his eyes!
“I do not require worship. No one has ever worshipped me.”
“I can hardly credit that. But if that be true, then I shall be the first. Tho’ you may not require it, you deserve it.”
“Worship is all very well,” I say, “but it seems a cold thing, directed at statues and altars. What of love?”
His eyes soften and threaten to run over. “What of love? I shall tell you.” He pulls me to him with resolve. “You have made me forget that Siberia exists. I have never loved as I love you now. I will love you till I die.”
His lips melt mine, and in a sweet delirium, I lose myself in his arms.
Later, when I sleep, I dream of coopers and barrels, two souls who once were one, now drifting ever further apart in some dark ether, and the face of a rabbi with tears standing in his eyes.
In March the air softens. The streets are still piled with snow, but the sun stays longer in the sky and glistens with more brilliancy on the river ice. My ladies have remarked on the new colour in my complexion. Only a trusted few know of my liaison. My Polish lover and I have been so discreet in our trysts that neither the Empress nor Chancellor Bestuzhev has any inkling. Besides, they are both singularly occupied with foreign matters.
Presently the Empress rages about the treaty. She is out of humour that England has signed with Prussia. Perhaps we should not be surprised, since Frederick is King George’s nephew and King George’s chief concern has always been his city, Hanover. Poor Sir Charles is the object of the Empress’s pique since it was he who prevailed upon her to sign the subsidy treaty in which Russian troops would protect Hanover against Frederick. And now Hanover kisses hands with Frederick!
I heard the Empress tell one of the courtiers, “Hanbury-Williams has grown to be a Prussian and meddles too much with Prussian affairs.”
She hates Frederick, who delights in spreading outrageously obscene jokes about her and her lovers throughout Europe and who in his correspondence repeatedly calls her a slut. I have owed much to him in the past, but his actions were not unselfish, even when I was fourteen, and I feel no compunction to defend him.
After everything, the Empress complains openly of being deceived by King George. My Polish love is also lately frowned upon by dint of his connection to Sir Charles. The Count is thought to be an English agent working against the Russian interest. No wonder there is great confusion in the court — what the English call a muddle. The French faction is encouraged and becomes bold. Great Chancellor Bestuzhev, with his English sympathies, is slipping from grace. With Austria drifting closer to France, and the alliance cemented between England and Prussia, war between France and England is inevitable. Russia must choose sides, and it appears certain that the Empress will come down on the French side. The earth is moving beneath our feet and none of us knows where we will end up.
In July, my life is turned upside down. My Polish love sits on the edge of my bed, his face long. I sense trouble and remain standing.
“My parents have asked me to go home in time for the Diet,” he says. “There’s a position I will stand for in Livonia.”
Have I been waiting for this all along? For the axe to fall? I must survive this, tho’ my happiness absolutely depends on him. My stomach lurches; my head throbs with pain.
“You must give me leave, or I will not go.”
I tremble at the prospect of the empty space that will fill my heart when he leaves, but I will not add to his sadness. I know he is not in a position to refuse. “Of course you must go if your parents bid it.”
“Everything is so difficult here now,” he says. “You see how Sir Charles is treated. It will be worse when war breaks out in earnest.”
“It pains me greatly,” I say. “We both love him, to be sure.”
“And I am his protégé. Therefore I am seen as an English spy by the court. Under these circumstances, it is better for you, also, if I leave Petersburg. Your position will be harmed if you are connected to me. We will be found out sooner or later.”
I turn my face from him. “The Empress begins to hear rumours,” I say, a numbness creeping around my heart.
“It was inevitable,” he says, rising from his seat on the bed.
I stand transfixed, unable to hide my distress. He takes me in his arms tentatively, strokes my hair, trying to console me.
“You’ll see, my little Royal Highness, I will be back in a trice. I will come back tho’ hell stands in my way.”