door of opportunity had closed upon her for ever, and the future held nothing but a terrifying picture of Frederick of Prussia, that cold, merciless man, sitting in judgment upon her, demanding explanations.â¦
As the carriage sped away from the Troitsky Convent, Johanna wept nervously and Peter sulked in a corner.
She had won again. There was no escape from her, and he looked at Augustaâs dim profile with something like horror. She had come to Russia and some malignant fate had determined that she should remain.
On the 29th of June, the day after her baptism into the Orthodox Church, Catherine Alexeievna knelt before the High Altar in Moscow Cathedral and heard the Archbishop of Novgorod pronounce her formal betrothal to the Grand Duke Peter Feodorovitch, at the same time conferring the rank of Grand Duchess upon her.
Dazzled by the light of hundreds of wax candles, her senses bemused by the heat of the church, which was filled to overflowing, and the mingled smell of perfumes and incense that hung heavy upon the air, Catherineâs thoughts flew back many hundreds of miles, far across Russia over the border to Zerbst ⦠Zerbst, which she had left as a penniless, browbeaten little creature all those months ago, her foolish head filled with romantic notions concerning the repulsive youth who knelt at her side.
Part of the dream had come true: wealth, grandeur and eminence were now hers indeed, as the Archbishopâs words sent Augusta, Princess of Anhalt Zerbst into eternal oblivion and summoned Catherine, Grand Duchess of Russia in her place.
Closing her eyes, she bent her head as if in prayer, and a fierce determination welled up in her, born of Peterâs unforgettable threat in the Troitsky Convent.
Everything desirable in life was within her reach, and surely love in some form or another would not be for ever denied to her. Fate would not withhold that from her when it had bestowed all else with such a lavish hand.
And no one in Heaven or earth should take away what Fate had given.
On her knees, Catherine swore that in her heart, though she did not call upon the gentle, painted Christ that watched her from the jeweled ikon on the altar.
Elizabeth, with her cruelty, treachery and immorality, spent hours in prayer, while the boy Ivan rotted in a dungeon, black and silent as the tomb.⦠Catherine remembered him and shuddered.
The God of Holy Russia was no more her God than the fierce German divinity to whom she had addressed her frantic pleas for help and guidance on the eve of her journey from Zerbst. She swore by neither of them; her touch-stone was herself alone, and on her own life, with all its aspirations, she made that vow.
Many among the hundreds in the church, noting that bowed head, remarked upon the humble piety of the young Grand Duchess.
Only Bestujev, watching the defeat of his plan, doubted these qualities. He knew a deal too much of human nature to trust that charming, bright-eyed foreigner who had wormed her way into everyoneâs favor. She was far from humble, only careful because her position was still insecure; her conversion left him entirely unmoved, for the mark of the voluptuary was, in his judgment, stamped all over her, and he suspected that the change of creed had been an easy matter.
But she was yet too young to be of any danger, and her mother had been exposed and rendered powerless.
There was still time to build a cage about her, a bright gilded cage suitable for a Russian Grand Duchess, but with bars of iron beneath the gilding.
The celebrations that followed the betrothal lasted day and night until even the Empressâs appetite for pleasure was appeased, and Catherineâs strength exhausted.
Then without warning Elizabeth sank into one of her moods of abysmal melancholy, convinced of the ultimate damnation of her soul as punishment for her sinful excesses at the table and in bed. Her gorgeous dresses were put away, Rasumovsky retired discreetly,
As the carriage sped away from the Troitsky Convent, Johanna wept nervously and Peter sulked in a corner.
She had won again. There was no escape from her, and he looked at Augustaâs dim profile with something like horror. She had come to Russia and some malignant fate had determined that she should remain.
On the 29th of June, the day after her baptism into the Orthodox Church, Catherine Alexeievna knelt before the High Altar in Moscow Cathedral and heard the Archbishop of Novgorod pronounce her formal betrothal to the Grand Duke Peter Feodorovitch, at the same time conferring the rank of Grand Duchess upon her.
Dazzled by the light of hundreds of wax candles, her senses bemused by the heat of the church, which was filled to overflowing, and the mingled smell of perfumes and incense that hung heavy upon the air, Catherineâs thoughts flew back many hundreds of miles, far across Russia over the border to Zerbst ⦠Zerbst, which she had left as a penniless, browbeaten little creature all those months ago, her foolish head filled with romantic notions concerning the repulsive youth who knelt at her side.
Part of the dream had come true: wealth, grandeur and eminence were now hers indeed, as the Archbishopâs words sent Augusta, Princess of Anhalt Zerbst into eternal oblivion and summoned Catherine, Grand Duchess of Russia in her place.
Closing her eyes, she bent her head as if in prayer, and a fierce determination welled up in her, born of Peterâs unforgettable threat in the Troitsky Convent.
Everything desirable in life was within her reach, and surely love in some form or another would not be for ever denied to her. Fate would not withhold that from her when it had bestowed all else with such a lavish hand.
And no one in Heaven or earth should take away what Fate had given.
On her knees, Catherine swore that in her heart, though she did not call upon the gentle, painted Christ that watched her from the jeweled ikon on the altar.
Elizabeth, with her cruelty, treachery and immorality, spent hours in prayer, while the boy Ivan rotted in a dungeon, black and silent as the tomb.⦠Catherine remembered him and shuddered.
The God of Holy Russia was no more her God than the fierce German divinity to whom she had addressed her frantic pleas for help and guidance on the eve of her journey from Zerbst. She swore by neither of them; her touch-stone was herself alone, and on her own life, with all its aspirations, she made that vow.
Many among the hundreds in the church, noting that bowed head, remarked upon the humble piety of the young Grand Duchess.
Only Bestujev, watching the defeat of his plan, doubted these qualities. He knew a deal too much of human nature to trust that charming, bright-eyed foreigner who had wormed her way into everyoneâs favor. She was far from humble, only careful because her position was still insecure; her conversion left him entirely unmoved, for the mark of the voluptuary was, in his judgment, stamped all over her, and he suspected that the change of creed had been an easy matter.
But she was yet too young to be of any danger, and her mother had been exposed and rendered powerless.
There was still time to build a cage about her, a bright gilded cage suitable for a Russian Grand Duchess, but with bars of iron beneath the gilding.
The celebrations that followed the betrothal lasted day and night until even the Empressâs appetite for pleasure was appeased, and Catherineâs strength exhausted.
Then without warning Elizabeth sank into one of her moods of abysmal melancholy, convinced of the ultimate damnation of her soul as punishment for her sinful excesses at the table and in bed. Her gorgeous dresses were put away, Rasumovsky retired discreetly,
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