Terrible Tsarinas

haunted Catherine’s mind. The more she wept, the more she felt

like laughing. Official mourning was to go on for forty days. All

the ladies of quality vied in prayers and lamentations; Catherine

held her own superbly in this contest of sighing and sobbing. But

suddenly, another grief struck her heart. Four weeks after the de-

mise of her husband, while the entire city was preparing his

sumptuous funeral, her younger daughter Natalya (six and a half

years old) succumbed to measles. This inconspicuous, almost in-

significant death, coming on top of the tremendous impact of the

death of Peter the Great, fully convinced Catherine that her fate

was exceptional, in suffering as well as in success. She immedi-

ately decided to bury on the same day the father, wreathed in

glory of historic proportions, and the little girl who had never had

time to taste the happiness and the constraints of a woman’s life.

Announced by heralds at the four corners of the capital, the dou-

ble funeral was to take place on March 10, 1725, in the Cathedral

of SS Peter and Paul.

All along the route of the procession, the façades of the

houses were draped in black. Twelve colonels of high stature bore

His Majesty’s imposing coffin, which was sheltered to some ex-

tent from the gusts of snow and hail by a canopy of gilt brocade

< 11 >

Terrible Tsarinas

and green velvet. Natalya’s little coffin accompanied it under a

canopy of gilt fabric decorated with plumes of red and white

feathers. Behind them the priests advanced, preceding a host of

sacred banners and icons. Finally came Catherine I, in deep

mourning, her gaze lowered. The inevitable Serene Prince Men-

shikov and the Lord High Admiral Apraxin supported her falter-

ing steps. Her daughters Anna and Elizabeth were escorted by

the Grand Chancellor Golovkin, General Repnin and Count Tol-

stoy. All the highest dignitaries, the greatest members of the no-

bility, the most decorated generals, and the foreign princes and

diplomats who were visiting the court, followed the cortege, ar-

ranged according to seniority, heads bared, treading to the rhythm

of funeral music punctuated with drum rolls. The guns thun-

dered, the bells tolled, the wind caught at the wigs of the high and

mighty — who had to hold onto them with their hands. After

two hours of walking in the cold and the storm, the arrival at the

church seemed like a deliverance. The immense cathedral sud-

denly looked too small to contain this exhausted and tear-stained

crowd. And then, in the nave illuminated by thousands of can-

dles, another torment began. The liturgy was crushingly slow.

Catherine called on all her reserves of energy not to weaken.

With equal fervor, she bade farewell to the prestigious husband

who had made her a gift of Russia and to the innocent child whom

she would never again see smiling as she awoke from sleep.

But, if Natalya’s death wrung her heart like the sight of a

bird fallen from the nest, that of Peter exalted her like an invita-

tion to the astonishments of a legendary destiny. Born to be last,

she had become first. Whom should she thank for this fortune,

God or her husband? Or both, according to the circumstances?

Plunged into this solemn interrogation, she heard the voice of the

archbishop of Pskov, Feofan (Theophanes) Prokopovich, pro-

nouncing the funeral oration. “What has befallen us, O men of

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Catherine Shows the Way

Russia? What are we seeing? What are we doing? It is Peter the

Great whom we are burying!” And, in conclusion, this comforting

prophecy: “Russia will go on as he molded it!”

At these words, Catherine raised her head. She had no

doubt that, in uttering this sentence, the priest was transmitting a

message to her from beyond the tomb. By turns exalted and

frightened at the prospect of the days to come, she found herself

stifling in the crowd. But, exiting the church, she found the square

looked vaster, emptier, more inhospitable than before. The snow

was coming down harder. Even though flanked by her daughters

and friends, Catherine felt acutely alone, lost in an unknown land.

It was as though the absence of Peter had paralyzed her. It would

take all her courage to face the reality of a Russia with no future

and no master.

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Terrible Tsarinas

Footnotes

1. According to legend, Monomakh’s Cap (the oldest crown in the Russian

treasury) was a gift from the Byzantine emperor Constantine IX

Monomachus to his grandson Vladimir II Monomakh, grand prince of

Kiev (1113-1125).

2. Villebois: Mémoires secrets pour servir à l’histoire de la cour de Russie.

3. In the 18th century, Russia was still using the Gregorian calendar, so that

this date is 11 days behind the date shown by the Julian calendar cur-

rently in use.

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II

CATHERINE’S REIGN: A FLASH OF FLAMBOYANCE

Catherine I was almost fifty. She had lived so much, loved so

much, laughed so much, drunk so much — but she was never sat-

isfied. Those who knew her during this period of ostentatious