her private suite, and one by one they read the letters, penned by the hand of André Rasumovsky to his dead mistress.
Potemkin folded the last of them and handed it to the Empress.
âNo manâs faith, however strong, can stand in the face of these,â he said.
Paul was in his study when a page brought him the package, with the message that these papers had been discovered among the late Grand Duchess Natalieâs effects. The news that his wifeâs rooms were being searched had roused the Czarevitch to fury; that very morning he intended to go to his mother and protest, but instead he untied the piece of ribbon and, filled with fresh agonies of love by the memories invoked by anything belonging to his beloved wife, began to read.
At first he didnât recognize the writing. The opening words leapt at him with such force it seemed as if a voice had spoken them aloud.
âMy adored one, my Natalia, I send this note to you because it might be a whole lifetime since we parted, though I know it is scarcely three hours since I left your arms.â¦
He read on, almost mechanically, while the nervous tic in his left cheek awoke and began throbbing steadily.
âI love you more than ever, more than it is wise for any man to love a woman. In our meeting place I lived for the first time; here at Tsarskoë Selo, you have shown me that Godâs paradise exists on earth.â¦â
The phrases of flattery and passion ran on; he reflected quite impersonally that the writer had put into words all those emotions that he himself had never been able to express in speech or script. The signature at the end of the first letter stared up at him, black and bold and flourishing. âYour lover, André.â
The piece of paper slipped from his fingers and floated to the ground; he sat quite still, the blood roaring in his head, the thunderous pulsing of his own heartbeat reverberating in his ears.
âYour lover, André ⦠Scarcely three hours since I left your arms â¦â
In the letter it mentioned Tsarskoë Selo. He and Natalie had gone there for the first time a few months after their marriage. He remembered clearly that his young wife had not been well during their stay ⦠No, he corrected himself, that was the second time, when she was pregnant; she was always ailing then and calling for him. The letter could not possibly refer to that period. It must have been the first visit, when they were newly married. And she was ill, he said to himself slowly; she had headaches and used to send him away for hours on end.â¦
Very deliberately, he picked up the second letter and saw that it, too, was written from the Empressâs Summer Palace.
âNatalia â¦â
The name occurred every few lines, that pretty diminutive that he used to her himself, written by the hand of another, spoken by alien lips. The hand that drove the pen had touched her also, for the writer dwelt upon some intimacies that left no doubt about the fact. Intimacies received and given.
Phrases of passion that were repeated, incidents recalled, laughter and tenderness, he read them all, letter after letter, noting how the places changed from Tsarskoë Selo to the Winter Palace at Petersburg and to Moscow, and that quite often the notes were written in answer to ones which had been sent. He could not see these, he could only imagine their contents, and already his imagination was supplying him with pictures. Natalie Alexeievna, beautiful and frail, lying in anotherâs arms, doing and saying the things which the writer described so vividly; he saw the pavilion at Tsarskoë Selo, saw his wife and his equerry, one dead, the other out of reach, saw them as lovers and remembered how often she must have come to him, warm from the adultererâs embrace, and submitted unwillingly to his own.
They had often talked of him, it seemed. The handsome equerry quoted her sayings on the subject, recording her
Potemkin folded the last of them and handed it to the Empress.
âNo manâs faith, however strong, can stand in the face of these,â he said.
Paul was in his study when a page brought him the package, with the message that these papers had been discovered among the late Grand Duchess Natalieâs effects. The news that his wifeâs rooms were being searched had roused the Czarevitch to fury; that very morning he intended to go to his mother and protest, but instead he untied the piece of ribbon and, filled with fresh agonies of love by the memories invoked by anything belonging to his beloved wife, began to read.
At first he didnât recognize the writing. The opening words leapt at him with such force it seemed as if a voice had spoken them aloud.
âMy adored one, my Natalia, I send this note to you because it might be a whole lifetime since we parted, though I know it is scarcely three hours since I left your arms.â¦
He read on, almost mechanically, while the nervous tic in his left cheek awoke and began throbbing steadily.
âI love you more than ever, more than it is wise for any man to love a woman. In our meeting place I lived for the first time; here at Tsarskoë Selo, you have shown me that Godâs paradise exists on earth.â¦â
The phrases of flattery and passion ran on; he reflected quite impersonally that the writer had put into words all those emotions that he himself had never been able to express in speech or script. The signature at the end of the first letter stared up at him, black and bold and flourishing. âYour lover, André.â
The piece of paper slipped from his fingers and floated to the ground; he sat quite still, the blood roaring in his head, the thunderous pulsing of his own heartbeat reverberating in his ears.
âYour lover, André ⦠Scarcely three hours since I left your arms â¦â
In the letter it mentioned Tsarskoë Selo. He and Natalie had gone there for the first time a few months after their marriage. He remembered clearly that his young wife had not been well during their stay ⦠No, he corrected himself, that was the second time, when she was pregnant; she was always ailing then and calling for him. The letter could not possibly refer to that period. It must have been the first visit, when they were newly married. And she was ill, he said to himself slowly; she had headaches and used to send him away for hours on end.â¦
Very deliberately, he picked up the second letter and saw that it, too, was written from the Empressâs Summer Palace.
âNatalia â¦â
The name occurred every few lines, that pretty diminutive that he used to her himself, written by the hand of another, spoken by alien lips. The hand that drove the pen had touched her also, for the writer dwelt upon some intimacies that left no doubt about the fact. Intimacies received and given.
Phrases of passion that were repeated, incidents recalled, laughter and tenderness, he read them all, letter after letter, noting how the places changed from Tsarskoë Selo to the Winter Palace at Petersburg and to Moscow, and that quite often the notes were written in answer to ones which had been sent. He could not see these, he could only imagine their contents, and already his imagination was supplying him with pictures. Natalie Alexeievna, beautiful and frail, lying in anotherâs arms, doing and saying the things which the writer described so vividly; he saw the pavilion at Tsarskoë Selo, saw his wife and his equerry, one dead, the other out of reach, saw them as lovers and remembered how often she must have come to him, warm from the adultererâs embrace, and submitted unwillingly to his own.
They had often talked of him, it seemed. The handsome equerry quoted her sayings on the subject, recording her
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