It is true that, even a few months before, there had been
nothing to suggest that he might meet such a sudden demise. As
< 3 >
usual, the reformist tsar had fallen victim to his own impetuosity.
Diving into the icy waters of the Neva to rescue sailors from a
sinking ship, he contracted the pneumonia that was to carry him
off. The fever very quickly triggered the after-effects of his vene-
real disease, with complications including gangrene, gravel in the
kidneys, and retention of urine. January 28, 1725, after painful
days of delirium, he called for writing materials and, with a trem-
bling hand, traced on the paper the words: “Pass everything on
to. . .” The name of the beneficiary was left blank. The failing fin-
gers were already contracting, and his voice trailed off in a death
rattle. He was gone.
Collapsing at his bedside, his wife Catherine sobbed and
queried the mute, deaf and inert body — in vain. This instantane-
ous bereavement left her both desperate and disabled, weighing
her down with a grief and an empire that were equally crushing.
All around her, every thoughtful person in the realm shared the
same anguish. In reality, despotism is an indispensable drug not
only to the one who exerts it but to those who are subjected to it,
as well. The megalomania of the master is matched by the maso-
chism of the subjects. People who have become accustomed to
the injustices of a policy of force are frightened when it is abruptly
removed. They feel as though the master (whom they had just
been complaining about), in loosening his embrace, has with-
drawn at the same time his protection and his love. Those who
used to quietly criticize the tsar now did not know which foot to
dance on. They even wondered whether this was the time to
“dance” at all, and whether they would “dance” again some day,
after this long wait in the shadow of the tyrannical innovator.
However, life must go on, whatever the cost. While shed-
ding copious tears, Catherine kept sight of her personal interests.
A widow can be sincerely afflicted and at the same time reasona-
bly ambitious. She was quite aware of the times she had wronged
< 4 >
the recently departed, but she had always remained devoted to
him in spite of her many infidelities. No one had known him and
served him better than she throughout the 23 years of their rela-
tionship and marriage. In the struggle for power, she had — if not
dynastic legitimacy — then at least disinterested love going for
her.
Among the dignitaries close to the throne, the bets were al-
ready open. Who would win the crown of Monomakh?1 Within a
few feet of the corpse laid out on the ceremonial bier, they were
whispering, plotting, and proffering one name or another — with-
out daring to declare out loud their own preferences. Some were
partisans of young Peter, ten years old, the son of the poor tsare-
vich Alexis. (Peter the Great had had Alexis tortured to death to
punish him for allegedly having plotted against him.) The mem-
ory of this legal assassination still hovered like smoke over the
Russian court. The coterie loyal to young Peter included the
princes Dmitri Golitsyn, Ivan Dolgoruky, Nikita Repnin, and Bo-
ris Sheremetiev, all displeased with having been persecuted by the
tsar and avid to take their revenge under the new reign. In the
other corner were those known as “Peter the Great’s Fledglings.”
His Majesty’s right-hand men, they were always on the alert to
preserve their prerogatives. At their head stood Alexander Men-
shikov, a former pastry-cook’s helper, a childhood friend and fa-
vorite of the deceased (who had promoted him to Serene Prince),
Ivan Buturlin, a lieutenant-colonel of the Guard, the senator
Count Peter Tolstoy, Grand Chancellor Count Gabriel Golovkin,
and the Lord High Admiral Fyodor Apraxin. To please Peter the
Great, all these high-ranking individuals had signed the High
Court’s verdict condemning to torture, and consequently to death,
his rebellious son Alexis. For Catherine, these men represented a
group of allies of unshakeable fidelity. These “men of progress,”
who were outspokenly hostile toward the retrograde ideas of the
< 5 >
old aristocracy, had no hesitation: only Peter’s widow had the
right and the ability to succeed him.
Of the men who were determined to defend the cause of “the
true guardian of the imperial thought” the most devoted was the
one who had the most to gain — the dashing Alexander Menshi-
kov. He owed his entire career to the tsar’s friendship, and he
counted on the gratitude of the wife to maintain his privileges.
His conviction was so strong that he would not even hear of Peter
the Great’s grandson’s claims to the crown; certainly, he was the
son of the tsarevich Alexis, but nothing, except that coincidence
of family, destined him to such a glorious fate. Similarly, he
shrugged off the pretensions of the daughters of Peter the Great
and Catherine who could, after all, also present their candida-
