councilors: Loewenwolde, Ostermann and Münnich. They were
soon joined in their palace plot by Cherkassky and Bestuzhev.
After hours of secret discussions, they agreed that the greatest
danger ahead was by no means their compatriot Bühren, but the
clique of Russian aristocrats, who still had not accepted being
brushed aside. In the final analysis, they reckoned, given the dan-
ger that some champion of the old-stock nobility would make an
attempt to seize power, it would be preferable, for the German
clan, to support their dear old accomplice Bühren. Thus, these
five confederates (three of whom were of Germanic origin while
the two others had ties to foreign courts) decided to place the
destiny of the empire in the hands of a character who had never
shown any concern for the traditions of Russia and who had not
even taken the trouble to learn the language of the country that he
claimed to govern. Having come to this resolve, they so advised
Bühren — who had never doubted that they would see things his
way.
Now they were all reconciled, united around a common in-
terest, and they strove to convince the empress. Rocked between
bouts of pain and delusion, she never left her bed anymore. She
must hardly have been able to hear Bühren as he tried to explain
to her what he wanted: a simple signature at the bottom of a
page. Since she seemed too tired to answer him, he slipped the
document under her pillow. Surprised by this gesture, she whis-
pered, “Do you need that?” Then she turned her head and refused
to speak anymore.
A few days later, Bestuzhev drafted another declaration, by
which the Senate and the Generalité implored Her Majesty to en-
trust the regency to Bühren, in order to ensure the continuation of
< 93 >
the empire “under whatever circumstance may arise.” Once more,
the patient left the paper under her pillow without deigning to
initial it — nor even to read it. Bühren and “his men” were dis-
mayed by this inertia — which was likely to be final. Would they
have to resort again to forgery to avoid trouble? What had hap-
pened on January 1730 when the young tsar Peter II had died was
not encouraging.* Considering the ill will of the nobility, it would
be dangerous to repeat that game with every change of reign.
However, on October 16, 1740, the tsarina took a turn for the
better. She called in her old favorite and, with a trembling hand,
gave him the signed document. Finally, Bühren could breathe
again — and with him, all those in the close band who had con-
tributed to this victory
hoped that their efforts, more or less spontaneous, would be re-
paid before long, While Her Majesty was on her death bed, they
counted the days and calculated the coming rewards. The priest
was called in, and the prayer for the dying was said. Lulled by the
chanting, she cast her eye about and, in her distress, recognized
through her fog the tall silhouette of Münnich among those in at-
tendance. She smiled to him as if beseeching his protection for the
one who would one day be taking her place on the throne of Rus-
sia, and murmured, “Good-bye, Field Marshal!” Later, she added,
“Good-bye, everyone!” These were her last words. She slipped
into a coma on October 28, 1740.
At the announcement of her death, Russia shook off a night-
mare. But around the palace, the expectation was that the nation
might be falling into an even blacker horror. The imperial court
was unanimous in its opinion that, with a nine-month-old tsar
still in his crib and a regent of German origin (who could express
himself in Russian only reluctantly and whose principal concern
*Vasily Lukich Dolgoruky, for one, was executed in the wake of that
event.
< 94 >
was to destroy the country’s noblest families), the empire was
heading straight for a catastrophe.
The day after Anna Ivanovna’s death, Bühren became regent
by the grace of the recently departed, with a baby as his mascot
and as the living guarantee of his rights. He immediately set him-
self to clearing the ground around him. In his view, the first es-
sential move would be to get rid of Anna Leopoldovna and An-
thony Ulrich, little Ivan’s parents. If he could send them far
enough from the capital — and why not abroad? — he would have
his free hands until the imperial brat attained his majority. Study-
ing the new political aspect of Russia, Baron Axel of Mardefeld,
Prussian Minister to St. Petersburg, summarized his opinion on
the future of the country in a dispatch to his sovereign Frederick
II, saying: “Seventeen years of despotism [the legal duration of the
minority of the tsar] and a nine-month-old child who, by the way,
could die, yielding the throne to the regent.”8
Mardefeld’s letter is dated October 29, 1740, the day follow-
ing the death of the tsarina. Less than a week later, events sud-
denly took a turn in a direction that the diplomat had not fore-
seen. Despite the future tsar Ivan VI’s being transferred to the
