see how long she had left to live. Only Alexis Razumovsky
seemed to really care. But what was he thinking about, as he
looked at her? Of the loving and demanding woman whom he had
held so often in his arms, or of the corpse that he would soon be
strewing with flowers?
To the disastrous obsession with death, Elizabeth soon
added a fear of fire. The old Winter Palace where the tsarina had
lived in St. Petersburg since the beginning of her reign was an im-
mense wooden construction that, at the least spark, would go up
like a torch. If fire broke out in some recess of her apartments, she
would lose all her furniture, all her holy images, all her dresses.
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And she would certainly not have time to escape, herself, but
would perish in a blazing hell. Such disasters were, after all, fre-
quent in the capital. She would have to summon up the courage
to relocate. But to where? The construction of the new palace,
which Elizabeth had entrusted to Rastrelli, was so far behind
schedule that one could not hope to see an end to the work in less
than two or three years. The Italian architect was asking for
380,000 rubles just to finish Her Majesty’s private apartments.
She did not have that kind of money, and she did not know where
to find it. Maintaining the army was costing an arm and a leg.
Moreover, in June 1761, a fire had devastated the hemp and flax
depots, destroying valuable goods that would have been sold to
help replenish the State coffers.
To console herself for this penury and this typically Russian
chaos, the tsarina went back to drinking great quantities of alco-
hol. When she had downed enough glasses, she would collapse in
bed, sleeping like a beast. Her chambermaids watched over her
while she rested; and she kept a special watchman, in addition —
the
ing to her complaints and calming her fears whenever she began
to wake up, between blackouts. To this good man, uneducated,
naive and humble as a domestic animal, she no doubt entrusted
the concerns that beset her as soon as she closed her eyes. All the
family troubles simmered in her head together with the political
intricacies, making an unpalatable stew. Chewing over old re-
sentments and vain illusions, she hoped that at least death would
hold off until she signed a final agreement with the king of France.
That Louis XV should have spurned her as a fiancée when she was
only fourteen years old and he was fifteen, she could (if need be)
understand. But that he should hesitate now to recognize her as a
unique and faithful ally, when they were both at the height of
their glory, surpassed understanding. That rogue, Frederick II,
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would not be such a cad!
It is true that the king of Prussia was counting on the grand
duke to bring Russia back to its senses. Elizabeth would prefer to
be damned by the Church than to accept such a humiliation! To
prove that she was still in charge, on November 17 she took meas-
ures to reduce the very unpopular tax on salt and, in a belated
burst of leniency, she published a list of prisoners condemned for
life whom she suggested should be released. A short time later a
hemorrhage, more violent than usual, curtailed all her activity.
With every coughing fit, she vomited blood. The doctors stayed
by her bedside now and acknowledged that they had given up all
hope.
On December 24, 1761, Elizabeth received extreme unction
and summoned up the strength to repeat, after the priest, the
words of the prayer for the dying. As she slid toward the great
void, she guessed how pathetically agitated must be those, in this
world that was receding from her little by little, who would have
to carry her out to be buried. It was not she who was dying, but
the universe of the others. Having failed to make a decision about
her succession, she relied on God to settle Russia’s fate after she
heaved her last sigh. Didn’t He know better than anyone down
here what was appropriate for the Russian people? For a few
more hours, the tsarina held off the night that was invading her
brain. The following day, December 25 — the day Christ was
born — at about 3:00 in the afternoon, she ceased breathing and a
great calm spread across her, where traces of make-up still re-
mained. She had just reached the age of 53.
When the double doors of the death chamber opened wide,
all the courtiers assembled in the waiting room knelt down,
crossed themselves and lowered their heads to hear the fateful
announcement uttered by old prince Nikita Trubestkoy, Procura-
tor General of the Senate: “Her Imperial Majesty Elizabeth Pet-
< 233 >
rovna sleeps in the peace of the Lord,” adding the consecrated for-
mula, “She has commanded to us to live long.” Lastly, in his pow-
erful voice, doing away with any possible ambiguity, he said, “God
keep our Very Gracious Sovereign, the Emperor Peter III.”
After the death of Elizabeth “the Lenient,” her associates pi-
