The Updated Memoirs of Princess Dashkova

Chapter 3

The days folded together like silks from ballroom dresses. Twice a week, I would dine with Catherine, Grigory Potemkin, and Mikhail. Our talks shifting from philosophy to politics, to languages, to culture and always back to politics. Laughter abounded for our small luncheons, Grigory procuring dramatic imitations of each of us.

It was I who became the ear of our operation. For whom suspects the Princess reading a book. Only one who looks closer would realize she has not turned a page. It was I who infiltrated conversations, I who embellished Catherine's accomplishments.

I realize now, that I regarded the whole affair as nothing more than a game. I was mired in my own intelligence, in my own confidence that I was pulling the strings of the Russian empire. I positioned myself into every event at the palace, meeting diplomats, foreign prince, and princesses, writing countless letters to friends in Europe. Catherine and I met at least once a day, strolling the carefully, manicured grounds. I bubbled around her, always circling around her step, my excitement effusive. The gossip about Catherine and I rose, cluttering the court. For a semicircle of the sun, I was christened 'Catherine the Little' and she, 'Catherine the Great'.

The tension percolated between Catherine and Peter. They were rarely seen in the same room unless necessary. Peter refused to integrate with the court, mainly residing in his rooms, litigating his way out of meetings by sending Catherine, again. He praised Frederich the II at random, frequent intervals. His loss of the favor of the court felt as inevitable as the sand slowly piling out of the hourglass Peter kept on his desk. He spelled his own demise; it would do history well to remember that.

My sister, Eliza, hounded me for attention whenever Peter was forced to partake in one of his royal duties. It was from her, the surprising source, that the coup d'etat was launched. Summer unfolded purposefully, heat like the punctuation to winter's run on sentence. It was one of those days where the grass begs you to sit on it, where the sun presses on your skin, drawing close, but never actually crossing to un-comfort, where you could imagine your entire life spent outdoors. Even for a bookworm like myself.

Eliza persisted in drawing me out to the lawns. "Sister, you remain far too wrapped in your books. Look," she flicked at my chin, forcing my eyes to the sun, "this is what you need." Her voice is the lightest I remember hers being. She never found love again after Peter. I could disparage him all I liked, but not the love he shared with my sister. It is true, our lives reach their pinnacle, never to be reached again.

Eliza extended herself on our blanket, presuming the most unladylike stance. "Peter has said he wishes to make me his wife," she said suddenly, almost like a tic.

I straightened, smile waning, "Eliza, you know that does not mean much. Peter is Tsar. Catherine is Tsarina consort" Whenever I spoke to her, I fell into the rhythm of speaking to a child, a fragile child.

She shook her head, a coat of pride slipping over her, for once, she knew something I did not. She reveled in it. "Catherine will not be an issue." She preened.

I almost laughed, "I'm sure our Tsarina consort will let go over her husband so readily. Nor will the court approve of such a callous move."

"Peter said he doesn't care what the court thinks," her voice was still sickly happy.

"I knew that," I muttered beneath my breath. "What about Catherine? Where will she go?"

Eliza stretched on the grass contentedly, "Peter mentioned something of a monastery. Honestly, I couldn't care less. All that matters is Peter and I will be together at last." I read the honesty in her eyes.

I wish I could write how I kept my calm, how I took in the information with an unrevealing smile, then rushed off to reveal it to Catherine, but unfortunately, life never folds out exactly the way we wish.