at every stage. By night, the road was lit by hundreds of resin torches placed at intervals along the route. The entrance of every insignificant village was marked by a festive gateway decorated with greenery. As the imperial carriage approached, the inhabitants, who were lined up in their holiday garb (men on one side, women on the other), bowed down to the ground, blessing the appearance of Her Majesty by making the
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Elizabeth’s Triumph sign of the cross and cheering Her with wishes for a long life.
Whenever the cavalcade came within sight of a monastery, the bells would ring and the monks and nuns would come out of their sanctuaries in a procession to display their most prized icons before the daughter of Peter the Great.
Elizabeth never tired of the repetition of this folksy homage; to her, it already seemed like just a pleasant routine. Still, she did permit herself a few days’ respite at Vsesvyatskoye before completing the trip. At dawn on April 17, 1741 she made her entrance into Moscow, with every bell in the city chiming a greeting. On April 23, heralds proclaimed at the crossroads the news of the upcoming coronation. Two days later, announced by a salvo of artillery fire, the procession was formed.
In a gesture of supreme coquetry towards France, to which she still had no lasting ties, Elizabeth had entrusted to a Frenchman by the name of Rochambeau the responsibility fo r ensuring the elegance and brilliance of the event. To get from the famous “red staircase” that decorated the facade of her palace to the Cathedral of the Assumption across the plaza inside the Kremlin, she advanced, hieratic, under a canopy. Twenty pages in white livery embroidered in gold carried her train. Every region of the empire was represented by its delegates, who made up a silent but colorful escort, matching its pace to that of the priests at the head of the procession. The Reverend Father Ambroise, assisted by Stephan, Bishop of Pskov, made the sign of the cross and welcomed the procession into the immense nave. Sprinkled with holy water, enveloped in the fumes of incense, Elizabeth accepted the sacramental signs of the apotheosis with a studied blend of dignity and humility. The liturgy proceeded according to an immutable rite: it was the very one that had honored Peter the Great, Catherine I and, barely eleven years ago, the pitiful Anna Ivanovna who was guilty of trying to pull the throne out from under the
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Terrible Tsarinas only woman who now had the right to sit on it.
The religious ceremonies relating to the coronation were followed by the traditional rejoicing. For eight days, illuminations, feasts and free wine were given to the crowds, while the more distinguished guests dashed from ball to banquet to masquerade.
Carried away by the atmosphere of sincere cordiality with which she was surrounded, Elizabeth distributed further benefices to those who had served her so well. Alexander Buturlin was named a general and governor of Smaller Russia, while shimmering titles - count, chamberlain - rained down upon obscure relatives belonging to the maternal branch of the empress’s family. The Skavronskys, Hendrikovs, and Yefimovskys were elevated from the status of wealthy peasants to newly-recognized nobles. It was as if Elizabeth, to excuse her own very great pleasure, were trying to make everyone, each in his own corner, as happy as she was on this wonderful day.
However, in Moscow such festivities and the accompanying fireworks significantly increased the risk of fire. Thus it was that one fine evening the Golovin Palace, where Her Majesty had elected to reside temporarily, caught fire. By chance, only the walls and the furniture were burned. This little accident didn’t slow the revelers down one bit. A new structure was immediately raised on the half-charred ruins and while it was hastily being rebuilt and refurnished, Elizabeth moved to another house that she maintained in Moscow, at the edge of the Yauza River, and then to another of her houses in the village of Pokrovskoye, five versts away, which had belonged to an uncle of Peter the Great. Some 900 people would gather on a daily basis to celebrate with her, dancing, feasting and laughing, and the theaters did not go dark for a single night.
However, while the court was applauding an opera, The Clemency of Titus, by the German director Johann- Adolf Hasse, and an
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Elizabeth’s Triumph allegorical ballet illustrating the return of “The Golden Age” to Russia, La Chetardie was terrified to learn that a letter addressed by Amelot de Chailloux to the French ambass ador in Turkey had been intercepted by the Austrian secret service; the letter contained insulting criticism against the tsarina and prophesized the collapse of the Russian Empire, “which cannot help but dissolve into complete nothingness.” Horrified by this diplomatic blunder, the silver-tongued La Chetardie hoped that he could find a way to attenuate its impact on the mood of the very sensitive empress; but she felt deeply wounded by the minister’s faux pas. Lestocq intervened, making valiant efforts to defend France by asserting that La Chetardie and Amelot were devoted to the idea of a French-Russian agreement, but Elizabeth refused to take the bait this time. She had finally lost confidence entirely in the ambassador and the country that he represented. When La Chetardie arrived, to plead his innocence in a misunderstanding that he “deplored and renounced” as much as she did, Elizabeth kept him waiting for two hours in her antechamber, among her ladies of honor; then she came out of her private apartments to tell him that she could receive him neither that day nor in the days to come, and that henceforth he would have to address himself to her foreign minister, in other words to Alexis Bestuzhev, since “Russia does not need, Sir, any intermediary” in dealing with any country whatsoever.
Despite the severe put-down, La Chetardie clung to the hope that a reconciliation could be effected. He protested, he wrote to his government, and he begged Lestocq to intercede with Her Majesty Elizabeth I once more. Didn’t she have full confidence in his prescriptions, be they medical or diplomatic? Lestocq had, sometimes, provided medicines that seemed to be effective against the mild complaints from which she suffered, but his political exhortations fell flat. Elizabeth had stopped listening; she was
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Terrible Tsarinas stony in her resentment. All that La Chetardie managed to secure, with all his maneuvering, was the opportunity to have a private audience with her. He went in with the intention of redeeming himself with a few smooth words and charming smiles, but this time he hit a wall of icy scorn. Elizabeth assured him that she intended to cool Russia’s relations with Versailles, while preserving her own regard and friendly feelings for a country that had shown itself incapable of appreciating her favorable disposition towards the French culture. La Chetardie withdrew, empty-handed and heavy of heart.
The ambassador’s personal situation was further worsened, at that very moment, by Frederick II’s abrupt about-face; he had turned his back on France, and begun to get closer to Austria.
Now La Chetardie could no longer count on Mardefeld, the Prussian ambassador, to support his efforts to conclude a pact between France and Russia. His cause was lost… or was it? He suddenly had the idea of giving the throne of Courland, that had been freed up the previous year when Buhren was disgraced and exiled, to someone who was close to France - specifically, to Maurice of Saxony. And then one could go one step further - miracles are always possible on the banks of the Neva, cradle of madmen and poets! - and suggest that Saxony ask for Elizabeth’s hand. If, via a French ambassador, the empress of Russia were to be married to the most brilliant military chief in the service of France, all of yesterday’s minor affronts would evaporate like the morning dew. A political alliance between the two states would be replicated in a sentimental alliance that would make the union
