The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire Read Online Free PDF Page B

saddle, so as not to signal his father’s criticism to the hundreds of horsemen he commanded in Gatchina’s vast drill yard. Glancing up, he saw the heavy curtain move in the window of the duchess’s apartments. His mother was watching.
    She wishes to know what kind of commander I will be.
    Grand Duke Paul looked his son up and down with disapproval.
    “Does the empress not insist on daily equitation classes? Your riding must improve. One day you will be expected to lead men into war—”
    “I do practice daily equitation. But I am commanding now, Father, not riding—”
    “You are on a horse. And do not dare interrupt me! I am your father. Do not forget that. You will not usurp my position. Not at this moment and not ever!”
    Alexander straightened in the saddle.
    Does he know that Grandmama wants me to take the throne after her death?
    “Watch me!” said Paul, his horse prancing. “Company! To the right, face!”
    Alexander swallowed hard. He saw his mother’s curtains draw closed.

    At ten o’clock in the morning, the pale pink of a winter sunrise competed with the oil lanterns and convex gold sconces of the Winter Palace. Frederic-Cesar La Harpe paced slowly across the parquet floor of the study, hands clasped behind his back as he lectured.
    “The noble savage is Rousseau’s antidote to modern society and social class,” said the Swiss tutor. “Our modern world—especially that of the aristocrat and nobility—removes man further and further from nature and simplicity, thus from inherent goodness. In doing so we forfeit our natural instincts, removing us from what is naturally good and right.”
    As La Harpe lectured, Alexander leaned on his elbows, his head resting in his hands. Had his father been in the room, the grand duke would have knocked his son’s arms from the table in rage. No Romanov should sit with his head propped in his hands like an insolent serf, he would say.
    But Monsieur La Harpe recognized his student’s pose as total concentration. Alexander listened raptly, drinking in the philosophers—Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau. These ideas of freethinking, of the rights of man—even commoners—were radical, even dangerous. Yet his grandmother, Catherine the Great, had selected La Harpe herself.
    “ Tabula rasa ,” said Alexander. “The innocence at birth before corruption by society or government.”
    “The term tabula rasa was John Locke’s, not Rousseau’s,” answered La Harpe. “But the precept is the same in Rousseau’s philosophy. Before civilization can stain a soul, it stands as a blank slate, neither good nor bad. There is no innate desire to steal, lie, or murder, Mr. Locke would argue. Only when society, culture, or adverse circumstances make their ugly cuts into tender wood does the sapling bend or die. Each scar results in vices that erode a man’s character and the way the trunk will bend, either toward or away from the light.”
    La Harpe looked at the sunrise, stillborn on the horizon. It barely makes an effort to rise. Even the sun can’t face a Russian winter.
    “Monsieur La Harpe,” Alexander asked, toying with his quill. “I have heard it said that you organized the French cantons of Switzerland to revolt against Bern. That your ideas are radical.” Alexander did not meet his tutor’s eyes but sought out another sharpened quill from his writing box. He tested the point against his fingertip. “Is this true, Monsieur?”
    “Yes,” said La Harpe, his back stiffening. “The Empress Catherine knows as much. I am dedicated to the liberation of Bern.”
    “So you foment revolution?” La Harpe noticed a mischievous smile tugging at Alexander’s lips.
    “Only when it is just, Tsarevitch . As in the American revolution against the English. Thomas Jefferson borrowed John Locke’s words: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
    “Ah! I so admire this Thomas Jefferson.”
    “Perhaps you shall meet him some day as tsar,” said La Harpe. “But the