Catherine had always been a faithful wife and true helpmate. She had shared all his toils and dangers; she had followed him in his campaigns like a common soldier’s wife. During the Pruth campaign, acting in a truly manly way, she saved the whole army. He called her his mother. When without her he felt helpless, and complained as a child:—
“Mother, there is no one to wash clothes and mend for me.”
They used to feign jealousy of one another for fun.
“On reading your letter, I fell a thinking profoundly. You write bidding me not to hurry home, for the sake of the cure; but it is more likely you have found somebody else a little younger than myself. Please write and tell me whether it is one of our own, or a foreigner. That is how you women treat us poor old men!”
“I don’t accept the term, old man,” she replied; “it’s all nonsense to call yourself one. I am sure that so dear an old man will easily find some one to love him! Is that what you think of me? Well! I too have heard that the Swedish queen is in love with you. I have my suspicions!”
When they were separated they were wont to exchange gifts like affianced lovers. Catherine would send to him at a distance of a thousand miles, Hungarian wine, strong vodka, freshly salted cucumbers, lemons, oranges, because—“our own will be more agreeable to you. I hope they will do you much good.”
But the presents he most delighted in were children. With the exception of the two elder ones, Lisa and Anne, they came, however, into the world puny things, and soon died. Most of all he loved the last born, Peter, “The Master of Petersburg,” who had been proclaimed heir to the throne in Alexis’ stead. Peter, too, was a sickly child, always ailing, and only kept alive by medicine. The Tsar was in continual dread of losing him. Catherine used to comfort the Tsar, saying: “I dare say if our dear old man were here, we might have another Peterkin before the year is over.”
There was a certain affectation of sentiment mingled with this conjugal tenderness, the sentimentality of a gallant, quite unexpected in a fierce Tsar.
“I have had my hair cut here, and though it may not be a very pleasing gift, yet herewith I enclose a lock.”