The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹⁶ August 1903, Sarov, Tambov Region

‘He is so intolerably stupid. He has no curiosity, no conversation, no idea about anything other than the everyday. He barely reads, he can only speak French and Russian – in short, dear sister, he is a terrible bore.’

Militza remembered smiling as she stood in the white heat of the Tambov sun. Her sister’s description of her husband had been so apposite that even at the height of their extremely fiery exchange after the Medieval Ball, six months before, it had made her laugh. It was so true. The man was not Stana’s intellectual equal: he was boorish – and worse, he was boring. They were utterly unsuited. The candles on the eve of her wedding were right, as candles and magic always are. It was a poor match. Everyone knew it. But they were married now. And there was little either of them could do about it.

Militza had waited almost a week before discussing the scene she’d witnessed in the Hanging Garden. Perhaps it was out of embarrassment, or perhaps she was hoping the situation might resolve itself; either way, Militza avoided her sister and spent most of that week rearranging her library. She had taken delivery of some particularly rare books from Watkins of London and she’d locked herself away for the week, taking great pleasure in reading them.

So, when she finally did decide to confront her sister, it was seven days later in St Petersburg. It was a dark grey February afternoon when she called at the palace, only to discover her sister in one of the smaller studies on the second floor. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off and the air was redolent with the stench of incense. Stana and Brana were on their knees, chanting and lighting a series of black votive candles. In front of them was a macabre-looking icon of a dancing skeleton dressed as a saint, complete with golden halo.

‘What are you doing?’

Militza was shocked to find her sister performing something so base. Both the women remained motionless, petrified like statues. It was Brana who eventually spoke first.

‘Praying to Santa Muerte,’ she replied, with a shrug.

‘Lighting black candles? Black? Whom do you wish vengeance on?’

Militza looked from one to the other. This is what she and Stana used to do as children. This was Catholic magic, Catholic ritual. Not something they’d brought with them to Russia.

‘Brana?’ she asked.

‘I am only doing as I am told,’ mumbled the crone.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ Stana spun around. She looked different. Her normally bright clear skin was grey and her eyes were dulled with depression. ‘I hate him,’ she said simply. ‘I love my children. Of course I love them. They are the only things that make my life worth living. But I am humiliated, Militza. Every time George goes to Biarritz, to his actress, another small part of my soul dies.’ She sighed. ‘I am trapped and I don’t know what to do. I did as Father told me. I married the man of his choice – and now what? Must I spend the rest of my days being dutiful? Still in service to that wretched country of ours? Sometimes I think the nunnery would have be preferable.’

‘I am so sorry,’ said Militza, shaking her head.

‘Don’t be. The pity’s the worst of it. “Poor Stana and her dreadful husband.”’ She laughed dryly. ‘And now I have found someone who makes me happy. Is it wrong to want to be happy? Nikolasha makes me happy. He is dashing and strong and popular at court, unlike George. And he loves me.’

She looked at Militza. Her sister always had a plan. What was to be done?

Stana would keep her distance, demanded Militza. Stana naturally protested. It would be unbearable, impossible. But Militza was adamant. Stana would spend the summer in the Crimea, as far away from her lover as possible. While he was going to occupy himself with his borzois and his estates in Tula, South of Moscow, Stana was going to try and take control of herself and hopefully, eventually, these ridiculous, lustful feelings would eventually go away. That was the idea at least.

The three-day journey on the imperial train was stifling. Travelling due south from St Petersburg to Sarov, the entire Romanov family, except the little Grand Duchesses, plus their entourages, had packed themselves in to the airless carriages to attend the Canonisation of Seraphim in Tambov. And the atmosphere on the train was not that of a joyous excursion to celebrate a saint, but was more like a funeral, redolent with a muttering, mumbling, pious fervour that Alix and her sister Ella were particularly adept at. Metropolitan Anthony, the Moscow head of the Orthodox faith, accompanied the royal party. He spent most of the journey walking the length of the train, a trail of incense and prayer billowing in his black-cloaked wake. Everyone else was more or less confined to quarters, drinking endless cups of weak tea, playing interminable rounds of bezique. Militza and Stana shared a cabin. Needless to say, George had declined to come on the journey, citing some business in France, and it was by far the simplest way, Militza decided, to keep an eye on her sister. The brothers did the same and although Peter was not yet privy to his brother’s blossoming relationship with his sister-in-law, he had been keen on the sleeping arrangements, delighted to be able to spend some time with his older brother.

Alix had been the driving force behind the canonization. Even if Philippe had failed in his bid to give her an heir, his promise that she should have a son, in the event of Seraphim’s canonization, was something she clung on to. And no matter how many times the members of the church hierarchy tentatively suggested that Seraphim was not a suitable candidate for sainthood, Alix remained determined. There were rules to making someone a saint and, frankly, Seraphim failed to pass any of the tests. Firstly, despite being dead for over seventy years there were few miracles directly attributed to him. And secondly – and most importantly – they did not find a perfectly preserved body upon opening the coffin as is expected of a future saint. What remained of Seraphim was only a pile of bones and the remnants of his leather lestovka. But Alix was steadfast, as she always was. And once Alix decided on something, it was almost impossible to dissuade her otherwise. As for the Emperor, he just wanted to keep her happy. So, against the advice of all concerned, the service was to go ahead. The knowledge of his prediction, ‘A Nicholas and Alexandra would rule over Russia and he would be canonized during their reign,’ only strengthened Alix’s resolve. The other of his predictions that ‘terrible future insurrections that will exceed all imagination and… rivers of blood would flow during their reign,’ was quietly overlooked.

But as they stepped off the train that searing hot afternoon, nothing could have prepared them for the spectacle before them. The station, the platforms and the road leading towards the white cupola cathedral and the walled monastery, where the imperial entourage were to collect the disinterred body of Seraphim and rebury him as a saint, were awash with people. They were everywhere. Four or five deep along the road, hanging out of windows, up in the trees, every balcony and wall was crammed to jostling room only. They were chattering, excited, but as the Royal party approached they all simply fell silent and stared. Through the heat and the dust, all that was visible was row upon row of faces.

Militza was exhilarated, but Stana was overwhelmed. Three days spent locked in the claustrophobic confines of the imperial train, so close to her lover, unable to make true physical contact or properly converse, permitted only polite conversation about religious relics, Old Believers and the fascinating lot of the Russian peasant whom they viewed, fleetingly, out the carriage window, had taken their toll. Desperate for shade and respite from the constant cloying smell of incense and the low murmur of prayer, she felt herself swoon.

‘Milly,’ she whispered from under her white, broad-brimmed hat. ‘Help me!’

Militza’s grip was swift and strong. ‘Here,’ she said as she riffled in the folds of her white chiffon skirt. ‘Have some of my elixir – it will help.’

She slipped the red glass pipette between her sister’s parched lips.

‘Cocaine. Everyone should take a little of that every day,’ whispered Nicky as he stood next to her, holding her up by the elbows. ‘It will make everything appear much brighter.’

However, Alix didn’t need any such help. The crowds, the heaving multitude, and the magnificent sight of some 200 or so priests clustered outside the entrance to the church, with their long beards, flowing black robes, their waists encircled with belts of golden rope, assured her of one thing. She had been right all along. No matter what the higher echelons of the church said. No matter what the mealy-mouthed aristocrats of St Petersburg spluttered and spat about in their gilded drawing rooms, she, Alix, spoke for Russia. She was Little Mother Russia. And here she was with the people. And the people loved her.

Forgotten was the sciatica that had been plaguing her on the train, forgotten too was her rosacea and her overwhelming shyness in front of an inquisitive public. Taking up her white skirts, a hand on her hat covered in white silk flowers, Alix started to walk. Despite the heat of the day and the clouds of dust churned up by tens of thousands of pilgrims, she walked from the station to the church. Cossacks lined the route, but interspersed between them were the ill and the infirm. There were men bent over walking sticks, women clutching children, a one-armed man who couldn’t see, another horizontal in a wheelbarrow, a labourer with no legs who propelled himself forward using two metal irons in his hands. But Alix was not distracted by the pilgrims. In fact, she felt as if she were walking with them, for along with the thousands of ill, lame or deformed, she too had come to Sarov hoping to be healed.

It was late afternoon by the time the disinterred body of Seraphim arrived in the church in a new cypress coffin supplied by the Tsar. The coffin’s procession through the streets, carried by Nicky and other members of the royal family, escorted by some seven hundred priests, all dressed in their golden ceremonial robes, holding aloft golden crucifixes that glittered in the sun, had moved Alix to tears. But inside the church she was inconsolable. The singing, the heat, the constant standing and the tremendous expectation that all her maladies were about to be cured, made her weep continuously for herself, her lost daughter and most especially for the son she did not have. Militza stood next to her. She was conscious of the eyes of the Vladimirs upon them. The trial of being forced to travel to the desolate Tambov steppes, plus the tedium of the day, had not endeared Alix to them. This had been her idea and they were less than delighted at having to attend. The Grand Duchess Vladimir repeatedly flapped her fan and her gloves throughout the service, constantly sighing and checking her watch. The Tsar’s sisters, the Grand Duchesses Olga and Xenia, also looked visibly bored. Only Ella, standing next to her husband, Sergei, really mirrored the religious ecstasy so felt by her younger sister.

The church bells rang at six o’clock, announcing the beginning of the all-night vigil and the procession of pilgrims inside to view the relics of the new saint. The effect of some 300,000 souls, all holding candles and gently singing, was mesmerizing.

‘All you can hear is music,’ whispered Alix, taking hold of Militza with her damp, shaking hand. ‘It’s as if the voices are coming from Heaven itself.’

As dusk fell, the royal party dined in the town hall with the local mayor dancing attendance. Militza sat in silence, forking her cold mutton stew with disinterest while the mayor talked of his plans to build around the cathedral and how long it had taken to build the shrine created in St Seraphim’s honour. He was most probably angling for more money, but Militza was only half listening.

‘And of course we must build something near the river,’ continued the mayor, attempting to fold his arms across his stomach.

‘Must you?’ inquired Nicky.

‘The sick and the crippled keep slipping into the Sarov,’ he replied. ‘And it can be almost impossible to get them out. Our Saint used to bathe there,’ continued the mayor, ‘so the waters have healing properties. Hundreds of pilgrims bathe there every day.’

‘The river!’ Alix’s eyes shone brightly, remembering Philippe’s words. ‘We must go.’

‘I am not sure, Your Imperial Majesty, if you will forgive,’ ventured the mayor. ‘It is dangerous…’

‘We must go!’ insisted Alix.

‘Absolutely, of course you must, Your Imperial Majesty,’ he agreed effusively, his round dark eyes flickering around the room. ‘The waters are said to be most powerful at midnight.’

It was a small group that set off from the town hall towards the river. Both Nikolasha and Peter elected to stay behind drinking cognac with the mayor, while Alix, Nicky, Militza, Stana and three bodyguards dressed in full military regalia stepped out into the warm night under a full moon, and walked the mile or so to the riverbank. As they made their way out of the town, the true extent of the number of pilgrims gathered for the canonization became apparent. There were hundreds of small fires all along the side of the road and the air was heavy with smoke and the smell of sizzling shashlik. It was like an army encampment made up of the sick and frail. Everywhere they walked, they heard the mellifluous sound of singing and the gentle ringing of small bells.

‘It is as if the Holy Spirit is moving amongst us,’ whispered Alix, looking left and right, drinking it all in.

Nicky, in his white uniform, was equally entranced. The two of them moved slowly and quietly, she in a gleaming white dress, like ghosts amongst their people. In the darkness they walked unrecognized and those who suspected they might be the ‘Little Father’ and ‘Little Mother of Russia’ dismissed them as a vision, something else extraordinary in a truly magical day.

Upon reaching the river, they paused while the guards cleared a path. Those clustered around the river bank, dressed in simple cotton shifts, the women with scarves drawn tightly around their faces, were instructed to pull the infirm, the frail and the limbless from the waters in order to make way for the royal party. Next to the river was a small wooden structure, which was used for bathing. Inside were three naked men whose wet, scrawny frames shone in the moonlight as they left the shed and searched in the bushes for their damp clothes.

Alix was too self-possessed to notice the procession of naked and gnarled flesh in front of her. She had been thinking about this moment for an apparent eternity and it was nearly there. All she had to do was bathe in the river and it would come to pass, just as Philippe had promised. Her hands were shaking as she began to unbutton her clothes. Militza and Stana helped her as they tried not to stare at the other naked bodies around them. Neither of them had been confronted by such poverty since they had arrived in Russia all those years ago and it stirred a terrible sense of foreboding in Militza’s troubled thoughts.

She, Stana and Alix finally disrobed in the shed near to the river and then the three of them walked towards the river. Alix went first, her naked backside glowing a luminous alabaster white against the black shallows of the river. Nicky couldn’t believe it! His wife was normally so prudish; even the lavatory at Tsarskoye Selo had a special cover on it, so as not to offend her and now here she was, walking completely naked into the river. He felt such a joyous rush of exhilaration that he laughed out loud.

‘Don’t you dare laugh at me!’ said Alix as she picked her way through the mud, gingerly cupping her own breasts as she slipped into the water. Quite what had come over her, Nicky didn’t understand, but he was delighted. He too stripped naked in the hut and, just as Militza and Stana immersed themselves in the water, he came careering towards the bank and, leaping into the air, he jumped right in.

The cool water was pure bliss after the airless heat of the day, the joy of its chilled softness against their bare skin so relaxing and liberating. It felt marvellous, so free. After the oppressive, claustrophobic religiosity of the day, to swim naked in the cool river felt like an incredible release. Militza was immediately reminded of her childhood when she and Stana used to run and swim naked in the streams at the foot of the Black Mountains.

‘This is wonderful!’ exclaimed Alix, swimming and splashing in the water.

‘Glorious!’ agreed Nicky, executing a few vigorous strokes before relaxing back on the surface.

Just then the clouds cleared and the full moon shone, its silver light dancing on the surface of the water making the river shimmer and sparkle around them. Above, the stars covered the sky as if they’d been spilled out of a pot of bright white paint.

‘You can feel the magic,’ said Militza as she looked across at her sister’s dark silhouetted face.

‘Yes,’ Stana nodded and they both turned to watch Alix as she lay on her back in the river, her naked body floating on the surface of the water, smiling, as she quietly began to pray to St Seraphim, her saint, her people’s saint, to grant her the deepest wish of all.