The Witches of St. Petersburg

²⁰ 11 November 1905, Sergievka Palace, Peterhof

The tea was laid exactly as Alix liked it. An English tea with milk and sandwiches and delicate small cakes; it was to put her at ease, to remind her of her childhood. Militza had telephoned a couple of days before mentioning that both she and Stana had found someone new, someone so exciting, just as Philippe had predicted, someone who was so powerful and whose ability to heal through prayer certainly rivalled John of Kronstadt. Then the garrulous Theofan had been dispatched to Tsarskoye Selo to tell of his meeting with the Muzhik, to recount how he’d met him at the Academy of Theology, how he’d spoken to the students and so beguiled them with his knowledge and charm. He’d been told to mention the Tolstoyan theory that ‘peasants were closer to God’, although obviously not the name of Tolstoy himself, due to his recent excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church.

The sisters had chosen Stana’s palace over Znamenka to remove any association with the séances and Ouija and table-tipping. Rasputin was a man of God, pure and simple. And they wanted to keep it that way.

It was just past four in the afternoon when the royal couple arrived. Militza and Stana were waiting nervously in the hall. As Nicky and Alix walked up the steps to the palace, it was shocking to see how much they had both aged in the last few months, cowed by the riots and the talk of revolution. The signing of the new constitution should have been a weight lifted off Nicky’s shoulders, but the opposite was true. No man, Militza surmised, ever wants to give away power, but his grey face and exhausted demeanour were surprising nonetheless. However, it was Alix who had more than aged – she had an air of weary melancholy about her that she was unable to cast off. She managed to smile briefly when she saw Stana’s children, Sergei and Elena, asked the rudimentary questions about life and what books they were reading, remarking on how much they had grown. But the warmth, her zest for life, her curiosity, her ability to engage, had completely disappeared. She was no longer present; she was anxious, preoccupied with problems elsewhere.

‘How wonderful to see you!’ exclaimed Militza, taking Alix by both hands, then escorting her into the Yellow Salon. ‘How are the girls?’

‘Well,’ she replied. ‘I have taken on a tutor for them, John Epps. They need a little help with their English, although I have to admit he is in fact Scottish, so I do hope he doesn’t pass on his accent. They have already picked up Irish from Miss Eagar – it’s a wonder they can be understood at all.’

‘And…’ Militza almost didn’t want to ask.

The topic of the ‘Hesse disease’ or the ‘Curse of the Coburgs’ had not been broached by either of the women since Militza had tidied up the bloody rags from Alix’s bed the day Alexei was born. Militza had discussed it with Nicky over the telephone a few times, urging him to tell the doctors at Tsarskoye Selo, so at least they knew what they were dealing with. But all her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Alexei’s illness was to be kept a secret. In precarious times like these, the monarchy had to appear strong and any weakness was to be denied. Neither of the Tsar’s sisters even knew how ill their little nephew was.

‘Alexei?’ asked Alix, her voice straining with levity. ‘He is so well, so very well. He has a new rocking horse that he bounces back and forth on far too vigorously! But he is such a healthy big boy – he doesn’t stop eating and his sisters adore him. Don’t they, Nicky?’ He turned and looked at her blankly. ‘Don’t Alexei’s sisters simply adore him?’

‘Yes, my darling, they do.’

A footman served the tea while they took up position and waited for Rasputin to arrive. Nicholas and Alexandra were sitting next to each other on the yellow silk divan, while Stana and Militza perched on two smaller chairs. Another chair was placed between them.

‘Bishop Theofan has been most effusive in his descriptions of Rasputin,’ said Nicky. ‘He keeps insisting that he is the voice of the Russian soul and its people.’

‘I think you’ll find him inspiring,’ said Stana.

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘Don’t be put off by the way he greets people. He is not used to the ways of the city and is unfettered by manners. He is a free spirit. An honest soul.’

The man has no idea about protocol, she thought. She had not spoken to him or seen him since the night of the party. She’d been overcome with humiliation the following morning. The images of her flirting and his rejection had haunted her for days afterwards. They’d returned in vivid flashbacks, each more appalling than the last. But she’d decided it was far better never to mention the car journey. They had both drunk a little too much – he was most certainly very drunk. Far better, she concluded, to pretend it had never happened. Militza was nothing if not determined. She was determined to sit firmly on the moral high ground, determined to concentrate on the matter in hand. She had a favourite to promote and promote him she would.

‘He’s from Siberia,’ said Stana.

‘But he is truly a holy man. He is well-travelled and has lived amongst holy men and has learnt much along the way,’ added Militza. ‘Philippe’s words have come to pass, as I knew they would. He predicted someone new.’

‘Philippe taught us much,’ replied Alix, taking a small sip of tea.

They sat in silence, then, looking at the sandwiches, listening to the mantel clock.

‘Where is Peter?’ asked Nicky eventually.

‘He’s having luncheon at the Yacht Club,’ replied Militza.

‘On his own?’

‘No, Nikolasha is with him,’ said Stana. ‘Those brothers never seem to run out of conversation!’

Alix coughed a little and shifted in her chair. ‘Nicky was out rowing on the lake this morning,’ she said. ‘Can you believe the weather? Sun in November – it is virtually unheard of.’

‘I almost went out without shawl,’ agreed Stana. ‘Although I didn’t.’

‘No,’ nodded Alix. ‘But all the same… sun…’

Just then the double doors opened and Rasputin burst into the salon. Dressed in a long black tunic, a large brass crucifix around his neck, he looked a little unkempt. He immediately went over to kiss Militza three times, embracing her forcefully as he did so. He clearly had no compunction about the other night. Or maybe he simply couldn’t remember it… Turning immediately to Stana, he cupped her chin in his hand. ‘Mamma!’ he exclaimed and kissed her with equal vigour. Alix stood up, still holding her teacup.

‘Little Mother!’ he said turning towards her. ‘We meet at last!’ He walked over and fell to his knees in front of her, clutching her around the calves. ‘I kneel before you and all of Russia!’ Alix was rigid. She had no idea what to do.

‘Please, stand,’ she said quietly. ‘There really is no need.’

Rasputin moved on to the Tsar. ‘Little Father,’ he declared, throwing himself once more to the floor. ‘I kneel before you and all of Russia.’

‘Please sit, Grigory Yefimovich,’ said Nicky, placing his hand on the top of Rasputin’s head. ‘Sit, sir. We have heard so very much about you.’

But Rasputin did not sit. Instead he paced around the room, explaining how excited he was that God had seen fit to send him here, how his journey had been so long and arduous and how now he’d been filled by the Holy Spirit by the very fact that he was standing before them. He went on to say how very much the people love their ‘Little Mother’ and ‘Little Father’; how they were the soul and spirit of the true Russia and the absolute opposite to these new government officials inhabiting the Duma.

‘They are the true charlatans, they are the leeches on the soul of the true Russia. You were put there by God, you rule by the rule of God!’ he said, walking up and down in the front of the fireplace. ‘There is a Chukchi saying,’ he added.

He finished by fixing Alix with his pale eyes. She slowly lowered her gaze, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

It was a tour de force: the pacing and the proclaiming, the sheer vitality of the man, bursting into their quiet, introspective world. Nicholas and Alexandra could not take their eyes off him. By the time he finally sat down to drink a cup of tea with a teaspoon heaped with jam, Alix was a convert. She sat up, her back straight, her eyes shining. Militza had not seen her this alive and alert since she and Stana had introduced her to Philippe, all those years ago.

‘Tell them about your impressions of St Petersburg,’ enthused Stana.

‘Little Father and Little Mother don’t want to hear about that,’ he replied, licking his spoon. ‘Why don’t I tell them about their own land, the land that stretches as far as the eye can see?’ He smiled, pointing out of the window with his spoon. ‘Where the horizons are wide and the sky touches the earth; the coldest inhabited place on earth, where a mound of snow can change into a girl hiding from the moon and a young boy can change into a whale, his spear into a fin. Where trees have souls and the woods whisper with the sounds of the spirits?’

‘I have been to Siberia,’ said Alix. Nicky looked at her a little surprised. ‘Sarov.’

‘It is nearly there, Little Mother. Not quite. But close.’

‘The canonization.’

‘I was there!’

‘You were?’

‘I was walking barefoot with the pilgrims. I touched the coffin of the Holy Saint before he was placed into the giant marble and granite sarcophagus and while you bathed in the river at midnight I announced to the congregation in the church that the long-awaited heir to the throne would be born within a year!’

‘And he was!’

‘He was.’ Rasputin paused. ‘And he is well?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Alix. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘you must come and visit us at Selo.’ Nicky looked across at his wife, but she ignored him. ‘I would love for you to meet him. He is a very dear, beautiful boy, with great big cheeks and huge blue eyes. Everyone loves him.’

They sat and talked for another twenty minutes before Alix announced they must leave. She wanted to find out how the girls had coped with their new tutor and she didn’t like to leave her boy for too long.

‘I am always worried about him,’ she said, allowing Rasputin to kiss her goodbye. ‘He is so very precious to all of us, you see.’

‘And upon him rests the hopes of all of us,’ agreed Rasputin.

As soon as they left, Rasputin demanded a bottle of Madeira wine, which he proceeded to drink one whole glass at a time.

‘I think they liked me,’ he said, draining a glass. ‘She is a nervous, skittish thing who appears to have the worries of the world on her shoulders. She needs to relax a little more, have some amusement in her life. She has a sadness that I can’t quite yet put my finger on.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then chuckled. ‘And his Imperial Majesty is so small! Nothing like your stallion, Mamma!’ He grinned at Stana. ‘Now that is a man! I bet he is an enthusiastic ride.’

‘Do you mean the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich? Commander of the St Petersburg district?’ she asked. ‘My very dear, close friend?’

‘A very close friend, Mamma. But when your husband lives abroad, what are you to do, except make close friends?’

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Stana, a little riled. ‘I must check on the children.’

Rasputin laughed as he watched her go, then helped himself to some more Madeira.

‘Tell me…’ He paused to drink from his glass. ‘I hear you have an icon of St John the Baptist? Given to you by a Maître Philippe.’

‘How do you know about that?’ asked Militza.

‘Bishop Theofan likes to talk.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t.’

‘He couldn’t help himself. It is famous,’ he said. ‘It protects whomsoever owns it.’

‘From what?’

‘Evil. Death. Assassination.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to have a look at it.’

‘It is not here.’

‘Another time,’ he said, taking another large sip of Madeira. ‘We have plenty of time, you and I, plenty of time. Don’t we, Mamma?’ He paused. ‘I have an icon I want to give the Tsar and Tsarina – Righteous St Simeon of Verkhoturye. It’s not quite like yours, but it is also one of the most powerful icons I know.’ He looked at the floor and belched through the back of his teeth. He was lost in his own world for a second. ‘I can’t help but feel they might need it. There is a rocky and difficult path ahead for them. I see it.’

He looked morose for a second, as if what he had just witnessed disturbed him.

‘But tonight,’ he announced, getting out of his seat, ‘tonight, I dine with the gypsies!’

‘You do?’ Militza was a little surprised.

‘That lovely little actress with the milky shoulders, from the other night, has suggested we dine at the Cubat.’

‘I am not sure that is sensible for a man in your position,’ said Militza.

‘What position?’

‘You’re a priest.’

‘I am a man of God, Mamma, not a priest.’

‘All the same.’

‘Are you jealous, Mamma?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped Militza, feeling her cheeks flush a little. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘As you wish,’ he said, taking another large gulp of wine.

‘But there is one thing you have to promise me.’

He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t like making promises.’

‘You must not – and I repeat must not – go and visit the Tsar and Tsarina alone. You must only go with Stana or me.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s for your own good. We need to be there, to help, you understand. I don’t want you to make a mistake. I don’t want you to overstep the mark, do something wrong.’

‘Are you saying that a peasant doesn’t deserve to dine at the court of the king?’

‘No, no. Of course he does. But there are many enemies out there. Take it from someone who knows the pitfalls and traps of the court. You have to be smart and you have to play clever.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said, turning to walk away.

‘We will not see!’ Militza raised her voice. ‘You will do as I say.’

‘Do as you say? Or what?’

‘Or I will destroy you!’

‘Destroy me? You barely know me.’

‘I made you and I can just as easily destroy you!’ she pronounced dramatically, then immediately felt a little foolish.

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You did not make me, Mamma, and neither can you destroy me,’ he whispered as he stared at her, his eyes unblinking. ‘I’m a strannik, a wanderer from the steppes of Siberia. I am at no one’s behest and call.’ He started to walk out of the door. Then he stopped and turned. ‘Have you not heard the story of the fisherman who makes a man out of clay?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, let me tell you.’ He smiled and he walked slowly back towards her. ‘So the fisherman fashions a man out of clay and leaves him outside to dry and when the clay man is finally dry, he sits outside the house and then he tap, tap, taps on the windowpane. At first they ignore him, hoping he’ll go away. But he won’t stop tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. On and on. Until eventually the fisherman’s wife lets him in.’

‘And then?’

‘And then – he swallows them both up whole: arms, legs, even the fishing nets, all in one go.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The end.’

‘Actually,’ interrupted Stana, appearing right behind him, ‘I am not sure that is the end of the story.’

‘Really?’ said Rasputin.

‘Doesn’t the clay man get too greedy? Doesn’t the clay man eat half the village, the milkmaids with their yokes and their pails, the old women with their baskets of berries, only to try and eat the beautiful elk? But the beautiful elk charges into the clay man’s open, greedy, expectant mouth, making him explode into a hundred little tiny clay pieces, never to be seen again…?’

There was a pause.

‘Well, Mamma,’ he replied eventually, with a nod of his head. ‘I commend you on your knowledge of Siberian folk tales.’