The Witches of St. Petersburg

³⁰ 31 December 1910, St Petersburg

It was past midday and Militza was lying in bed when the telephone rang and the footman knocked on her door.

She was a little tired from the night before. She had been to a dinner and a ball and hadn’t arrived home until 3 a.m. And this was the third time she’d been out this week, not including the ballet. She had also visited fifteen people the day before, handing out her visiting card and drinking endless cup of tea, making polite conversation, enquiring after everyone’s health, hearing the same stories over and over again. Normally she was more abstemious, choosing her parties and refusing invitations but with her daughter, Marina, already eighteen, it was her duty as a mother to escort her to as many parties, teas and occasions as there were hours in the day. Poor Marina was finding it all a little unbearable. An intelligent young woman with dark eyes and pale skin, just like her mother, she enjoyed her own company more than that of others and would have much preferred to spend her evenings sketching or painting, a passion for which she was particularly talented. But Militza’s early years in the city still haunted her, those lonely days at the Smolny Institute and those dreadful parties where she and her sister would sit around, waiting for someone to write their name down on their dance card. Marina was not going to have the same experience.

‘They know!’ came the voice down the receiver.

Militza was now standing in her dressing gown in the hall.

‘Stana?’ She could feel her heart beginning to race. ‘What? Who?’

‘I can’t talk on the telephone,’ continued her sister. ‘You never know who is listening.’

Militza dressed quickly. Her maid, Katya, was taken aback. Normally, when she would be out visiting most of the afternoon, the Grand Duchess would spend a good hour on her toilette, choosing the latest in fashionable day dresses, ironing her hair, picking out the perfect shoes with just the correct amount of heel, coming home to change again before going out to a dinner and a dance and maybe on to one of the more fashionable restaurants late into the night, but today she simply pinned her hair and chose a high-necked white shirt and a dark blue skirt that stopped just short of the floor.

Stana was already in the drawing room when Militza came down the stairs. They sat in silence while the footman served tea and small slices of plain cake.

‘Anna Vyrubova told me,’ said Stana as soon the footman closed the door. She leapt off her seat and, in a rustle of maroon silk, she came to sit next to her sister on the divan, taking hold of her hand. ‘She was in Donon’s last night…’

‘What was she doing in a French restaurant?’ asked Militza, a little surprised.

‘She’d been to the theatre and she had drunk a glass of champagne,’ continued Stana. ‘I’d come fresh from the Vladimirs’ dance. Anyway, there she was – a look of delight on that face of hers. Apparently Alix knows it was you…’

‘Me?’

‘Who reported Rasputin as a member of the Khlysty.’ Stana licked her lips nervously.

‘How?’ Militza was horrified.

‘Olga Lokhtina.’

‘Olga?’

‘Olga told her and then Anna told Rasputin and the Tsarina…’

‘Both of them?’

‘Apparently. Militza, they all know. Only Rasputin doesn’t believe it. He says you would never do anything to hurt him, but the Tsarina…’

‘She believes Olga?’ Stana nodded. ‘But how? Everyone knows that Olga is a deluded fool who suffers from nerves. I have seen her with Grisha, her mouth in his trousers.’

‘People believe what they want to believe. The more you tell them otherwise, the more staunch their beliefs become,’ said Stana. ‘Olga says that’s why you went all that way to see him in Siberia.’

‘But the woman’s mad.’

‘Mad – and an old friend of Anna’s. They have known each other since childhood.’

‘Who doesn’t Anna know! Who hasn’t she played with since she was a child?’

Militza took a sip of her tea. Her hand was shaking and she was terrified; she needed some elixir. Just to think straight. She reached into her pocket and, pulling out a small red bottle, she poured its contents into her tea. Stana watched her.

‘What shall I do? I can’t think, I can’t think!’

‘No wonder,’ Stana said, looking at the fortified tea.

‘The Tsar takes twice as much as I do and anyway, it is good for the blood,’ snapped Militza. ‘You are not being helpful.’

‘Ignore it,’ said Stana simply. ‘It’s Olga’s word against yours and, most importantly, Grisha believes you.’

‘But for how long?’

‘You must remain above suspicion.’

‘How?’

‘By being more ardent than ever.’

Militza’s heart sank. Surely it could not have to come to this? Surely her close relationship with the Tsarina – the favours, the secrets, the things she knew – would hold her in good stead. Surely they had been through enough together before Rasputin? And after he’d arrived. Even the problem of Stana’s marriage had faded a little into the background. There were so many other problems, so many other storms brewing on the horizon; their love match was no longer a bone of contention, except with the Grand Duchess Vladimir who was still furious at her own son’s exile. But now, just as the seas and the sands were beginning to settle, this. How on earth could the monster she herself created be her last and only resort?

But that very evening she realized just how precarious her position was. What should have been an entertaining New Year’s Eve at Prince and Princess Orlov’s stunning Marble Palace – one of the city’s first and finest neoclassical buildings – turned very sour indeed. She and Peter arrived with two of their children in tow. Marina, dressed in pale yellow, nervously stood by her mother while Roman, who was by now fourteen years old and studying in Kiev, exuded the tentative confidence of a youth who was just beginning to discover wine and pretty girls. (Poor Nadejda, their youngest, being only twelve, was forced to stay at home.)

The party was in full swing, romances were beginning to unfurl within the younger members of the soirée, and everyone was looking forward to the end of what they acknowledged frankly had been a difficult decade. It was going to be a good evening. Prince Vladimir and Princess Olga were renowned for their well-judged, delightful parties where the food and Veuve Clicquot champagne were overly abundant. So abundant was their hospitality that the old prince had, over the years, become notably larger than his extremely thin wife. He was so fat that when he sat down he was unable to see his own knees, so fat that there was not a horse in the army that could carry him; so fat that on parades the poor man was reduced to panting alongside the Tsar so he could keep up with the retinue. She, on the other hand, was so exceptionally tall and thin that she was positively brittle in appearance. She was one of the Tsarina’s esteemed ladies-in-waiting, while he was a Lieutenant General in the army; they were an odd couple and when they appeared together at court it was once remarked: ‘Behold the Prince and Princess Orlov, in flesh and bone.’ Forever after they were known as Flesh and Bone. Everyone loved them and their generous parties, as indeed did the Tsar and Tsarina, who were both expected that night – out in Society for the first time in months.

‘Are they here yet?’ Militza asked Peter as they stood together alongside Marina in the corner of the ballroom.

‘Why on earth are you interested in the whereabouts of Nicky and Alix?’ asked Peter, taking a lengthy drag on his cigarette. Were it not for his son and daughter’s social life, he would not have been standing there; much as he loved Flesh and Bone and their generosity, balls and parties increasingly bored him.

‘I just heard they were coming and it would be nice to see them,’ lied Militza.

‘Nice?’ Peter looked at her quizzically. ‘I could think of infinitely more joyful company.’ Peter looked at his daughter. ‘And you, my darling, why are you standing here?’

‘I’m just a-a little—’ Marina stammered.

‘Your dress is beautiful, you are beautiful; now go and talk to some people.’ Peter nodded towards a group of pretty young girls standing near the door. ‘Those girls over there.’ He glanced across at a group of young handsome officers, dressed in smart red uniforms. ‘But those young men should be avoided!’

Inevitably, the Tsar and Tsarina were announced late. They came without any of the children, not even Olga, who at fifteen should certainly have been allowed out to celebrate New Year. And within minutes of the Tsarina arriving, she was under duress. She was uncomfortable in her gown and she kept pulling at the tight silver-embroidered sleeves, tugging at the high neckline because of the heat; her heavy sapphire earrings seemed to pain her, so she took them off, placing them carefully in her small evening bag. But it was the expression on her face that warded off any small talk. She was tight-lipped and large red patches across her cheeks seeped down the back of her neck. Poor Nicky, it was obvious he wanted to leave his wife’s side, but Alix clung grimly on to his arm as they made their way around the room. Eventually they ended up standing in one corner of the ballroom, she like a statue, staring mournfully ahead of her, while he twitched and itched, his pale gaze darting around the room, trying to catch someone’s eye.

Finally Fat Orlov went over to converse with his old friend, full of jovial bonhomie and after a few minutes Nicky managed to loosen his wife’s grip and moved to the other side of the ballroom, to be introduced to some of the blushing young debutantes out for their first season.

Seeing Alix on her own, Militza went over, taking the shy Marina with her.

‘Happy New Year!’ she began. ‘Well, almost…’ Alix looked at her and said nothing. Militza carried on, ‘And are you looking forward to Christmas?’ She smiled, but the Tsarina appeared to look through her. Militza felt colour pouring into her own cheeks. The woman was ignoring her completely and those around were beginning to notice. ‘Doesn’t Marina look lovely?’

‘No,’ came Alix’s tart reply, as she looked the girl up and down. ‘The gown,’ she remarked, taking in the pretty yellow sleeves and the low neckline, ‘is not suitable for a girl so young.’

‘It—’

‘It suggests loose morals.’ The Tsarina placed her glass of untouched champagne down on the table. ‘And a girl of low class. Or a tradesman’s daughter. It is not at all becoming.’

As the Tsarina walked away and was swallowed up by the crowd of glittering silks and jewellery, Marina burst into tears.

‘Keep quiet,’ said Militza, tugging her daughter by the arm. ‘Don’t make a scene.’ But Marina was inconsolable. She was not a girl who brimmed with confidence; she did not look like the other debutantes with their pink cheeks and fair curls. She was pale, with black pools for eyes; Militza often wondered if she’d inherited more than just her looks.

‘Why did she say that? Why?’ she sobbed.

Militza looked around the ballroom; they were beginning to attract attention. ‘Come outside.’ She pulled her weeping daughter through the crowded ballroom, weaving and elbowing her way through the throng to the library next to the giant entrance hall. ‘What is wrong with you!’

‘What is wrong with her!’ wept the girl, tugging at her dress in disgust. ‘She is unkind and evil. The woman’s a witch!’

‘I don’t think you are allowed to say that of the Tsarina without ending up in the Peter and Paul Fortress,’ said a voice.

Mother and daughter turned to see Anna Vyrubova standing in the doorway, her plump figure pulled into a tight pink ballgown, her large bosom covered in a modest voile. Her top lip might have been glistening with sweat from the heat of the ballroom, but there was a look of triumph in her eyes.

‘She’s upset,’ spat Militza.

‘But those sorts of comments are treasonous,’ declared Anna.

‘Just leave us,’ said Militza.

‘Or what? Or you’ll try and send me away too?’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ snapped Militza, hugging her daughter close.

‘The Tsarina’s upset with you,’ smiled Anna, her hands on her hips. ‘She doesn’t like it when someone tries to take her Friend away.’

‘I introduced her to Grisha – why would I want to take him away?’

As soon as she said it, Militza realized it was a mistake. To enter into conversation with this woman was an error, because there was no telling what she might say, what conversations she might repeat, what bons mots she might decide to share. Militza had been a fool to underestimate this woman. A fool to write her off so easily. Appearances were deceptive and she of all people should know that. Just because the woman looked bovine, it didn’t mean she was. In that moment she realized that she and her sister were in a lethal fight. A fight for influence, position, power, a fight they could not afford to lose.

Leaving word with her husband to stay at the party, Militza left the ball with her weeping daughter. Their early arrival at the palace shocked the footman as he dozed in the chair in the hall; equally disconcerting to him was the fact that the Grand Duchess and Marina arrived alone, leaving the Grand Duke and his son at the ball.

‘Wake Brana!’ barked Militza as she ushered her daughter up the stairs. ‘And tell her to find the black votive candles immediately and meet me in my private salon.’

‘The black, Your Imperial Highness?’ The footman bowed.

‘Yes! Black! And get on with it!’

A very basic spell calling on Santa Muerte should do the trick. Easy, thought Militza, as she counselled her distressed daughter – easy, strong and powerful. It was far beneath her and she knew it: this was crude magic, the same spell she’d once berated her sister for. Santa Muerte and black votive candles might not be terribly sophisticated but Anna could suddenly discover she was not in such rude health after all.

So as Marina lay in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling quietly, seething with humiliation, Militza lit her candles in front of the gruesome image of Santa Muetre, the dancing spirit of death whose magic she began to call upon.

Round and round the room, Militza spun, mumbling, muttering her zagovor as the black candles burnt in front of the grinning skull. Her heart beat faster as she felt Anna’s heart beat faster. Up and down the ballroom the tubby little woman galloped. She’d never been asked to dance by so many young men before. So many lovely young men! It must be her proximity to the Tsarina, she concluded, that was making her so attractive. Everyone loves power and she, Anna, yes Anna, was right at the centre of it. What fun!

Round and round Militza spun, fashioning a small fat poppet of black wax in her dexterous, well-practised hands. She would see to it that Anna, the little gossip, the eyes and ears of the Tsarina, the smuggest of all confidantes, would see and hear no more. Olga Lokhtina might have started the rumour about Militza denouncing Rasputin, but it was Anna, Anna who’d spread it, Anna who’d fanned the flames, Anna who was the toxic cancer at the heart of the court.

Up and down Anna trotted, her pink dress pinching her waist, the heat and her dress’s high neck beginning to suffocate her. If only Militza had wax from a ‘dead’ candle, she thought, for candles made from the fat of the dead are much more efficient at dispatching the living, but they were increasingly hard to get hold of these days. Fewer peasants were inclined to exhume the dead to make tallow candles, especially when an old church candle was almost as useful. But not quite useful enough. So Militza spun faster, manipulating the wax from her votive candle and chanting louder and all the while plump little Anna Vyrubova struggled for breath as she was swung around, forced up and down, under the arm, holding hands, whooping along. And the faster she danced, the tighter the dress became, the shorter her breath. Militza stuck the pins into the short fat poppet she’d made. One, she jabbed the stomach. Two, she pierced the leg. Three, she slowly pushed the needle into the doll’s silent, open mouth.

Anna Vyrubova didn’t seem able to scream as she fell to the ground in agonizing pain. Her stomach hurt, her headache was excruciating and for a good few minutes her mouth opened and shut, but not a word could come out.

‘She looked like a giant codfish,’ said Roman the next morning as he drank his coffee at breakfast. ‘She was like this…’ He opened and closed his mouth. ‘And her face was scarlet and there were blotches all over her skin.’

‘Nothing more?’ asked Militza.

‘It was quite a scene,’ said Peter, an amused curl to his lips. ‘She was rolling around on the ground, holding that expansive waist of hers. I have never seen anything like it.’

‘And nothing else?’

Roman shook his head. ‘The Tsarina took her home.’

‘She probably needed an excuse to leave the party,’ said Peter, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘I have never seen anyone drink champagne with such reluctance in my life!’

‘Maybe I should go and visit poor Anna…’ suggested Militza.

‘I shouldn’t bother,’ said Roman. ‘They took her back to Tsarskoye Selo.’

‘The Tsarina refused to stay the night in town, again,’ confirmed Peter. ‘It is far too dangerous for her in the city. Or so she maintains.’

Militza never did make it to see if Anna was recovering from her ‘sudden turn’ at the ball. Not that she felt remotely guilty. She’d acted in haste, she knew that; it was fortunate that there had been no ‘dead’ candles to hand, otherwise Anna’s ‘turn’ might have been something else. But she needed to think about what she might do to neutralize her, bring the fat woman down, make sure that whatever she said in the future would not be taken seriously again.

In the meantime, she had an afternoon tea with the Grand Duchess Elizabeth (or Mavra, as she was more usually known) at the Yacht Club, followed by an evening at the ballet to think about. Militza was very fond of Marva and her husband, the flamboyant Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich, whose penchant for poetry, the theatre, and late-night trips to obscure banyas made him more entertaining than most of the other dreary souls at court. Also the two women were attempting to encourage the small flame of romance that was kindling between the charming, talented, poetic Prince Oleg (the fifth of their eight surviving children) and little Nadejda, still aged only twelve.

‘Did you hear the Tsarina called for Rasputin last night?’ declared Mavra, playing with a small piece of buttered bread and red caviar.

‘In front of everyone?’ asked Militza.

‘No, I gather a car was sent to collect him. Apparently, it trawled the city until they found him in a private room at the Villa Rhode.’

‘What was he doing at the Villa Rhode?’ asked Militza, already knowing the reply.

‘I heard he was so drunk that he swore and yelled, screaming he didn’t want to leave his nice warm whore!’ She grinned. ‘But the driver was having none of it and they forced him to leave; they dragged him kicking and screaming down the stairs and eventually he slept in the car and managed to sober up by the time he arrived at the palace!’

‘Really?’

‘It gets worse. Last night, Fat Orlov told Nicky he wasn’t fond of Rasputin! Only for Alix to overhear. Her face was thunderous to say the least. Apparently, the Orlovs are now personae non gratae, to the Tsarina at any rate. That woman’s not well!’ Mavra shook her head. ‘I also hear she wasn’t nice to Marina?’ She raised a fine eyebrow.

‘She was charming,’ said Militza quickly. ‘I think Marina was a little overawed by the ball.’

‘Indeed,’ smiled Mavra, biting the most delicate corner off her piece of bread. She paused. ‘Are you going to the ballet tonight?’

‘We are invited to the Imperial Box.’

That night was one that Militza would try in vain to forget. What ballet she and Peter went to see, she could not afterwards recall, perhaps because she never actually saw the performance.

She and Peter arrived early at the Mariinsky Theatre, Peter dressed in white tie while she wore her favourite ruby silk dress with diamonds, sapphires and long white evening gloves. There was nothing out of the ordinary. In the crimson bar, with the red velvet banquettes and the gilt ceiling, just behind the Imperial Box, the cream of St Petersburg sipped champagne and waited for the first strains of the orchestra to strike up before taking up their places in the golden auditorium. The conversation was as usual. Who was in? Who was out? And what on earth had happened at the Orlovs’ the night before? Poor Anna’s crisis was much discussed. But the festering, fermenting swill of revolution in the countryside and the slums of the cities were not topics that bothered anyone.

Still, Militza was nervous as she sipped her champagne; her sixth sense was making her feel twitchy, anxious, paranoid.

The orchestra struck up a few chords and the glittering crowd drained their last few bubbles from their flutes and moved, en masse, towards the door. With a surge of entitlement they pushed at each other with discreetly pointed elbows, for the seating in the Imperial Box was something of a free-for-all. The Tsar and Tsarina were, naturally, on their thrones in the middle of the box where they could see and be seen, but the other chairs were not allocated. The Tsarina might pat one close to her to indicate where a favourite might sit, but other than that, tickets were not issued. With Anna still prone in her bed, fighting what Rasputin had declared was little more than a slight fever, Militza jostled her way forward with confidence. Her eyes were firmly on the prize, a seat to the right of Alix. The Tsarina looked directly at her. The trumpets sounded, the blue velvet curtain began to part and Militza smiled and prepared to move forward, but instead Alix turned suddenly around and gently tapped the shoulder of her lady-in-waiting, Sophie Buxhoeveden. And that was it. Militza had no seat. There was surely a seat for her somewhere, in among the shadows and tucked away in the pleats of velvet, but she couldn’t see it. Peter had been swept up over to the other side of the box and was chatting away to Uncle Bimbo; he had no care for his wife, why would he? She had always been seated close to the Tsarina in the past, why would tonight be any different? Militza’s head swam. She turned around and around and the lights in the auditorium dimmed. She could not see anything.

The orchestra began the overture and Militza realized she must get out before the lights on the stage went up and it was noticed she was standing on her own, without a chair. With seconds to spare, she stumbled swiftly out of the box.

‘Madame?’ queried a voice, as she made her way into the private bar, flushed and blinking. ‘Are you all right?’

Militza looked around, confused. Furious indignation coursed through her veins. After all she’d done for that woman! That disloyal, half-brained idiot!

‘Prime Minister,’ declared Militza, cauterizing her feelings as quickly as she could. She offered up a gloved hand for him to kiss.

‘Your Imperial Highness.’ Peter Stolypin kissed her hand. ‘Are you not watching the ballet?’

‘I don’t feel the inclination,’ she replied with a wave of her fan.

‘Oh?’ He looked at her quizzically.

‘I felt like a glass of champagne.’ She nodded towards the bar and the large silver bucket, full of ice, where there lay a bottle of the Tsar’s favourite champagne, Louis Roederer Cristal. ‘And you?’

‘A meeting at the Duma. It went on for hours.’

‘Well, I won’t keep you, sir, have a good evening,’ she said brusquely. She wanted to get outside into the street, to breathe in some of the ice-cold St Petersburg air, to steady herself, her brain and her emotions. Whatever was going to happen next, the Tsarina would pay.

‘Is the Friend in the box?’ he asked, looking at her directly. ‘Rasputin. Or Rasputin-Novy as we are now supposed to call him?’

‘Him? No.’ She shook her head.

‘I can’t stand the man,’ he said, running his hand through his thick beard. He scrutinized her expression as he slowly turned up the corners of his curled and pointed moustache. Militza revealed nothing. ‘I cannot stand him at all.’

‘But didn’t he help your daughter?’

‘It is what he is doing to Russia that I can’t abide.’

‘Then you’ll be pleased to know he is not in the theatre tonight.’ Militza smiled.

‘I believe you and he are well acquainted?’

‘I know Rasputin,’ she confirmed.

‘Well?’

‘Quite well.’

‘Well enough to go to Siberia, if I am not mistaken?’ Militza was taken by surprise. How did he know?

‘It was a brief visit.’ She smiled charmingly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I simply must go.’

‘Was that before, or after, you went to the police?’ he asked.

Militza glanced around the room. Had anyone heard him? How did he know so much?

‘If you will excuse me, Prime Minister, I really must leave.’

Stolypin slowly sat down on the banquette, rubbing the top of his shining pate. ‘Unfortunately the Tsarina herself called an end to that little investigation?’

‘I am afraid I don’t understand quite what you are saying, sir?’

‘Khlysty charges?’

‘I think you are mistaken, sir.’

‘The man is bad news,’ he continued, quietly, careful not to be overheard. ‘He is a tragedy for this country. I love this country and that man is ruinous for all of us. He has letters from the Grand Duchesses, intimate letters that he is bandying around town. He reads them aloud when he is drunk.’ Stolypin’s tones were hushed but the importance of what he was saying was clear. ‘They only need to fall into the wrong hands. The Press are on to him already, the endless profiles, the cartoons – the man is more famous than any courtesan. If they find the letters…’ He shook his head. ‘He needs to go. And he needs to go far, far, away.’

‘Well then, Prime Minister…’ Militza leant over, her pendant sapphires shining in the candlelight. ‘Ban him from the city,’ she whispered. He stared into her black eyes. ‘You have the power to do that, sir. Ban him, so he can never set foot in St Petersburg, or indeed Tsarskoye Selo, ever again.’