The Witches of St. Petersburg

² Later that evening – Villa Sergievka, Peterhof

Militza was sitting opposite her when it happened. Why didn’t she notice? she asked herself all those years later. She of all people. She might have been able to do something. To have prevented what happened? Or at the very least, made it better?

The party was in full swing, the feast – turtle soup, pirozkhi, veal, turkey, duck in aspic, and ice cream – all served on heavy silver platters, had been cleared away, and a gypsy band was playing. Regulars at the hugely fashionable Cubat restaurant in St Petersburg, they’d just ‘kidnapped’ Stana, and the singers were going from table to table, their caps out, collecting money to pay her ‘ransom,’ otherwise known as their fee for the night. The guitarists were working themselves up into a frenzy and most of the guests were laughing, throwing roubles into the boys’ caps, clapping along in time to the music

But Grand Duchess Vladimir was not. In fact, Maria Pavlovna was barely moving. She’d not spoken for a while, which was quite unlike her. Militza noticed she was turning pale despite the yellow candlelight and her mouth looked dry. Suddenly Maria Pavlovna turned, looked across the table and let out a low, loud, bellowing moan. It sounded primal, as if it came from the very depths of her soul. She stood up with a lurch, gripping the table with both her hands and the heavy diamond ropes on her devant de corsage swung forward and smashed two glasses. The red wine poured everywhere, a crimson stain seeping into the white linen cloth and trickling on to the parquet floor. She leant forward against the table, using it for support, as she tried to breathe. She stared at Militza, panting through the silver candelabra, her eyes glassy, blind with pain. One of the servants, standing behind the Grand Duchess, covered his mouth in alarm. Peter, who was sitting next to her, stood up and pulled back her chair. The silk cushion on which she’d been sitting was sodden and black with blood. Those close to her recoiled. The gypsy band, however, carried on playing and the guests further up the table continued clapping, as the full magnitude of the situation took a while to sink in.

It was the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, the Tsar’s sister-in-law, not Militza, who was the first to react. Renowned for both her kindness and her beauty, she rushed over, pushing various guests and servants to one side, and grabbed hold of Maria Pavlovna by the shoulders.

‘We need a doctor,’ she declared, looking down at the floor. Her pretty face winced. ‘Right now!’

Finally, Militza forced her way through the crowd of guests, most of whom where rooted to the spot with shock. The amount of blood on the floor was distressing and, with every bellow and moan, more poured out from below her skirts. Elizabeth Fyodorovna snatched napkins and started to wet them in the silver water jug on the table to cool Maria’s brow. Maria’s face was now completely drained of colour and covered in a film of sweat. Militza took hold of her hand. It felt cold. Maria looked up at her but didn’t appear to know who she was.

‘You need to lie down.’

Elizabeth and Militza each took an arm. Holding Maria firmly by the elbow, they helped her through the party. The guests looked away as they passed. Only when they neared the band did the music finally stop.

The women reached the door in silence. Maria collapsed and, as Militza struggled to pull her upright, she turned back to see the horror-struck faces of the guests. Maria’s drenched skirts had dragged across the parquet floor, leaving a thick, wide trail of blood in their wake.

Just then Stana came racing back into her own party, her ‘ransom’ having been paid, shouting, ‘I am back! I’m free!’

But where was the applause? Where were the rapturous cheers? The whole room should be on its feet! The ‘ransom’ had been paid; the band could play all night long.

But Stana ran into a room in shock, a room steeped in tragedy and covered in blood. It brought her up sharp, like being slapped in the face. Militza saw the terrified look in her sister’s eyes. Her wedding day would be forever marred by Maria Pavlovna’s terrible loss. Stana and Militza’s arrival in St Petersburg society would be marked in blood. The foetal blood of an unborn baby.

‘For God’s sake,’ shouted Peter, stepping forward. ‘Someone call for a doctor!’ He looked around the inert crowd and rushed out himself.

Elizabeth and Militza managed to escort Maria into the yellow drawing room. Within minutes there were servants with towels and jugs of warm water but there was little that could be done.

The dead baby came about forty minutes after her exit from the party. Fortunately, a sturdy woman from the village with strong forearms was there to help. One of the servants had raised her from her bed and brought her to the palace, while they waited for the doctor Peter had sent for to arrive. She’d helped deliver something like thirty babies in the village and her experience proved invaluable. She dosed Maria with a strong liquor of brandy and herbs to dull the pain, which made the passing of the baby much easier. It was less than four months old – almost formed but red raw. The village woman immediately wrapped it up in a towel and took it away.

The second foetus was, of course, rather a shock for everyone in the room. They had all concluded the worst was over, so when Maria began panting again and arched her back before delivering a dreadful scream, they were completely taken off guard. They had no towel ready and no one was prepared. The clot slapped noisily on to the parquet floor, spattering the village women’s skirts and some of the silk chintz furniture. Fortunately, Maria herself was completely feverish, so she was spared the true realisation of what was happening to her. She was moaning and rolling on the divan and though her dress had been loosened, she was still fully clothed, for they had not had the time, or indeed the presence of mind, to remove it. She was propped up on some cushions, delirious with pain, covered in blood, but still wearing her magnificent tiara.

After the second child was delivered, the blood did not stop. They used sheets, rags, towels – anything they could find – to stem the flow, but the situation was becoming critical. When Dr Sergei Andreyevich finally arrived, the Grand Duchess Vladimir was unconscious, her temperature high and her condition very grave indeed. The loss of blood, the doctor concluded, was most definitely life-threatening. They just had to wait and see.

By the time Militza left the yellow drawing room, the reception was over and most of the guests had disappeared into the night. However, some were still seated in small groups in the grand dining hall, waiting for news. As she walked in, Stana leapt out of her chair and George stopped pacing the room. She could see a few other members of the court turn towards her.

‘You’re covered in blood!’ said Stana as she rushed towards her exhausted sister. Somehow her glorious coiffure, tiara and silver dress looked completely incongruous after what Militza had just witnessed. ‘Is she all right? Will she live? Has she lost the baby?’ Her questions came thick and fast. The rest of the room was quiet, a dozen pairs of eyes trained on Militza’s face.

‘I don’t know,’ she said shaking her head slowly, wiping her bloodied hands down the front of her pale silk dress. ‘There were two babies. Twins.’

There was a small but audible gasp. Out of the corner of her eye a man collapsed into one of the dining chairs, head in his hands. It was Maria Pavlovna’s husband.

‘Twins?’ Stana repeated.

Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich made a small whimpering noise, like a dog that’s been kicked by its master. He appeared to bite the back of his hand. No one moved. No one wanted to appear vulgar, crashing in on his private moment of grief. Eventually, Peter picked up a delicate crystal decanter of Armenian Cognac and a small glass and walked slowly towards Vladimir Alexandrovich. He squeezed the man’s heavily brocaded shoulder, poured a drink, put down the decanter and pushed the glass slowly towards him. Vladimir took the glass and, without saying a word, knocked the amber liquid back in one. He put the glass back down on the table. Peter refilled it and Vladimir drained it once more. Then, in one swift movement, Vladimir stood up from the table, sniffed deeply, smoothed down his thick, lengthy moustache, cleared his throat, and clicked his heels together.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, before he nodded and left the room.

The remainder of the party took this as their cue to leave. With the husband gone, the idea of loitering in the hope of hearing any more news suddenly appeared a little unseemly. The two sisters, one dressed in silver, the other covered in blood, stood next to the door as the guests began to walk out into the warm, pale night and their carriages beyond. Some muttered ‘thank you’ under their breath, as they left. But for others the recriminations had already begun. ‘It’s all their fault,’ mumbled someone from behind their fan. ‘They shouldn’t have come here,’ declared another. ‘It’s not a good omen for the wedding,’ added another, as she drifted past. ‘Did you notice they both smelt of goat?’

The doors closed behind them, leaving only Stana, Peter, George and Militza in the room.

‘Do something!’ implored Stana. Her face was white. Her eyes were burning as bright as the candles. ‘Her babies may be dead, but we cannot let her die. Not her! Not the grandest of all Grand Duchesses. If she dies at my wedding – our wedding – what will they say?’

‘I’m not sure,’ whispered Militza.

‘I know you can do something.’

‘What can you do?’ sneered George, taking a goblet of wine off the table and draining it. ‘You’re just a couple of peasants from the mountains!’

‘I am princess in my own right!’ retorted Stana, turning to face her husband.

‘Really!’ he scoffed. ‘Princess of where? Your father’s not even a king! The real king was assassinated! Your father dresses like a peasant, your palace is made of wood and you’ve barely got a silk dress between you! I have seen your trousseaux; it would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic. If the Tsar had not paid out for your dowries, to the tune of 100, 000 roubles a year, you’d still be rotting away in that one-street town you call a capital!’

‘It is a capital.’ Stana’s voice was quiet. ‘And it is a beautiful capital, with wide streets and pretty houses. In the spring it smells of juniper and you can hear the waterfalls splashing through the gorges of the Black Mountains. The Monte Negro that fell as rocks from Satan’s sack…’

George slowly put his glass down on the table and stared at his wife. Small, lean and lithe, his brown hair was swept back off his forehead and his neat beard and moustache covered the lower half of his face. He was certainly handsome and yet at the same time unattractive. His cruel eyes were narrow with disdain.

‘Satan’s sack! I have never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! Satan doesn’t exist, any more than there’s a God.’ George snorted with derision as he picked up a half-empty bottle of Burgundy. ‘Your father thinks he’s moving up in the world, consorting with kings. But you two are nothing! And you’ll always be nothing. You’re not even pawns! You’re two out of nine sisters. Nine! You were going cheap, my dear. A few thousand roubles each! Brood mares! Fresh blood, brought here to replenish St Petersburg’s stock. Just what the Tsar ordered! Everyone knows that!’ His head wobbled as he smirked.

‘You’re drunk,’ whispered Stana, her hands beginning to shake as she sank slowly into a chair.

‘Of course I’m drunk!’ he replied, pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘It’s my wedding day. Every man gets drunk on his wedding day! It’s the only way to drown the bitter taste.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ said Peter, striding towards George. ‘You’re upsetting everyone.’

‘Leave me alone!’

‘Listen, my friend, I think you should leave.’

‘Leave!’ George sneered. ‘It’s my wedding!’

‘Indeed it is. But your bride is very distressed. Let me get you to bed.’ Peter moved to take George by the arm.

‘Get your hands off me!’ shouted George as he staggered towards the door. ‘I’m more than capable of taking myself off to bed! In fact, I can drink more than this and still rut like a ram!’

Stana looked horrified. The colour rose in her cheeks and her black eyes shone with tears. This was not how she and her little wooden poppets had imagined her wedding day; this was not how she’d imagined it at all. Militza rushed over to hold her hand.

‘Don’t worry. He doesn’t mean it.’

‘Go on!’ George goaded, turning around. ‘Everyone says you’re a couple of witches. Gossip says you can call up the devil himself, that you’re his daughters! The devil’s daughters! With your black hair and your black eyes from the Black Mountains. Well, get out your cauldron, witches! Give it a stir!’

‘You underestimate us at your peril!’ Militza hissed.

George simply laughed in her face. Militza stared back at him, the blood pumping through her veins. ‘Now I am scared!’ he scoffed as he left the room. ‘Very scared!’

‘Please!’ said Stana, tugging at her sister’s arm, tears now tumbling uncontrollably down her cheeks. ‘Forget him. Do it for me. Don’t let her die. You promised me. You did. Today…’ Militza hesitated. ‘You crossed your heart and you kissed me.’

‘There will be a price,’ declared Militza, slowly turning to her sister.

‘There is always a price.’ Stana shook her head in agreement. ‘We both know that.’

‘What price?’ asked Peter.

‘Don’t ask questions,’ Stana shot back. She turned once more to face her sister. ‘You heard them as they left. Our life isn’t going to be worth living if she dies—’

‘Very well, then,’ Militza replied. ‘Call Brana and tell her to get my things.’

That long, hot August night, the court held its collective breath. And the fact that the Grand Duchess Vladimir survived to see the pale light of dawn was, according to Dr Sergei Andreyevich, nothing short of a miracle.

All the next day, snippets of gossip flew back and forth, recounting how the doctor had apparently prepared the Grand Duke for his wife’s imminent death. They’d been spotted taking a late-night walk through the gardens at Peterhof, where the Grand Duke had nodded repeatedly, tugged anxiously at his moustache and looked very grave indeed. Come daybreak, when the good doctor returned to the yellow salon to find the Grand Duchess sitting up, awake, he could not believe his eyes. He never questioned Militza as to her methods – and she never offered up any explanation.

The Vladimirs went on to hold a discreet burial for one of the babies just outside the grounds of the family church on their estate at Peterhof. It was quiet and quick, the spot unconsecrated but peaceful; a young silver birch tree was planted and the priest kindly said some prayers. But as to what happened to the second baby, the other clot, and who exactly the shuffling old woman was who tidied up the yellow salon, no one ever knew.

And just as Stana had predicted, the result of the Grand Duchess’s double miscarriage was a rigid, intractable frostiness that was colder and more impenetrable than the frozen taiga itself.

For in lieu of any concrete details that she could recall, the Grand Duchess Vladimir simply created her own story, her own narrative that, rather than placing the sisters at the heart of her recovery, blamed them for her terrible plight in the first place.

‘They are the sort of women who could sour milk with one glance,’ she would say, taking a sip of champagne. ‘All I can really remember was the distinct smell of goat,’ she’d declare, laughing uproariously, ‘goat!’

‘Goat!’ they’d laugh. ‘The Goat Princesses!’

Truth be told, what Maria Pavlovna could remember of that long, white night perturbed her so much she preferred not to think about it at all. It haunted her in the early hours and whispered to her from the quiet shadows. So, like most things unpleasant or taxing, she simply decided not to engage with it. She liked to flap anything disagreeable and unlikable away with a little waft of her fan. It was far better to tell a different tale, much easier to sow different seeds.

And the court of St Petersburg proved to be the most excellent and fertile of grounds; it wasn’t long before the sweet, heady, lemon musk of goat could be smelt in the most unlikely of places.