The Witches of St. Petersburg
Page 1
Dedication
FOR KATYA GALITZINE
I could not have done this without you.
AND NIKOLAI ANTONOV
(In Memoriam)
Epigraph
Rasputin is a vessel like Pandora’s Box, which contains all the vices, crimes and filth of the Russian people. Should the vessel be broken we will see its dreadful contents spill themselves across Russia.
PAPUS, OCCULTIST AND FOUNDER OF THE MARTINIST ORDER, 1905
I will set my face against anyone who turns to mediums and spiritists to prostitute themselves by following them, and I will cut them off from their people.
LEVITICUS 20:6
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Cast of Characters
Prologue: February 10, 1911, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 1: August 28, 1889, Peterhof, St. Petersburg
Chapter 2: Later That Evening, Villa Sergievka, Peterhof
Chapter 3: November 1, 1894, St. Petersburg
Chapter 4: January 10, 1896, St. Petersburg
Chapter 5: February 1896, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 6: August 1899, Tsarskoye Selo, St. Petersburg
Chapter 7: December 17, 1899, St. Petersburg
Chapter 8: January 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 9: May 18, 1900, Tsarskoye Selo
Chapter 10: June 16, 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 11: June 19, 1901, St. Petersburg
Chapter 12: August 1901, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 13: December 1901, St. Petersburg
Chapter 14: August 1902, Lower Dacha, Peterhof
Chapter 15: February 11, 1903, St. Petersburg
Chapter 16: August 1903, Sarov, Tambov Region
Chapter 17: August 12, 1904, St. Petersburg
Chapter 18: October 31, 1905, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 19: November 2, 1905, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 20: November 11, 1905, Sergievka Palace, Peterhof
Chapter 21: March 12, 1906, Tsarskoye Selo
Chapter 22: September 23, 1906, St. Petersburg
Chapter 23: October 7, 1906, St. Petersburg
Chapter 24: October 20, 1906, St. Petersburg
Chapter 25: December 12, 1906, St. Petersburg
Chapter 26: April 10, 1907, St. Petersburg
Chapter 27: November 20, 1907, St. Petersburg
Chapter 28: May 1908, Pokrovskoye, Tyumen, Siberia
Chapter 29: June 1908, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 30: December 31, 1910, St. Petersburg
Chapter 31: February 10, 1911, Peterhof
Chapter 32: February 22, 1914, St. Petersburg
Chapter 33: August 17, 1915, Znamenka, Peterhof
Chapter 34: December 16, 1916, Petrograd
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Book
Read On
Copyright
About the Publisher
Cast of Characters
Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna—second eldest daughter of King Nikola of Montenegro; she was one of twelve children, only nine of whom survived into adulthood.
Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich—cousin to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, married to Militza.
Grand Duchess Anastasia (Stana)—third eldest daughter of King Nikola of Montenegro.
George Maximilianovich, 6th Duke of Leuchtenberg—Stana’s first husband.
Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich (Nikolasha)—brother of Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich, commander in chief of the Russian army, viceroy of the Caucasus, and cousin to Tsar Nicholas II; second husband to Stana.
Tsar Nicholas II (also called Nicky)—reigned as emperor of Russia from 1894 to 1917.
Tsarina Alexandra Fyodorovna (née Princess Alexandra of Hesse-Darmstadt, also called Alix)—empress of Russia.
Their children:
Olga
Tatiana
Maria
Anastasia
Alexei, the Tsarevich
Grand Duke George Alexandrovich (Georgie)—younger brother to Tsar Nicholas II; he died of TB by the side of the road in Georgia when he was twenty-eight years old.
Dowager Empress Maria Fyodorovna (née Princess Dagmar of Denmark, also known as Minny)—widow of Alexander III, mother to Tsar Nicholas II.
Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna (Ella)—elder sister of the tsarina; married to Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich, uncle to Tsar Nicolas II.
Grand Duchess Vladimir, Maria Pavlovna (also known as Miechen)—one of the richest women in all Russia.
Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich—husband to Maria Pavlovna and uncle to Tsar Nicolas II.
Count Felix Sumarokov-Elston (also known as Count Yusupov)—married to Princess Zinaida Yusupova, the richest woman in all Russia; father of Prince Nikolai Felixovich and Prince Felix Felixovich.
Prince Felix Yusupov—married to Princess Irina Alexandronva, daughter of Xenia (Tsar Nicholas II’s sister) and Alexander Mikhailovich (Sandro); one of the murderers of Rasputin.
Anna Vyrubova (née Taneyeva)—the tsarina’s best friend.
Dr. Shamzaran Badmaev (otherwise known as Dr. Peter Badmaev)—apothecary, philosopher, and purveyor of fine drugs; born in Tibet.
Countess Sophia Ignatiev—hostess of the Black Salons.
Philippe Nizier-Vachot (Maître Philippe)—guru and Martinist from Lyon, France.
Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin (Grisha)—man of God, hierophant, and holy satyr from Siberia.
Prologue
February 10, 1911, Znamenka, Peterhof
THEY HAMMERED ON THE ENTRANCE TO THE PALACE, pounding with their fists. The heavy wooden doors shook on their hinges, and cries of bloodlust rang out into the night.
“Open up! Police! Open up in the name of the tsar!”
Militza stood in the hall. She could hear him panting with fear from behind the heavy silk curtain. She glanced across. His pale eyes stared at her from the darkness. The most powerful man in Russia was finally asking her for help. He’d arrived drenched in sweat, his clothes sodden, his bare feet crimson with cold. He’d come careering through the woods like a deer chased by a pack of hungry wolves, had begged her for protection, implored her, promised her anything, everything—and she could hardly contain her pleasure.
They hammered again. The glass in the windows at the front of the palace rattled. A few of the domestic household, some sixty souls, were now gathered on the stairs, some shocked, some quizzical, some clasping their hands together in terror. All were staring at the doors. These were dangerous times; there was more than a whiff of revolution in the air and anything could happen. The burgundy-liveried footman went to open the door.
“Wait!” commanded Militza, taking a step forward and raising her hand. She pulled a diamond comb from the back of her head, shook her long dark hair over her shoulders, and partially opened the front of her red velvet robe. “Now,” she said and nodded.
The footman pulled back the brass lock and opened the great doors. An icy blast tore into the hall. In front of her stood a seething gang of some twenty or so policemen. Dressed in navy tunics with lambskin helmets, they surged towards her, their breath white and their eyes wild with the chase. The young officer in charge lunged forward.
“It has gone midnight! What in God’s name,” Militza demanded, dramatically crossing herself, “are you doing waking my household at this hour?”
“Where is he?” barked the officer, leaning in, glancing around the hall.
“How dare you!” Militza stood her ground.
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br /> “I am sorry, Your Imperial Highness.” The young man withdrew slightly, cheeks tinged with contrition, clutching a piece of paper. “We are searching for Rasputin. Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin—”
“The devil!” someone shouted.
The young officer swung around. “Quiet!” he snarled. He turned slowly back and, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, he smiled. “We believe he came this way.”
“Well, I am sorry to disappoint,” Militza replied, returning his smile, “but I have been here, alone, all evening, and as you can see . . .” She looked down at her smooth, white, carefully exposed skin. “I am about to retire.”
The young man immediately averted his gaze. She had managed to disconcert him, but it was only momentary. “I would like permission to search the palace.”
“You doubt my word?” Militza glared.
“Witch!” came a shout from the back of the pack.
“He is not here,” she said, ignoring the accusation. She stood aside, calling his bluff. “You are very welcome to search the palace of Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich, cousin of the tsar, should you so wish, but you will not find the dog.”
The mere mention of her husband’s name called them to a halt. At least some titles still managed to instill a scintilla of respect, fear even, despite the ever-shifting sands.
“That will not be necessary, Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, fixing her with a stare. Militza’s face was impassive, her body completely still. She had always been an excellent liar. His men’s feet pawed the ground, itching for a fight, but the officer was not quite brave enough to enter. “We know for certain Rasputin came this way.” Militza stared, a gentle half smile curling her lips. “So . . .” The officer cleared his throat. “We’ll stand guard on the entrance to your estate. It is, after all, our job to protect you.”
“Protect me, indeed.” She nodded, taking in his young face, the blond mustache struggling to cover his top lip. “How kind of you. I shall send out warm refreshments for your men.”
“No need, Your Imperial Highness. My men will be quite warm enough.”
The wooden doors slammed shut, and Militza slowly closed her eyes in relief, then turned and dismissed her servants. Rasputin waited for the household to disperse before he drew back the curtain. Stepping out of the shadow, he walked towards her, arms outstretched. He pulled her towards him, enveloping her firmly in his embrace. She could feel her stomach tighten.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. His hot breath sent a shiver down her spine. “May the Lord bless you.” He kissed the backs of her hands with his dry lips, his coarse beard tickling her skin and the acrid smell of his fetid hair filling her nostrils. He looked up. “I shall exit by a basement entrance and head towards the sea. I will trouble you no more.” He brushed his rough lips once more across the back of her hand. “I am forever in your debt.”
It was now or never, she thought. He had come to her of his own free will. It would only work if he was compliant. And here he was. This was it.
“Stay!” she replied, a little too swiftly. He looked puzzled. “You are cold,” she added. He hesitated. “And you must be hungry, starving. We have sweet cakes, Madeira. All your favorite things. Let me warm you and get you something to eat.”
“But the soldiers?”
“Many things might have changed, but no one would doubt the word of a grand duchess.” She smiled encouragingly. “They will soon disappear to find vodka in the village.”
Half an hour later a servant delivered a tray of small cakes and Madeira wine to Militza’s private drawing room, which was intimate, filled with many of her most precious philosophical and religious texts; it was rare she entertained here. The fire was well stoked, and Rasputin was lying on her peach velvet button-backed divan, his damp clothes steaming, his small leather bag of possessions lying next to him on the floor.
Militza was at his gnarled feet, gently washing them in a bowl of hot, scented water.
“Relax,” she soothed.
“Are they still out there?” He sat up, nervously glancing towards the window. “I can feel their presence and smell their sweat; their blood is up, the night is cold and getting colder still—their master shall not keep his hounds at bay for much longer.”
“They wouldn’t dare. You are safe here.”
“Safe?” He snorted. “None of us is safe, my dear, not anymore.”
“What happened to your shoes?” she asked, wringing out the cloth and letting the warm water trickle between his toes. The sweet smell of Indian sandalwood rose up in the vapors and began to fill the air.
“I lost them somewhere in the forest. I took my boots off on the train and didn’t have time to get them on again before I saw them at the station. I had to leap from a moving train to get away from those bastards! They mean to banish me from the city. Me? From the city. My city!” He laughed. “Little do they know who they are dealing with!”
He sat in silence while Militza continued her washing. The severity of his situation had stunned him. He had been utterly unprepared. He would not make the same mistake again. Who had sent them? Who had betrayed him? Didn’t they know who his friends were? How powerful he was?
The heat of the room, the noise of the crackling fire, the wine, the cakes, and the gently dripping water wove their soporific charm. Slowly, he sat back into the divan, closing his eyes; his head relaxed; his mouth fell slightly ajar as he lightly licked his lips. He was enjoying the warmth of the water and the softness of her touch. She picked up the bottle of oil again. She had chosen it carefully. Sandalwood: the realizer of dreams. And this was her moment. She could not believe it had arrived so soon after asking. The Fates had indeed been kind. She dried his feet with a towel and then, pouring a few drops of the oil just above his toes, began to massage the liquid into his chapped skin. Her nimble fingers moved adeptly up the arch of his foot, her sensuous touch causing him to moan unconsciously. Suddenly he opened his eyes.
“What are you doing to me, woman?” he barked, retracting his feet. “What wicked enchantment are you up to now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit back and let me tend to you.”
“Why?” he asked warily, trying to read the expression on her face. “What are you planning—witch?”
“You, of all people, know better than to call me that!” She laughed as lightly as she could, trying to control the rising flush in her cheeks.
Rasputin leaned forward. Militza’s heart was pounding. She could feel the cold metal of his golden crucifix as it swung against the warm flesh of her breasts. His breathing was heavy.
“I’ve had enough of your tricks,” he mumbled, slowly running his coarse fingertip down the side of her throat. Militza shivered again in an intoxicating combination of mounting fear and desire.
“Let me be Magdalene to your Christ,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. She could see his pupils were dilated. Was it natural? Or had he willed them to, as she knew he could?
There was a pause. Militza didn’t dare to move or breathe—and then Rasputin roared with laughter. He threw back his bearded chin and his large frame shook as his crucifix danced on his belly.
“As you wish,” he chuckled, leaning back and returning his feet to the towel. “As you wish, my little . . . bitch.”
Militza echoed his laugh with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, and somehow she managed to control her shaking hands enough to continue the massage. She worked hard and deep, moving up his strong ankles and down between his thick, splayed toes. Clearly this wasn’t the first time he’d run through the forest unshod. She poured on more oil; her hands were beginning to hurt, but she forced herself to continue, humming gently under her breath. Not long now, she thought. Not long. It would take an iron will not to succumb to slumber. And sure enough, Rasputin’s chest began slowly to rise and fall. After a while he started to snore.
At last! Militza sat back on her haunches for a second, allowing herself a moment’s rest. She could kill him now, as
he lay there, snoring and slack-jawed, exhaling through the blackened gaps in his filthy teeth. She could slit his throat, plunge a dagger into his rotten, duplicitous heart: it would be quick and easy, and no one would need know, least of all the tsarina. She could even feed him to the dogs outside. But he was her creation, her creature, her thick-shafted lover—and she had not finished with him yet.
Quickly, silently, she crossed her boudoir to find the sewing sampler she’d left on the arm of the sofa earlier that afternoon. She lifted it up, and from underneath, she rescued a small pair of ornately carved golden scissors. Quickly, she knelt back down at Rasputin’s feet, and slowly, surely, she got to work. The toenails were thick and difficult to cut, but one by one, she very carefully snipped them off, keeping them as whole as possible, curved as new moons. Only when she had collected all ten did she place them very carefully in a beautiful wooden box.
Chapter 1
August 28, 1889, Peterhof, St. Petersburg
RIGHT FROM THE VERY BEGINNING, MILITZA KNEW IT was not going to work. She was like that. She knew things, saw things, sensed things . . . Second sight was what they called it. She saw the omens were bad . . . and the omens never lied.
She’d lit a candle the night before, something she and her mother had always done—a little bit of apotropaic magic to ward off evil. You placed a lit candle in the window to dispel the dark, welcoming in the light and good fortune. But it kept going out. There was a breeze, an ill wind, which meant that no matter how many times she lit the flame, it flickered, guttered, and died.
Naturally, she didn’t tell her sister. Anastasia was two years younger and upset enough already, so much so she’d woken up in tears. What sort of bride wakes up in tears on her wedding day?
“I can’t,” she sobbed, propped up by a pile of soft white pillows. “I just can’t.”
At the time, Militza didn’t know what to do. Anastasia was weeping copiously; her black hair, loose around her face, clung in damp curls to her wet cheeks. Her huge black eyes were mournful and completely piteous.
“You’ve got to help me!”