The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “It is past three in the morning,” said Stana.

  “Oh, my goodness!” said Alix, leaping out of her chair. “It is long past Alexei’s bedtime. The girlies will be up soon, wanting to play with him. I must stop that from happening. He needs his rest. He must rest. The boy has been through a lot, poor thing. He must rest.”

  All three returned to the boy’s bedroom to find him still sitting up in bed, entranced by Rasputin’s stories.

  “And then the bear—” said Rasputin, rounding his shoulders, pretending to look fierce.

  “And then the bear went to bed!” interrupted Alix.

  “Oh, please, Mama!” begged Alexei, pulling his sheets towards him.

  “Another time, my darling,” she replied. “You must rest.”

  “No!”

  “Do as your mother tells you, little one,” said Rasputin, getting off the bed.

  “How can I thank you!” said Alix, embracing Rasputin and kissing his cheek. “How can I ever thank you!” She took hold of his hands and kissed them.

  Rasputin made the sign of the cross over her head. “Believe in the power of my prayers and your son will live.”

  She kissed his hands again.

  “Come tomorrow! Please, Little Father, come tomorrow,” Alexei demanded from his bed. “I will not go to sleep until you come.”

  “Will you come tomorrow?” asked Alix.

  Militza could see him, feel him, staring at her from the corner in the dark.

  “Of course he’ll come tomorrow,” she replied brightly. “We all will. All three of us, together.”

  Chapter 22

  September 23, 1906, St. Petersburg

  OVER THE NEXT FEW MONTHS MILITZA AND STANA kept their eye on Rasputin. The three of them were quite inseparable, and as his reputation as a healer grew, they made absolutely sure that everyone knew they were his champions. Somehow the fact that Bishop Theofan had discovered him first, or that he’d been seen around the seminary and had already been spoken about by some of the faithful in church, was all lost in Militza and Stana’s version of the story. Rasputin was their muzhik, the faith healer they had conjured from the dying sighs of the night—and as they already had a reputation for rather an esoteric approach to Christianity, everyone believed them.

  Soon Militza was claiming that she had met Rasputin years ago in Kiev. She told a story of visiting the Ukraine to see her mother-in-law, Grand Duchess Alexandra Petrovna, who was living as a nun after her husband, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich the elder, had fathered five illegitimate children with the ballerina Catherine Chislova. The bastard children and her reason for being a nun were not mentioned in the story, of course; neither was Militza’s real reason for going, to visit the grave of her dear daughter Sofia, who was born and had died on the same day. She dwelt comprehensively on her meeting with Rasputin, out in the countryside, where he was chopping wood. She embellished the story every time she told it, describing how, despite his abruptness, she’d spotted a miracle worker. His rudeness was part of his integrity, she said. The more offensive and boorish the man, the more genuine were his feelings and emotions. Rasputin represented the true Russian soul; he was not affected or arch or pretentious. In a world when no one ever meant what they said, you could rely on him to speak the truth, no matter how difficult or painful it was.

  And he went everywhere with them, regularly attending dinner at Znamenka. He’d also take tea at Sergievka and was often seen accompanying Militza and Stana with Peter and, more recently, Nikolasha to some of the most fashionable drawing rooms in town. He even summered with them for a few weeks in Crimea, only to return, via his family in Siberia, to St. Petersburg at the beginning of September.

  His return to St. Petersburg saw his reputation flourish even more as his fame became more widespread. Stories of his greatness traveled back with him from the steppes. How he healed the sick, cured the lame, and calmed the minds of the insane. Countess Ignatiev insisted he attend her Black Salon any Monday he was in town. So stratospheric was Rasputin’s rise through the social ranks of St. Petersburg, it was inevitable that he would end up having dinner in the Imperial Yacht Club on the Morskaya.

  There were many clubs in St. Petersburg—the English Club, the New Club, the Arts Club—but the Yacht Club, as it was informally known, with only 150 members, was considered the most aristocratic in the capital, frequented by grand dukes, by the highest dignitaries in the court and well-connected diplomats. The waiting list for membership was almost always closed. It was said that those who walked past would stare enviously at this bastion of the establishment and wonder what intrigue, what plot, what career was being made or, indeed, broken, whose luck was in or out within its hallowed walls. It was also said that even the meekest and most mild-mannered of fellows could have their heads turned by gaining membership to the club. Pumped up on self-importance, they couldn’t let a sentence past their lips without mention of the Yacht Club. “The Yacht Club thinks this . . . The Yacht Club thinks that . . .”

  Where it would normally take a young man a lifetime to infiltrate the club, Rasputin had managed to penetrate it in little under a year.

  IT WAS A CLEAR, COLD NIGHT WHEN MILITZA, STANA, PETER, and Nikolasha arrived at the Yacht Club; the frosts were early this year and everyone was feeling the chill. Wrapped up in their furs, with pretty plumes in their hair, both Militza and Stana were covered in an impressive collection of diamonds, rubies, and pearls. They were both wearing new dresses. Militza’s was of dark gray chiffon with a square neck and simple, tight sleeves to the elbow, and it was trimmed with crystals and fine Chantilly lace. Stana wore a pale green chiffon dress with a low neck, large sleeves that puffed to the elbow, and a thick lace sash. Unlike the gentlemen’s clubs of London, where ladies were not permitted, the Yacht Club was a place to be seen, where dresses were scrutinized and fashion statements made. One didn’t simply turn up at the Yacht Club; one dressed for it.

  Despite its high baroque ceilings with turquoise-and-white moldings and stunning crystal chandeliers, the dining room still managed to feel intimate. There were heavy gilt-framed paintings on the walls, small piles of leather-bound books lined the alcoves, and round linen-covered tables were surrounded by comfortable, padded chairs. It felt more like a private salon than a restaurant.

  It was just after ten when the party arrived, and although it was early, the club was already full. Peter and Nikolasha immediately went to have a glass of champagne at the table while the sisters deposited their furs. As they came into the dining room, they stood for a second behind a silk screen, surveying the tables, waiting to be seated.

  “The full expression of his personality is expressed in his eyes,” came a distinctly French-sounding voice from behind the screen that shielded one table from the entrance. “They are pale blue, of exceptional brilliance, depth, and attraction.” Militza glanced across at her sister to see if she was listening. She most certainly was. “His gaze is at once piercing and caressing, naive and cunning, far off and intent.” The man paused. Perhaps to drink from his glass of wine or make sure he had the full attention of those he was addressing? “When he is in earnest conversation, his pupils seem to radiate magnetism. He carries with him a strong animal smell, like the smell of a goat.”

  “Goat!” said a female voice. “How terribly apt, bearing in mind his—”

  “What a good evening!” pronounced Militza poking her head around the screen. “Zinaida! I’d recognize that voice anywhere!”

  The startled Princess Yusupova blinked repeatedly in embarrassment, her large black pearl earrings swinging with the shock. She even had the good grace to blush.

  “My dear!” she said, nervously fiddling with her long black pearl necklace. “What a surprise! What a pleasant surprise.” She gathered her wits. “How are you?”

  “Quite well.” Militza smiled and nodded, looking swiftly around the table to see with whom Zinaida was dining.

  Sitting to her right was Sandro, Grand Duke Alexander, wi
th his thin hair and thick beard, and opposite was his pretty blue-eyed wife, Xenia, the tsar’s sister. She appeared frozen; her slim hand was holding a wineglass in the air, her lips fractionally apart, as she stared at Militza. Next to her was Count Yusupov, his stomach straining at his waistcoat, his thick mustache sweeping across his face. To her left was the man who’d been talking, bald, with a round head, a short white mustache, and a monocle. Militza had not seen him before.

  “Anastasia Nikolayevna!” declared Zinaida on seeing her also appear from behind the screen. “You as well!”

  “Good evening, everyone,” Stana said, smiling.

  “Anastasia Nikolayevna.” Xenia nodded, seemingly now more capable of putting down her glass of wine. “We are endlessly bumping into your husband in Biarritz.”

  “I hear it is quite the place these days,” added Zinaida.

  “Quite the place,” Xenia agreed. “The Hôtel du Palais, the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, and the Continental are packed. The Oldenburgs, the Orlovs—everyone’s there. Mama came this summer on her train and had a fabulous time. Parties, the casinos . . . Honestly, Ambassador”—she leaned over and touched the bald man’s knee—“it is one of the most wonderful cities in your country.”

  The bald man nodded his head. “It is very beautiful and the climate is very forgiving.”

  “And of course everyone speaks French, so there’s no language barrier at all! We are so very happy at our little Villa Espoir.”

  “Do you know the French ambassador, His Excellency Maurice Paléologue?” asked Zinaida.

  “Not yet,” replied Militza.

  “Your Excellency, this is Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna.”

  “And this is my sister Anastasia.”

  “I have heard a lot about you,” he said, nodding. “Mainly through Rasputin—Brother Grisha—whom you know.”

  “Know?” said Xenia. “Militza and Stana are Rasputin’s closest friends! He goes everywhere with them. It is only through them that any of us have heard of him. It was they who introduced him to my brother! In fact, I am surprised the muzhik is not here tonight!” she added, drinking a large sip of her wine.

  “He is a little late.” Stana smiled.

  “He’s dining at the Yacht Club?”

  Count Yusupov’s face said it all. He was shocked and appalled; he was not a man adept at hiding his feelings.

  Militza smiled and offered her hand as Rasputin walked out from behind the screen. Dressed in his traditional red silk peasant trousers and silk shirt, he appeared more kempt than usual; clearly the grandeur of the club had affected even him.

  “Ladies,” he said and smiled wolfishly. He went around the table and kissed each of the women in turn, either on the cheek or deliberately clipping their lips with his soft mouth. Each stiffened and blushed in turn, furious at such an invasion but too polite to do anything about it. “I trust you are having a pleasant evening?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Zinaida said slowly, her back rigid, her lips pursed, her cheek still damp from his kiss.

  “How are you, Brother Grisha?” The French ambassador leapt out of his seat and attempted to embrace Rasputin across the end of the table. Rasputin remained impassive. “Maurice Paléologue,” he said quickly, his lips pouting slightly under his short mustache.

  “Monsieur l’Ambassadeur de France,” added Xenia.

  “Ah, Maurice,” said Rasputin, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t see you there. I was distracted by the ladies, and my eye must have missed you amid all that treasure.”

  Maurice chortled with relief. He had spent the last fifteen minutes regaling the present company with stories of his close personal friendship with Rasputin, and to have it denied in front of this illustrious crowd would have been a situation too mortifying for even such an oleaginous old diplomat.

  “Well, I must add you look quite unrecognizable yourself,” he said ebulliently. “With your smart clothes! Your blue silk shirt!”

  “How is your friend with syphilis?” asked Rasputin, his cold eyes locking on to the ambassador.

  “Oh!” Maurice did not know whether to deny all knowledge of such a friend or whether the present company might wrongly assume that it was he. “H-he is well, much better,” he stammered. “Ever since your visit.”

  “He paid me in French wines. I found them a little weak.”

  “Shall we?” asked Militza, taking Rasputin by the arm. “Peter and Nikolasha are waiting.”

  “Nikolasha?” asked Xenia, her eyes flickering from her husband to Zinaida and then up at Anastasia. “I did not notice him. I thought he was on his estate, looking after those dogs of his.”

  “No,” said Zinaida, with a small, tight smile. “He seems to be spending more and more time in St. Petersburg. He can’t seem to stay away.”

  “And we are fortunate that he is able to join us this evening,” declared Militza.

  “Is it not every evening?” asked Count Yusupov.

  It was true. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep Stana and Nikolasha’s relationship a secret. However, with the tsarina so occupied at Tsarskoye Selo, discretion seemed pointless. And as Stana pointed out in her defense, George’s lifelong interest in Biarritz was known even to the pot washers in the restaurants on Nevsky Prospekt. So as Militza and her sister escorted Rasputin through the room towards the table where Peter and Nikolasha were sitting, she could feel the heat of their stares and sense their tongues were desperate to clack. It must have taken immense willpower, she concluded as she sat down and glanced back at the table, for them not to start yapping immediately.

  “You took a while!” said Peter, standing up as soon as his wife arrived at the table, kissing her gently on the cheek. “We are already on our second glass of champagne!”

  “My darling,” replied Militza, stroking her husband on the shoulder, “we were sidetracked by the Yusupovs and Xenia, Sandro, and the French ambassador.”

  “Yes,” added Stana. “They are all having dinner over there.”

  Nikolasha turned and nodded across the room with a wide smile. “I am not a fan of Maurice. He has the appearance of a busy little man.”

  “He’s a gossip,” declared Rasputin, sitting down. “Not to be trusted. But then again, he is French.” He picked up his glass and helped himself to a large glass of champagne. He knocked it back and winced. “Like this,” he coughed. “I can’t stand the stuff.”

  THE FOOD WAS DELICIOUS. PIKE QUENELLES AND CRAYFISH sauce were followed by sturgeon with peaches and a delightfully light tarte tatin. There were pickles and caviar and shots of vodka as well as glass after glass of fine wines from Burgundy. By the time the slices of pineapple, walnuts in honey, and small glasses of brandy were sipped and sampled, the conversation was indiscreet and unguarded.

  “Little Mother and Little Father must leave their palace,” opined Rasputin, slouching in his chair and picking a large walnut out from between his teeth. “The people never so much as glimpse them these days. Little children need to see their parents, and they haven’t left the palace in months.”

  “You can hardly blame them,” said Peter, taking a large sip of his brandy. “Sergei murdered outside the Kremlin and Ella so shocked she has taken holy orders—Nicky feels under threat.”

  “Also, never forget, he saw his grandfather assassinated in front of him as a child,” added Militza. “For him, death’s cold breath is never far away.”

  “Death stalks us all,” whispered Rasputin, taking hold of Militza’s hand under the table and slowly stroking the soft white skin on the inside of Militza’s wrist. “It waits in the wings, sharpening its scythe.”

  Militza vividly remembered his touch, the roughness of his skin against the smoothness of her own, the quiver of excitement that shot through her body, right to the pit of her stomach. She knew she should pull her hand away, but she couldn’t. It felt too delightful, too sensual; combined with the wine and the brandy, it was hypnotic. There was something about him that made her feel careless,
reckless. She shifted a little in her seat.

  “He is right,” replied Nikolasha. “Our cousin should be more dynamic. He signed the manifesto, and now he should get out amongst his people and gather their support. Indecision will be the death of him.”

  “The atrophy of power!” declared Peter, with a shrug. “What is to be done?” He sat back in his chair and sighed. “I must say the food here has much improved.”

  “They have brought in a little man from France,” said Stana.

  “And while you sup on your caviar and your sturgeon, the people in the streets are starving,” replied Rasputin, moving his index finger a little farther up Militza’s arm.

  “I note where you are eating tonight!” said Peter. “You are such a contradiction!”

  “Contradictions! What of them? For you, they are contradictions, but I am Grigory Rasputin and that’s what matters. Look at me!” He threw his hands in the air. “See what I have become.”

  It was true; soigné and clad in silk, he certainly looked different from the wild man of the steppes they had first encountered less than a year ago, although his manners and manner had changed little.

  “Brother Grisha!” came an enthusiastic voice.

  Rasputin turned. Militza placed her hands back in her lap.

  “Frenchman,” he said.

  “Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” corrected a rather attractive young woman standing behind.

  “Madame?” Rasputin nodded.

  “May I present a close friend of mine,” said Maurice. “Madame Ekaterina Ostrogorsky.”

  Rasputin bowed his head, still staring at the girl. “Are you married?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she giggled; her pretty cheeks shone in the candlelight.

  “Do you have children?” he continued.

  “Only one,” she replied.

  “Why so few?”

  “I have not been married long.”

  “How long?”

  She giggled again. “Three years.”

  “More than enough time to breed,” he said, taking up his glass and swigging his brandy. “Do you believe in God?”