The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  IN THE END IT WAS EASY TO DENOUNCE RASPUTIN AS A MEMBER of the Khlysty. If he was going to offer himself so freely around town, with his favors and his healings, and not acknowledge her as his mistress, if her charge would not behave, then she would see him hounded out of the city herself.

  It was not difficult to convince the police that Rasputin was some sort of permanently priapic holy satyr. His behavior in the city was enough. Plus, there were the rumors beginning to surface out of Siberia, where as many as eight women were cited as living in his house in Pokrovskoye. The house that she, Militza, had paid for! She had also donated five thousand rubles to build a new church in his village. Where had that money gone? Blackmail? Prostitution? Corruption? There was talk of meetings below his floorboards, of secret dancing and whipping. Plenty of whipping. There were also several young girls who came forward and spoke of being stroked and caressed, so the Tobolsk Ecclesiastical Consistory was alerted and an investigation was launched.

  All Militza had to do was to put her considerable weight, rank, connections, and credibility behind these allegations, sitting there dressed in black, a heavy veil over her face, as she convinced them the dreadful sectarian should be banished back to Siberia with his substantial tail between his legs.

  Did she feel guilty while she was whispering, playing with her handkerchief, sharing her accusations? Not in the slightest. He’d betrayed her confidence and been totally duplicitous. Even Stana was inclined to agree that Rasputin had overstepped the mark. Not that she was prepared to put her name to anything. The man had been so instrumental to her current happiness she could not turn against him. And besides, she was still such a firm follower of Philippe (who’d foretold of Grisha) and a colleague of his, the eminent Papus, who had come to visit over the summer and shared his knowledge and his Martinist beliefs, that she found it hard to speak ill of Rasputin. In fact, truth be told, she was a little scared. She’d seen him read minds, look into souls. What if he could read hers? See into hers? What if he knew she’d betrayed him? What then? She knew how powerful he was. She’d been there, at the beginning, knew how powerful the magic had been to create him. So she was glad when he disappeared, glad he’d been warned about the investigation, glad he’d decided to go back to Siberia, to lie low, hoping the thing would blow over.

  Life was a little more relaxing and predictable when he was not around.

  However, the void Rasputin left behind at Tsarskoye Selo took both Stana and Militza by surprise. They’d presumed, in his absence, it would be like old times, that they could pick up where they’d left off, spend their afternoons together talking, reading books to one another, playing the piano, bezique, sharing their thoughts. But every time either of them went to take tea with Alix, inevitably with the rotund Anna, and occasionally with the grand duchesses and the little Alexei, it seemed as if the whole palace was in mourning. They were dull, listless, depressed, devoid of conversation; they had no news to tell. But then, none of them ventured beyond the park these days. The tsarina had not been into St. Petersburg itself now for over a year.

  “Mama is so quiet these days,” Olga confided in Militza one afternoon. “She stays in her room eating biscuits in bed and rarely comes out. She dresses to see Papa in the evening, but hardly sees the rest of us at all. She will sometimes come and take the air with us. She might watch Alexei on his toy horse. But Anna is her only comfort.”

  WITH RASPUTIN GONE, THE TSAREVICH’S BODYGUARD, ANDREI Derevenko, barely let the heir’s feet touch the ground. He was carried everywhere, at the tsarina’s insistence, although he was now three years old and perfectly capable of walking without endangering himself. But Alix was terrified should anything happen to him. The result was that the boy was becoming increasingly spoiled. He’d cry if things didn’t go his way and refused to do as he was told. His sisters (“OTMA”—as Alix referred to them as a group, using their initials) had been brought up to share bedrooms, sleep on camp beds with no pillows, make their own beds, take cold showers every day, and had received few presents save for a diamond and a pearl for every birthday. However, Alexei’s room was infinitely more luxurious, lined with icons and full of toys, including a giant train set that he’d play with for hours, his Cossack guard always at his side.

  But Militza persisted in her visits, despite their dullness—she had her father’s interests to think of; he had ideas to expand his circle of influence in the Balkans, and Nicky owed him and Montenegro a sense of loyalty. Needless to say, her father also wanted money. He always wanted money. The perper, his new currency, was not doing so well, and he’d had to relinquish some power, like most leaders at the time, to his increasingly demanding populace. But he had his eye on the future and his jubilee celebrations next year, which he’d certainly need some assistance in financing.

  Stana also was very much at her side. Returning from her honeymoon, she’d seen enough of the reaction to her wedding to know that good relations with Nicky and Alix would be her lifeline back into society. While Militza’s diary was full to capacity for the social season—some twenty-two balls in almost as many days—hers was more sparsely filled, and this worried her. She was married to one of the most powerful men in Russia; she should be right at the top of everyone’s list.

  “Isn’t there something you can do?” asked Stana one cold February afternoon as she and Militza traveled in the carriage together for tea with the tsarina. Though swathed in fur and blankets, both were still shivering.

  “I think in time it will be fine,” replied Militza. “They don’t like change, it’s that simple.”

  “The truth is it was much easier to invite me when I was on my own. They could patronize me, feel sorry for me. I made everyone feel happier about their own lives. ‘At least I am not Stana,’ they could say. ‘At least my husband isn’t openly fucking whores in Biarritz.’” She sighed.

  “One whore.”

  “One whore,” agreed Stana. “Which is worse.”

  “That’s true,” said Militza, staring out of the window at the flat gray light and the thin, cold layer of snow that barely covered the ground. “Mostly I am sure they do it just to keep warm!”

  Stana laughed. “Do you know, I barely think about him now? Nearly twenty years of marriage and I can’t think of a single thing I miss. I pity that poor whore, actually. He was a terrible lover and, worse, a boring conversationalist. She’s welcome to his soft cock and dreary anecdotes! And don’t tell anyone I said that!”

  “Of course not!” Militza smiled, patting her sister on the knee.

  “They can all go to hell. I don’t care about the court and their opinion of me!”

  “You sound like the tsarina.”

  “For her it’s different. The more she stays away, the more stories they tell to fill the vacuum.”

  “Rumors are more dangerous than the truth.” Militza nodded. “You and I know that.”

  “I hear terrible things. That the tsarevich suffers convulsions, that he has tuberculosis . . .”

  “He was born missing a layer of skin . . . I know,” agreed Militza. “But also, the more isolated she is, the more difficult it is for her to talk when she does come to something. She doesn’t know half the people’s names anymore, she doesn’t know any of the stories, she can’t ask them about their children as she hasn’t ever met them—and those girls,” she added, shaking her head. “They know nothing, they have seen nothing. She’s isolated them too, and they don’t know what to make of the world. At least before, they used to be able to look out of train windows when they traveled to the Crimea—now, since that incident with the madman who tried to blow himself up on the train, they travel in secret and put curtains on the train so they can’t even see out anymore. I can’t help but think that’s bad,” she said. “In England they keep their royal family visible, they meet their subjects, but ours? They hide away. No one knows what they look like. I see things. Terrible visions, visions about the future that are so frightening . . .”

  “Like what?�
��

  “You don’t want to know,” whispered Militza; she rested her forehead against the cold windowpane, her breath fogged against the glass. “Not even the devil himself could conceive of such misery.” She looked back at her sister. “Even he might have to turn his face away in shame.”

  As they drove through the frosted park towards the palace, they saw Nicky out walking with his dogs. Eleven long-haired border collies ran in circles around him, wagging their tails and barking. He was shouting at them, white clouds of his breath hanging in the air. His arms gesticulated, telling them to heel or pointing out terrified squirrels for them to chase. He looked around as he heard the car and waved happily as it passed.

  “I often think Nicky would have found more joy in his life if he weren’t on the throne,” mused Militza as she watched him striding through the long grass in the fading afternoon light.

  “The mantle of government weighs heavy on those narrow shoulders,” agreed Stana, also looking out of the window towards the frozen ornamental lake and the upturned boats on the grass.

  ARRIVING AT THE PALACE, THEY WERE ESCORTED TO THE Mauve Boudoir, where they found Jim Hercules standing guard outside the door. Dressed in his scarlet-and-black uniform, with golden tassels and golden epaulets, a red turban on his head, he was the only black American servant to work in the palace. As tall as the Abyssinian doormen, the erstwhile boxer hailed from the South of the United States and famously brought pots of delicious guava jelly back for the children whenever he went home on leave. His job, like his fellows’, was simply to open the door, but his appearance in the room would indicate either that the tsar or tsarina or both were about to arrive or, more usefully, given the dreariness of many a garrulous official, that they were about to leave. The children adored him, as did the tsar and indeed anyone else who regularly frequented the palace. Normally, he would stand immobile as a statue, but he was permitted to respond if spoken to.

  “Good afternoon, Jim.” Militza smiled, speaking in English. “Is Her Imperial Majesty in her boudoir?”

  “She is indeed, Your Imperial Highness.” He bowed and Militza smiled; she found the way he spoke enchanting.

  “Going home soon?” asked Stana.

  “Not for a while yet, Your Imperial Highness,” he replied, moving to open the door.

  “When you do, please bring back some preserves,” implored Stana.

  “Sure thing, Your Imperial Highness,” he said, opening the door.

  The sisters entered the boudoir to find Anna sitting in one of the pale purple upright chairs, a cup of tea in one hand, an egg sandwich in the other, while Alix lay prone on a divan, dressed in a pale high-necked day dress, her legs covered in a fine cream-colored blanket, her head propped up with the lace pillows.

  “Ah!” She managed a little wave in the direction of an attentive footman. “More tea.”

  “How are you?” began Militza, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “Is it your heart? Or your back?”

  “Have you heard from him?” asked Alix, grabbing hold of Militza’s hands. “Our Friend?” She shifted around in her divan. “When’s Our Friend coming back? Anna had a letter last week.”

  “I did,” the lady-in-waiting said, nodding, taking the corner off her sandwich.

  “He talks of building his church and of praying with his family,” said Alix. “He says he’s busy, says he’s neglected his duties. But he doesn’t say when he is coming back.”

  “I think it may be better for him to stay away at the moment,” suggested Militza.

  “Better for whom?” Alix sounded a little agitated.

  “Him,” added Stana. “He needs to be with his family. He has not seen them in a while. His wife, Praskovya; his three children.”

  “But we’re his family,” Alix replied.

  “I am sure he feels that,” agreed Militza, patting the back of the tsarina’s hand, “but I think he’s missing them.”

  “Let’s bring them all to St. Petersburg!”

  “I’m sure he’d love that,” replied Stana, smiling as she glanced out of the window.

  Something had caught her eye, and she laughed and gestured for Militza to turn around. Through the large, almost floor-length window, the girls were playing on the terrace, sliding sideways, skidding on the thin ice over the frosted paving stones, their arms extended, pulling faces through the window. First Olga, then Maria, followed by Anastasia and Tatiana—each more ridiculous and hilarious. Maria’s was perhaps the most amusing, with her tongue out and her eyes crossed; she was by far the naughtiest of the girls. Their laughter was contagious. By the time they slid past for the second time, their gloved hands in the air, their faces contorted, everyone in the room was giggling. Then suddenly little Alexei joined in. Arms open wide, he slid past the glass pane, grinning like a fool.

  “He shouldn’t be doing that!” Alix said, yet laughed despite herself. “But look at him. He is so silly!”

  “Derevenko is outside,” said Anna.

  “There he goes again!” Alix smiled, pointing at her son. “So funny!”

  “I didn’t know he was such a comedian,” laughed Stana.

  “No,” agreed Militza.

  Then it was back to Olga, who was perhaps a little too old to be fooling around on the ice. And then suddenly it was Alexei again. He skidded, grinned, threw his arms in the air, and then slipped, crashing down on the terrace, landing on his forehead. Alix screamed and leapt off the divan, running towards the window.

  “Alexei!” she yelled, pounding on the glass with her fists. “Alexei! Alexei!”

  Militza ran after her, Stana right behind. They stared through the window as Derevenko ran towards the boy and snatched him off the ground. Immediately, blood poured out of the gash on his head.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Alix was hysterical, banging harder and harder on the window. “Alexei! Alexei!” she shouted. The boy turned to look at his mother, too shocked to cry, too bewildered to do anything as the blood poured down his face. “Do something!” implored Alix, turning to look at Militza. “Do something! He’s going to die!”

  For the next ten minutes there was total chaos as servants ran, Alix wailed, and Jim Hercules rushed outside, bringing the girls in. By the time Derevenko carried the boy into the Mauve Boudoir, Alexei’s face was so swollen and covered in blood that he was no longer able to open his eyes.

  “My darling, my darling,” wept Alix, placing her son on her divan. “What have you done to yourself?” Covering him in her blanket, she immediately set about trying to stem the dreadful flow of blood with her handkerchief. “Get me warm water,” she shouted. “Towels!”

  By now the room was full of people, running to and fro, trying to help.

  “The blood!” exclaimed Anna. “I have never seen so much blood!” Her round face blanched as she collapsed into a chair.

  Stana glanced over at Militza. The blood would not stop. The boy was now screaming in agony. They had to do something.

  “Is he all right, Mama?” asked Olga tentatively, her hands twisted with concern.

  “Of course he’s not—and I blame you all. You know he is not allowed to play around outside! He is to be carried at all times!”

  Olga withdrew, as did the other girls; this was clearly not the first time they’d been blamed.

  “Has Botkin been called?” Alix asked, looking around the room with her haunted, pale eyes.

  “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” confirmed a footman.

  “Where is Our Friend?” She started to sob. “Where is he!” The tears poured down her cheeks as she started to rock back and forth on the edge of the divan, hugging herself.

  “Hush, Mama,” Alexei whispered through his dry, swollen, bloodied lips.

  “You hush, you hush,” she said, sniffing, gently patting his arm. “It’ll be all right, you’ll be all right.” She dabbed tentatively at the blood that continued to seep from the cut on his face. “You’re strong and God will look after you.”

  Militza
indicated to Stana that she should follow her out of the room.

  “What are we going to do?” Militza hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. “He looks terrible. And the blood is unceasing.”

  “I know.” Stana’s eyes were wide. It was the first time either of them had witnessed “an incident” at close quarters.

  “It’s my fault,” whispered Militza, her hand shaking a little.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I sent him away.”

  “You didn’t!” Stana took hold of her sister by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You reported your well-founded concerns to the authorities and they are investigating him. You have not sent him away. He has chosen to leave town while the authorities look into his actions. That is all. You did not do anything or say anything. You have not sent anyone anywhere, he went of his own accord.”

  “As I knew he would!”

  “No one knows it was you who reported him, and no one ever will.”

  “But what if they look at the records?”

  “There will be no records, Nikolasha will see to that.” She nodded firmly at her sister. “Do you understand? There will be no record that you were involved at all. And the tsarina knows nothing. She doesn’t know why he left. She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  Dr. Eugene Botkin rushed past the sisters, clutching his leather bag. “Is it bad?” he asked, a look of deep concern on his kind face.

  “Not good,” replied Stana.

  “Poor soul,” said the doctor, pausing to gather himself a little before the footman opened the door. He smoothed down his thinning hair and took a breath, crossed himself, and placed a smile on his face. “Hello,” he said, taking a step forward. “Now what have we here . . . ?”

  “A spell?” suggested Stana. “We could call on the Virgin to sew up the wound?”

  “I haven’t used that spell in a long while,” replied Militza, shaking her head, her shoulders slumping.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I feel responsible.” The color drained from Militza’s already pale cheeks.