The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “We do?” asked Militza.

  “His name is not allowed to be mentioned in our house—come to that, neither is yours,” he laughed. “But I have a friend, Munia Golovina, who is an ardent follower. Ardent,” he repeated. “And so is her mother. My friend Munia even collects his hair to bring her good fortune. She has a stunning little box of his strands that she swears can cure most things.” He paused and leaned in, putting his hand up so he could whisper behind it. “I know a little of what you can do! I myself have seen a clairvoyant in Paris, Madame Freya. Do you know her? You probably do. She’s very good. She told me many things! Some are hard to believe—but fascinating. I have also visited the Isis-Urania Temple in St. James’s Street, London, and I have even been to Blythe Road.”

  “Blythe Road?” asked Stana.

  “The battle of Blythe Road, Madame,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Where Mr. Crowley, dressed in the black mask of Osiris, god of the dead and the underworld, attacked Mr. W. B. Yeats and shouted spells and wished the man burn in hell!” The prince laughed. “It was a fantastic place!” Militza stared at him. The young man was clearly a flamboyant, spoiled sort who knew little of what he was talking about. “I have premonitions, you know,” he continued, smoothing down the front of his shirt. “I see things. Everyone says I am gifted, that I am special. The other day”—he lowered his voice—“when in Oxford, I was having dinner with a friend of my parents and a great dark cloud descended. No one else could see it but me. But I knew, right then and there, it was a bad omen. Terribly bad. And do you know what?” He paused, his bright eyes dancing from one sister to the other. “The man died. He died! The very next day. Well, almost. And I knew he would! I knew it. Amazing, don’t you think? I saw that!”

  “Yes,” said Militza. “What did he die of?”

  “Who? The man? I don’t know. Opium, I think. But I knew you’d be fascinated.” He threw his head back and ran his hand through his blond hair. “Anyway, Munia keeps insisting that I meet Rasputin. She thinks we might have a lot in common. Apart from our backgrounds, of course.”

  “No one has your background,” agreed Stana.

  “No.” He smiled. “Totally unique, isn’t it? There’s no one in Russia who can claim to be related to the Prophet Muhammad and the kings of Egypt.”

  And with that he walked back into the party.

  “That boy is trouble,” said Militza as she watched him go.

  “He’s just vain,” said Stana.

  “He’s powerful, rich, and vain,” corrected Militza. “Which is much more dangerous.”

  BACK IN ST. PETERSBURG, EMBOLDENED BY THE CASE AGAINST him being dropped, Rasputin enjoyed an ever-widening circle of influence.

  In little over a year he went from a name mumbled quietly in the hushed corners of the court to a feature at all sorts of parties and soirées and eventually in articles in newspapers such as the Moscow Gazette. There were pages and pages devoted to his flagrant boasting of his access to the tsar and tsarina, and the fact that he went back and forth to the palace, up and down the back stairs, in and out of the young grand duchesses’ bedrooms did not sound good.

  The truth of the matter was that most of his boasts were true. He was visiting the palace at all hours of the day or night, without an invitation, whenever he was so inclined, quite often sitting up, alone, late into the night with Alix. He did go and see the grand duchesses at bedtime and would spend hours, unsupervised, in their bedrooms. And he endlessly talked about it and them and waved about the letters they’d written to him. Just a bottle or two of Madeira was enough to loosen his already garrulous tongue.

  Even his flat, once frequented only by an inner circle of ardent egg-eaters, was now a gathering point for up to two hundred Rasputinki a day who would collect and sell everything the man touched or blessed. They’d sew his toenails into their dresses for protection from evil, believing also that human fingernails—especially his—would be useful to claw their way out of the grave. The divan in the back room was subjected to so many “healings” that, apparently, the arms eventually gave way.

  “Your Friend is certainly making a lot of noise,” said Badmaev one afternoon as he arrived at Znamenka, carrying his soft leather case of supplies.

  “I thought he was your Friend too?” replied Militza as she counted the number of phials he was placing on the marble-topped table.

  “No.” The Tibetan shook his head. “He drinks too much and screws too much for my liking, and he can’t control his lusts—he’s a liar and a satyr. The reason for that recent trip to the Holy Land?” He sniffed. “Fucking a Finnish ballet dancer, Lisa Tansin.”

  “I heard.”

  “There are photographs, plenty of them. Him, naked with her and a harem of prostitutes.”

  “Mercifully, I have been spared those.”

  “And do you know what the empress does while he is away? Mourns his absence and writes down her thoughts in the notebook he gave her . . . Nineteen? . . . Twenty?”

  “Twenty-five, don’t you think?”

  “If you’re sure?” he asked, taking another five bottles of elixir out of his bag.

  “I find it helpful.”

  “So is the opium,” he replied. “And the veronal. Barbiturates are helpful in inducing sleep, but . . .”

  “I’d prefer not to sleep,” she said. “Sleep is for the weak.” She smiled, taking a small bottle and pouring its contents slowly across her tongue. She closed her eyes and felt its bitterness trickle down her throat. “I have become accustomed to its taste these days.”

  “Do you see much of him, then? Rasputin?” asked Badmaev, packing up his things. “He now only contacts me when the child is ill—has a headache, has fallen over, that sort of thing—and he’s after medicine. I have to say I give it grudgingly. If it weren’t for Alexei, I would not do it . . .”

  “I see him often.” Militza swallowed hard and inhaled deeply, riding the sudden wave of adrenaline that hit her.

  “That is good,” he said. “I’m very glad. You need to be there. Because I heard the other day that he who controls the mystic controls the tsar—and therefore Russia.”

  “I control the mystic, I assure you.” She smiled. “I introduced him to the tsar.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I made him,” she said, laughing suddenly. Badmaev looked at her strangely. What was she saying? “I manifested him,” she continued. “I summoned him. Don’t you worry, I’ll look after him. The mystic is mine.”

  Chapter 30

  December 31, 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 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 cups of tea, making polite conversation, inquiring 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 his name down on their dance cards. 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 coul
d 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 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 as 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 stauncher 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 come to this. Surely her close relationship with the tsarina—the favors, 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 had 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 Nadezhda, their youngest, being only twelve, was forced to stay at home.)

  The party was in full swing, romances were beginning to unfurl between the younger members of the soirée, and everyone was looking forward to the end of what they frankly acknowledged 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’s 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 handsome young 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 the 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 within five minutes of her arrival, 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 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 loos
en his wife’s grip and move 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 Orthodox Christmas?” She smiled, but the tsarina appeared to look through her. Militza felt color 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 jewelry, 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.