There was a set of back wall glass enclosed weapons from friends and admirers in the military, courtiers, and his hunting companions. He had a dozen swords of honor accepted from defeated enemies and as awards for personal valor: an Italian hunting sword, Karabela, Szabla, and Shashka cavalry swords, a spadroon (épée anglaise–English sword), and eight ceremonial swords awarded from his far-flung commands and as gifts from foreign dignitaries with whom the grand duke had served.
The furniture in the Grand Duke’s office was awe inspiring, as it was intended to be: matching Italian neoclassical console tables, four Bergère à oreilles chairs in flamed birch with mounts of gilded bronze padded with green silk embossed with Russian Military Army Imperial Eagle Crest emblems. The chairs faced a huge rectangular desk of doré bronze and malachite green top. The Grand Duke’s gilded and blood red velvet throne chair bearing the coat of arms of Imperial Tsarist Russia faced the four chairs. On opposing walls sat two matching Louis XV style settees. In the center of the room was a glass enclosed uniform and helmet of the imperial prince.
Prince Nikolai Borisovich stood stiffly looking at the swords, pistols, and rifles in the grand duke’s collection as he waited for the royal prince to grace the room. The sheer power of the room awed him, and he was annoyed at himself for having succumbed to the blatant demonstration of imperial power.
“Ah, Niki, how good it is to see you, my friend,” the booming voice of Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich Romanov exploded in Nikolai’s ear causing him to jump.
“Sorry to startle you. Do you like my collection?”
“It is nothing short of marvelous. You have had an illustrious career, my Prince. How proud your family must be.”
“I would hope so. Family is everything, don’t you agree?”
“Completely. In fact, that is why I came to see you.”
“Is this about my fine godson, Niki? I hope there is no problem. He hasn’t had an accident training with his wild Cossacks, has he?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He is advancing very well and seems to be completely tireless. With due humility, I can say that he is able to keep up with his Cossacks very well.”
“A drink, Niki, before business?”
“An honor, Grand Duke.”
The grand duke stepped back and pulled on the heavy tassel of a silken cord. Immediately, a lieutenant of the guard appeared, clicked the heels of his mirror shined boots, and bowed.
“Dimitri, would you fetch us some cognac, please. Pour one for yourself.”
The lieutenant made a sharp about-face and exited the room for three minutes. He reentered carrying a silver tray bearing the imperial coat of arms imprinted on its surface with three half-filled Russian cut crystal cognac snifters. Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich shifted the Bergère à oreilles chairs; so, the three men could face each other.
“Please be seated, gentlemen,” he directed. “Nikolai Borisovich, would you sit next to me. My hearing is not what it once was—all that artillery for all of those years, you know. Dimitri Sergeiovich, please sit across from us. Your young ears won’t miss a thing.”
“I asked Dimitri to join us. He is in his first cadet year; if he performs satisfactorily; and I am sure he will, I will make a place in next year’s entering class of cadets at the Nikolai I General Staff Academy. He is a bright young man and can fill in any blanks I may leave out. Dimitri is the grandson of the leader of the Moscow Black Hundreds who have given such staunch loyalty and service to the tsarist government for all these decades—even centuries. For all of that fine family status, Dimitri has proved himself to be a fine scholar, horseman, artist, and military historian. He has lived up to his promise during his first year here.”
Prince Nikolai smiled and gave Dimitri a quick friendly salute.
“The Grand Duke is too kind,” Dimitri demurred and lowered his head for a moment.
The three men slowly sipped the fiery deep amber fifty-year-old Hennessy cognac and spent half an hour talking about world travel, the empire’s difficulties in securing the sea ports that the tzar and his court demanded, hunting, and court gossip, about which Dimitri was a veritable fount of knowledge.
After the appropriate period of small talk was completed, the grand duke gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Dimitri stood and announced that his presence was required on the parade ground. Paul Alexandrovich smiled, shook his hand; and they exchanged formal salutes.
“Now, to business, my friend,” Paul Alexandrovich said, and leaned forward to engage Nikolai Borisovich.
Prince Nikolai took in a deep breath.
“My Prince, I have come to speak to you about your promise to your godson, Prince Boris Nikolaiovich. Do you recall that day?”
“Indeed, I do. How old is the boy now?”
“Sixteen.”
“A bit young to be making application to the academy, wouldn’t you think, Niki?”
“Ordinarily I would presume so, but I have really come to you to ask what he can do to advance himself? Without boasting, I can assure you that he is quite a remarkable young man.”
“Well asked, Niki; and I will answer you in the same vein. I presume he has become a master horseman?”
“He certainly has, and he has mastered the field maneuvers and tactics of the Cossacks. You would be proud of your godson, Sir.”
“I am sure I would. Has he had a command?”
“Not officially. I have given over command of the serfs and Cossacks in our employ. He has outfitted them into a well-functioning and handsome cavalry force. They worship him, and they will follow him to their deaths if ordered.”
“As it should be. Has he seen battle, my friend. You know that every applicant to the academy must have acquitted himself in battle, especially with a position as an imperial army officer.”
“I do know that, and since he is only sixteen, and the empire has been a bit short on wars during his brief life, my son has not had the opportunity. I came hoping that you might be able to find him just the right position.”
“We always have a war someplace,” the grand duke laughed. “I’m sure those heathens–the Ottomans–will stir up their poverty-stricken minions to some violence somewhere in the near future, and it will be just the assignment for my fine godson to cut his teeth on. You know, Niki, and your beautiful wife, Countess Tatiana Alexandrovna de Ribeaupierre, must also realize, there is real risk in such adventures. I cannot make guarantees, although, I obviously can exert some influence to keep him out of the worst trouble.”
“That is a wonderful offer, my Prince; but Boris will balk at that. He will insist on being in the thick of it all and on making a genuine contribution. He will earn his rank, and he will earn any medals that come his way. He is a soldier’s soldier, and he has not even reached his majority yet.”
“All right my friend, here is what I will do. Bring him to the academy in a week, and I will get him trained enough in imperial lore and tactics to be able to hold his own. As soon as the Ottomans prove true to form, I will get him a commission as a stabbs captain and will sic him on those dogs. If he performs satisfactorily–and I am sure he will–I can make a place in next year’s entering class of cadets at the Nikolai I General Staff Academy. Keep him out of trouble until then, Niki.”
“You have my word. Thank you very much, my liege.”
Nikolai smarted from the Grand Duke’s demeaning off-hand comment that he would make Boris a mere Staff Captain and that the scion of the Yusupov family would have to earn his way up the ladder to become a Full Captain, then finally to become a Captain of the General Staff—a rank available only to members of guard regiment.
“We’ll see about that,” Nikolai said to himself as he left the Grand Duke’s office. “Being a Yusupov has its benefits and skipping ranks to Captain of the General Staff will be the least of those moves. I look forward to the day with relish when Prince Boris Yusupov receives his general officer’s stars. I have the tzar’s ear, and a hold on his purse strings. We’ll see what that
kind of leverage I have to use when I need it. Staff Captain, indeed!”
CHAPTER FOUR
DISCOVERY
“It is much better to do good in a way that no one knows anything about it.”
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
National Archives of Australia, Victorian Archives Centre, 99 Shiel Street, North Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, May 15, 2013
When they first arrived in Australia to start their remarkable mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a little over six weeks earlier, Elder LaRen and Sister Katherine Durrell were new missionaries—“newbies”—new to Australia—“pommies”—and new to Australian digital record gathering and filing—“sparkies”. Technically, a pom or pommie is an Australian transplant from England; but the locals were generous to lump Americans into the generic term for outsiders from the English-speaking world. A couple of times they had been called “freshies”, the implication being that they were newbies to Australia; but did not stick because the real meaning of “freshie” or “saltie” is fresh water or salt water crocodile, not an altogether complimentary appellation.
But–after six weeks–the Durrells were no longer newbies because four more new missionaries came to join the original six—two couples and two single senior sisters. They had earned respect by their diligence and proficiency enough to be recognized as Americans, in the better sense of the word; so, they were no longer pommies, and the term “sparkies” seemed too far out even for the slanguage-loving Aussies—which they call ‘strine’; and they dropped it. The Durrells and their fellow archives missionaries were now so competent that coping with the Commonwealth departmental records–those of the statuatory bodies, royal commissions and such varied areas as the recordings of naval vessels, lighthouses, migrations, defense, trade affairs, veterans’ affairs, and Aboriginal interactions with the latecomer English for more than a hundred years. The record finding, keeping, and digitalizing had become a matter of rote; and the missionaries had to hunt for small diversions to keep up their enthusiasm.
Elder Smith from Ogden, Utah was the mission humorist and source of most of the interesting–and sometimes only quasi-appropriate–diversions. He was a retired farmer; and he and his wife had twelve children, all of whom had left home making the Smiths empty nesters. He was easily bored; and on this particular Tuesday, the heat in the record room was somniferous, added to by the white noise humming of the digital cameras, photocopiers, scanners, and printers.
“Hi, everybody, I hate to disturb you or to distract from your fascinating work, but something important has come up from my research.”
“I hate to disturb you”…was always the entre for a bit of whimsicality on Elder Smith’s part, and all useful work halted for a few moments.
“Get a drink and be refreshed for the revelation I am about to share with you.”
Sodas and juices in hand, the missionaries all turned to look at Elder Smith.
“Marianne and me found a very interesting person in the ships’ ledgers this morning, and we followed her into customs and immigration files after lunch. Her name is—was—Alexandra Tarasova Yusupov—sounds Russian, we think. Seems from her immigration photo that she was a real beauty, even in those funny old outfits they used to wear. She apparently settled down in Melbourne—he used the American hard “r”, because he thought he would sound funny if he said, “Melbun” like the Aussies did—and looks like she might have made something outta herself. Marianne and me have some nice old photos and copies of records you’d outta see. I propose we take her on as a project, find everything we can, and get her into the church. From now on, she’s Sister Yusupov to me. Anyone else wanna help resurrect her?”
After looking at the sepia photos and documents weathered with age to a venerable yellow, everyone signed on. The mysterious Alexandra Tarasova Yusupov became the official distraction of the small klatch of missionaries, and they dabbled in research about her whenever they could find a spare moment. It was P-day [preparation day], always on Monday; and it was the only day mission rules allowed them to leave their duty posts and to do their washing, shopping, recreating, and communicating with family and friends. It was important to all the missionaries that they make the most of their precious time off. The close-knit group of senior missionaries made a pact that they would see some bit of Australia—Melbourne and Victoria, really—each P-day.
Today they voted to see their way around the city center. They had only a little more than half a day; so, they worked their careful plan. They took the free City Circle Tram—one mode of transportation which allowed them a few minutes for each of the main sights: The Princess Theater, the Grand Windsor Hotel, the “Paris” end of Collins Street, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and a naughty peek into Young and Jackson’s Pub to see its infamous painting of Chloe. To complete their adventurous afternoon, they took afternoon tea at the Grand Windsor Hotel and overindulged themselves from a table filled with chocolate delights including Chocolate Indulgence, Death by Chocolate Cake, and Chocolate Mousse. They politely declined any kind of tea; that would be a definite violation of their Word of Wisdom; and not a one of them was tempted in the least.
CHAPTER FIVE
A LITTLE PROBLEM
“Look after your clothes when they’re spick and span, and after your honor when you are young.”
—Russian Proverb
The Yusupov Palace on the Moika River, Saint Petersburg, August 14, 1863, morning
An attractive brunette girl with lightly bronzed skin, and a clean shining single thick plait of braided hair hanging down her back almost to her waist, stood quietly and respectfully just inside the entrance hall of the Moika Palace. Her face was inscrutable; she was clean; her eyes intelligent and curious. She was dressed in a simple yellow headscarf, a somewhat too large yellow blouse with light blue stripes, a drab, obviously hand-me-down jumper, and flat open lace up sandals over very dirty feet. The most striking thing about the girl was that she was obviously in the late stages of pregnancy. She held a small just-picked bouquet of wild flowers in her right hand.
The middle-aged housemaid who answered the door had tried to shoo the girl away, but she was adamant. She had come to see Countess Tatiana Alexandrovna de Ribeaupierre on a very important matter, and she would not be dissuaded.
“The princess is very busy. She schedules appointments to see the peasantry and commercial persons on Thursdays. Leave me a note, and I will schedule you in then.”
The girl hesitated.
“Can you write, girl?”
“I can, but I have to see the…princess now. My father will kill me if I don’t. Please.”
Her face spoke volumes testifying that she was telling the truth. She was being brave and strong, but a naughty tear dropped down her right cheek.
The housemaid had been a girl once–a peasant girl like this one–and from somewhere inside her a vein of compassion arose.
“I will do my best, my dear. Please sit on the settee and wait. It may take a while.”
The girl sat, looking pathetic as she tried to curl her dirty feet under her and out of sight.
“Are those flowers for the princess?”
“Yes.”
“Give them to me, and I will put them in a vase with some water.”
Again, the girl was hesitant; but finally, she handed them to the maid.
Princess Tatiana listened to her maid and was inclined to have the girl sent away until she heard the maid say, “with child.” Even without further explanation, Tati felt a shiver of dread streak down her straight back.
“I will see her for a few minutes. Bring her to my office, Mary Ivanovna.”
The peasant girl was painfully shy and overawed by the grandeur of the imperious woman facing her. She looked at the floor and became pale as if she was about to faint.
“Sit, my girl, tell me your problem. Perhaps I can help,” the princess said soothingly.
The girl backed to a chair, awkwardly curtsying the entire way
.
“Now, what is it?”
“I…I…I am with child, your majesty,” the girl stammered as if that was all the information necessary to explain her presence in the great house.
“I can see that. What is your name, my dear?”
“Anna. Anna Evgenovna Petrove, your majesty.”
“Please, Anna, call me Princess Yusupov. Only the imperial family are addressed as ‘your majesty’.”
“Forgive me Princess Yusupov, I am unschooled.”
“Can you read, my dear?”
“I can. My mother is educated.”
“Now please do not be so shy. You have something to say, and it was brave of you to come to the Moika Palace to meet with me. It must be something important.”
“It is, my princess. I have come to have you arrange my marriage to your son, Prince Boris. It must be soon, as you can see.”
Tatiana blanched, being able to fill in all of the blanks. The girl’s simple truthful face was undeniable. The impact of the realization was terrible and intensified by the situation regarding Boris’s pending entrance into the Nikolai I General Staff Academy.
The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Page 4