The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov

by Carl Douglass

  The Russian steam corvette, The Amerika, was in port with Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich Romanov–the sixth son and youngest child of Tsar Alexander II of Russia by his first wife, Tsarina Maria Alexandrovna, on an inspection and vacation tour. The royal couple was gracious enough to accept the invitation to Alexandra’s sixteenth birthday celebration. That such a grand figure in the Russian empire should deign to come to their humble home shocked and thrilled the Tarasovas, who considered themselves to be rustics in comparison to any Romanov. They were accompanied on their voyage by the Count and Countess Igor and Annika Yusupov. Not withstanding the grandness of the two couples who came from Moscow to enjoy their party, they were satisfied that their spread would be appropriate even for members of the fabulously rich Yusupovs and even the tzar’s family. As soon as the guests were seated for the splendid meal, Abram and Irina were blissful at the obvious success of their incredibly expensive endeavor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AN EVENING TO REMEMBER

  This is the power of gathering: it inspires us, delightfully, to be more hopeful, more joyful, more thoughtful: in a word, more alive.

  —Alice Waters

  Tarasova Fur Company Headquarters and Trading Center, No. 71 Svetlanskaya Street, Vladivostok, Russia, April 2, 1876, late evening

  The dinner of dinners and evening of evenings drew to a close with the guests nibbling at exotic cheeses, drinking more French and Italian wines than they should, taking a few more bites of apfelstrudel, flamiche, chocolate soufflé, and medovik and becoming overfilled and inebriated. Alexandra managed to live up to her billing as “The Princess of Vladivostok” even though she was seated between Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich Romanov and Taipan Sir James Nicolas Sutherland Matheson, 1st Baronet. Both the Russian duke and the Scottish tycoon found themselves wrapped around the little fingers of the sixteen-year-old girl, much to the amusement of her doting parents who surreptitiously took in every nuance from their seats at the head of the table. It was pure joy to watch their nearly grown daughter work her feminine wiles and demonstrate her business acumen for two of the most important men in the world.

  As the French waiters cleared the last plates; and the majority of the guests were helped to their carriages by the house staff, Irina turned to Abram and said, “A success, no, my dear?”

  “In more ways than one. We will never be able to put a bridle on our girl. She will outdo us no matter how we try. I predict that the house of Tarasova will be mentioned regularly in the same breath as the Romanoffs and the Mathesons by courtiers and the titans of trade and industry before very long.”

  “You might even include the house of Yusupov, Abram. I note that Annika Yusupov treated us and Alexandra like old friends, and Count Igor took more than an avuncular interest in our nubile daughter.”

  Abram laughed and said, “Nubile—marriagable—maybe. And maybe this is the beginning of her acceptance into the society of the nobles. Who knows, maybe she could find a marriageable Dvoryanstvo, maybe even an von Antre or a Belosselsky-Belozersky.”

  “Or even a Romanoff or a Yusupov,” added Irena, “who knows. We might as well aim high.”

  They both laughed at their temerity and to the fact that they had probably had too much medovukha, since they both enjoyed the honey flavor of the authentically Russian liquor more than they liked to admit to themselves.

  Abram, Irina, and Alexandra sat in huge chairs near the great fireplace which had been lit to ward off the chill of the early spring winds. The only remaining guests were the taipan and his son, James.

  After a brief chat, Taipan Matheson, who was unused to late night social activity, came to the point of why he and his heir had come all the way to Vladivostok.

  “Great soiree,” he said, “and a marvelous way to attract business, my friend. Aye have cum ta a decision, this evening, Abram. We shuld capitalize on the success of the gathering and send out business offers ta the guest list.”

  “Offering what, Taipan?”

  “Expansion, Laddie, expansion. Let’s tell the lot of ’em that we want their help to bring down the East Indian conglomerate and to make all of us richer and more powerful than we have yet bin able to imagine. Aye propose that we increase the fleet by a dozen ships this year and another couple of dozen next year. Aye propose that we send those ships to England, Germany, France, and maybe even Australia and America. Finally, Aye suggest that we start a commercial war with those East Indian blighters—pardon my French, Ladies—and take over their interests in every one of their ports, starting with Heung Gawng [Cantonese for Hong Kong–fragrant harbor” originating from the scent coming from the sandalwood incense factories in Canton].”

  “How would we do that, Taipan?” asked Alexandra to the surprise of her parents.

  “Och, Lassie, glad ter hear yer sweet voice. I’ll tell ya how. First, we keep it in the family. By family I mean the Mathesons, Jardines, and the Tarasovas. Second, we put a family member on each and every one o’ the ships—a person familiar wi’ the sea and its hazards and one able to stand up to the pirates of the business world. Third, Aye want to see new products, new services, new protections to keep our business on top o’ the world of the Pacific.”

  “Father, if I may…”

  “’O course, Jamie, me boy, let’s get yer pint o’ view. Ye’ve had a barrel full of experience despite yer youth.”

  “I know where we can obtain two ships as soon as we can get to Hong Kong. That will get us started.”

  “We dinna ha’ captains and crews yet, me boy,” the taipan interrupted.

  “But, we do. I can captain one, and Alexandra, here, can be in charge of the other. Between our two families, we can come up with two crews without a bit of trouble.”

  Abram spoke up, “Getting a crew for a ship is easy. I have a few men sitting around fairly idle. We can teach them to be sailors in a month. But, my daughter being captain…, that’s another thing altogether.”

  Jamie said, “This is her debut into adulthood, is it not? I have seen her face problems of business, the sea, and even pirates, and to handle them with aplomb. She’s a natural. A quick learner, and we have captains and crews who can teach her anything she needs to know. Abram and Irina can teach her the business if she is not already entirely capable. I can help her over the rough spots. Keep it in the family, you said. Well, here’s a good place to start.”

  Irina Ishmaelovna looked shocked and entered the conversation excitedly, “But Alexandra is but a girl. Is our girl ready for the business end of things, Abram?”

  Irina deliberately used diminutives to describe her daughter hoping to be influential in forming the men’s opinions.

  “I have to say yes, my dear. I have taught her all I know. She is indeed young, but that only means that she has longer to learn more than all the rest of us put together. Watch out–all of you–or she’ll be the head of the Jardine-Matheson-Tarasova company before you know what has happened.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Alexandra said simply, “I am capable. Let me prove it.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  STAFF OFFICER

  Not every day is Shrovetide, in time it will be lent.

  —Russian proverb

  Nikolai I General Staff Academy, Moscow, Imperial Russia, May 19, 1871

  At graduation from the General Staff Academy, Prince Boris Nikolaivich Yusupov was promoted in rank to Full Captain. He was more pleased with the honor granted him to realize his life’s goal, that of joining the elite Guards Regiment. He was most pleased that his father and mother attended the ceremony; and above all that, at last, his taciturn father said to him,

  “Well done, my son, you have made our family proud.”

  That was the highest praise Prince Nikolai had ever pronounced, and Boris was inspired by it. Boris wore his full-dress uniform including his Saint Stanislaus and Saint Anne—second class medals and looked splendid. He and his family were able to have lunch with the new academy commandant, General mayor Ivan
Dragorovich Strabinsky, his wife, Grushenka, and Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich and Marienka, his godfather and mother. Lunching with such key senior officers, his influential family, his exploits in the 1863 Crimean conflict, and his acceptance into the Guards Regiment, all but guaranteed that he would be accepted into the general ranks before his career was over. All-in-all it was a highly portentous day.

  After his parents departed for Saint Petersburg, and Boris was alone in his apartment, he was surprised to hear a knock on his door. He opened the door and was taken aback to see General mayor Strabinsky standing stiffly in the doorway.

  “Please come in, General mayor. To what do I owe this honor?”

  The taciturn mustachioed general stroked the dueling scar on his chin for a moment before answering.

  “Captain, you have had honors aplenty today and enough of them. I am here to convey a serious warning to you—to tell you to take to heart what I say and beware the rest of your life.”

  Boris was perplexed and crestfallen but strove to avoid showing it in his face.

  The general continued, “I only lately became aware of your association with some undesirable elements.”

  Boris’s confusion registered on his face.

  “You should have made better choices, young man. Early in your years here at the General Academy you associated with and, in fact, allowed individuals with very questionable political beliefs to room with you for a period. Do not look at me as if you are not aware of who these people are. Let me refresh your memory, young man: Sophia Perovskaya, Andrei Zhelyabov, Gesia Gelfman, Nikolai Sablin, Ignatei Grinevitski, Nikolai Kibalchich, Nikolai Rysakov and Timofei Mikhailov.”

  Boris paled, and he took an involuntary gulp.

  “Yes, that bunch of plotters who call themselves the laughable name of the People’s Will. Loris Melikof–Head of the Okhrana–has informed the tzar that this foolish group has planned one assassination attempt on the life of our beloved tzar which failed and are actively planning another. The tzar is furious; this is not only an attack on his person but upon the very core of Imperial Russia which you are sworn to defend.”

  “I have had nothing to do with any such plans or actions. I never agreed with any such ideas. When I heard them expressed, I expelled them from my personal circle; and, as I recall, they were expelled from the academy.”

  “I believe you, Full Captain, but you are tainted by your brief association. However, you cannot be so naïve that you were not then and are not now aware that your group of friends fell under the spell of Mikhail Bakunin and his Land and Liberty reformers party. The group published literature demanding that the land in Russia held by the government and the church be granted back to the poor landless people. The tzar and the Okhrana might have been indulgent, but after the assassination attempt, they have no tolerance. An empire-wide dragnet is in force to bring these traitors to justice. They will be imprisoned and likely hanged.”

  “I repudiated their beliefs and their organization. I have had no contact with any of them since those very early days. I continue to pledge my allegiance to the tzar and to the imperial army without reservation, Sir. Please believe me.”

  “What I believe is of little consequence now in this superheated atmosphere. Were it not for the fact that you are a Yusupov, you would be under arrest now, and your career ruined. Both your father and I will contact the tzar’s inner council and stave off any action towards you, if that is possible. You are on thin ice.”

  “But, I have done nothing wrong, General mayor.”

  “Right now, that is beside the point. Suspicion is rife, and you are caught in the net.”

  “What can I do?”

  “For now, become invisible. You are assigned to a guards unit. You can keep your head down, do not make noise, join no groups. Do the silly things like card playing and chasing girls that the guardsmen do during peace time. All around the empire, there are rabble rousers who foment trouble. Pray that one of those groups gets out of hand enough to warrant a guards unit being sent to quell the disturbance. The Ottomans are constantly making a nuisance of themselves and will do so until we finally have a war and obliterate those Mohammadan heathens once and for all. I will get you there any way I can and as soon as I can. Keep a very low profile, young prince, lest the Okhrana or the tzar’s hunters catch wind of you.”

  “Yes, Sir. I will camp out with the guards unit and be ready at a moment’s notice to leave for battle with the Ottomans or anyone else who challenges the empire.”

  “That is enough said, then, Full Captain. Await orders and keep your head down.”

  Boris gave the general mayor a crisp salute then cleared his quarters of anything that might incriminate him or link him to the infernal People’s Will fools. The first thing he did was to burn all the letters from his previous roommates and his copy of Bakunin’s book, Statism and Anarchism.

  Although his orders did not require him to report to his guards unit for two weeks, he departed the academy and rode hard to the unit’s headquarters. His arrival in the Moscow headquarters of the 1st Cavalry Brigade, Horse Guard Regiment, went unheralded, as he should have hoped it would be; but it was, nonetheless, rather a disappointment. The sergeant-major examined his papers, stamped them, and directed him to his bachelor officer’s quarters–a drab utilitarian set of three rooms, metal furniture, wood floors, and an indoor toilet—the only significant amenity.

  The newcomer quickly settled into the exasperatingly easy routine of the officer’s community which was as distinct from the lesser ranks as if they were men of different colors or from different planets. Boredom was Boris’s major enemy; all his physical needs were attended to by a horde of sycophantic orderlies; and all military activities and even paper work were dealt with by the omnipresent spit-and-polish sergeants-major. All Boris had to do was to attend contrived officer social events and a few community leader affairs presided over by starched shirt bureaucrats. There were a scant few women anywhere near the encampment, only a few readable books, and a rare military parade, to cut the pervasive sense of ennui.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  OTTOMAN INCURSIONS

  “Storm’d at with shot and shell./ Boldly they rode and well./ Into the jaws of Death./ Into the mouth of Hell/ Rode the six hundred.”

  —Alfred Lord Tennyson,

  The Charge of the Light Brigade, 1854

  Headquarters 1st Cavalry Brigade, Horse Guard Regiment, Moscow, Russia, May 19, 1875

  Boris held his vint cards loosely, hardly caring whether the other bored officers at the table in the sobranie were bothering to peek. His morning had been spent in the officers’ club playing billiards—a pass time which he was ashamed to admit, had resulted in his becoming an expert player. He had eaten both breakfast and lunch at the officer’s mess and had only his upcoming evening’s ride on Kryzhu to divert him from the feeling that he was a useless aristocrat officer like all the rest of his companions. He was dismayed that nearly five years of such idleness had slipped out of his life hardly noticed.

  At 1300, Sergeant-Major Ivan Andreiovich Skavar strode into the sobranie uninvited and unannounced and spoke in a loud voice: “vnimaniye!” [attention].

  It was the first time in his five year stay in the headquarters camp that Boris had ever seen an enlisted man in the officers’ club and certainly the first time that one had commanded attention from the assembled officers.

  “Command orders all first cavalry officers and enlisted to report to the parade grounds at 1600 sharp for an important announcement. That is all.”

  Skavar whirled in an about face and marched stiffly out of the room without further explanation.

  Presuming that the summons was so out of the ordinary and preemptory that he should appear decked out in his dress uniform—red coat with gold buttons, blue trousers with gold inlays along the side of the legs, his gold cavalry helmet with the white plum, and his regimental sword.

  Captain of the General Staff Dragon Sergeivich Oblensky entered the
sobranie and stood stiffly by as the sergeant-major barked out the command, “Vnimaniye!” then exited. Oblensky then spoke in the terse, clipped tones of a commander:

  “The guards will muster tomorrow morning at 1100 hours ready to embark by train for a mission to Bulgaria as ordered by the tzar himself. Each officer will be allowed three packing trunks and is expected to include two dress uniforms and enough field uniforms to last the duration. Dress swords and parade boots are mandatory and field equipment including your sabers are an obvious requirement. I strongly recommend that you bring more than one. Muskets and hand guns and sufficient ammunition for a month are required. I strongly recommend that you bring along the gear to make your own ammunition should events require.

  “The sergeants-major will instruct the lower ranks on their needs. Those officers with their own corps of trained fighters will report the numbers to SM Skavar tonight; so, we can have an accurate tally of the lower ranks to provide transport cars and provisions. Gentlemen, the Ottomans have bullied our Bulgarian allies long enough. The tzar expects us to take care of the problem once and for all.

  “Any questions?”

  There were none.

  Prince Boris immediately rode out to the tents where Vlad and the rest of his Cossacks were billeted and told them tersely to prepare for war. They were leaving for Bulgaria before noon the next day. He was greeted with whoops and broad smiles. These men did poorly during periods of idleness. War was their raison d’être and bred into them from their mothers’ knees. As Boris left the encampment, he heard the rattle and clatter of packing, collecting arms and saddle tack, and rounding up his unit’s horses and their fodder.