The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov

by Carl Douglass

  Sister Taylor was feeling nostalgic.

  She looked up and said, “You know brothers and sisters, it seems like we’ve been here a long time. I am feeling kind of lonely for home and the grand kids and my little garden.”

  Sister Clyde gave Sister Taylor a little side shoulder hug and soothed her, “Try not to think of it. You’ll be back in—what is it?—three or four months, and everything will be right back to normal.”

  “I know. Maybe it’s just the low-pressure weather. I’ll get over it.”

  “I think it would help if we could make some progress towards learning more about our mysterious Alexandra. I feel kind of stuck,” said Sister Durrell.

  “OMG!” blurted Elder Smith, “I da..darn near forgot.”

  The others laughed, and he blushed.

  “It’s one of my many faults,” he said, “sometimes it just slips out. The way we handle that around our house we learned from our littlest granddaughter Anna Bella. I said a naughty word one time, and she looked at me very sternly and said, ‘Granpa, we don’t say that. We say, ‘oh my goood—ness’”

  He mimicked the little girl’s voice perfectly and made them all laugh.

  “So, I feel apologetic if I even use initials like OMG which can be considered to be like taking the Lord’s name in vain. I even quit saying darn and shoot.”

  They all laughed again; the experience sounded very much like their own.

  “Okay, Elder Smith, confession time is over. You sounded like you had some real news to share and was mad that you had almost forgotten.”

  “That’s right, I do have a little something. All you brothers and sisters have been focusing on our Alexandra; so, I worked on finding some material on her possible husband in Russia. I researched under Yusupov, and that proved to be difficult because there was so much information on them; they were a very rich and very famous back in the day. What was difficult was finding much about any Yusupov who married a woman named Alexandra, or Tarasova, or who had had much to do with Vladivostok where we know that Alexandra was born.

  “I found two things. I looked into the Yusupov family tree—which goes back at least to the ninth century in Turkey. I concentrated on the period of time when a son might have been born into the primary family, that of Prince Nikolai, Prince Boris’s father. I looked under Prince Nikolai “Niki” Borisovich Yusupov and his mother Countess Tatiana Alexandrovna de Ribeaupierre. The family tree listed the issue from that important couple with nine children, but no one who sounded like a likely candidate for anyone who might have been in Vladivostok any time when a marriage could have taken place, or at any time at all until I found a little something else; I’ll tell you about that in a minute.

  “There was mention of a Yusupov who attended the Imperial General Staff Academy in the mid-eighteen sixties. I do know for sure that he graduated with honors. I have a copy of his diploma which lists Prince Nikolai as his father. The graduate was named Boris, Prince Boris, to be exact. Now it is odd that Boris is not listed anywhere else by the family in any family activity or photo or as having done anything remarkable or even if he died.

  “I did find small mentions in newspaper articles in Plovdiv and Sofia, Bulgaria. The two mentions were short and probably written by the same reporter for the Plovdiv Vakhan and the Sofia La Bulgarie. I got a good translation for the Plovdiv paper’s account. I’ll read it: “The heroic victory on 10 December, 1877, which ended the Siege of Plevna and was decisive in the Russian victory over the heathen Ottmans, was won by Tzar Alexander II, Grand Duke Nicolas, Eduard Totleben, and Mikhail Sokobelev from the Russian Imperial Army, and Prince Carol of Romania for the Christians and civilization over the Ottoman Osman Nuri Pasha. The Grand Duke gave credit for his part in the battle and in particular for the saving of Alfred, Hereditary Prince of Sax-Coburg and Gotha, and first cousin of His majesty the tzar to General mayor Boris Yusupov.’

  “The next maybe pertinent finding was also a newspaper statement from the Vladivostok Far Eastern, Russia newspaper—called the Vladivostok–that a new commandant by the name of Yusupov was named for Balagansk Prison. There is nothing more about this person or any interaction with anyone else, particularly our Alexandra. That is the sum and substance of everything I could find.”

  “I’d say that was quite a lot, Elder Smith,” said Elder Durrell. “Gives us something to work with.”

  It was P-day again; the weeks seemed to be rushing by as they always do to senior citizens. As per their usual practice, the missionaries headed back into the city center to continue their pleasant day off and to further their knowledge of their mission field city. This time they took in the Athaeneum Theater and Library, the Black Arcade—which required some coaxing on the part of the men to break their wives away from the bargains—and on to the beautiful Carlton Gardens. They took the short tour through the small and simple Church of St. Francis, which was pleasing to their frugal tastes and which they enjoyed more than they did the magnificence of St. Paul’s Cathedral. They wandered around in the City Museum and finished up in City Square with an agreement to meet in front of Cook’s Cottage. They had a late lunch on the adventurous side at the Hanabishi Restaurant largely because it was not expensive. Also, none of them had ever eaten Japanese food; but they were game to try. They shared plates and bowls of hagi kimo, miso soup, unagi sushi, and California rolls. They passed up the cute little glasses of chilled sake—no alcohol for Mormon missionaries.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN

  “Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”

  —Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, 1818

  Headquarters 1st Cavalry Brigade, Horse Guard Regiment, Moscow, Russia, May 19, 1879

  The first year after Boris’s both heroic and serendipitous victory in the Battle of Plevna, was filled with military parades, balls, accolades, and gradual entrance into the meetings and confidence of the Imperial General Staff. He was becoming one of them, even being able to express an opinion now and then. He was all but adopted into the family of Alfred, Hereditary Prince of Sax-Coburg and Gotha, and first cousin of his majesty the tzar. The second year was largely the same, except that the absence of any military crisis made the demand for Prince Boris’s services or presence diminish. Invitations to the luminaries’ homes dwindled even to that of Prince Alfred and his overweight wife and his godfather, Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich’s palace. He found himself settling into the languor of guardsman life—cards, dinners, parades, and vapid interactions with local dignitaries. As one of his officer friends put it, “The Russian Military has become nothing more than generals, admirals, and bands.”

  Boris all but got on his knees to pray for another little war where he could shake off the ennui he was feeling and could get the blood coursing through his veins as he led troops into battle. That feeling was short lived owing to events beyond his control.

  In October, 1879, the Land and Liberty insurgent group split into two factions. The majority of members favored a policy of terrorism, and established the People’s Will, the most radical anarchy and revolution group in the empire. The People’s Will planned to assassinate Tzar Alexander II. In November Prince Boris’s old associates, including Sophia Perovskaya, Andrei Zhelyabov, Gesia Gelfman, Nikolai Sablin, Ignatei Grinevitski, Nikolai Kibalchich, Nikolai Rysakov and Timofei Mikhailov, Andrei Zhelyabov, and Sophia Perovskaya made the first attempt on the moderate-leaning tzar’s life. Andrei and Sophia drew the short straws and were assigned to the assassination. The two radicals used nitroglycerine to destroy the Tzar Train. They made an historical mistake; they blew up the wrong train. The People’s Will attempted to blow up the Kamenny Bridge in St. Petersburg as the Tzar was passing over it. Again, the bumblers were unsuccessful.

  The attempts were reported in every newspaper in the empire. The newspaper articles took pains to add that the tzar was infuriated and planned a nationwide dragnet to find the culprits. The Okhrana swung into action and mercile
ssly hunted down every member of the People’s Will and the Land and Liberty faction and questioned them by “all means necessary”. The torture brought out dozens of more names of insurgents, hangers-on, sympathizers, and possible co-conspirators.

  The name of General mayor Prince Boris Nikoliavitch Yusupov rose to the surface because of his careless of choice of roommates when he was a young student in the General Staff Academy. Seventeen people were arrested, including Boris’s former roommate Alexander Soloviev, and were executed by hanging for terrorism the following month.

  Boris was relieved that he had cut his ties with his old roommates a long time ago and would not be listed as a subject of interest or any kind of sympathizer. His relief was reassured by his memory of his serious conversation with Academy Commandant, General mayor Ivan Dragorovich Strabinsky, in May, 1871 on the evening of his graduation. That conversation had ended any possible suspicion of his complicity in even sympathy with the anarchists. He was sure of that. To punctuate that thought, the terror around the country seemed to calm down to the point that he no longer heard talk of it.

  His quietude and relief from anxiety were premature and ended one evening a week later when the headquarters sergeant-major informed him that his father, Prince Nikolai, was waiting for him in the headquarters building.

  “Hello, Father. To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?” Boris asked the grand patriarch of the Yusupov House.

  “I will get right to the point, Son. I’m afraid that the visit is not for pleasure. I have been given the opportunity by way of irregular channels to inform you of a problem you have and a potential solution.”

  Boris blanched as he watched the solemnity of his father turn to sadness.

  “What is it?”

  “You, no doubt, are aware of the recent attack on the tzar’s life by the very people he thought would be most pleased by his economic and agrarian reforms.”

  “Of course.”

  “I presume that you are also aware that your former roommate, Alexander Soloviev and companions Sophia Perovskaya and Andrei Zhelyabov were involved, and Soloviev was hanged for his part in the plot.”

  “Yes, but what has that to do with me? I cut all ties with the lot of them long ago.”

  “Unfortunately, the tzar’s wrath, and the Okhrana’s witch hunt knows no limitations. Any association with any of any of the conspirators however minor, long ago, or unintentional, makes one dangerously suspect. During their interrogations—which I understand were quite thorough—your name came up as one of their associates and as one of the followers of that fool, Bakunin. That was enough for the Okhrana. Because of your family name, General mayor Strabinsky was dispatched to convey the message to me. You are declared persona non-grata, and only your name and military record save you from prison. The General mayor has come up with a plan–hopefully temporary—to save you. You must act immediately.”

  “I will do whatever you instruct, Father. I cannot imagine that anyone would actually suspect me of disloyalty to the tzar or could think that I would participate in such a heinous act as an attempted assassination.”

  “Be that as it may, my boy, and despite the fact that I haven’t the slightest doubt about your loyalty to the tzar and to our family, the Okhrana rules the country at the moment. This is what you must do: Speak to no one. Pack your belongings and board the first trans-Siberian train for Vladivostok [Rus. Ruler of the East—located closer to Beijing than to Moscow, administrative center of Primorsky Krai, Russia, located around the Golden Horn Bay]. A telegram will be waiting for you to inform you of your new orders. I am assured that you will retain your rank, but you must not communicate with the general staff or the family for a year. Under no circumstances should you try to contact anyone in the tzar’s family, not even your godfather. Do not try and explain yourself to the general staff: that would be tantamount to a confession. Be patient. I will continue to send you an allowance, but we must arrange clandestine sites for you to receive my help. Go with God; stay strong.”

  Boris was stupefied. He could only bid his father farewell and to ask him to convey his love to the rest of the family. He knew he had been duly warned; and by the next day, he, his trusted servants, Vlad, his horses, and two train car loads of essential personal property left by train for Far East Russia—a three or four-week transit of Siberia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A NEW-WORLD AND A NEW LIFE

  “When you dance with the devil, the devil doesn’t change. The devil changes you.”

  —Amanda Hocking,

  Quote Fancy, 2018

  Jardine-Matheson and Tarasova Fur Company Headquarters and Trading Center, No. 71 Svetlanskaya Street, Vladivostok, Russia, June 22, 1879

  Nineteen-year-old Alexandra returned from Shanghai from her first voyage as captain of the brigantine Far East Transporter, one of the sixteen commercial ships of the Jardine-Matheson and Tarasova Far Eastern Russia Trading Company. She was the second woman and the youngest person ever to command a Jardine-Matheson vessel and among the most profitable of the ships’ captains. Male captains all along the South China Sea coast grudgingly acknowledged her proficiency behind the wheel, at the navigation table, and in the centers of commerce—ship to ship, in trading company board rooms, and in the counting sheds. It was even rumored that she had been given high praise by the Red Flag pirate admiral, Zheng Shi, despite her tender age.

  “Greetings, Captain!” her father Abram exclaimed for everyone to hear and gave her an exuberant bear hug.

  She grunted as he squeezed out her breath, and barely managed to whisper, “Glad to be back.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to his office in the headquarters warehouse.

  “Show me the profit and expense figgers,” he requested without further welcoming ceremony.

  The company ledgers for the voyage were altogether positive, one of the most lucrative voyages in the company’s history, a fact that made the grizzled sixty-year-old beam with pride and satisfaction. Both were aware that they could count as good commercial fortune that they had not lost cargo and ship to the still powerful Red Flag Fleet.

  “Well, my girl, you have earned your keep with this one. Let’s get up to the house and let your mother spoil you for a few days.”

  Irina Ishmaelovna Inkijinoff Tarasova was standing at the top of the stairs of the Tarasova mansion as Abram and Alexandra drew up in the family carriage. In the past three years, the family’s fortunes and status had enjoyed a stratospheric climb. The elegant Pekinskaya Street Russian Renaissance Revival style wood mansion was one of four grand homes in the city. From the newly paved street, it had a clean lined two-story façade and a hidden basement. From the courtyard, the façade was three stories high. The outer walls were decorated with a granite base, three balconies, and two ornate cast-iron porches. The façade was ornately decorated with filigreed wood designs applied to transverse hardwood slats. The inside the mansion was ornate to the point of being gaudy—the pretentiousness of the nouveau riche as the family’s detractors carped. The house was fitted with the latest in engineering technology, which included a hollow space under the floor into which hot air was sent for heating a room or bath to circulate hot air, running water, and indoor bathrooms with chain flush handles. It was Irina’s pride and claim to fame, and Abram’s symbol of his success in the competitive commercial world of the Irkutsk oblast.

  Even the carriage and its handsome horses testified of the wealth and influence of the Tarasova family. The carriage was a phaeton imported from France, a light vehicle with a folding roof decorated with an ostentations gilded family herald drawn by three white draft horses. Alexandra loved every bit of the display of the family riches and was determined to keep the family at a financial level above the commoners. She determined to live to see the day when the Tarasova family’s name would be ranked along with the Romanovs, the Yusupovs, the Sheremetevs, the Golitsyns, the Stroganovs, and the Tcherkasskys. In her young mind–at least–th
e Tarasovas were well on their way.

  Irina and Alexandra were both vivacious and exuberant women. They raced to each other and embraced enthusiastically with loud ‘welcomes’, ‘overjoyed’, ‘thrilled to have you back safe’, and ‘it’s wonderful to be able to embrace you, Dear’. Irina took one arm and Abram took the other, and they waltzed into the marble-floored lobby of Tarasova House.

  The family enjoyed a magnificent dinner and the music of a Russian symphony orchestra that had sailed from Moscow to entertain the coastal cities of the empire and those of the Russian allies—China, Chosŏn, and even Japan. Alexandra fell into her bed too tired even to remove her clothes that night.

  The next day–instead of taking her well-deserved rest–Alexandra began planning her next, and most ambitious commercial voyage thus far. After breakfast with the family and enduring the latest in lectures from her doting mother about her need to find a suitable marriageable young man or else she was going to suffer the ignominy of being an old maid; after all, she was already nineteen and pushing the age limit of being nubile and looking at adulthood as an unmarried career woman—something unacceptable in polite Russian society.

  She wore practical business clothing and had the family chauffer and her personal body guard—the massive Don Cossack, Stenka Mazepa–take her to Millionka—the Chinese quarter. Millionka was a slum from its creation and remained dangerous. The rich and beautiful carriage bearing the iconic Tarasova herald, the presence of the forbidding Cossack, and above all, the favorite Russian of all those who entered the Chinese quarter—Alexandra Tarasovna—made the carriage’s passage at least marginally safe. The implied threat of retribution by the Russian navy, the city’s Cossacks, and least of all, but still of some significance, the Vladivostok constabulary added to the margin of security for the slender patrician girl.