Finally, Botkin had to tell the tsar that the public should be notified about the tsarevich’s condition. It was the first time any official word had been made regarding the heir’s illness. Of course rumors had always circulated around the Court and circles close to the throne. But even now the exact nature of the tsarevich’s affliction was not released. Newspapers speculated everything from a hunting accident to a terrorist’s bomb. The only thing they were now certain of was that the heir to the throne could die at any minute.
Sometimes Botkin had the feeling people forgot that a child was suffering and probably dying. He was thought of only by virtue of his position. The tsarevich. The heir. And the effect his death would have upon the throne of Russia.
They might think differently if they could hear the poor boy’s screams of pain echoing up and down the corridors of the lodge. Or if they could see the wasted, empty countenances of his equally suffering parents. Botkin had actually seen the tsar break down in tears upon seeing his son, then flee from the boy’s room. Alexandra was holding up better, though how much longer she could last under the dreadful strain, Botkin did not want to guess.
What was even worse—and somewhat bizarre—was the fact that the social life of the royal couple continued. Local aristocrats were entertained. The tsar went hunting. Even Alexandra received guests. Nicholas and Alexandra had become experts at maintaining the superficial guise of officialdom. Even those who visited the lodge never truly knew the tragic extent of the Imperial family’s distress.
It wasn’t true that only a mother could truly feel the pain of a sick child. Alix knew Nicky was suffering as much as she. Yet there was one kind of anguish he would never know—that of the burden of responsibility. The fact that she had taken Aleshka out in the carriage was only a small part of it. There had been other bleeding incidents in which Nicky or even the girls had blamed themselves. But none of them had to face the awful fact that Aleshka had, in the first place, gotten this horrible disease from her. Not a day, hardly even a moment, passed when that reality didn’t haunt her.
And now every time the boy screamed from his internal torture, it pierced Alix like a sword of retribution.
“Mama, help me!”
Alix reached over and wiped a cool cloth over his forehead as if that was what he wanted.
“I’m here, my baby.” Not that it does any good, she thought bitterly.
She was past wishing she could exchange places with her son. She once thought fleetingly of ending the boy’s suffering once and for all. Or, even better, ending her own life so she wouldn’t have to watch his pain any longer. But she was too much of a fatalist to seriously consider such measures. They were in God’s hands. His will be done.
When the doctors came in that evening—there was one doctor or another examining the boy nearly every hour—their grave expressions did not alter.
After eleven days, Alix wondered how much longer this could go on. Even Alexis sensed his end must be near.
“Mama, when I die, I’d like to be buried in the pretty woods.”
“Oh, Aleshka, don’t say such things!” Alix quickly crossed herself. “You will be with us a long . . . long time.”
“I only wish it wouldn’t hurt you and Papa so much.”
“My child!” But Alix could say no more. Though she tried to hide her emotion from her son, it now spilled out like the tears that dripped from her eyes.
That night the priest administered unction, and the tsar’s secretary sent a bulletin to the Capital, which they all believed would be the last before announcing the death of the heir.
When the service was over, Alix chased everyone from the sickroom except her dear friend Anna Vyrubova. Anna had come to reside at the Court several years earlier when her marriage had failed and Alexandra had taken pity on her. The two had become almost inseparable. Anna was a round-faced, plump woman who was as pious as the tsaritsa herself. Some said Anna was too mystical for her own good and probably for that reason had few friends at Court. She and Alix were, for that very reason and others, kindred spirits.
“Your Highness,” Anna Vyrubova said humbly as she sat by the tsaritsa, holding her hand, “don’t you think it is time we notified Our Friend?”
“I should have done so long before this,” said Alix. “But—” The empress couldn’t say exactly why she had waited. There had been some trouble recently concerning Father Grigori. Many at Court and in the government didn’t understand the great starets, Rasputin. They tried to make accusations against him, calling him false and ambitious. Alix knew differently. Since that first meeting seven years ago, Father Grigori had been devoted to the royal family, never asking anything in return, always giving freely of himself. On two or three other occasions, Alix was certain his prayers had healed her son. But perhaps that had been part of the cause of her reluctance in calling him now. Things had been going so well lately with the tsarevich that Alix had believed he had been healed completely. This relapse had shaken her faith.
“Your Highness, we know Father Grigori isn’t perfect,” said Anna, almost as if she could read the tsaritsa’s thoughts.
“I thought he might be upset with me for allowing him to return to Siberia.”
“The backbiters and intriguers forced him to retreat from the Capital, not you.”
“I could have stood up for him. Instead, I refused to see him after the newspaper published those letters.”
Recently some of the tsaritsa’s private letters to Rasputin had fallen into the unscrupulous hands of the press. Of course the people, who were always anxious to find fault with her, had misinterpreted her dramatic turn of a word. She had written quite innocently: “My soul is only rested and at ease when you, my teacher, are near me. I kiss your hands and lay my head upon your blessed shoulders. I feel so joyful in those moments. Then all I want to do is sleep, sleep forever on your shoulder, in your embrace . . .”
They had no right to ridicule and demean the cries of her heart. She was empress of Russia. Her husband was absolute monarch with the power to—well, since that horrid constitution, his powers were rather cloudy—but nevertheless, he and his royal family were deserving of respect, if nothing else.
“Could Our Friend blame you?” Anna was saying. “You were shocked and hurt that your private and personal life was made a public spectacle. It had been careless of Our Friend to lose track of the letters.”
“I should have been angrier at the people who had the nerve to think—oh, I want to forget the entire horrid incident.”
“And no doubt the starets wishes to do the same. Besides, I think he believed it was God’s will that he leave the Capital, for a time at least.”
“And now?”
“Do you think he will turn his back on you?”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Alix paused and looked at her son. He had begun to moan again. His sweet, fine-featured face was so pale. “Anna, would you go to the village and send Our Friend a telegram?”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” Anna rose quickly, went to a small desk in the room, and withdrew paper and pen from a drawer.
Alix took the writing things and jotted down a brief note: “Father Grigori, my son is dying; you are my only hope. I know if you pray for him, God will hear your prayers.”
The note seemed so brief, yet what more needed to be said? In those few words, days of anguish, fear, and desperation were expressed with all the eloquence of a literary masterpiece. As an added touch, Alix drew at the bottom of the message a swastika, her favorite lucky charm.
Rasputin’s reply came the next morning before the sun had risen. He said simply: “The little one will not die. God has seen your grief and heard your prayers. Have faith and try to keep the doctors away from the child as much as possible.”
For the first time in nearly two weeks, Alix felt peace. Had the starets actually been able to transfer his power to calm and heal over the lines of the telegraph?
She was certain of it when, the next day, Alexis’s hemorrha
ging stopped. She didn’t care what anyone said now, she would see to it that Father Grigori returned to the Capital. He was her only hope. And perhaps he would still be God’s instrument for healing her son completely.
10
Cyril Vlasenko hobbled up the steps of Count Ignatiev’s home, ebony cane gripped firmly in his right hand. His wife was at his side and two footmen hovered protectively behind him. He was certain he could manage without the footmen, but, even though the bombing had occurred seven years ago, he still felt vulnerable when alone. Thus, when he went outside, he always had an escort of some kind.
This evening, however, his thoughts were far from danger and fear. His life was looking decidedly better than it had in years. He had just been appointed Assistant Minister of Agriculture. Perhaps it wasn’t much to brag about for a man who had been on the verge of becoming Minister of the Interior. But it was a move in the right direction.
It had only been four years since Cyril had returned to government service, and he practically had to begin at the bottom again. It helped that he now had an important ally at Court. Without the influence of Rasputin, Cyril would still be wallowing in provincial government. It had been fantastic insight on his part to stay close to Rasputin, who, even a few years ago, was gaining stature at Court. Cyril knew he had made the right move when he saw that even Count Witte was friendly to the starets. Witte had also retreated from government in 1905, though the cause was more his own doing. He now was ambitious to return to power and, like Cyril, saw Rasputin as a tool to that end.
Witte, however, would not be at Ignatiev’s home tonight. This was entirely a gathering of right-wing adherents who were, among other things, devoted to reversing the disastrous constitutional reforms of 1905. They were closely related to the Union of Russian People, and some, like Cyril, were even members of the more militant Black Hundreds. Tonight, however, was to be a purely social gathering. Rasputin himself would be in attendance. And Cyril would have to thank the starets for his recent appointment.
In the last several months since the tsarevich’s near fatal illness, Rasputin had risen enormously in power. It was said the tsar counted on Rasputin to look into the eyes of prospective Imperial appointees in order to discern the particular man’s worthiness for office. Cyril had no doubt that he himself had been so scrutinized. For once he was in the right place at the right time—this evening’s invitation proved it even further. He was certain the starets had wrangled it for him, and because of it he could now hobnob once again with some of the highest ministers, church officials, and aristocrats in the country.
Cyril and his wife, Poznia, were received cordially by the Ignatievs and the other influential guests. None had forgotten that once Cyril had wielded some power himself—and that as a former director of the Third Section, he knew more about their affairs than they did themselves.
Rasputin arrived later and was received with great affection, especially by the women. Poznia all but fawned over the man, but Cyril didn’t mind. His wife spent a great deal of time with the starets, and when she wasn’t meeting with him, she was sending him flowers and sweets—almost like a courting lover. All the other women did the same. Cyril had no idea what went on between Rasputin and the women when the men were not present, nor did he want to know. Many believed the worst. Cyril, however, agreed with the tsaritsa when she defended the starets, saying, “True saints are never accepted in their own country. And, as far as those low rumors go about him kissing women . . . well, one only has to look in the Bible to find that kissing is an accepted mode of greeting.”
And Cyril would continue to agree with the empress as long as it benefitted him. And he would turn a blind eye toward his wife’s involvement. It kept her happy, and it hadn’t hurt Cyril.
When Rasputin arrived, he became the instant center of attention, a fact that he seemed to revel in. No one seemed bothered by the starets’ rather crude behavior. He grabbed food from the table with his bare hands—quite dirty hands, too. He talked with his mouth full of that food and seemed to have no use at all for a napkin, using the sleeve of his dusty old cassock instead. He laughed louder than anyone and drank more. He appeared more the lusty peasant than a man of God.
The talk that evening turned to the upcoming tercentenary celebration of the Romanov dynasty.
“Here’s to three hundred more years!” said Ignatiev, raising his champagne in a toast.
All drank heartily. They knew their own political health depended mightily on the longevity of the Romanovs.
“Sometimes I think it will be a miracle if we make it three years, much less three hundred,” exclaimed one of the men. “Every day revolutionaries and liberals rob more and more of the prestige of the throne.”
“I, for one, believe in miracles,” said Rasputin. “Come now, let’s drink to miracles!” He tipped his glass to his lips and drained it.
“What do you think of the Duma, Father Grigori?”
“They are a bunch of dogs collected to keep other dogs quiet!” The starets laughed loudly at his wit and was joined by everyone.
“Father Grigori,” Cyril asked, anxious to be part of the interchange, “will the tsar dissolve this Duma as he did the others?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” said another guest.
“He will, if he’s smart,” another chimed in.
Rasputin said, “Do you wish a prophecy, my dear Count Vlasenko?”
“Prophecy or keen insight, Father Grigori,” said Cyril diplomatically. “You could offer either.”
“That ragtag bunch of ruffians and revolutionaries some broadly refer to as an official government body will self-destruct one day, even if the tsar does nothing.” Rasputin smiled. He must dearly hope that time would be sooner rather than later, for much of the debate in the Duma of late had involved censorship of Rasputin himself.
“You can be sure, Grigori Efimovich,” said Ignatiev, “that no one with an ounce of sense places any stock in the gibberish spoken in the Duma.”
“I know,” said Rasputin, “but the tongue is a dangerous beast. A very small member, yet more difficult to tame than a wild lion. It is the flaming gateway to iniquity, defiling all in its path, sparked by the very fires of hell. Yet, oh, how man is ruled by this ravenous animal! How can both blessing and curse flow from the same organ? But it does, stirring envy and strife in the hearts of men. Only by true, godly wisdom can we rise above the ravages of that instrument of evil. And is not the fear of the Lord the beginning of wisdom . . . ?”
It was in moments such as this that Cyril almost regretted his association with the starets. Once Rasputin got going on his sermonizing, he could go on seemingly forever. Half of what he said made no sense, especially to a man like Cyril who knew little of spiritual things. And, as much as his relationship to Rasputin was getting him more and more attuned to his neglected spiritual nature, Cyril still hated sermons. But no one dared interrupt as Rasputin rambled on for the next fifteen minutes.
Later in the evening, Cyril was certain his perseverance had been worth it. He managed to get Rasputin alone for a moment.
“I want to thank you, Father Grigori, for my recent good fortune,” said Cyril.
“And what might that be?”
“You must be aware of my appointment to the agriculture ministry.”
“That is only the beginning, Cyril Karlovich.”
Cyril beamed and afterward celebrated so heartily on champagne and sweets that, upon leaving Ignatiev’s, he needed the support of his footmen more than ever.
11
Paul Burenin was certain stranger things had happened, but definitely not to him. He still found it hard to believe that a former terrorist and exile could suddenly find himself thrust into a position in the government he was all but sworn to destroy. It had happened quite by accident, almost as a lark. His friend Alexander Kerensky had suggested the preposterous idea last year.
“I’ve been approached by a branch of the Social Revolutionary Party,” Alexander tol
d him. “They’ve asked me to stand for election to the Fourth Duma. They are expanding the Party to include a broader populist faction.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve always sympathized with the Populists. And I think you should try for one of the positions yourself.”
“Me?” Paul laughed, thinking he was joining in on a joke.
But Kerensky was serious. “This is our opportunity to have a real impact on the government.”
“I think, Sasha, I would feel a bit hypocritical employed by a government I have worked so long to destroy.”
“It’s the monarchy we are dedicated to destroy. The Duma represents a step toward that final goal of a representational democracy. Even the Social Democrats, a few Bolsheviks among them, are represented.”
“I know. But all that aside, Sasha, I am a nobody. Who would elect me? You, at least, have made a name for yourself as a barrister.”
“I see people every day who have read your articles, Pavushka. You don’t give yourself enough credit. There is, however, one requirement for running, and that is land ownership.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. The Burenin family plot, though managed completely by my nephew, is in my name as the eldest male in the family.”
Before he knew it, Paul was swept into the Duma elections and, by a true miracle, was elected to represent the Akulin District. He couldn’t say that being a member of the oft-abused, oft-ineffectual body was the fulfillment of all his dreams. He viewed it more as a way station on the political road of his life. Despite his lifetime involvement in revolutionary activities, he had never pictured himself as a politician. His main talent had been in stirring support through the written word. He had at one time enjoyed debate, but the tedious, nit-picking debating of the Bolsheviks had soured him on that aspect of politics.
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