The Duma, however, was reviving this almost atrophied talent of his. The debate in the Duma did get extremely lengthy at times, but there was such a broad base of opinion that it never got boring. He still often wondered if the Duma was truly a potent force in Russian politics. The tsar had shown by dissolving the first two Dumas that the power of autocracy was not fully broken. The Third Duma had run its natural course, but more often than not at complete loggerheads with the monarch. Still, at the very least, the Duma gave Paul a legitimate outlet for his political views.
The major issue in the Duma of late was the “Rasputin Question.” Hardly a session went by when there wasn’t some debate of the man’s outrageous behavior. The animosity between the “Holy Devil” or “Mad Monk,” as some referred to Rasputin, and the Duma was bound to come to a head, and it did so at the tercentenary celebrations.
The celebrations in February of 1913 were to be opened by an inaugural liturgy at the Kazan Cathedral. The president of the Duma, Rodzianko, was to deliver the one and only speech to be allowed at the ceremony. Yet in spite of that honor, the members of the Duma had been given the worst viewing positions of any officials. When the oversight was noted just prior to the service, Rodzianko took the matter up with the master of ceremonies in a rather heated discussion.
Rodzianko might be at a far different political pole from Paul, but Paul had to admire the man his unflinching championship of his cause.
“You will remember,” Rodzianko pointed out firmly, “that it was an assembly of the people, such as the Duma represents, not of officials, that elected Michael Romanov as tsar three hundred years ago!”
As a result, the Duma members were given the place that had been reserved for the Senate. Rodzianko had the spot cordoned off and guarded by members of the Duma sergeant at arms. But when the Duma representatives began to trickle in, they found someone else was attempting to infringe upon their place. And of all people, it was Grigori Rasputin. Paul had a feeling it wasn’t a coincidence that the Mad Monk had chosen this very spot to take his place.
Rodzianko, who had last year been instrumental in forcing Rasputin to leave the Capital, now accosted the starets with mighty indignation.
“What, may I ask, are you doing here?” demanded Rodzianko.
“What business is it of yours?” retorted Rasputin with an insolent smirk.
“You better speak with a little more respect to me—I am the president of the Duma.”
Rasputin moderated his tone. “Well, then, what do you want?”
“Clear out of here!” ordered Rodzianko. “You don’t belong in a place of worship.”
“I’m here at the request of persons more highly placed than you.” Rasputin showed his invitation.
“I don’t care! You swindler, who can believe a word you say? Now, get out, or I’ll have the sergeant at arms drag you out.”
Rasputin grasped his hands together, as if in prayer, and directed his gaze upward. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned heavily, “forgive this man his sin.”
Rasputin then departed. But the enmity between him and the Duma, and Rodzianko in particular, had not been improved by the incident. Paul understood that Rasputin was becoming a real thorn in Russia’s governmental flesh and a cause of the Crown to lose face, but he also believed much more could be done for the country if the Duma could focus on more practical issues like land reform, modernizing education, and international affairs.
Was there no aspect of political involvement that was free of frustration? Paul was beginning to wonder. Yet, he had devoted too much of his life to it to give up now. Lately, he was feeling more certain than ever that Russia was coming to a crossroads. It was obvious to even the dullest person that the Crown was becoming sicker and sicker. Paul saw the rise of Rasputin not so much as a cause of that sickness, but a symptom of it. And he secretly believed that if the starets was just given a free hand, the much-anticipated demise of the Russian monarchy would come sooner rather than later.
Nicholas viewed Rasputin not so much as a holy man than as the consummate Russian peasant. Grigori’s crude simplicity could be rather refreshing after a few hours with the highborn and haughty, but the man’s crudeness was unsettling at times.
Watching him now as they shared tea with him in Alexandra’s boudoir with the children gathered around, Nicholas had to choke back criticism of Grigori’s deplorable manners. He hated for his impressionable children to observe such behavior. Yet the children enjoyed the monk’s company. He was kind to them and always had amusing stories to tell.
Rasputin now launched into one of his stories. “That brings to mind a couple of cows in my village.” He paused, grabbed a loaf of bread from the tea table with his hands, tore off a chunk, took a big bite, then proceeded to relate his story with his mouth full of bread. “It came time to mate the beasts, but neither had a liking for the bull—”
“Father Grigori,” Nicholas cut in hurriedly, “do you think that an appropriate topic . . . for children, I mean?”
Rasputin glanced at each of the children, then laughed heartily, spraying a good deal of the half-chewed bread into the air. “I am a foolish peasant. Forgive me, Papa. You can take the peasant out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of—hmm . . .” He scratched his dirty beard. “That didn’t come out right, did it? But you know what I mean, eh?”
“We know, Father Grigori,” said Alexandra with an affectionate smile, “that God can use even a peasant to do great things. Perhaps he can especially use a peasant because of your uncluttered soul.”
“You are too good to me, Mama!” Grigori stuffed another bite of bread into his mouth, washing it down with a big gulp of wine, which he preferred over tea.
“Tell us another story,” said the tsarevich. He was especially close to the starets—and no wonder. He had come to believe, like his mother, that Grigori was directly responsible for his recovery from that terrible injury in Spala.
“Another time,” said Nicholas, trying to be the firm father. “It is bedtime for you and your sisters now.”
“Can’t we have just one story?” implored Alexis. The girls gave vigorous verbal support to their brother.
“I will take them to bed, Papa,” said Grigori. “I will tuck them in and tell them a story—a nice story . . . from the Bible perhaps.” He winked at the tsar.
“Well, all right,” said Nicholas.
Excited, the children jumped up—that is, the girls jumped and helped their brother, who now had to walk with a brace on the leg he had injured in Spala. They would have dashed off immediately with the starets, except for Nicholas’s gentle reminder that they mustn’t forget their manners.
All five children then paused and gave their parents respectful good-night kisses before they skipped out with Grigori, each child vying to hold the starets’ hand.
“He is a good man,” said Alexandra when she and Nicholas were alone. Had she perceived her husband’s doubts?
“A bit eccentric, though, I should say.”
“But you must admit he gives us all such a sense of peace and security. The children feel it, and I know you do also, Nicky.”
“Yes, I can’t deny it. I wish, however, I could explain it.”
“Why? It is the most natural thing in the world to find peace in the presence of a true servant of God.”
Nicholas nodded, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
In a few moments, Grigori returned.
“What delightful children! Baby will grow up to be a fine monarch,” the starets said as he sat in one of the mauve chintz chairs.
Alexandra rose from her own seat, came to the starets, and knelt before him. “And you shall be his wise counselor, dear Friend,” she said dreamily. She took his hand and kissed it. “What a grand kingdom we shall have when Alexis the Great ascends the throne of Russia.”
Nicholas did not mention the fact that for all this to happen he himself would have to be quite dead. He shared the same dreams of passing his crown on to his son, a
nd of Alexis perhaps reigning over the Golden Age of Russia.
Alexandra lay her head in Grigori’s lap, and the starets gently caressed her hair. If this made the tsar at all uncomfortable, he only had to remind himself that Grigori was a lifeline to them all, but especially to Alix. She suffered most from Baby’s illness. She alone had to bear the awful pain that it had come from her. Nicholas would never refuse her the comfort and strength she drew from Grigori. Though others might misinterpret it, he knew in his heart that their relationship was as pure as the breath of God. And, in many ways, Nicholas was grateful to Grigori because of that relationship. Nicholas did not have the kind of strength his wife needed. Nicholas and Alix needed each other, yes. They loved each other passionately, of course. But Nicholas was as helpless and as impotent as anyone to save the one thing that was more important than life to Alix. Only Rasputin appeared to have the power to sustain the life of their son and perhaps, as a consequence, the life of Alix, too.
No, he would never deny her that lifeline. Never.
12
Andrei did not much like family gatherings. He liked national celebrations even less. How unfortunate for him then when several such events all coincided in the same year. February of 1913 had brought the glorious tercentenary celebration of the Romanov dynasty. “Glorious” of course was how the Imperial government termed it. Andrei called it “three hundred years in chains” and had published in an underground newspaper a political cartoon with just such a theme. It had been reproduced on handbills and plastered all over town. Andrei was quite proud of the fact that for days everyone was talking about the “Little Soldier,” the pseudonym he had kept all these years.
At twenty-one, Andrei was still a political zealot. The desire for the overthrow of the Romanov dynasty continued to run strong in him. Yet lately, though he hated to admit it, his art often robbed him of some of his political zeal. He was glad he had found a way to combine the two with his newspaper work, yet, at times, it was a precarious mix. Too often the revolutionary zealots with whom he associated tried to demand a more total dedication from him. And haunted by his father’s death, he felt guilty about being more passionate about his art than his politics.
But if he was occasionally torn between his political friends and his art, he was even more conflicted with his family. Unfortunately, they understood neither his politics nor his art, and thus Andrei was reluctant to frequent family gatherings. Three years ago he had moved away from home into a flat with a half dozen others with similar interests as his. It had simply become too hard to live at home, especially after he had quit secondary school a year before he was to graduate. His mother tried to be accepting, but he always could sense her disappointment even if she never said as much. Yuri had been more verbal.
“Papa would turn over in his grave. You know how important our education was to him.”
“I think our happiness was far more important to Papa,” Andrei had retorted.
Down deep Andrei knew he had let his father down. But he could not have stood another moment in that bourgeois school, listening to government propaganda disguised as lessons. He had been miserable, and his grades showed that fact clearly, if nothing else did. If he hadn’t quit, he would probably have flunked out, anyway.
Besides, he didn’t need an education for what he planned to do with his life. He had already sold two paintings, and a gallery wanted to do a showing of his art if he could deliver at least two dozen works of the same quality as those that had sold. He was certain he could make a living with his art—in fact, other artists he knew, who had been at it seriously far longer than he, had not even come close to his present success. He also earned a modest income doing artwork for three radical newspapers.
How many other people could say they were doing what they loved, making a difference in the world, and earning a living, to boot? Well, it was probably not exactly a living. He had been forced to work at some rather menial odd jobs to fill in the financial gaps, and still there were days when he didn’t eat. But he would rather starve than sell out his dreams and convictions.
If only his family could understand. Yuri was fulfilling his dreams and convictions, too. The only difference was that Yuri’s were more socially acceptable than his.
Yuri, the scholar. Top of his class.
Yuri, the fine doctor.
Yuri, the protégé of the Court physician.
Yuri. Yuri. Yuri.
Andrei . . . ? Well, you know Andrei.
Nevertheless, there had been no way Andrei could escape this particular family event without breaking his mother’s heart.
So now, in the summer of 1913, he was sitting next to his mother, surrounded by his family, attending his brother’s graduation from medical school. Once more he must suffer under the weight of Yuri’s laurels.
Still, he simply could not turn completely away from his family. Many of his friends had done that very thing. In some cases, if they hadn’t renounced their families, the families had renounced them. But that had never been the case with Andrei. Sometimes his mother harped at him, and Yuri had a tendency toward arrogance and lecturing, but they had never withheld their love. And he could not deny his love for them. Even Yuri.
Andrei glanced toward the front of the auditorium where the medical students were seated. Yuri was up on the stage with the special honorees. His robe was covered with the evidence of his accomplishments—sashes and tassels and braid that said, Here is a man who has achieved great things.
And Yuri deserved all the accolades he received. Yuri had worked hard, sacrificed much. Their brother-in-law, Daniel, might have paid for Yuri’s education, but no one but Yuri had devoted unceasing labor to making it come out as it had. Andrei had witnessed many times when his brother had stayed up all night doing schoolwork or rewriting whole papers that he believed were inadequate.
All Andrei wished for was that his own accomplishments would be thought of as highly as Yuri’s, not swept under the rug in shame and embarrassment. Even his success in the art world was not understood. His political work aside, his painting should have warranted some praise. But Andrei had strayed from the kind of art that was found socially accepted. He had stopped doing representational art, or even Impressionistic art, three years ago. He was seeking his own identity, and though he hadn’t yet fully discovered his place as an artist, the paintings he had sold were of a neoprimitive style. Lately, however, he had been experimenting with suprematism and cubism.
He had recently shown one of his paintings to his mother and brother. It was an abstract of a peasant woman baking bread. It had received much praise from his peers, and even Kazimir Malevich, one of the leaders in the new Russian art movement, had seen the work and admired it. Andrei’s mother had given it a perplexed look, then, speaking as if she were trying hard to say something nice, commented, “It’s very colorful, Andrei.”
Yuri had been more critical. “Where is the bread? And why is her hand—I think that’s her hand—bent in that way? It’s anatomically impossible.”
Only Talia had really understood. “I like her, Andrei. I mean, not only do I like the painting, I like her. I see her strength and her stoicism, yet she handles the bread with a kind of tenderness, as if she knows it is the means of her family’s survival.”
Andrei glanced at Talia, who was sitting next to him. She alone made family encounters bearable. She was simply not around as often as he would have liked. Her ballet training had been all-encompassing over the last seven years. He saw far less of her than he wanted, and he doubted that would change even when she graduated in two weeks. They would both be involved in the art world and perhaps their circles would intersect, but they would still have to expend a great deal of effort if they were to maintain their friendship. Nevertheless, she would always be his best friend—even if she would never be more.
Talia must have felt his gaze. She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m so glad you came, Andrei,” she whispered, leaning close. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
“Only because you’re here.”
“That means, then, that you will be at my premier performance?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m already getting nervous over it.”
“You’ll be wonderful—”
“Wait!” Talia said suddenly, “Yuri is about to speak.”
Andrei restrained an ironic smile. Again Yuri came between them. But Andrei had long ago accepted the fact that Talia was hopelessly in love with his brother. Of course Yuri didn’t have a clue about this, and when Talia had confided it one day to Andrei, she had sworn him to secrecy. Why Talia was so reluctant to make her feelings known to Yuri, Andrei couldn’t guess. But he had no problem complying with her request. The moment she told Yuri, he would have to hurt her by telling her he didn’t have the same feelings for her. It was best for all that they keep these romantic notions in check. They were friends, above all else, and romance had a way of ruining friendship. That was certainly at least part of the reason why he never revealed his love for Talia to her. He didn’t want to lose her friendship. He also didn’t want to face her sure rejection.
What a triangle! he thought. Twisted and hopeless. Sometimes Andrei wondered if they would ever find real happiness. He doubted they could do so apart. Yet it also seemed impossible to be happy together, except as friends.
13
Yuri glanced at the clock above the mantel. Eight o’clock. He didn’t want to be impatient to leave his own party, but he had told some friends he would meet them at nine. Yuri hadn’t thought his mother’s party would last so long. Everyone was having such a good time that no one seemed to want to leave—no one except Yuri. But he had to stay at least until Daniel and Mariana arrived. They had attended the ceremony at the university, but immediately afterward Daniel had been called away on business. He said it would take only a few minutes, but it had already been an hour.
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