“Mariana . . . ?” It took a moment before it dawned on Anna what Yuri was leading to. Then she remembered a passing remark he had made when he first told her about his engagement to Katya. At Katya’s request, he had told Anna about Irina so it wouldn’t come as a complete shock when they met. Yuri had mentioned that Irina might one day have an experience similar to Mariana’s. “Ah, yes, Mariana. She was the daughter to Princess Katrina Fedorcenko, to whom I was a maid.”
“Yes,” said Katya, “Yuri mentioned that. But I was never quite clear about the reason for the secretiveness surrounding her.”
“I must admit it is complicated,” Anna replied. “There was a madman who wanted to kill Mariana’s parents and Mariana, too, for that matter. When Katrina died in childbirth, we decided it best that no one know the child survived. Her father was forced to leave the country, so I raised the child. I think that Katrina wanted her daughter raised simply, away from the pressures and intrigues of the nobility. Perhaps she had a rather romanticized view of the peasantry, probably fostered by my own stories of my parents, who were rather extraordinary. Nevertheless, she knew no one could love Mariana as much as I, and Katrina had no other family left with whom she felt she could entrust her child.”
“So you claimed her as your own?”
“Everyone in the village drew their own conclusions. At first there were rumors and whisperings because I wasn’t married, and it was very difficult for me not to speak up and set everyone straight. Then Prince Sergei and I married, and soon everyone just came to accept us and our child. People are basically like that, you know—short on memory, long on forgiveness. Not all people, I suppose. Basil Anickin, the madman I spoke of, had a long memory, but he was unusual in that area.”
“It’s apparent you told Mariana about her origins, but may I ask when?” asked Katya.
“Practically from the beginning—that is, we told her about her real parents. I wanted her to know about her mother and love her as she deserved to be loved. But Mariana always understood it was something to be kept within the family.”
“But how can a child understand such a thing?”
“Children don’t care to be different, so they are not likely to speak about things that may make them seem so. We didn’t want to teach her to be deceptive, nor did we want her to fear—for, of course, there was still danger involved for some time. We simply let things evolve naturally. If she felt compelled to tell someone, we asked her to discuss it with us first, but if she didn’t—well, we just prepared ourselves to bear the repercussions. Secrets are as demanding and hurtful at times as the worst truth. We never told her about her nobility—not until her father showed up when she was sixteen. I still don’t know if that was the right or wrong decision. God saw that our hearts were seeking to do the best we could, and I believe He honored that in our lives and in Mariana’s life.”
“You know why I am so curious about this, don’t you, Anna?” said Katya.
“Yes, I do.”
“My situation is a little different from yours in that true scandal is involved. Sometimes I feel I could bear the scandal. You may as well know that in society, I am considered rather a wild one—”
“My Yuri would not love you so if your heart were not made of gold.”
“I want to be worthy of that love.” Tears glistened in Katya’s eyes. She bit her lip and tried to continue calmly. “Anyway, most people wouldn’t be surprised by anything they heard about me. But I fear what would become of Irina—and even Yuri. It is enough I made a terrible mistake and nearly destroyed my life; I don’t want to ruin their lives, too. Wouldn’t it be best to keep things as my father arranged it? Why does anyone need to know?”
“You wouldn’t mind going through life as your daughter’s aunt or, at best, adopted mother?”
“Even now, I haven’t had the heart to prevent her from calling me ‘Mama.’ But that is only in the privacy of the nursery. I have never gone out with her in public.” Katya paused, her lip quivering. “I want to be her mama. But I don’t want her to be hurt again by my selfishness.”
“People may hurt Irina no matter what you do—”
“You just said they were forgiving.”
“Yes . . . sometimes. But people are . . . well, people. We human beings are a complex breed. Which is the best argument I can think of for living your own life, by the standards that best suit you—and hopefully, if you have a true heart toward God, those standards will also please Him. Either way, it can be self-defeating to constantly try to please other people. You’ll never be able to do it, Katya. There will always be someone out there demanding something different from you.”
“Well, I think it would be best for Irina to have her mama.”
Anna smiled. “So do I. She has a fine mama, too.”
Katya’s cheeks flushed. “I try to be.” Then she looked at Yuri. “What do you think about all this?”
“At last, a man’s point of view!” he quipped. “Seriously, I believe that we will weather whatever is hurled at us together. The Fedorcenko clan are expert at surviving rumors and scandal. In fact, I think we have thrived on it and become rather more noble from it all.”
“Then, I am marrying into the right family!”
“You are indeed, Katya!”
Anna was warmed by the intensity in Yuri’s and Katya’s voices. She knew about the rocky beginnings of their relationship, but now she saw nothing but the makings of a strong and true union.
40
Nicholas basked in the initial support of his people for the war. For those first weeks, he felt like the autocrat he was supposed to be. But more than that, he felt like the benevolent batiushka, Little Father, he so longed to be. Even the Duma, for years a thorn in his side, overwhelmingly supported the war, with only the Bolshevik contingent dissenting. He could almost feel the streets throb with excitement as thousands of soldiers marched daily to Warsaw Station and on to the Front. Nearly five million soldiers were ready with the initial mobilization to go to war. Another ten million would be available should the need arise. They were truly, as the British press had dubbed them, “the Russian steamroller.”
Sitting atop his mount now at Mars Field, reviewing the troops, he could believe those who declared that all the Russians would have to do to defeat the Germans was to throw their caps at them. He knew better of course. It would take guns and bombs and railroads, all of which Russia was in poor supply. Yes, they had an awesome contingent of personnel, but putting guns into all those millions of hands was another matter completely. Before the end of the year, half of his mighty army might well go to war without rifles in hand. But at least they would march to the Front sober.
One of Nicholas’s first acts of the war, while he was still riding high on the people’s good will, was to institute prohibition against the sale of vodka. And in another zealous moment, Nicholas issued a decree changing the name of his capital from the decidedly German-sounding St. Petersburg to the more Slavic Petrograd.
As long as he had the support of the people, Nicholas felt invincible. He even felt he could dismiss Rasputin’s criticism. From his hospital bed in Siberia, the starets had implored the tsar to stay out of the war. One telegram had the ominous ring of prophecy to it: “Papa, you must not go to war, for it will mean the end of Russia.”
Nicholas had never wanted war. In fact, he had been fairly certain that his cousin Willy, the Kaiser of Germany, would dissuade Austria from rash actions. When that had not happened and Willy had betrayed Nicholas, the tsar moved forward into war with righteous confidence. He still felt that confidence despite Grigori’s pronouncement of doom.
Now word had reached the tsar, via the agents assigned to keep Rasputin under surveillance, that the Mad Monk had returned to Petrograd. Nicholas received the report with mixed feelings.
To his secretary, Fredericks, he said in a candid moment, “Better to face one Rasputin than ten fits a day of my wife’s hysterics.”
In truth, his feelings toward t
he priest ran the entire emotional gamut from utter disdain to near devotion. After all, Nicholas had seen Rasputin heal Alexis with his own eyes. He had watched his son go from near death to health. Alexis was everything to Nicholas, his heart, his soul, his hope, and the man who could restore all this to him must be revered.
Yet Rasputin’s behavior—at best crude, at worst supremely vile by many reports—was an intense embarrassment to the tsar. Alix didn’t believe any of the reports, but when they came from trusted officials, men of honor, it was difficult for the tsar to dismiss them so easily. In Nicholas’s eyes, however, Rasputin was a family concern and, thus, ought not to be anyone else’s concern.
Sometimes Nicholas forgot that he was not merely a country squire, who had the prerogative to have family concerns. Rather, he was the ruler of the mightiest nation on earth. His life, his family, even their most intimate details belonged to a whole nation, perhaps even the world.
When he returned home to Tsarskoe Selo in the late afternoon, he was still feeling exhilarated. He was ready himself to go to the Front, and he would, too, even if his commanders had talked him out of taking the reins as commander in chief of the army. He went to his study and was about to read the latest mail when the door to his study opened. Nicholas looked up sharply, a bit annoyed at being so rudely interrupted. He was about to rebuke the intruder until he saw it was his daughter Tatiana.
“Papa! I’m so glad you are home. Mama told me to watch for you and fetch you quickly when you arrived. Alexis is bleeding again.”
“Dear Mother of God, no!” He rose. “Has Dr. Botkin been called?”
“Yes, Papa. He and Dr. Fedorcenko are there now.”
Nicholas hurried with his daughter through the corridors of the Alexander Palace to the tsarevich’s bedroom. The moment Nicholas entered, his wife rushed to his side.
“I hope I wasn’t wrong in waiting to call you, Nicky,” she said. “It seemed a small incident at first. A nosebleed that started with apparently no cause. It just . . . started. And it hasn’t stopped since this morning. He’s so weak now.” She was wringing her hands and on the verge of tears. He put his arm around her, and together they approached the boy’s bedside where the doctors were bending over their patient.
“Dr. Botkin,” said Nicholas, trying to instill calm into his voice, “what do you think?”
“We are trying something new,” Botkin replied. “I’ve packed the nasal passages with gauze soaked in a solution Fedorcenko has concocted—”
“What solution is that?” Nicholas knew his tone was sharp, suspicious. But this was his son, the heir to the throne, and he didn’t like the idea of him being used as a guinea pig.
Fedorcenko replied, “Nothing that would be harmful, I assure you, Your Highness. A simple mixture of groundsel leaves to which I’ve added alum root. Both have been used for generations on bleeding in the mucous membranes. I’ve been experimenting with several herbal folk remedies, Your Highness.”
Nicholas leaned close to his son and, gently stroking the boy’s warm forehead, said, “How are you Alexis, dear?”
“My pillow is wet, Papa.” The child’s reply was barely above a whisper. He was so pale.
Then Nicholas noticed the puddle of blood under his head. He looked at Fedorcenko. “How long do you expect before this takes effect?”
“I was hoping by now. I believe it has abated somewhat, but—”
“Not enough, though?”
Both doctors shook their heads in a grim negative.
“There is nothing else to be done?” asked the tsar. How many times had he asked that question over the years—always hoping.
“Sir,” said Fedorcenko, “I would like your permission to try another medication. It has been patented in America and has been on the market for nearly ten years. It’s called hydrastine. It’s been used with success in cases of uterine bleeding.”
“Do whatever you must,” said Nicholas. “As must I.”
He then turned away from the bedside and from the doctors, took his wife’s arm, and led her to the back of the room. “Alix, I’ve had a report that Grigori is back in Petrograd—”
“Nicky! When?”
Nicholas was unable to meet his wife’s eyes when he said, “Two or three weeks. Forgive me, Sunny, but—”
“How could you?” she raged. “Our son might never have had this happen had you told me earlier. You are cruel, Nicky.”
“Alix, he confuses me so. I never know what is the best thing to do about him. There are so many disturbing reports. I don’t know what to believe. Can’t you give me some credit that I am telling you now?”
“Now? When it may be too late?”
“Sunny, you have my blessing to call him.”
Saying no more, Alix spun around and rushed from the room.
Two hours later, leaning heavily on a roughly hewn walking stick, Rasputin burst into the sickroom. His sudden appearance was a shock to the subdued quiet that had been hanging over the room. Yuri noticed that the monk was much thinner than when he had last seen him. Under the scruffy, greasy beard, his face was gaunt and pale. He was dressed in a wrinkled, old cassock, a pectoral cross—which many said he had no right to wear because he was not a real priest—hanging prominently about his neck.
Alexandra rose from where she had been seated at her son’s bedside and strode to the starets, taking his grimy hands in hers.
“Father Grigori! At last.”
“I came because I bear you no grudge for so cruelly snubbing me. I am God’s servant and must do His bidding. He has called me to be the tsarevich’s savior, and so I must ignore the sting of betrayal—for the salvation of Holy Russia! And so I come to you.”
She knelt before him and tearfully kissed his hands. “I didn’t know you were here. Anna Vyrubova and I—”
“I know about you and Anna. You’ve had a falling out with her. And you let that come between us? Between me and the salvation of your son? Oh, Mama! You are a petty woman!”
“Forgive me, Father Grigori! I beg of you! Heal my son. I will do anything!”
“Oh yes, you will, Mama. Believe me, you will!” Then he turned his back on her—on the empress of Russia!—and walked to the bed. Before he focused on the boy, however, he leveled a glare at Yuri and Botkin. “So, the worthless doctors have failed again! They call you first, but it is I—only I!—who can heal. Someday they will learn. Now get out of my way.”
When Botkin stood firm, Yuri, following his lead, also stayed put.
“I said, get out of here!” shouted Rasputin.
“Please,” said Botkin, “this is a sickroom.”
“Only because of inept fools like you!” raved the starets.
A tense moment passed as the two doctors and the monk seemed to face off. Then Nicholas, who had been quietly sitting in the shadows, said, “Please, Dr. Botkin, Dr. Fedorcenko . . .” The tsar was beseeching them, not ordering them as he certainly had a right to do. “Let the priest in.”
Despite the tsar’s less-than-compelling command, Yuri knew they could not ignore it. They stepped back. Rasputin bent very close to Alexis. Yuri cringed when the man roughly pulled out the gauze packs. The bleeding had slowed, even if just marginally; yet the abrupt removal of the gauze could irritate the tender membranes and bring on a fresh hemorrhage.
“Alexis, look at me,” demanded Rasputin.
The tsarevich’s eyes fluttered open. “Father Grigori . . . you have . . . come to save me . . . ?”
“Have faith in me and in the Holy Virgin . . . and God will intercede.”
“Yes . . .” Alexis murmured. His eyes drooped closed.
“I said, open your eyes!” Rasputin’s tone was harsh. Yuri wanted to thrash the man for his insensitivity. Then Rasputin grabbed Alexis’s shoulder and gave it a hard shake. “Look at me, boy! Keep your eyes on me . . . I am your salvation and the salvation of Russia.”
“I am so tired, Father . . .”
“Do you want to get well?”
In response, Alexis forced his eyes open once more. Rasputin’s face was an inch from the boy’s.
“Good. It won’t be long before you will be walking and running in your favorite places,” Rasputin said, this time in a soothing, singsong tone. “You and I will walk by the balmy shores of the Black Sea. Remember when you made castles in the sand? And your sisters will be there, too. You’ll swim and play tag . . .”
Rasputin went on for several minutes in this vein, describing trips the tsarevich had been on or ones he hoped to take. He took the boy on imaginary strolls in the woods, chasing butterflies, or driving under a summer sky with salt air in his nostrils. Then, when Rasputin finished, using his stick for support he straightened. “Now, you can sleep, little one. You will be whole again.”
Finally, Rasputin crossed himself and the tsarevich, and he intoned, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!”
Alexis’s eyes dropped shut as if they were mechanical, operating by the sound of Rasputin’s voice. When the starets moved away from the bed, his whole body was shaking. His face was twisted with pain as he took a hobbled step. He was obviously spent. And Yuri was almost certain this was no act. The man had expended a great effort in what he had just done. Of course, the fact that he was barely recovered from a near-fatal injury was most likely the reason for this reaction.
But any pity Yuri felt was clouded as the priest brushed past him, then, pausing, turned and spit at Yuri’s feet.
“You will kill the little one someday,” Rasputin said, “with your concoctions and remedies. God curse you and your kind!”
The utterance was not spoken glibly, but rather with an unsettling power. Yuri hated himself for it, but he was shaken by the man’s words.
The tsar and tsaritsa followed the starets out of the room. Yuri and Botkin were silent for some time. Yuri had almost forgotten about the tsarevich. But Botkin had gone back to the bedside.
“Yuri, come here,” said Botkin.
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