Yuri was introduced to the others in the room. A Captain Soukhotin, who was on leave from the war, recuperating from a wound. And a commoner named Pourichkevich, who was a right-wing member of the Duma, and though a fervent monarchist, an outspoken critic of Rasputin.
“So, Yuri Sergeiovich,” said Felix lightly, “you must be wondering what this little clique of conspirators is all about.”
“Conspirators, eh?”
“I hope that doesn’t scare you away.”
“I am only here out of curiosity.”
“That’s well enough. I can assure you that we are concerned only with the welfare of Russia and the monarchy.”
Dmitri Pavlovich added, “I know for a fact that you care about the welfare of the tsarevich.”
“I do,” said Yuri. “And the tsar. I am a loyal subject.”
“As are all of us!”
“So, what is this all about?”
“Grigori Rasputin,” Felix answered.
“Yes . . . ?” Yuri wondered at the meaning of the peculiar tone of Youssoupov’s voice.
“My aunt Alexandra has criticized you, Yuri Sergeiovich,” Dmitri said.
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry I have displeased her,” he said cautiously. “Can you say what I have done to offend Her Highness?”
“She knows you disapprove of the starets. She believes you have requested that he be removed from Court.”
Yuri smiled at the preposterous statement. “Your Highness,” he said to the grand duke with barely controlled amusement, “I am just a physician. I hardly have the nerve to look the empress in the eye, much less make demands about how she runs her Court.”
“So you don’t disapprove of the Mad Monk?”
“I didn’t say that. I can’t lie even if it incurs the disfavor of Her Highness. I highly disapprove of the man. I have looked into his eyes, and I have been appalled at what I’ve seen in them.”
“For that very reason,” put in Felix with excitement, “we’d like to ask you to join us—”
“Join you in what?”
“It is time for that man’s reign of evil to end!” Dmitri Pavlovich interjected passionately. “It is time to take back the monarchy.”
“Can he really have as much power as people say?”
“I have been there, Yuri,” said Dmitri. “I have been in the middle of it all. I have seen him give counsel to the tsaritsa, not only on personal matters—that might be tolerable—but on issues of state, on military matters, for heaven’s sake! It must stop!”
“Dmitri,” said Felix, “tell him about your suspicions about the drugs.”
Dmitri shook his head with disgust and dismay. “While I was at Stavka I noticed the tsar was taking some medicine. I asked him what it was, and he casually said it was something Grigori had given him, just something to relax him, that’s all. But I fear it is more than that.”
“I had a conversation with Rasputin about this,” said Felix. “He freely admitted that he is supplying the tsar and tsarevich with medicine. Some of it, he says, causes divine grace to descend upon them—imagine that! But some is intended to—and these are Rasputin’s words—‘fill the tsar with peace, so everything appears good and cheerful to him.’”
“Sounds like mood elevators, perhaps narcotics and the like,” said Yuri. “I wish I had some samples to test.”
“The point is, Yuri, that even if you proved Rasputin is drugging the tsar, it wouldn’t matter. They would find a way to rationalize it, to defend Rasputin. While they are under his power, there can be no reasoning with them.”
“So, you propose to eliminate the man? To exile him—?”
“Exile, be hanged!” said Dmitri. “He’s been made to leave many times, but he always returns. And now nearly everyone in power is a tool of Rasputin’s, handpicked by him, and so they would never agree to exile him. Look what happened after that deplorable incident at the Villa Rhode? Absolutely nothing! We are left with only one recourse—to assassinate him!”
Yuri gaped at the men, shocked.
“Certainly, you can’t be surprised, Yuri,” said Felix. “We’re not the first to suggest such a solution to the Rasputin problem.”
“You must be the first of the tsar’s own family to suggest it. You are hardly Bolsheviks or Social Revolutionaries.”
“And that is the exact reason why we are the best suited for the task. The Revolutionaries don’t want to kill the man—Rasputin is playing right into their hands. Give the starets a little more time and the government and the monarchy will crumble completely. But if they were to kill Rasputin, it would only place power right into their hands instead of ours. Only if a loyal subject does the deed will there still be a chance to save the Crown.”
“But you are talking about murder!”
“Political assassination,” put in Pourichkevich. “There is a difference.”
Yuri shook his head. “I am a doctor, sworn to uphold life, not destroy it—for any reason.”
“Tell me, Yuri, that you wouldn’t kill to protect your family, your loved ones!” said Dmitri.
“I suppose I would.”
“And that is what this is all about.”
“If you put it that way, then my only response is that it is your family, Dmitri Pavlovich, not mine.”
“It will be your family soon enough. If the Crown falls, do you think any of the nobility will be spared? Do you think Russia will escape its own Reign of Terror? Either we take action now or we might as well resign ourselves to watching our loved ones march to the guillotine. Are you prepared to sacrifice your wife and daughter, your mother and sister, in order to spare the life of one evil, vile monster?”
Yuri swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. He couldn’t refute Dmitri’s argument. It was the age-old dilemma: sacrifice the one to save the many. He had already practiced that very thing at the Front. And, to further support the medical metaphor, Rasputin was a malignant growth. Cutting him out would save the rest of the body.
But could Yuri be a part of such a thing? Call it political assassination—it was still murder.
Yuri decided to skirt that issue for a moment. “What do you want of me?” he asked. “Surely the four of you can adequately handle eliminating a single man.”
“We need a doctor,” said Felix. “We’d need you to obtain poison and to instruct us on the proper dosage. Also, we’d want you to . . . uh . . . pronounce the man dead. We don’t want any slipups.”
“I just couldn’t do such a thing. The sanctity of life is just too deeply ingrained in me.”
“I am not a violent man either, Yuri,” said Felix. “The thought of all this repulses me. But I am bound by honor and duty. If I don’t do this, no one else will. I could not live with the repercussions of that. I don’t expect an immediate decision from you. Think it over. We have a little time, which I will use to curry a friendship with Rasputin so that when the time is right he will not be suspicious about coming to my house. That will be the best place to . . . do the deed. Think about it, Yuri—please! We need you.”
55
Yuri thought of nothing else. Of course he wouldn’t do it. But he couldn’t keep from thinking that it needed to be done. Did that make him a hypocrite, then? Let others do the dirty work, while he kept his hands clean—sterile? But, didn’t just knowing and remaining quiet about it make him an accomplice of sorts? Yet he didn’t know the time or the place, nor did he know just how serious Youssoupov and his friends were. It might have been just talk.
Nevertheless, the whole matter put him into a terrible state. And it didn’t help that he felt like such a scoundrel every time he saw Katya. She admired the man, and if Yuri hadn’t disapproved, no doubt she’d be one of his followers. And now her husband was part of a scheme against the man. He did not tell her anything about his meeting with Youssoupov—he didn’t dare.
But soon his dilemma over the Rasputin matter paled in comparison to another problem that was looming larger and larger. Two weeks after his u
nsettling discussion with Youssoupov and his friends, the time came for Yuri and Katya to be intimate once again. They had agreed to take certain precautions against conception, yet the risk remained. Still, since Yuri saw no physical risk involved to Katya, and Katya said she wanted to try again to have a child, he saw nothing standing in the way of them being together. Yuri naturally assumed that she was anticipating that moment as much as he.
He chose an evening that had been especially relaxing and pleasant. Katya’s grandmother had gone to the opera with friends. He had left the hospital early, and he and Katya had dined alone.
Katya sighed with contentment as she rose from her place at the dining table.
“Are you tired, sweetheart,” Yuri asked solicitously.
“Not really. I suppose I just feel rather lazy. I’m glad we didn’t go to the opera with Grandmother.”
“So am I. Would you like to retire early?” He asked the question with a suggestive smile.
“Perhaps so.”
“Might I . . . join you?”
He tried not to read anything into her slight hesitation. “Yes . . . of course. Give me a few moments, first, all right?”
She left the dining room, and five minutes later, he followed. First he went to his room and changed into his dressing gown. In Katyk, he and his whole family had slept in the same bed, and even in Petersburg, when Yuri and Andrei had their own little room, his mama and papa always occupied the same bed in their own room. But the rich did not live thus. The husband and wife each had their own rooms, their own beds. It seemed to him to be very cold—very safe, but not in a good way. He never much liked the arrangement and complied with it only because Countess Zhenechka had been rather scandalized when he suggested otherwise. As soon as he felt more secure in his new home he determined to alter the arrangement.
When he judged he had given Katya enough time, he went to the door adjoining their rooms. He wished he had some gift to give her, a small romantic token. Then he recalled the bouquet of roses on the dining table. At dinner, he had thought them terribly decadent, considering they had come from the south, an early Christmas gift from one of the countess’s friends. Roses on the table, when many people didn’t even have bread. But now he saw them in a new light. He hurried downstairs and plucked a beautiful red bud from the bowl. Back in his room, he caught his breath, then knocked softly on the adjoining door.
“Come in.”
She was lounging on a velvet daybed. She, too, was in her dressing gown, and there seemed no doubt that they both had the same expectations. He held out the rose with a grin. He was a bit nervous, almost as he had been on their wedding night. The quick, almost tentative smile that twitched upon her lips did nothing to calm his anxiety, but it was not forbidding, either. She took the rose, and he sat on the edge of the daybed.
“You are so thoughtful, Yuri.” She brought the rose to her nose and smelled the delicate fragrance.
“It’s not hard when I love you so!”
“You do, don’t you . . . ?” It seemed an odd thing for her to say. There was such a sadness in her voice.
“You don’t doubt it, my love? Not after all we’ve been through?”
“No, of course I don’t. But doesn’t it ever worry you—I mean, to love someone so much?”
He smiled, trying to lighten the moment. “With all that is happening in the world right now, that, Katya my dear, is the least of my worries. In fact, I believe it is actually what soothes those worries.”
He moved close and wrapped his arms around her. Did she stiffen ever so slightly, or were they just a bit rusty? After all, it had been months since they had been together. He forged ahead, carried along by his growing passion. He kissed her, murmuring words of love in her ear.
“Katya, I love you so!”
“Oh, Yuri . . .”
“How I have longed to be with you.”
He took her hand and led her to the bed. In his excitement he was oblivious to all but her nearness. Gently, he nudged her into the bed, sliding in beside her. His heart was pounding as he showered her with loving caresses.
Then he felt her tenseness. Even he couldn’t mistake it this time.
“Katya, what is it?” But he kissed her again, thinking that might help.
Her response was the last thing he expected. A choked sob broke from her lips.
“Katya?”
“Yuri . . .” she said between sobs. “I . . . I . . . can’t . . .” She pushed away from him.
“What’s wrong, my love?” He tried to be gentle, understanding. He wanted nothing more than to be a good husband to her.
“Please, Yuri, I’d like to be alone for now . . .”
“What have I done?” His voice shook with confusion and disappointment.
“I’m just not ready.”
“But, I thought—”
“Can’t you just leave me alone!” she snapped.
“The least you can do is tell me what I’ve done.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me.” She turned her back to him and, burying her face in a pillow, began to weep again.
“Katya! You have to tell me what’s wrong. You have to talk to me.”
“I don’t want to!”
“That’s not good enough!” He was losing his patience.
“I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s not true. I love you! I am committed to you, heart and soul. Why can’t you believe that?” He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it away.
“Please . . . go,” she said tearfully.
“You can’t do this to me, Katya.” Ire mixed with agony in his tone. His world was collapsing, and he felt like a shorn Samson, helpless, impotent to do anything to save it.
She lifted her head and turned to face him. In the dim light of the single lamp that was burning, she looked vulnerable, desperate.
“Yuri . . . please don’t come back to my room. It’s . . . best this way.”
“You don’t know what you are saying.”
“I do.”
“Why?” he pleaded.
“You should know why.”
His anger and frustration got the best of him. “How can I know why,” he yelled, “when you haven’t told me?”
“Don’t make me say it. I feel bad enough.”
“All right!” he exploded, throwing off the covers and jumping from the bed. “I should have known this was how it would be. You haven’t changed at all from that spoiled, thoughtless woman I first met. I’ve given you everything I could. But you still find it so easy to throw it back in my face. Fine! I will leave. You need not worry about me entering your inner sanctum again!”
He spun around and stalked from her room, slamming the door as he left. Then, as an angry afterthought, he locked the door. That, of course, was a silly gesture. She would never come after him. She didn’t want him. But even as he turned the latch, he hoped to hear her call his name, entreating him to return.
But there was only silence.
He stood in his room, shaking all over. He paced about but could not calm down. What in the world had happened? How blind and stupid was he that he had not sensed this coming? He thought they were in love, that their hearts and spirits were one. He thought all was well. But he shook his head, remembering his attempt to talk to his mother. He had known something was amiss. But he had tried to minimize it, thinking it was just because of their wartime separation, and, of course, their grief over the loss of their newborn son. Perhaps he had been insensitive, not fully understanding how deeply that loss might have affected Katya.
Yet, wouldn’t his comfort, even his physical comfort, be just the thing to help her over her grief? It certainly wouldn’t help for her to push him away. She had done just that before they were married—backing off from the very thing she wanted and needed, retreating from his love when she longed for it most. He had responded by being persistent, but that wasn’t as easy now. They were married now. He shouldn’t have to pursue her like a
love-struck lad.
Why did she have to be so confounded complex? But wasn’t that the very thing that had drawn him to her? He was not the most simplistic of men either, and, thus, she had been able to reach him and touch him in all the ways he needed.
He loved her so much. Too much? Was that what she had hinted at earlier when she asked if it worried him to love someone so much? Did it worry her? Did it frighten her? She’d often said how she had never been loved like that before. Her mother ran out on her when she was a little child. Her father was a cold, ruthless man. Irina’s father had been looking for everything but love. Poor Katya.
And now when she was confused and uncertain again, what had he done, her husband who claimed to love her, heart and soul? He had yelled at her, accused her, then walked out on her. He had given up on her when she needed him most. But she had told him to leave. What else could he do?
He turned back to the adjoining door. Perhaps she had just spoken in the heat of the moment. Now that a few minutes had passed, she was probably calm, perhaps even hoping that he would return. Anyway, one of them had to make the first move. He didn’t mind that it was him. So he unlatched the lock and turned the knob.
It didn’t budge. It was locked from her side!
He knocked several times, but there was no answer.
“Katya, please let me talk to you,” he said to the door. “Don’t be like this.”
The Russians Collection Page 227