Nicholas and Alexandra: The Classic Account of the Fall of the Romanov Dynasty

by Robert K. Massie

  Seen from Alexandra’s viewpoint, the next step was entirely logical. In waging this great fight to save Russia and the autocracy, she needed a powerful ally. Rasputin, she was convinced, was a Man of God; his credentials had been proved in the hours when his prayers had seemed miraculously to check the Tsarevich’s hemorrhages. Now, in a time of war, he also appeared the living embodiment of the soul of the Russian people: coarse, simple, uneducated, but close to God and devoted to the Tsar. From these premises, it was no great step for her to conclude that God intended Rasputin to guide Russia through the ordeal of war. If she could trust him with the dearest thing she possessed—the life of her son—why should she not also trust him with choosing ministers, commanding the army or directing the life of the entire nation?

  For a while in the first autumn of war, Rasputin’s influence at Tsarskoe Selo had dwindled. Nicholas could not forgive him his opposition to what the Tsar considered a patriotic war; the Empress was busy from morning until night with hospitals, fulfilling herself in nursing. Once when Rasputin telephoned Anna Vyrubova and asked to see the Empress, Anna replied that the Empress was busy and that he had better wait a few days. Rasputin put down the phone with loud annoyance.

  Early in the winter of 1915, however, Rasputin’s influence over the Empress was sweepingly restored by another of those remarkable episodes which studded his life. Late on the afternoon of January 15, 1915, a train carrying Anna Vyrubova from Tsarskoe Selo into Petrograd was wrecked. When Anna was found and extricated from the wreckage, she was in critical condition. Her legs had been crushed by the coils of a steam radiator; a steel girder had fallen across her face and pinned her head; her skull and her spine were badly injured. At the hospital where she was taken, a surgeon declared, “Do not disturb her. She is dying.” Nicholas and Alexandra came to her bedside and waited helplessly for the end. Rasputin, quite out of touch, did not hear about the accident until the following day. When he did, he jumped up from his table and drove straight to the hospital in a car lent to him by Countess Witte. When he entered the room, Anna was in a delirium, murmuring, “Father Gregory, pray for me,” while the Tsar and the Empress stood by. Rasputin strode to Anna’s side, took her hand and called out “Annushka! Annushka! Annushka!”

  The third time he called, Anna slowly opened her eyes.

  Rasputin ordered her, “Now wake up and rise.”

  She made an effort to get up.

  “Speak to me,” he commanded.

  She spoke in a feeble voice.

  “She will recover, but she will remain a cripple,” said Rasputin, turning to the others. Then he staggered from the room and collapsed in a wave of dizziness and perspiration.

  Exactly as Rasputin had predicted, Anna recovered but thereafter moved only on crutches or in a wheelchair. Her devotion to Rasputin became unquestioning. Convinced that he was sent by Heaven to save the Imperial family, she dedicated herself to assisting Rasputin in his mission. Acting as intermediary, she did everything in her power to smooth over differences between her mistress and the starets.

  In Alexandra, the episode overwhelmingly revived her conviction that Rasputin was a true saint capable of accomplishing miracles. Utterly convinced herself, she did her utmost to transfer her conviction to Nicholas. “No, harken unto Our Friend,” she wrote in June 1915. “Believe him. He has your interest and Russia’s at heart. It is not for nothing God sent him to us, only we must pay more attention to what He says. His words are not lightly spoken and the importance of having not only his prayers but his advice is great.… I am haunted by Our Friend’s wish and know it will be fatal for us and for the country if not fulfilled. He means what he says when he speaks so seriously.” In September 1916: “I fully trust in our Friend’s wisdom, endowed by God to counsel what is right for you and our country. He sees far ahead and therefore his judgement can be relied upon.”

  One block from the Fontanka Canal, at 64 Gorokhovaya Street in Petrograd, stood the building where Rasputin lived during these crucial years, 1914–1916. A five-story brick apartment house, entered through a small paved courtyard, with a concierge’s room at the foot of the wide stairs, it was architecturally similar to thousands of buildings erected in that era in Paris, London, Berlin or New York. Socially, there was nothing distinguished about the house of the Imperial favorite. Rasputin’s neighbors were working people: a clerk, a seamstress, a masseuse. The staircase was thick with pungent smells: leather, sheepskin coats, thick clouds of cabbage soup and the rancid odor of hot sheep’s cheese.

  Rasputin’s apartment on the third floor of this building was surprisingly small and sedate. It consisted of five rooms. “The bedroom … was small and very simply furnished,” wrote Prince Felix Yussoupov, who often visited Rasputin. “In a corner close to the wall was a narrow bed with a red fox bedspread, a present from Anna Vyrubova. Near the bed was a big chest of painted wood; in the opposite corner were lamps which burned before a small icon. Portraits of the Tsar and Tsarina hung on the walls along with crude engravings representing biblical scenes.” [In the dining room] “water was boiling in the samovar; on the tables were a number of plates filled with biscuits, cakes and nuts; glass bowls contained jam and fruit and other delicacies; in the center stood a great basket of flowers. The furniture was of massive oak, the chairs had very high backs, a bulky dresser full of crockery took up most of one wall. There were a few badly-painted pictures. A bronze chandelier with glass shades lighted the table. The flat had an air of middle-class solidity.”

  Here, on days when he had not been drinking late, Rasputin rose early and went to Mass. By the time he returned for a breakfast of bread and tea, the first of his petitioners already was climbing the stairs. Rasputin’s influence at court brought him people from all walks of life: bankers, bishops, officers, society women, actresses, adventurers and speculators, peasant girls, old women who had traveled miles simply to get his blessing. The callers came in such numbers that many had to wait in line on the staircase. Outside, the curb was lined with the automobiles of important people visiting Rasputin.

  If Rasputin liked a visitor and decided to help, he took his pen and scrawled a few clumsy lines: “My dear and valued friend. Do this for me. Gregory.” These scraps of paper, carrying the aura of great connections, were often all that was needed to obtain a position, win a promotion, delay a transfer or confirm a contract. Some of these notes, attached to petitions, went straight to the Empress, who forwarded them to the Tsar. Because Mosolov was head of the Court Secretariat, Rasputin’s notes often arrived on his desk. “All were drawn up the same way,” he wrote, “a little cross at the top of the page, then one or two lines giving a recommendation from the starets. They opened all doors in Petrograd.” In one case, Mosolov was unable to help. “A lady in a low cut dress, suitable for a ball … handed me an envelope: inside was Rasputin’s calligraphy with his erratic spelling: ‘My dear chap, Fix it up for her. She is all right. Gregory.’ The lady explained that she wanted to become a prima donna in the Imperial Opera. I did my utmost to explain to her clearly and patiently that the post did not depend in any way on me.”

  Usually, because he wrote poorly and slowly, Rasputin did not bother to name the service to be performed, leaving it to the petitioner to supply these details. Often, he did not even name the addressee, assuming that the petitioner would place it in the most appropriate hands. Eventually, to save time, Rasputin made up a supply of these notes in advance. As his petitioners arrived, he simply handed them out.

  In return for his services, Rasputin accepted whatever his visitors might offer. Financiers and wealthy women put bundles of money on the table and Rasputin stuffed them into his drawers without bothering to count. If his next petitioner was a person in need, he might pull out the whole bundle and give it away. He had little need of money himself; his flat was simple, most of his wines and foods were brought as gifts. His only real interest in acquiring money was to accumulate a dowry for his daughter Maria, who was in school in Petrograd and li
ved in a room in his apartment.

  For pretty women, there were other methods of payment. Many an attractive visitor, thinking she could win his help with words and smiles, rushed suddenly out of his apartment, weeping or trembling with rage. Helped down the stairs, she went off to the police station to complain that Rasputin had tried to rape her. There, her name and the circumstances of her plight were duly noted, but Father Gregory was never punished.

  Along with his droves of petitioners, another cluster of people attended faithfully on Rasputin. Day after day, in front of the house, in the concierge’s lodge and on the stairs leading to Rasputin’s door, lounged a squad of detectives. They had a double function: to guard the starets’s life and to take careful notes of everyone he saw and everything that happened to him. Bored, shifting their feet on the stairs to let the petitioners pass, they scribbled down minute details: “Anastasia Shapovalenkova, the wife of a doctor, has given Rasputin a carpet.… An unknown clergyman brought fish for Rasputin.… Councilor von Kok brought Rasputin a case of wine.” When a visitor left Rasputin’s apartment, the plainclothesmen swarmed around, hoping to learn what had happened inside. If the visitor was garrulous, little dramas were scrawled deadpan into the notebooks:

  November 2: “An unknown woman visited Rasputin in order to try to prevent her husband, a lieutenant at present in hospital, from being transferred from St. Petersburg.… [She said] ‘A servant opened the door to me and showed me to a room where Rasputin, whom I had never seen before, appeared immediately. He told me at once to take off my clothes. I complied with his wish, and went with him into an adjoining room. He hardly listened to my request; but kept on touching my face and breasts and asking me to kiss him. Then he wrote a note but did not give it to me, saying that he was displeased with me and bidding me to come back next day.”

  December 3: “Madame Likart visited Rasputin … to ask him to intervene on her husband’s behalf. Rasputin proposed that she should kiss him; she refused, however, and departed. Then the mistress of Senator Mamontov arrived. Rasputin asked her to return at 1 a.m.”

  January 29: “The wife of Colonel Tatarinov visited Rasputin and … the starets embraced and kissed a young girl in her presence; she found the incident so painful that she had decided never to visit Rasputin again.”

  The staircase watch was maintained at night as well as by day, and the police kept track of Rasputin’s evening companions: “Maria Gill, the wife of a Captain in the 145th Regiment, slept at Rasputin’s.… About 1 a.m. Rasputin brought an unknown woman back to the house; she spent the night with him.… Rasputin brought a prostitute back to the flat and locked her in his room. The servants, however, afterwards let her out.… Vararova, the actress, slept at Rasputin’s.”

  Sometimes when Rasputin had been aroused but left unsatisfied by his female visitors, he wandered up and down the stairs, pounding on doors:

  May 9: “Rasputin sent the concierge’s wife for the masseuse but she refused to come. He then went himself to Katia, the seamstress who lives in the house, and asked her to ‘keep him company.’ The seamstress refused.… Rasputin said ‘Come next week and I will give you fifty roubles.’ ”

  June 2: “Rasputin sent the porter’s wife to fetch the masseuse, Utilia, but she was not at home.… He went to the seamstress Katia in Flat 31. He was apparently refused admittance, for he came down the stairs again, and asked the porter’s wife to kiss him. She, however, disengaged herself from his embrace, and rang his flat bell, whereupon the servant appeared and put Rasputin to bed.”

  In time, Rasputin became friendly with the detectives. As his door opened and his powerful figure and weather-beaten face appeared, the detectives would bow, lift their hats and wish him good morning. Often, they were able to be of service to him. One night, two gentlemen with drawn revolvers dashed up the stairs, declaring that their wives were spending the night with Rasputin and that they had come to avenge the dishonor. While one group of agents staved off the angry husbands, others raced up the stairs to give warning. In haste, Rasputin managed to bundle the ladies down the back stairs before their husbands burst in the front door.

  Late at night, Rasputin thundered down the stairs, jumped into his car and drove off to carouse until dawn. The police, stuffing their pencils and notebooks into their pockets, scurried to follow:

  December 14: “On the night of 13th to 14th December, Rasputin, accompanied by the 28 year old wife of … Yazininski, left … about 2 a.m. in a car for the restaurant Villa Rode.… He was refused admittance on account of the lateness of the hour; but he began to hammer on the doors and wrenched the bell off. He gave five roubles to the police officer on guard, not to annoy him. Then he went off with his companion to the Mazalksi gypsy choir at Number 49 and remained there until 10 a.m. The pair, in a very tipsy state, then proceeded to Madame Yazininskaia’s flat, from which Rasputin did not return home until midday. In the evening, he drove to Tsarskoe Selo.”

  April 15: “Rasputin … called on the honorary burgess Pestrikov.… As Pestrikov was not at home, he took part in a drinking party which Pestrikov’s son was giving to some students. A musician struck up and there was singing and Rasputin danced with a maidservant.”

  His revels ended, Rasputin staggered home, still accompanied by the exhausted but dogged detectives:

  October 14: “Rasputin came home dead drunk at 1 a.m. and insulted the concierge’s wife.”

  November 6: “Rasputin … came back drunk … as he went up to his flat he inquired if there were any visitors for him. On hearing that there were two ladies, he asked ‘Are they pretty. Very pretty? That’s good. I need pretty ones.’ ”

  January 14: “Rasputin came home at 7 a.m. He was dead drunk.… He smashed a pane of glass in the house door; apparently he had had one fall already, for his nose was swollen.”

  Day after day, these reports piled up in huge bundles on the desks of the police. From there, they were passed to some whose duty it was to read them, and to many who, although unauthorized, paid handsomely to savor their lusty flavor. Ministers, court officials, grand dukes, countesses, foreign ambassadors, great industrialists, merchants and stockbrokers all pored over them. The talk of Petrograd, they titillated or outraged every important citizen. Marye, the American Ambassador, wrote breathlessly in his diary: “Rasputin’s apartments are the scene of the wildest orgies. They beggar all description and from the current accounts of them which pass freely from mouth to mouth, the storied infamies of the Emperor Tiberius on the Isle of Capri are made to seem moderate and tame.” The notes convinced all who read them that the man they described was coarse, unscrupulous, a satyr. Only one person, offered the chance, refused to read them. The Empress was convinced that the senior officials of the police hated Rasputin and would do what they could to blacken his name. For her, the famous “staircase notes” were only fiction.

  The sheer, blind obstinacy of Alexandra’s refusal to see the truth was never more dramatically displayed than in the notorious incident of the Yar in April 1915. Rasputin had arrived in Moscow, supposedly to pray at the tombs of the patriarchs in the Ouspensky Sobor inside the Kremlin. At night, however, he decided to visit the popular Yar restaurant, where he soon became roaring drunk. Bruce Lockhart happened to be present. “I was at Yar, the most luxurious night haunt of Moscow, with some English visitors,” he wrote. “As we watched the music hall performance in the main hall, there was a violent fracas in one of the private rooms. Wild shrieks of women, a man’s curses, broken glass, and the banging of doors. Headwaiters rushed upstairs. The manager sent for policemen.… But the row and the roaring continued.… The cause of the disturbance was Rasputin—drunk and lecherous, and neither police nor management dared evict him.” Eventually, a telephone call reached the Assistant Minister of Interior, who gave permission to arrest him, and Rasputin was led away “snarling and vowing vengeance.” According to witnesses, Rasputin had exposed himself, shouting boastfully that he often behaved this way in the company of the Tsar and that he coul
d do what he liked with “the Old Girl.”

  A report including every detail of Rasputin’s behavior was drawn up and personally submitted to the Tsar by General Dzhunkovsky, an aide-de-camp who was commander of all the police in the empire. It was assumed by those who knew its contents that this time Rasputin was finally finished. Nicholas summoned Rasputin and angrily asked for an explanation. Rasputin’s excuse was ingenious and contained at least a kernel of truth. He explained that he was a simple peasant who had been lured to an evil spot and tempted to drink more than he should. He denied the grosser parts of the report and swore that he had never made any statement about the Imperial family. Nevertheless, without showing the report to Alexandra, the Tsar ordered Rasputin to leave Petrograd for a while and return to Pokrovskoe.

  Later, the Empress read the report and exploded with wrath. “My enemy Dzhunkovsky has shown that vile, filthy paper to Dmitry [Grand Duke Dmitry, later one of Rasputin’s assassins]. If we let our Friend be persecuted, we and our country will suffer for it.” Dzhunkovsky’s days were numbered. From that moment, the Empress’s letters were filled with a stream of pleadings to “get rid of Dzhunkovsky,” and in September 1915 he was dismissed.*

  Whatever else he might be doing, Rasputin always took exquisite care to preserve the image of piety he had created at Tsarskoe Selo. It was the keystone of everything, his career and his life, and he protected it with cunning and zeal. Sometimes, an unexpected telephone call from Tsarskoe Selo would break in and upset his evening plans. He growled, but even when thoroughly drunk, managed to sober himself immediately and rush off to consult with “Mama,” as he called the Empress, on matters of state.

  Alexandra’s disbelief in the evil half of Rasputin’s nature was considerably more complicated than a simple, prudishly Victorian blindness to that side of life. She was certainly moralistic, but she was not ignorant or squeamish about sex and vice. She had heard most of the stories about Rasputin’s villainous behavior and she had consciously rejected them as false and slanderous. For this fateful misjudgment on her part, Rasputin himself was shamefully—and yet, as an actor, brilliantly—responsible.