Thinking he understood Ragoczy, Nikolai completed putting caviar and shaved onion on his egg, and, preparing to devour it, he said, “Then I am confident you will know how to manage this mission.”
“I will endeavor to do my poor best, Vyelichyestvo,” said Ragoczy with an elaborate show of courtliness; his use of the Czars formal honorific title emphasized his intent.
Nikolai was chewing on his egg and so could not laugh; he compromised with a closed-mouth smile and a gesture of amused approval. As the clock in the library behind them sonorously chimed the half-hour, Nikolai swallowed his egg, poured himself more tea from the china pot, and said, “Your credentials will be ready for you in two days. I will have all the material you need delivered to you by a private messenger. Keep them safe. They will come at an hour much like this one, so alert your manservant to be prepared to receive a late-night visitor, so that none of your servants can speak of the delivery, or any watcher know of it. This is not an idle precaution, nor an act of unnecessary anxiety. It will be important to have the packet delivered in complete secrecy. There are too many who would try to compromise the agreement if they learned of it, in England and Germany as well as Russia.” He set down the pot and held his hands to the stove again; Ragoczy noticed that two of the Czars nails were badly bitten. “And, as you are aware, there are rumors already.”
“I will make my travel arrangements as soon as the messenger delivers your packet to me, Czar,” said Ragoczy, feeling a rush of sympathy for Nikolai, who had never been taught to deal with such complexities as those confronting him now. “If there is anything I can do to better insure the success of this agreement, you may rely on me to do it.”
“Yes, I believe you are sincere in what you tell me; that is a comfort,” said Nikolai, a little sadly. He took a long sip of tea, watching Ragoczy over the rim of the glass. “You have no children, have you, Count?”
“Not that I am aware of, no,” said Ragoczy carefully; those of his blood continued the line in other ways. Any child he might have had would have perished four thousand years ago.
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“Then you cannot share my apprehension. I believe you must be a parent to have the concerns I do, and the determination.” He coughed once to hide the emotion this admission evoked in him. “I think of my children, and I cannot endure to imagine what would become of them in war. I am not afraid for myself, but for my children. And Sunny”— he shook his head at the mention of his cherished wife—“she is of so delicate a temperament that the slightest suggestion that war may come fills her with anguish for our children s sake.”
The subject of the Romanov children—particularly the hemophiliac Czareivich Alexei—was always a touchy one for Nikolai; Ragoczy considered his response before saying, “If I may, Czar—it is not war alone that troubles the Czarina. She has much more to—”
“No. No. You are right. It is not war alone.” Nikolai put his tea aside. “But Otyets Grigori Efimovich has given us all much comfort. How we managed before he came, I cannot think.” He sighed. “With him, we have hope. Without him—” He lifted one hand to show how devastated they would be without their precious Otyets Grigori Efimovich Rasputin-Novyhk.
Ragoczy had met Rasputin once, at a reception in Moscow. He had said little to the Siberian priest with the burning eyes and unwashed garments, remembering the times in the past when he had encountered other such magnetic personalities whose influence was as much madness as inspiration. “A most remarkable man: it is said Rasputin has done the Czareivich some good,” he observed, doing his best to keep his voice neutral.
“Yes,” Nikolai responded eagerly. “After all the mystics and charlatans who flocked around the family, it was deliverance itself for all of us to have Otyets Grigori Efimovich come to us. If he had not come when Alexei was four, I cannot conceive of what would have happened to my son. He was failing, and we were afraid to pray for mercy, since it might take the child from us.” He looked directly at Ragoczy. “Otyets Grigori Efimovich healed him when he was bleeding. A pity Stolypin does not trust him.”
The story was a familiar one, often repeated and embroidered, yet Ragoczy only said, “Rasputin saved your son, or so I have been told.” Nikolai was quiet for a short while, his eyes brooding. “We did not succeed at The Hague; too many of the powers who came had grudges against others, and we tried to do too much. There is still time, if the leaders will but see it. I can do little, and what I say is suspect. But you, you, Count, will bring this agreement to fruition.”
“I have said I will do my utmost. Czar.” He frowned slightly, his fine
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brows flicking together. “Your conference in The Hague did not entirely fail, and certainly not through any act of yours.”
“I called it. It was my intention to make all of the nations see that China was not alone in its problems, that we as the leaders of the world had to change our policies so that similar unrest and rebellions should not overtake us all. We had the chance, but the rest would not let themselves see what was obvious—” His voice had risen slightly, and there was a tension about him that was not often so noticeable as now. “This agreement must be ratified. The future is unimaginable without it. You must convince Edward and then Wilhelm. You must.”
“I will do my utmost,” Ragoczy repeated. He shifted in his chair so that he could meet Nikolais eyes directly.
“Yes.” Abruptly the Czar rose. “Put your affairs in order, Count, and leave for London as soon as the weather permits. You must make haste. Every week of delay brings us nearer to the conflagration.” He looked about as if he feared they were overheard. “It is time I left.”
“You need not worry, Czar,” said Ragoczy, deliberately taking his time getting to his feet. “I do not keep servants who listen at doors.” While that much was true, he knew there were spies in his household, as there were in every foreigners household throughout the world. He reached for his bell to summon Roger. “Your carriage will be at the side entrance shortly.”
“Good, good.” Nikolai began to pace, his restlessness revealed in the urgency of his stride. “I will prepare the packet tomor— today.” He pulled his watch from its pocket and stared down at the face. “You will be able to arrange your booking for London before the end of this day. You will have a day to put any necessary instructions in your business-agent’s hands. That should be sufficient.”
Ragoczy had already prepared most of the material his agent would require; he bowed slightly. “Yes. That will do.”
There were two raps on the door and Roger entered the room, bowing to Nikolai and then to Ragoczy as custom required. “I have sent word to the stable, and I have your hat and greatcoat at the door, Vyelichyestvo. If you will give me the honor to escort you?”
“I will accompany the Czar,” said Ragoczy quietly.
Roger inclined his head. “The greatcoat and hat are in the vestibule. On the brass rack.” He bowed again to Nikolai and left the room, leaving the door ajar.
“Whoever trained him trained him well,” said Nikolai as he halted near the center of the room.
“Thank you; I will tell him,” said Ragoczy as he opened the door fully
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for Nikolai to leave. “He will make sure you are unobserved as you leave.”
Nikolai nodded curtly, his mind on other matters. As he passed through the doors, he said, “Let me remind you, Ragoczy. If you fail me through any fault of your own, you will regret it. Count you may be, and Prinz you have been, but it will avail you nothing if you do not turn your full capacities to this.”
Ragoczy remained unperturbed. “For more reasons than you suppose, Czar. I want peace in Europe, too; perhaps not as ardently as you do, but as profoundly. Believe this.” They had reached the top of the stairs and were starting down, Ragoczy a step behind the Czar, when Nikolai halted and rounded on him.
“You will keep me informed of all you do, Count,
from the most significant discussions to the least entertainment. I expect you to tell me everything that transpires. Keep a journal for my review, and send me regular reports. Let no detail go unrecorded. I will want one dispatch a week from you at the least. Sent privately. Do not use any of my ambassadors; they cannot be wholly trusted, not in this regard. They all have relatives.” He glared at Ragoczy. “My authorization of your mission will be quickly rescinded if you fail to do as I order.”
“As you command, Czar,” said Ragoczy, following as Nikolai again resumed his progress down the wide staircase. As he went, his memory from more than three hundred years ago of the far more capricious and dangerous Czar Ivan Grosny rose in his mind; he banished it at once, consoling himself with the realization that Nikolai II was not of the same character as Ivan IV. He indicated the door to the vestibule as they reached the main floor. “If you will permit me?”
“Yes.” He waited while Ragoczy fetched his hat and greatcoat. As his host helped him to dress for the frigid night, he relented enough to say, “I am grateful to you, Count, and if there were not so much at stake here, you would hear more of it from me. As it is, you must be willing to forego my thanks until there is something settled.”
“I understand, Czar,” said Ragoczy as he ushered Nikolai through the side door to his waiting carriage.
Half an hour later, Roger found his master once again in his study, this time with a leather portfolio in his hands. “Is everything all right?” Ragoczy asked in the Latin of Imperial Rome as he slipped three more sheets of paper into the portfolio.
“Yes, my master,” said Roger in the same language, going to remove the tray and its contents from the side table. “I presume we are going to England shortly. Should I pack your trunks for you?”
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Ragoczy s smile was wry. “Yes, old friend, you presume correctly. We will have to sail, worse luck, but it cannot be helped.” He set the portfolio down. “This will have to be delivered to Piotr Dinitrovich Golovin, before noon if possible.” The mention of his business-agent, a minor cousin of a high-ranking noble family, caught Rogers attention.
“Shall I carry it?” Roger asked. “And deliver it privately?”
“If you would, please,” said Ragoczy. “If he has questions, tell him to come around tonight after supper. If my written instructions are adequate, he need not venture out.”
“Are there any verbal instructions you would like me to relay to him?” Roger inquired, taking care not to intrude on Ragoczy s thoughts.
“It would be wisest, I suppose, to tell him that I will not be easily available to him for a while. Let him know I will write to him as business permits. Say nothing about the Czar.” He noticed the rebuking glance Roger gave him; he went on at once, “Not that I think you would. It is this court. There are so many plotters at work. I can sense them all around us.”
“And all eager to influence the Czar,” Roger finished for him.
“Or the Duma,” Ragoczy amended. “Or both.”
Roger said nothing as he picked up the tray. When he reached the door, he remarked, “There are crates of your native earth warehoused in London. That is one thing you need not be troubled about. I will arrange for shipments to Berlin and Munchen as well.”
“All the forgotten gods be thanked,” said Ragoczy, and went back to writing out instructions for his factory managers to follow in his absence.
Text of a letter from the Countess Amalija Romanovna Khormanskaya to Franchot Ragoczy, delivered three days after Ragoczy s departure for London.
Jylkkaniemi, Suomi February 3,1910
Count Franchot Ragoczy Daum Saint-Germain Nevsky Prospekt St. Petersburg, Russia
My dear, dear Franchot;
Of course I am devastated that you will not be joining us here at the dasha. Not that Finland is any place to be in February. All one can do
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is hunt or hide indoors, and I am no hunter, not at my age. So I long for entertainment other than my nephews children. They are sweet and naughty by turns, which delights Leonid and Irina more than me —/ confess it. I was looking forward to your coming. I long to speak with an adult about books and opera and art and the ballet, anything that does not involve toys or nursemaids or schools. I will do what I can to fill the hours with the piano, but it does not keep tune well in this cold, and I will probably miss you more when I have finished playing than before I began.
Tell me the instant you know when you are returning. Send a telegram and it will be brought to me, never mind a letter, which will take much too long to present its good news. I will return to the capital if I am not there already and invite everyone worth knowing in St. Petersburg to a gala to welcome you back, if I do not die of boredom before then. We will have an orchestra and champagne and dancers and the party will last until dawn. Anna Vyrubova will be furious, of course; she has set her stock in that charlatan Rasputin, who is not a suitable guest for most galas, while you, my dearest Count, are more than a hostess could wish for. It would please me to annoy her again, and you are the best excuse I could ever have to show her up as an ambitious woman curryingfavor. Let me have the gala, I beg you. And if enough guests come, you and I can leave by midnight and no one will notice.
You should be pleased with my restraint: I will not probe for the reason for this hasty departure, but you cannot keep me from speculation. If my speculations have any bearing on the truth, I will pray for you, for if you are embarked on such an errand as I suspect, you will need all the hosts of Heaven to aid you. It is my observation that the Hosts of Heaven keep far away from international politics, not that you must be engaged in such activities. Knowing you, you will say nothing no matter what the situation may be, and I have better things to do with you than try to wheedle secrets out of you. Besides, I do not wish you to lie to me, and I fear you would have to do that if I pestered you too much.
It would shock my nephew and his wife to know how much an ancient like me can miss your kisses. Yes, I lie awake nights wishing I could hear you tap on the window, and dreaming of what would transpire when I let you in. Naturally I keep such fancies to myself. They—my nephew and his otherwise-sensible wife—assume passion deserts the flesh at forty, never to return. I will try not to scandalize them in your absence. This dasha is lovely in the spring, when I will turn forty- nine; I will be happy to bring you here then, when Leonid is once again posted to St. Petersburg. We will have it all to ourselves, and my staff is dis-
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creet. The Finns, whatever else they may be, are not talkative.
With my prayers and my lonely kisses while you are away, and my hope for your swift and safe journey—especially the swift part.
With longing for your touch, Amalija
2
“But it is important,” protested the butler from the other side of the door.
“I told you not to disturb me, Schmidt: what is it?” Baron Klemens Manfred von Wolgast demanded of his butler as that long-suffering individual was given access to the Barons private apartments.
“There is a message, Sir,” said the butler holding out a small sealed envelope in a hand that quivered only slightly; he combined obsequiousness with efficiency nicely.
Baron von Wolgast snatched the envelope away from the butler and tore it open while he looked over his shoulder and called out affably, “I will be with you in a moment, Herzog Persuic. Forgive me for this delay, but the press of business ...” He drew the folded sheet out of the envelope and read it quickly, his small blue eyes, deep-set in a fleshy face, hardening. He shoved the paper back in the envelope and said to his butler. “There is no answer but thank you and a gratuity for the messenger. I will see Madame Nadezna later tonight and discuss this with her then.” He disguised his petulance with a blunt sort of smile.
His guest wore a Hungarian uniform, bore an Austrian title, and a Czech Christian name, but was, in fact, Croatian. He was tall and straight, w
ith a mass of thick, tawny-brown hair over a strong brow and hazel eyes; he had an uncompromising jaw. As he set aside his cigar, he said, “I hope it is not bad news.”
Von Wolgast waved the envelope in the air as if to demonstrate its unimportance. “An inconvenience, nothing more. Do not worry: it will not intrude on our evening.” He put the offending envelope into the pocket of his formal jacket and resumed their discussion. “About the field artillery: I can see no difficulty in meeting your request. You will be able to attend the demonstrations, will you not? You will see the im-
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provements for yourself. I am convinced you will not be disappointed.” He coughed diplomatically. “We will have to have a partial payment in advance, naturally, to cover a portion of our expenses, and to be certain of your . . . ah . . . serious intentions. You do understand the need for this, I trust?” His laughter was a bit forced, but on this Prussian, who carefully cultivated his slight resemblance to Otto von Bismarck, from his clothes to his modified muttonchop whiskers, a little force seemed wholly appropriate. “We would be well-advised to begin work quickly, to ensure your advantage in weapons.”
Herzog Persuic managed a humorless, vulpine smile. “The sooner we can act, the better it will be for Croatia. We cannot permit the Serbs to gain the upper hand.” He was slimmer than his host, and half a head taller; he stood parade-erect. He stubbed out his cigar and rose to pace the long withdrawing room lined with trophy heads of stags, boars and bear. At the far end he paused and regarded the impressive collection with approval. “Yours, I suppose?”
“Most of them,” said von Wolgast with self-satisfaction evident in every aspect of his manner. “The stag with twelve points was my fathers; he brought it down in ”71. So was the boar over the gun cabinet.” In actuality, almost half of the heads in the withdrawing room were his father s, but von Wolgast had appropriated the majority when he came into the rest of his inheritance some nine years ago.
Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Page 3