by John Burke
“My boy, my little boy . . . oh, my darling . . . my little, sweet little Alexy . . . you’re so hot, darling. So hot. Open your eyes and look at your mother. Oh, my poor sweet . . . please open your eyes . . . please . . .”
It became an incantation. Words streamed from her, sometimes in reasonable order, sometimes a crazy jumble.
Sonia and Vanessa stood behind her. At times like this they must be able to catch her if she fell, soothe her, do whatever she asked—unless one of the doctors signified covertly that they must find a way of doing just the opposite.
“My little boy . . . my love . . .”
The senior physician edged closer to Sonia. “If she would just let me move him to hospital where I could keep him under proper medical supervision . . . where I have the facilities for making a proper examination . . .”
The Tsarina looked round and beckoned him towards her. At the end of the bed a bishop stood with head bowed, intoning a dirge. He was dressed magnificently . . . but dressed in black.
Sonia shuddered. As the doctor and the Tsarina bent over Alexy she saw that his forehead was moist with perspiration. From here he seemed hardly to be breathing.
What had she done? She did not even know. There had been a strange dizzy moment when a voice had spoken to her and she had done what it ordered.
No. It had been an accident. She was imagining things—absurd things.
The physician stood back. “Madame, I shall return in an hour.”
“You are leaving?” At once the Tsarina began to flutter into a panic. “You must not. You cannot leave.”
“There is nothing more I can do here at this time, Madame. I shall consult some of my colleagues and then return.” He hesitated, then ventured: “If you would allow me to take His Highness to the hospital . . .”
“No! This is his home. He belongs here in the palace with me, his mother. Whatever must be done will be done here.”
“But if we could try the new ray apparatus of Professor Röntgen—”
“No.”
The physician bowed. “Then there is nothing more I can do for the moment. Madame.” He went out.
Fretfully the Tsarina turned to the bishop. “My lord Bishop—”
“We can only pray, Your Majesty.”
“Pray.” She seized on it. The physician had deserted her; she would cling to the bishop. “Yes, pray. We must all pray.” Imperiously she waved Sonia and Vanessa down to their knees, and she knelt a few feet away. “O Lord, look down on this miserable sinner and have mercy. Save her child who will one day be Tsar of all the Russias—who must live.” Although her head was bowed she noticed a faint gesture of reproach from the bishop. “If it is your will that he be spared,” she added grudgingly. “Save him . . . not only for his mother’s sake but for the sake of all his loyal subjects who love and respect him. Who need him. Have mercy, O Lord—and save the life of my little boy.” She burst into sobs.
“Amen,” said the bishop sonorously.
There was a long silence. Through it a voice spoke clearly in Sonia’s head. She knew its sound too well and tried to suppress it, but inexorably the command was hammered into her mind.
When at last she and Vanessa risked getting up and helping the Tsarina to her feet, Sonia found herself saying in an undertone: “Your Majesty . . . I have heard of a certain holy man newly come to St. Petersburg . . .”
The Tsarina had been a devout Protestant girl brought up strictly in stern Victorian England. The adoption of the Russian Orthodox faith upon her marriage had at first caused her great heartache. But then she had abandoned herself wholeheartedly to it. Having decided to accept, she accepted everything without question: the splendor of the dignitaries and the primitive superstitions of the peasants, filtering in from the countryside despite all attempts by the hierarchy to belittle them; the discipline of the truly orthodox and the wayward mysticism of wandering fakirs; the austerity and the savage licentiousness masquerading as divine possession. Her caprices could all be justified—to herself, by herself. A stream of faith healers and charlatans of all kinds had passed through the palace, here and at Tsarskoe Selo, trying to cure the Tsarevitch’s inherited disease and feebleness. The spiritual panaceas of mendicant friars and wild-eyed men from the steppes had been eagerly experimented with for the sake of the boy and the whole royal household and the future of Mother Russia. It was enough to mention a new preacher or potential healer: the Tsarina would at once summon him to her presence.
Now she was impatient, shrugging off her depression. Sonia was dispatched with an official messenger as escort. The holy man must return with her. Immediately. When the Tsarina wanted a thing to happen, it had to be made to happen on the spot. She could brook no delay.
The messenger looked incredulous as the coach turned into the narrow, sordid streets behind the market. He seemed on the verge of asking Sonia whether she was really sure of the route, but she deterred him by looking sternly and confidently ahead. On a narrow corner she suggested that they should leave the coach in order not to attract too much attention. He agreed, and advised her to stay in it while he sought the holy man. Sonia ignored this. She went beside him to the door of the café and stood to one side as he went in, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Rasputin and Zargo were seated at a table drinking and plucking large fragments of dripping fish from a bowl. They must have been there a long time. Zargo was swaying drunkenly on his chair and there were three empty wine bottles in front of him.
Rasputin said: “Order some more.”
“Can’t. Money’s all gone.”
“Plenty more where that came from. I have only to snap my fingers.”
“Start snapping. There’s not a kopeck left.”
Rasputin raised his hand and snapped his fingers, almost under the nose of the court messenger. Sonia would have laughed at the sight of that pompous, formal man being treated like this; but Rasputin was not a man to incite laughter. She had laughed at him once and once only—and still did not know what the end of it was to be.
The messenger said with undisguised distaste: “Are you Grigori Rasputin?”
“I am.”
“I have a message from Her Majesty the Tsarina.”
Rasputin remained unmoved. “Yes?”
“You are to attend the Tsarina at the palace.”
“May I know the reason?”
He knew the reason. He had planned it and they were dancing to the tune he called. Sonia wanted to turn and go, never to see him again. He was a cheat, a liar, a lecher, who could bring nothing but evil into the royal household. Yet she craved to look into his eyes again. She wanted him to touch her. She was weak with longing, and at the same time appalled by this weakness.
The messenger said stiffly: “The Tsarevitch is seriously ill. You have been recommended to Her Majesty as . . . a healer.”
“She wishes me to heal her son.”
“Yes.”
Rasputin got up. He walked to the door and looked full at Sonia without a sign of recognition. Then he turned to the messenger.
“Tell Her Majesty that I shall come. That I will first attend the cathedral in order to pray for the boy, and then I shall come straight to the palace.” As the messenger edged disdainfully past him, he added firmly and loudly: “And tell Her Majesty that she need fear no more. Her son will recover from this moment on.”
Sonia made a move towards him. She would go to the cathedral with him, she would accompany him all the way, she would be beside him . . .
But he did not spare her a glance. His fingers still wet and stinking with the fish he had been eating, he strode off over the cobbles.
With a grunt of relief the messenger led Sonia back to the coach.
Petulant with frustration, the Tsarina screamed at Sonia and at the messenger. They had been ordered to bring the man direct to her. She overrode their explanations and was working herself up into a rage when the physician intervened. He had come from the boy’s bedroom, and there was a marked
turn for the better.
“His breathing is easier. It came suddenly. I would say that probably . . .”
But the Tsarina did not want to listen to his explanations. His attempts to imply that the Tsarevitch’s recovery was due to medical science were brushed aside. Sonia’s explanations now, at last, struck an echo.
“You told me,” said the Tsarina ecstatically, “that the holy man promised Alexy would recover from the moment you left him. That was it, wasn’t it?”
Sonia agreed that it was.
“And he is on his way? He should be here. He should not keep us waiting. From such a distance his influence may not be strong enough.”
“He will be here, Madame, as soon as he has completed his devotions at the cathedral.”
Sonia spoke automatically, flatly, as though she had learnt the words by rote. Somebody else spoke through her. She could have assured the Tsarina that distance did little to dull Rasputin’s powers.
They went into the boy’s room. Color had come back into his cheeks, and there was no further need to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The Tsarina looked down fondly at her son. “It would seem that the holy man’s prayers are already being answered.”
The bishop glanced at the physician. They were both in danger of being ousted. The bishop made an attempt to achieve some reasonable balance, committing himself to nothing but keeping a hand lightly on the reins, ready to assert his authority again in due course. He said:
“God moves in a mysterious way.”
“Quite,” said the physician dourly.
The bishop turned to Sonia. He did not know what part she was playing in events, but he was wary of her. “When this . . . hm . . . man arrives, will you please let me know? I feel I should meet him at the earliest possible opportunity.”
There was the sound of a commotion in the corridor outside. Sonia turned to intercept anyone who might presume to come in unannounced. But she fell back as the door was flung open.
Rasputin stood there. He had made time not merely for prayer but for cleaning himself up. He was dressed in a monk’s robes, dark and severe, and he had combed out his hair and beard. Remembering his greedy brutality, Sonia could not believe that he should be here like this, looking so grave and ascetic.
The Tsarina, outraged by this intrusion, raised one hand; then let it fall to her side.
“Are you—”
“I am Rasputin.”
The bishop was the first to recover. He swept forward, his hand outstretched so that Rasputin could bow and kiss the enormous ring on his finger.
“My son.”
Rasputin brushed straight past him and bent over the Tsarevitch. He looked at the boy for a moment, then laid one hand on his forehead. Under the smooth, silky beard his lips moved, but the others in the room heard nothing.
At last Rasputin straightened up.
“Your son will be cured by morning.”
The boy murmured as though in a soothing, pleasant dream, and turned over in bed. His mother flung herself down beside him and touched his hand. His eyes opened drowsily.
“Mother . . .”
Across the bed the Tsarina looked up in worship at the tall, sombre monk. “May God bless you.”
Sonia tried not to stare at him and not to feel his physical presence as a terrible pulsation in her body. But she had difficulty in repressing a cry when he turned and went towards the door, still without sparing even the faintest of smiles for her.
“Wait!” The Tsarina got up hurriedly. “You must be rewarded.”
Rasputin stopped in the doorway.
“I ask no reward.”
Then he was gone.
Sonia shook her head. She was utterly bewildered. It was inconceivable that he should have gone to so much trouble, should have imposed his will on her in such a frightening way, and come so far for so little apparent gain. He asked no reward. No, this she could not credit. Sooner or later he would demand payment of some kind. She wondered how dreadful and far-reaching his demands would be.
6
The bells were ringing joyfully over the city as she climbed the stairs to the attic. The man who had made these carillons possible was in the room at the top here, but there was no joyfulness in her as she tapped on the door. Desire, yes—overwhelming desire—but not joy.
There was no reply. She pushed the door open timidly and looked in.
Rasputin sat in a decrepit old armchair, staring out of the window. His head was on one side as though savoring the pealing exuberance of the bells. He smiled to himself. Without looking round he said:
“Come in, little Sonia.”
She went into the room and closed the door behind her.
“What are they saying about me?” he asked.
“Everyone is talking. They say that a mysterious holy man appeared at the palace and saved the life of the Tsarevitch. They say . . .” She faltered.
“Well?”
“They say he must have been sent by God.” With all her heart she wished to believe it, yet the mere sound of the words in her own mouth was somehow a blasphemy.
Rasputin nodded. “Good.”
“There is talk of finding him and giving him a suitable reward.”
Rasputin got up slowly from the armchair. At last he was looking full at her. At last there was recognition in his eyes again—recognition and a devoring lust.
Before she forgot everything, before she was consumed by him, there were things she longed to know; things she must ask if she was ever to have peace again.
“How did it happen? The little boy, I mean . . . the way you made me . . . the way I . . .” It was no good. “I don’t understand,” she whimpered.
“Is that why you came here?” he said. “To ask me questions like that?”
Rasputin spread his arms wide. Sonia ran towards him, and he swept her into his embrace. Now there were no more questions. No world other than this. Only the brutish, bruising assuagement of desire.
All afternoon and into the evening she lay with him. The clangor of the bells gave way to singing and rowdy argument from the café across the alley. It was dark when at last she dragged herself from Rasputin’s bed and went down the ill-lit stairs.
The market was deserted now. A few revellers staggered towards the café. Sonia stayed in the shadows until they had passed, then lowered her head and walked quickly to the corner.
She gasped as a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked the narrow pavement.
“Let me pass. I—”
“You slut.”
It was her brother Peter. She was so taken aback that she could not move or speak. She wanted to believe it was a dream; but the night air was too cold, the streets too solid, Peter’s accusing features too real.
“Behaving like a common whore,” he said wretchedly. Without knowing what she was doing she raised her hand and struck him viciously across the face. They stood appalled for a moment, silent and stricken; then Sonia dodged past him and began to run, tripping and stumbling over the cobbles.
He did not pursue. But she kept half running, half walking, until she was out of breath. When she reached her room she wanted only to throw herself on the bed and succumb to sleep, to let the shame and misery drain away out of her. Yet at the back of her mind she knew that she would wake in the middle of the night and long just as fiercely for Rasputin again.
As she collapsed on the bed, her door opened.
Vanessa said: “Where have you been? She’s sent for you three times tonight.”
“Who?”
“The Tsarina, who else? And Peter had tickets for the opera. What happened?”
“I forgot,” said Sonia dully.
“You forgot!” Vanessa came closer. Her gentle face was furrowed with concern. “What’s wrong, Sonia? Is it something to do with what happened to little Alexy?”
Sonia sat up, rigid. “What do you mean?”
“Well . . . nothing.”
“Then why did you ask?”
&nbs
p; “I know how fond of him you are. That’s all. And when he had that accident, while you were with him, I . . . well, I thought perhaps you—”
“He got better, didn’t he?” Sonia was tense and defensive. “He’s all right now?”
“Yes, of course. Thanks to that strange man.” Vanessa lowered herself warily to the bed beside Sonia. “I only caught a glimpse of him, but I thought . . . I wondered where I could possibly have seen him before. Sonia, when did you meet him?”
There was a knock at the door. Before Sonia could reach it, it opened and the Tsarina came in. A silk gown trailed from her shoulders and her hair was wild. She was like a woman who had seen a vision—or who was determined to see one.
The girls curtseyed. Vanessa looked from her mistress to Sonia, then with another little respectful bob of her head she left the room.
The Tsarina said: “I know it’s late, my child, but I feel I must have a word with you. I cannot rest until this is settled.”
“Of course, Madame. Won’t you sit down?”
The Tsarina sank into a chair but could not remain still. Her fingers plucked nervously at a blue ribbon hanging from her shoulder. She looked round the room and up at the ceiling a dozen times as though seeking inspiration.
“It’s about that holy man,” she said. “What was his name?”
“Rasputin.”
“Rasputin.” The Tsarina tried over the syllables of the name slowly and adoringly. “A fine man. Those magnificent eyes . . . A man who could accomplish such a miracle and yet ask for no reward. You know he refused a reward?”
“Yes, Madame. I was here at the time.”
“Of course you were. There can’t be many good men like that in Russia. Greed, ambition, corruption . . . the Court is full of it. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. You have eyes. You know what goes on.” She sighed, and her head twisted as though to ease some unbearable pain across the back of her neck. “Do you know where he can be reached again?” she demanded suddenly. “This Rasputin—you can find him?”
“I think I could find him,” said Sonia carefully.
“Good. Find him, then. Tell him that we appreciate his nobility and his detachment from worldly things, but that he must accept some token of our love. I say so. It is an order.”