The Fabergé Secret

by Charles Belfoure

  She went around the room with introductions.

  An attractive woman in a white lace dress offered Dimitri a glass of tea with a little white frosted cake. Her name was Clara; she was also a doctor and she worked with Katya at the hospital.

  ‘Prince Dimitri,’ said Olenka, a pretty blonde girl, ‘we were just talking about native Russian influences in the new modernist arts we have in Russia today.’

  ‘We must get your thoughts on the “Style Moderne” in architecture, the “Russian” Art Nouveau. One sees so much of it nowadays. You of course have seen Minash’s Vitebsk Railroad Station in the city here. Those unbelievable sinuous curves!’ Clara exclaimed.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Dimitri. ‘Many around the world are enamored with this new style because they feel architecture has to change with the times.’ He and Katya exchanged grins.

  ‘Architectural styles come late to Russia. It’s the Art Nouveau in Paris and Brussels, and Jugendstil in Germany,’ said Grigory, the fellow in the natty blue suit.

  ‘And that Spanish chap, Gaudí, in Barcelona,’ Olenka added.

  ‘Korolyov identifies the Art Nouveau as a philistine taste, with a lack of stylistic integrity that denotes vulgarity,’ Alina Medvedena announced.

  ‘Korolyov may be right,’ Dimitri replied, wanting to impress Katya even though he didn’t know who the hell Korolyov was. ‘The classical language of the ancients is still the standard by which we judge all architecture.’

  ‘But Your Highness, we live in modern times, and we need buildings of our time,’ Grigory pleaded.

  ‘Dimitri,’ Markhov corrected him. He liked being addressed as Your Highness, but this definitely wasn’t the place for that salutation. He wanted to be part of the group.

  ‘You don’t think the Style Moderne is facile and fleeting, while the classical principles are eternal?’ he added in an earnest tone.

  ‘Dimitri, that’s so retrograde. We live in a new age of the automobile and wireless communication,’ Clara said in a dismissive voice.

  ‘We don’t need these white temples anymore, Dimitri,’ the hostess, Evigenia, said. ‘What did you think of Schechtel’s Levenson Printshop in Moscow?’

  Dimitri’s eyes met Katya’s because she had asked him the same question. When she smiled in acknowledgment, he felt a surprising jolt of pleasure.

  The spirited discussion continued past midnight. He couldn’t believe it was so late; Lara might get home before him. Instead of running out of steam, the group seemed more invigorated. Literature, Chekhov and his plays, Vrubel and Somov paintings were all appraised.

  ‘The arts can play a critical role in the revolution that’s coming,’ said Grigory, ‘to help end this terrible nightmare that’s been oppressing Russia for centuries.’ Dimitri learned that Grigory was a professor of literature at the St Petersburg University.

  ‘The peasants can’t take this kind of treatment any longer,’ Olenka said.

  ‘Did you hear that thirty-two Jews were killed in the pogrom in Gomel yesterday? With millions of rubles in property damage?’ Katya asked.

  ‘The Jews are treated worst of all – like animals,’ Grigory exclaimed.

  Everyone shook their head in disapproval. Dimitri hadn’t heard about this; the news jolted him, but he kept a calm expression. He imagined that among those thirty-two dead bodies there had to be a dead child or two like he’d seen in Kishinev.

  ‘The workers in those miserable factories have no rights at all,’ added Grigory. ‘Some have to sleep under the machines they use.’

  ‘Russia needs a constitution like England has. With freedom of speech,’ Evigenia exclaimed.

  ‘And an uncensored press,’ Clara added.

  ‘The peasants and workers are helpless to ignite a revolution in Russia. It’s up to the intelligentsia and professional classes to bring about change,’ Grigory said.

  For the next hour, the group talked of the oppression in Russia, and how it had to be stamped out. Land had to be given to the peasants, factory owners must improve working conditions, and Jews had to be given their basic civil rights. Dimitri just sat and listened. This was all a revelation to him. No one ever discussed these kinds of things in Court. He had met a few Jews over the years; they seemed rich and quite content with life. And he had never been inside a factory. Why would I? he thought.

  Katya stood up. ‘Well, it’s been a very stimulating discussion tonight, but it’s late and I must be off. Thank you again, Evigenia, for your hospitality.’

  Dimitri quickly said his goodbyes so he could walk outside with her.

  ‘I hope you are well, Katya. In the heat of the discussion, I didn’t get to inquire after you. Thank you so much for inviting me. I haven’t had such an enjoyable evening in years; I’d like to come again.’ He saw once more what wonderful blue eyes Katya had. Her face as he had remembered was plain, but it had a great warmth about it, something very appealing. And when she smiled, she seemed to light up from inside.

  ‘Oh, our little evening discussions are probably nothing compared to the gay life you lead every day. But thank you so much for coming tonight; your presence really livened up the group.’

  Dimitri waved goodbye to Clara, Grigory, and the others who were coming out of the mansion. As his carriage started off, he was feeling so happy he had come. His mind and body felt invigorated, like when he rolled in the snow after a sauna. When he entered the sitting room tonight, he experienced a pang of happiness in his chest at seeing Katya again. At the Catherine Palace ball, he had found her to be very captivating and interesting. As she talked during the evening, he found her even more fascinating and intelligent. He couldn’t help himself from constantly glancing over at her.

  Suddenly, he ordered the carriage to halt, and he hopped out. Just as Katya was getting into her carriage, he waved to catch her attention.

  ‘Do you know Mrs McIntosh’s Authentic English Tea Shop?’ he asked, trotting up to her. ‘Maybe we could have tea together sometime soon.’

  Katya looked out at the deserted streets as her carriage rumbled along. She considered herself a good judge of character, and her first impression of Dimitri that night at the Catherine Palace was that he was refreshingly unassuming and did not have an exalted opinion of himself. But she thought she’d never see him again after the ball and was shocked to see him turn up at her arts circle tonight. She never thought he’d take her up on the offer to come. At the same time, she was delighted and thrilled to see him there. When he came into the drawing room, his height and good looks seemed even more apparent than the night they met. When he entered the room, it wasn’t with a prince’s commanding air, but with the disarming shyness of a little boy. That tugged at her heart and brought a smile to her face.

  Professor Grigory Pahlen had extra time before his first class started this morning, so he thought he would run a few errands. He paid his bill at the butcher’s, bought writing paper at the stationer’s, and picked up some fruit for his lunch. That left just one last thing. He strolled down Strogonoff Street and entered a nondescript brick building. Taking the lift to the fourth floor, he rapped on an office door.

  ‘Enter!’ came a gruff command.

  Colonel Tipev looked up at the professor in his rumpled olive suit.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the colonel said with disdain. ‘Just leave the report and get the hell out of here.’

  Grigory frowned. Nine months working as an agent for the Okhrana had brought him no respect in the eyes of Tipev. He deliberately handed the report to him instead of dropping it into the box. Tipev grunted and scanned the paper. Grigory had to leave to make it to class on time so he went toward the door.

  ‘Wait!’ Tipev shouted. ‘Sit down.’

  Tipev quickly made a telephone call. Twenty minutes later, General Moncransky, head of the Okhrana, appeared at the door. The burly general faced Grigory, who stood up and bowed.

  ‘Tell me everything Prince Dimitri said last night.’ The general wore an expression of great pleasure.<
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  ELEVEN

  ‘Little Father, please grant me this special request to help my son who’s dying. I have no money to pay a doctor, and he will die.’

  The Tsar always went riding in the afternoon when the family was staying at Tsarskoe Selo, their country palace. He liked to ride in the countryside accompanied by an adjutant officer or a close friend like Dimitri. Often, he talked to the peasants in the villages along the way, asking them about their families, their crops, and their problems. Sometimes, a peasant like this one pleaded for help.

  ‘What is your son’s name?’

  ‘Vassily Andreivitch Fedorov from Perekyula, Little Father.’

  ‘I will send someone later this afternoon,’ the Tsar said with a smile. ‘Dimitri, do you have a coin I could give to this fellow?’

  Dimitri was amused that the man with the largest private gold reserve in the entire world never carried any money. He handed Nicholas a one-ruble coin, and they rode on.

  Without turning his head to Dimitri, the Tsar spoke as if to the road.

  ‘Dimitri, at the coronation when the Metropolitan of St Petersburg placed the crown on my head, he said that it was Christ Himself who was irrevocably crowning me as the divine authority over the Russian people. My sovereignty is absolute, and I swore in my coronation oath to uphold the principle of autocracy. They are my children, and I am ordained by God to take care of them – like that poor devil.’

  Dimitri already knew this. Nicholas was an intensely devout member of the Orthodox Church, and he absolutely believed he had inherited a profound sacred responsibility for the welfare of his people. It was no false promise he’d given the peasant; a doctor would be showing up at his son’s bedside today.

  ‘You are our divine leader,’ said Dimitri solemnly. He wasn’t flattering the Tsar. He really meant it, as his family had believed in this fundamental truth for almost three centuries of Romanov rule.

  ‘There is no burden so wearisome as the duty of the Tsar, Nicky,’ he continued, ‘especially that damn nine-pound crown.’

  The Tsar laughed. ‘Yes, that awful crown.’

  The Tsar hated wearing his crown of gold and diamonds. It pressed on his brow at the very spot where a Japanese madman stabbed him when he was the Tsarevich on a tour of the Far East. After wearing it for a few hours at a royal function, it gave him an excruciating headache.

  In the hot sun, they rode slowly on the dusty road. Twenty yards in front and behind were pairs of Cossacks dressed in their distinctive long scarlet coats trimmed in black. Called the ‘fists of the Tsar,’ they were armed with a shashka, a curved sword, and a long lance called a pika. The Cossack Konvoi Regiment and the Garde Equipage were assigned to protect the Imperial Family. In addition to them, a permanent five-thousand-man army garrison was stationed at Tsarskoe Selo.

  It was teatime when they returned. The Romanov family did not like living in the Winter Palace and much preferred Tsarskoe Selo, ‘the Tsar’s village,’ which they thought of as their real home. Located fifteen miles south of St Petersburg, it was a beautiful eight-hundred-acre estate with parks, fantastic pavilions, monuments, gardens, artificial lakes, and winding paths, built by Catherine the Great and the Empress Elizabeth. It had two palaces. The Imperial Family lived in the Palladian-style Alexander Palace, which was smaller than the great Catherine Palace, with just one hundred rooms. It was separated from the rest of the estate by canals and lakes, spanned by lacy ironwork bridges. Their private apartments were on the first floor of the east wing, with the children’s rooms on the second floor directly above their parents. Dimitri and the rest of the Court also lived there in great pastel-colored mansions lining the tree-shaded boulevard, which ran from the railway station to the gates of the Imperial Park. Tsarskoe Selo was arcadia to Dimitri; an enchanted fairyland in which few people were allowed to live or even visit.

  The Alexander Palace had rooms designed by the Italian Baroque architect Quarenghi, with walls of white and cream. The family’s wing had been redecorated by the Tsarina, and it reminded one of a comfortable English country house with overstuffed armchairs and sofas done in mauve, her favorite color. She had the rooms supplied daily with fresh flowers, giving it a wonderful never-ending sweet fragrance. The Imperial Anteroom had an unusual feature, a huge wooden slide called the Russian Mountain on which children (and Nicky) slid down.

  When Dimitri entered the Rosewood Drawing Room for tea, the Tsar had changed from his uniform into a simple white cotton tunic. Before he sat down, he let out his familiar bird whistle to summon the Tsarina and the children. A stout, doughy-looking woman of about twenty named Anna Vyrubova was also present. Although not a maid of honor, she came from an old distinguished Court family. The Tsarina enjoyed her company, especially playing two-handed piano and singing duets. This woman’s increasing presence around the Tsarina had started tongues wagging, especially Lara’s, who ridiculed Vyrubova’s dumpy body and puffy face.

  Because of the time-honored tradition, tea was always exactly the same, hot bread and English biscuits, with white table linen, although to Dimitri’s disappointment, never was any frosted cake served. The Tsarina complained she was powerless to change the rigid routine. While the children played on the floor with their toys, the Tsar drank his usual two glasses of tea and ate a piece of buttered bread. He looked over the newspapers and would tell Dimitri if he saw something funny.

  ‘Dimitri, listen to this. In a London music hall, one of the monkeys in an act ran into the audience. It stole a feathered hat off a woman’s head, then bolted out the exit.’

  His cheery mood turned sour. ‘The Times of London is still harping on the Kishinev violence.’

  ‘What came of the meeting between von Plehve and that Zionist Jew, Herzl?’

  ‘Herzl told von Plehve that he wants all his people to leave Russia to establish a homeland in Palestine, which is just fine with me. Then our “Jewish Question” would go away for good.’

  The Tsarina was petting her dog and giving him bits of bread. She looked over at Dimitri and smiled.

  ‘Dimitri, come with me, I want to show you something. Excuse us for a moment, Nicky.’

  ‘I’ll wait for your return,’ Nicholas replied without looking up from the newspaper.

  Dimitri followed her through to the bedroom. Unlike most royal couples, the Tsar and Tsarina actually shared a bed. The walls were hung with a light floral silk with a pattern of green wreaths tied with pink ribbons. Every square inch of the walls and shelves was covered with Victorian bric-a-brac, framed family photos, and ikons of all description. Then they entered her boudoir where the curtains, carpet, and furniture were done in light gray or mauve. Fresh bowls of purple and white lilacs and bunches of violets scented the air to an intoxicating effect. The room was filled with religious mementos and family photos, including one of her grandmother, Queen Victoria. The Mauve Boudoir was the family’s inner sanctum and most private space.

  The Tsarina went to a glass cabinet and took something from the top shelf, then turned to face Dimitri.

  ‘I want you have this ikon of St George, Nicky’s favorite saint.’

  Dimitri took the ikon and ran his hand over it. On a six-inch-square wooden panel was painted a magnificent haloed St George in a red cape slaying the black dragon at the feet of his white charger, with the towers of the Kremlin in the background. It was painted in the most minute detail with gold foil.

  ‘It is so beautiful, Your Majesty. Thank you so much.’ Dimitri took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘The men who surround my husband are false and insincere. No one does their duty for duty’s sake or for Russia. Just for their own selfish interests and own advancement. But you are Nicky’s true and sincere friend, who wants what’s best for him. I love you for that.’

  Dimitri was genuinely touched by her gesture. To a Russian, an ikon was an object full of divine energy, power, and grace. This shy woman who appeared cold and unapproachable to the Court was beaming a great smile. The room was fill
ed with afternoon light that made her reddish-gold hair even more radiant.

  But Dimitri knew he wasn’t any saint like the one depicted on this ikon, especially when it came to his married life. He expertly played the Court’s game of musical beds. But he truly cherished his long friendship with the Tsar. The Tsarina was absolutely right that those in the highest ranks in Court were only out for themselves. They constantly flattered Nicky, never offering advice they thought would anger him. One’s inclusion in the Court was totally dependent on the good graces of the Tsar. Nicholas could cast them forever from Court, so they made sure they never rocked the boat. The Church, whose senior leaders were appointed by the Tsar, did nothing either.

  The Tsarina walked over to a window that overlooked a garden and stared out.

  ‘St Petersburg is a rotten town and not one atom Russian,’ she said in a voice seared with bitterness. ‘Even our beloved Tsarskoe Selo is too close to it. I wish we could leave and never come back. My granny Victoria was right; there’s a total want of principle, from the Grand Dukes downward.’

  Dimitri knew she hated Court life. Alexandra had pressured Nicholas to greatly reduce the number of court functions and receptions which the nobility (and especially Lara) were quite fond of. That move had made the Tsarina even more unpopular.

  Dimitri followed the Tsarina back to the drawing room. There, the children’s nanny, Miss Constance O’Brian, a tall, lean woman in her fifties, was rounding up the Grand Duchesses for the next activity. She was from England, another symbol of the Imperial Couple’s anglophile tendencies like the English collies. Miss O’Brian had her hat and coat on.

  ‘Please, Nanny, please bring us back some of those bon-bons from the shop on the Nevsky,’ Olga cried out. Her sisters jumped up and down in agreement.

  ‘I most certainly will, but you now go with Nurse Daria to your dancing lessons.’ Miss O’Brian curtsied in the presence of the Tsar, then backed away as she was leaving. No one except the Tsarina and the children ever turned their back to him; another strict rule.