The Fabergé Secret

by Charles Belfoure

  ‘You must constantly see life and death at battle with each other, not an easy sight to bear,’ he said admiringly. He patted her hand resting on the railing and kept it there.

  ‘We’d better go back in. Savva Mamontov is going to play the piano, and the Princess will sing,’ Katya said. She placed her other hand on top of his. ‘By the way, thank you again for my little cat. You must come to my home for dinner and meet my darling kitty, Noskey,’ she added.

  Katya rose up on tiptoes, and kissed Dimitri’s cheek. Having her warm body so close to his was intoxicating; he couldn’t hold back any longer. He looked about to see they were alone then in one fluid motion, he drew her to him, and gave her a kiss full on the lips. Katya responded, opening to him like a flower.

  Breathlessly they parted. ‘I – I guess we’d better get back inside,’ she stammered.

  Dimitri nodded. ‘Yes, we should,’ he said, and followed her back to the mansion. He felt like he could float up into the night sky and soar over St Petersburg.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Dimitri did all his work in his St Petersburg mansion. There was no need for a separate office when the house was so huge that he could devote a suite of rooms to architecture. Built by his grandfather in the early 1800s, the studio was palatial, and done in the neo-classical style with white scagliola walls framed between green malachite pilasters. The white coffered ceiling was picked out in crimson and gold, with a huge crystal chandelier in the center. His two assistants, Vassily Kuzka and Mikhail Semyon, both graduates of the Institute of Civil Engineering, had large drafting tables with long side tables. They had been his employees (he never treated educated men as servants) for eight years, and they had been most dependable. Both could draw well, but Semyon had a special talent for construction administration – seeing that the building got built to the drawings. He paid them far more than they would get in an ordinary office, and they appreciated his high regard for them. In addition, few architects worked in a palace with servants to wait on them. Typically, architects’ offices were dreary affairs with tables in a cold, threadbare room. Sitting on the plush furniture in Dimitri’s office, they smoked, drank tea, and discussed architecture theory in general. They worked well as a team.

  Dimitri had an extraordinary talent for drawing. He enjoyed doing the renderings and elevations himself instead of asking his staff to do them. Using pen and ink, he drew his designs with the finest detail. They were works of art unto themselves. After assembling the drawings he’d done for the Tchaikovsky Memorial, he called his men to join him. Semyon and Kuzka sat in high-backed armchairs in front of Dimitri’s wide desk. Behind it was his own drafting table. Shelves filled with architectural tomes lined the walls.

  ‘Here are the initial Tchaikovsky elevations and plans,’ Dimitri announced. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  A puzzled look came over Kuzka’s smooth baby-face. He handed the sketches to Semyon, whose eyes widened.

  ‘These are quite different, Dimitri,’ Semyon exclaimed. The young men exchanged grins.

  ‘Not in the classical vein at all. This is the Style Moderne – so organic and flowing!’ Kuzka cried.

  ‘What a wonderful entry hall you’ve designed,’ Semyon added in an enthusiastic voice. ‘Very much like Victor Horta’s work, “Hôtel Tassel” in Brussels.’

  ‘Yes, I admire Horta’s work very much,’ Dimitri said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘It’s the use of plant motifs on the stair that is so original,’ Kuzka said pointing out the sinuous linework. ‘The pattern in the lobby floor is marvelous.’

  ‘And you carry the same motif onto the lobby walls, brilliantly,’ Semyon added. ‘Against that orange-red color.’

  ‘Look at the detailing of the barrel-vaulted skylight in the lobby,’ Kuzka said almost shouting. He paused, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself with his excitement. ‘So many colors of glass,’ he said in a calmer tone of voice.

  The two men kept flipping through the sheets of the preliminary drawings, each finding something that delighted them. ‘The railings of the balconies look like vines that would spread out and engulf the audience,’ Semyon said with a laugh.

  ‘Will you design all the door hardware in Style Moderne, Dimitri?’ asked Kuzka, who then realized it was a dumb question.

  ‘Yes, everything down to urinals in the men’s room will be designed to harmonize,’ Dimitri answered as he pulled a cigarette from his Fabergé case.

  Dimitri was secretly delighted that they were pleased. In the eight years Semyon and Kuzka had worked for him, the two men had always been honest in their criticism of his work. If they didn’t like it, he encouraged them to tell him flat-out. He didn’t want them to feel as if they had to please him just because he was an aristocrat.

  He tried to downplay the new design direction he was taking, as if it was no big deal.

  ‘Yes, this is a different, freer design approach that I’m trying out. The Tsar likes this direction as well,’ he said in an off-hand manner, puffing away.

  The two young men were beaming, and he understood why. It was natural for the young to experiment, and try new things, especially if it was for the Tsar himself.

  ‘So off you go and draw the preliminary floor plans.’

  He smiled as they bounded out of his office. Once it was announced that he was designing the Memorial, more commissions had come in. This was a natural occurrence in architectural practice; one prestigious project led to another. Everyone wanted to use a fashionable architect. He would have to hire more men.

  He flipped through the elevations, mentally noting little changes he would make. His staff didn’t understand how difficult it was for him to try something so new. At first, he was scared to leave the familiar classicism, he’d grown up with – like a frightened, crying child parting from his mother on his first day of school. When he did make his decision to change, he was like a diver at the edge of a lake hesitating to plunge into the cold water.

  Then, the other night at Princess Tenisheva’s convinced him he was going in the right creative direction. He was overwhelmed with the design she had done. What a talent! Everything worked seamlessly as a whole work of art. The Princess’s design had inspired him, and Dimitri went home and worked through the night and into the next day, improving his design. The problem had been that he was too cautious; he had to cut loose and couldn’t hold back. Looking through the drawing set, he realized what a sense of creative liberation the Style Moderne had given him. A wonderful sense of freedom. The feeling was as exhilarating as kissing Katya on the balcony that night. He couldn’t hold back his emotions and wanted her with all his heart. He was worried that he’d come off as being too forward. The thought that he’d frightened her away scared the hell out of him.

  Firs, an elderly house servant, entered the room, snapping him out of the upsetting thought.

  ‘Peter Carl Fabergé is downstairs and wishes to see you, Your Highness.’ Oleg handed Dimitri the visitor’s calling card. ‘He apologizes that he came with no invitation.’

  ‘Ask him in and have tea sent up, Firs.’

  This was both a puzzle and an honor for Dimitri. He had met the famous jeweler only a few times over the years at his store.

  A slight, bald, middle-aged man with a full gray beard strode confidently into Dimitri’s office and bowed.

  ‘A great pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Fabergé. It’s always a pleasure to meet true genius face-to-face,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness. It’s my pleasure to meet someone of your varied talents – architect, artist, scenic designer.’

  ‘Please sit down. How can I be of service to you?’

  ‘It’s your artistic talent that I wish to tap. All of Russia knows you are designing the Tchaikovsky Memorial for the Tsar.’

  Dimitri nodded as a footman brought in tea with cakes and set it down on a side table.

  ‘The Tsarina wishes you to design an objet d’art inspired by this project, which my shop will pr
oduce. It will be presented to the Tsar at the laying of the cornerstone,’ explained Fabergé in a low baritone. ‘It is to be a surprise from you and the Tsarina.’

  ‘This is a great honor to design for Fabergé,’ Dimitri exclaimed. His excitement seemed to elevate him above his chair.

  ‘This will not be an egg or piece of jewelry, but a presentation commission of your own design. The Tsarina will be paying for it, so needless to say cost is of no consequence.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed, Monsieur Fabergé. My first thought, is how will I ever measure up to your extraordinary artistry?’ There were stories that upon inspecting an almost finished piece, Fabergé would place it on an anvil and smash it with a hammer, telling his craftsmen in a kindly voice, ‘You can do better.’

  ‘Her Majesty expressly wanted you to design the present. You will present the gift personally to the Tsar. It is indeed a great honor.’

  ‘We must discuss the timing of all this, especially how long you will need to fabricate the gift,’ Dimitri said excitedly. He couldn’t wait to tell Katya.

  ‘Once you have a preliminary design, we can go into all that. My studio prefers a pen and ink drawing with watercolor. You are joining a select group of artists – including Alexandre Benois and Nikolai Roerich – to design for us, Prince Dimitri. If this effort is successful, we may come to a long-term arrangement to take advantage of your vast creativity.’

  ‘Tea, Monsieur Fabergé?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Remember, women go upstairs,’ the Baron said.

  Katya blushed in embarrassment for having forgotten. He smiled at her and continued on to the main sanctuary, where the men sat. She had never in her life been in synagogue, but had passed this one on Lermontovsky Street many times. It had always seemed to her a very exotic building from the Levant, with its high copper dome flanked by slender domed towers. The temple’s most distinctive feature was its exterior of alternating bands of red and yellow ocher stone, giving it an even more oriental feel. She could almost imagine Aladdin on his flying carpet swooping over the structure.

  Because of her budding interest in Judaism, Katya had been invited by the Baron to see the inside of his synagogue while a service was going on. She might find it interesting, he said, to compare it to what goes on in the Russian Orthodox Church. Afraid of offending him, Katya didn’t tell the Baron that she thought all religion was superstitious nonsense. At his insistence, she came, telling herself that there was no harm in watching what went on. After all, it wasn’t against the law for a Christian to enter a synagogue.

  Katya joined in the flow of women ascending the rear stair. They were all very well dressed, but none wore jewelry, and all had their heads covered by hats or scarves. The stained wooden stair led to a three-sided gallery that overlooked the main space. She was surprised to see it had long wooden pews, as the Russian Orthodox churches had no seats at all. One thing that struck her was unlike in her church, there were no religious images or ikons painted on the walls, which were just a creamy yellow. The half-dome over what looked like an altar was painted a sky blue. She was impressed; since very few Jews lived in St Petersburg, it must have been difficult to raise the great amount of money for such a grand structure. Although not as bad as Moscow, where they had been driven out by the Tsar’s uncle, Grand Duke Sergei, this city had grown far more intolerant of Jews. The Baron said the authorities threw many obstacles in the way of a building permit. But St Petersburg Jews didn’t want to meet in rented rooms any longer, and desired a true temple of architectural quality. The first design was rejected by the government because it was too fancy, so a more modest design had to be submitted by the architects. Getting the land was also hard because it couldn’t be near a Christian church, nor on any routes the Tsar’s carriage traveled. Katya would be interested in asking Dimitri what he thought of the building.

  Finding a seat in a pew at the rear, Katya looked at the women who were filling up the seats. Funny, she thought, they looked no different than any other fashionably dressed woman strolling along the Nevsky Prospect. The men below all looked like prosperous businessmen like her father, with their round bellies and graying beards. Most were formally dressed and wore top hats, giving the space an air of elegance. Some had black and white prayer shawls, which the Baron called a tallis. Katya had half-expected to see men wearing black wide-brimmed hats with full beards and corkscrew dreadlocks as did Jews in the Pale. An elderly man, probably the rabbi, entered from the side, and another man came from the opposite door. The women picked up books from the seats and opened them as the rabbi began the service. Katya did the same, but she was surprised that the book was printed backwards. Maybe she had a misprinted one. So she picked up another, but it was the same. Didn’t the printer catch such a mistake? she thought. Her row had filled up, so she glanced over to see their books. They also were backwards, but no one seemed bothered by this. One side of the book was printed in Hebrew, and the matching page in Russian.

  ‘This is called the Siddur,’ the elderly lady next to her explained in a low, kind voice, pointing at her prayer book.

  Katya smiled and nodded, then the woman patted her hand and said, ‘Welcome to our temple.’ The lady on her other side said the same thing and directed her to the right page.

  Katya had come to just observe and experience what this world was all about. Her biggest fear was that she would look out of place, like a zebra walking into a cathedral. She felt she had a sign attached to her chest saying, ‘I’m a goy,’ which the Baron told her was the word for gentile. She had imagined that if they discovered a Christian among them, the Jews would scream at her and drive her out of the place, maybe stone her to death. In Russia, Jews were considered strangers, even though they had lived in the Fatherland for centuries. Now the tables were turned, and she was the stranger. But because the women were so friendly, Katya felt much more relaxed.

  ‘Under that dome at the end of the room, behind those curtains, is where we store the Torah,’ whispered the woman to her right. ‘And that is the eastern wall.’

  ‘That platform where the rabbi is standing and talking is called the bima,’ explained the lady to her left. The service was in Hebrew, but she guided Katya in turning the pages of the Siddur, like turning pages of sheet music for someone playing the piano. Then a man with a beautiful deep voice began singing.

  ‘That’s our cantor.’

  A choir of men and boys started singing along with him. It was as beautiful a sound as in Kazan Cathedral. The service was unusual because people seemed to come and go instead of staying in one place for a set amount of time until the clergy dismissed them. Each man down there seemed to be having their personal religious service, slightly bowing back and forth, mumbling to themselves. When the women in the gallery stood, so did Katya and when they sat, she sat. Then they switched books, and handed her the correct one.

  For the women up in the gallery, the service seemed more of a meditation. They closed their eyes and internally prayed to themselves. Some covered their eyes with their hands.

  Throughout the service, the two women whispered to her what was going on. Katya felt a bit guilty about interrupting their prayers. When the service was over, one of the women squeezed Katya’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

  Katya waited until the gallery emptied and looked down into the sanctuary. It was like she had just visited an exotic foreign country. She wasn’t sorry she came, on the contrary; she was more intrigued with all this. When she made her way to the entry, she saw the Baron sitting in his carriage at the curb.

  ‘I’ll wager that was all very strange to you. It must have sounded like Chinese,’ he called out.

  ‘I enjoyed it, and I even started making head and tails of the whole thing.’

  ‘May I drive you home, Doctor?’ the Baron asked.

  ‘No thank you, Baron. I’d like to walk. Thank you again for inviting me.’

  He tipped his hat, and his carriage drove off.

  Before
taking a step out of the doorway, Katya scanned both sides of the street to see if anyone was watching her. She stayed in the same spot for almost a minute then walked down the granite steps to the street. She hugged the building line trying to stay out of sight.

  Deep in thought, she walked on. She had done some reading about the Jews – not their religious practices, but about their history. She hadn’t known a thing about them. The Jews were a tormented people and had been so for two thousand years wherever they had lived. But here in their temple, they felt safe and comfortable praying to their god. It was their refuge from the cruelty and injustice of Russia.

  Because she trusted him, Katya eventually told the Baron about her discovery in the gray metal box. She then deluged him with questions about Jewish conversions. The Baron explained that almost all Jews in the nineteenth century converted for practical gain: to enter the professions, to live in the cities outside the Pale, or to succeed in business. He had never heard of a conversion because of a truly religious conviction for Christianity. Many did it for love, he said. A Jewish girl in the shtetl who fell in love with a gentile would convert and get married. Often, these young women were the daughters of innkeepers who had met gentiles while serving them drink and food.

  The Baron went on to describe the tragedy that came as a result of conversions. A mother killed her daughter before she converted, so she’d be buried a Jew. But the worst outcome, the Baron said, was a Jew who converted and although successful in business was tormented the rest of his life for his decision to forsake his people. The Baron had also known the story of the drowned Jewish soldiers who refused to convert.