“And this is Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna!” interrupted the Countess Ignatiev. “I am sorry, Count.” She smiled at Yusupov.
“I was just leaving,” he replied, getting to his feet hurriedly.
“Here’s the someone I am dying for you to meet,” continued the countess, bubbling with excitement.
Militza turned and caught her breath. Before her stood a young, heavily bearded priest, swathed from head to foot in a long black hooded cape. Under the cape, his floor-length black robes were emblazoned with a large golden Orthodox cross. His hooded black silhouette was an arresting sight among the gold and raspberry velvet of the salon. He looked like the grim reaper himself. Militza stood up.
“This is Father Egorov!” announced Sophia. “He has come all the way from the Optina Pustyn monastery to be with us.”
“Optina Pustyn,” repeated Militza; its highly devout and austere practices were well-known.
“Where Dostoyevsky went before writing The Brothers Karamazov.” Sophia smiled encouragingly.
“I know it,” replied Militza, staring intently at the monk, waiting for him to speak, trying to work out what his intentions were.
“My friend Prince Obolensky has an estate not far from the monastery, near Kozelsk. Dreadful place,” continued Sophia, taking a swig from her glass of champagne. “Nothing to do but hunt in the miserable forest. But he heard this amazing story about a holy fool called Mitya Koliaba who makes prophecies. Only recently he predicted that a local countess would have a baby. And Father Egorov is the only person who understands Mitya and his predictions.” She smiled. “Mitya is a mute epileptic.”
“What baby did the barren woman have?” asked Militza, wondering why the Fates had brought this man before her.
“A son.”
“And you can understand the epileptic?”
“I prayed before the icon of St. Nicholas, and the voice of the saint came to me and revealed to me the secret of Mitya’s sounds,” Father Egorov mumbled into his lengthy beard.
“You understand every word?” she asked. The monk bowed again. “And his prophecies are reliable?”
“As God is my witness,” he replied.
Chapter 8
January 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof
IT WAS ONLY A FEW WEEKS LATER, AND MILITZA, STANA, and Alix were sitting in silence, drinking tea in the red salon at Znamenka, their eyes trained on the door. Such was the anticipation of Mitya and Father Egorov’s imminent arrival that none of them could concentrate on their embroidery.
Six months had gone by since the birth of baby Maria, and the court was growing restless. The season was in full swing; the gilded and the well connected had all left their country estates or Moscow palaces and descended upon St. Petersburg for the annual three-month merry-go-round of feasting, dancing, and, most important of all, gossiping. Two of Alix’s ladies-in-waiting had recently announced their own confinements, and the pressure on the tsarina was growing.
“Have you seen the Yusupovs recently?” asked Militza, to break the monotony of the crackling fire.
“No.” Alix shook her head. “The only people I see are you. Everyone else has abandoned me!” She laughed wryly. “They exhaust me with their questions and their looks. I don’t know how anyone lasts more than a few hours at these wretched balls.”
“I agree,” Militza sympathized.
“And then I am afraid I have to go. Nicky often stays on well after me. He says that it keeps him in touch, that he can discuss politics, that sort of thing. How else, he says, is he to know what is going on in and outside the court?”
“Well, that is important,” added Militza.
“I don’t see why. Nicky rules by divine right and his people love him. You can see it on their faces when we ride by. One smile from him, one glance in their direction, and their souls are full, their life is complete. It is better than a basket of bread.” She sighed. “And besides, the Yusupovs spend much of their time at Arkhangelskoye these days; Zinaida is far more interested in my sister and the Dowager Empress. She, Elizabeth, and Maria spend hours taking carriage rides and endlessly discussing Elizabeth’s new Orthodox faith.” She smiled. “I have enough worries of my own without listening to lengthy tales of my sister’s Damascene conversion from the Lutheran church.”
“How is the tsar getting on with his herbs?” inquired Stana.
“Nicky is smoking hashish every night,” confirmed Alix. “And not only does he sleep so much better than before, but his stomach cramps have completely disappeared.”
“That is good news,” said Stana, taking another sip of her tea.
“At least Dr. Badmaev’s cures work for someone,” sighed Alix. “I have been taking them every night and nothing . . .”
“Give yourself some time,” suggested Stana.
“Time is the one thing I don’t have!” snapped Alix, jabbing her needle into her sampler. “Can’t you hear them all? Squawking like starlings? Saying that the tsar should have married a nice Russian girl? That I am barren? Sent by the Germans to bring down the house of Romanov?”
“You just must have faith,” replied Militza. “And it will happen.”
“It must.” She sighed. “Otherwise I am lost.”
Suddenly there was a terrible shrieking from the corridor outside. All three women put down their teacups and sat up rigidly in their chairs.
“Is that them?” asked Stana, turning her head.
The shrieking was replaced by a low growling and then a deep moaning. There were sounds of a struggle and then some banging and crashing from the other side of the double doors. Mitya sounded extremely reluctant to enter the room. The doors finally opened, and the screaming intensified as the hooded monk dragged in the poor iurodivye, or holy fool, by a chain tied around his neck. The man was half blind, with short handless stumps for arms, his festering hair, stinking rags, and raw bare feet only adding to his woeful appearance. With one hefty tug of the chain, he at last arrived in the center of the room and cowered in front of the three women. He appeared to be completely overawed and confused by the bright lights and the opulence of his surroundings. He started to rock his head from side to side, screaming and hopping about.
“Shush!” ordered Egorov, tugging at the chain. “Quieten yourself!”
Militza had known a little of what to expect, so was only mildly upset by the sight of Mitya, but Stana was appalled. It was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out in horror as she swiftly retreated, moving behind a chair. Alix, on the other hand, was completely enthralled. She got out of her seat and walked slowly over to the monk and his charge, her arms outstretched as though she were trying to calm a skittish colt.
“Hello,” she said calmly. “I am Alexandra Fyodorovna—and I promise I am not going to hurt you.”
Mitya tugged on his chain as he tried to move away. Alix took another two steps towards him.
“I would not come any closer,” said Egorov, raising his hand in the air. “Mitya doesn’t like it when people are too close.”
“I promise you no harm,” said Alix, ignoring the monk and taking another step forward.
Mitya stopped in his tracks and turned back towards the empress. Walking slowly up to her, he raised his two stumps in the air and, placing his nose close to hers, screamed loudly in her face. The sound was piercing; the sight of his open mouth, his six fetid brown teeth and the shower of spittle that emanated from it, made Stana cover her mouth with her lace handkerchief. The tsarina was, however, unmoved. She turned and looked at the monk.
“What is he saying?”
“I can only understand when he is having a fit,” explained the monk. “It is only when he has one of his attacks that he becomes clairvoyant.”
“And how often does he have one of those?”
“When God decides.”
IT WAS A FULL TWO WEEKS AFTER MITYA AND EGOROV MOVED into the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoye Selo that Militza finally witnessed one of the holy fool’s crises in action. S
he, Stana, and Alix were sitting in the Mauve Boudoir when it happened. Militza was playing Schubert’s “Serenade” on the piano, while Stana was telling Alix about who and what she had seen at luncheon the day before at the Imperial Yacht Club on Morskaya. Then one of the servants came running. Mitya was having a fit. He had collapsed outside in the snow and they should come quickly; otherwise they would miss their opportunity. Grabbing the nearest coats and hats they could find, the three ladies ran, still wearing their silk slippers, through the snow.
It was early afternoon and almost dark. The air was freezing, and each inhalation sliced their lungs like a knife. Fortunately, the monk and the fool had not strayed far from the palace.
As the women arrived, Mitya was rolling around on his back in the snow. Egorov had apparently let go of the chain and, still swathed in his black hooded cape, he was on his knees, his eyes closed, his hands together, fervently praying.
“Mitya!” demanded Militza, raising her arms in the air as she looked down at the flailing creature, now growling and foaming copiously at the mouth. “Will the empress have a boy?”
They held their breath. The fool yelped and writhed and kicked in the snow. He emitted some high-pitched squeals and moans, which the monk began to interpret.
“It is still early days,” said the monk, his eyes shining from underneath his hood. “It is still long before the birth, and Mitya cannot say whether it will be a girl or a boy. But he is praying unceasingly and in the course of time will give exact information.”
Alix looked at Militza, confused, panicked even. She had waited on tenterhooks for over two weeks for this? She’d believed, had given the monk and his charge her complete trust; she had done exactly what Stana and Militza had told her to do!
“Mitya! Mitya!” barked Militza. “How long? How long before you can give the exact information?”
The fool arched his back, threw back his head, and let out an enormous groan.
“Mitya cannot say,” repeated the monk. “It is still long before the birth. But he is praying unceasingly and in the course of time will give exact information.”
“But when she does get pregnant, will it be a boy?” Militza glared hotly at the fool and then at the monk for some sort of hope, some sort of inspiration.
“Mitya cannot say—”
“He must know!” Stana shrieked, stepping forward. “We’ve been waiting! The empress has been waiting. For two whole weeks she has sat and waited. Come on, Mitya, tell us something!” She was beginning to sound hysterical. “Give us a sign! Something—anything!”
Mitya suddenly sat up in the snow and looked blindly at the empress. His stump arms outstretched, he let out one last roar before being violently, biliously sick at her feet. He then flopped back into the snow, rolled over on his side, and curled up like a child, whimpering quietly.
“Mitya says you should cleanse yourself,” said the monk, looking at the puddle of vomit on the ground.
Alix looked from Militza to the monk, and neither of them moved. She hesitated.
“Cleanse yourself and be free,” the monk repeated, still staring at the bilious liquid in front of him. “Cleanse yourself!” he barked.
Alix dropped to her knees and began frantically scooping the yellow vomit out of the snow with her bare hands. She ate it, desperately forcing fistfuls of the foul, freezing mixture into her mouth, silent tears of deep humiliation coursing down her cheeks. Stana covered her mouth in horror. Militza slowly closed her eyes and began to pray. The monk crossed himself, and the iurodivye emitted a final pathetic yelp before falling asleep.
MITYA AND FATHER EGOROV STAYED FOR ANOTHER THREE months at the palace. Although Alix was never asked to “cleanse” herself again, she could no longer bear the screaming and the wailing. Her nerves were frayed at the anxious anticipation and the constant running to his side when the moments of clairvoyant clarity were announced. Eventually she was driven to fits of hysterical weeping whenever Mitya went into one of his episodes. For not only did she not conceive, but also, most disappointingly, neither the fool nor the monk ever changed his prediction for the tsarina’s future. It was always “early days” and Mitya was always “praying unceasingly” for her situation to change. In the end, it was the tsar himself who asked Egorov and his charge to leave.
But Militza and Stana would not give up. They could not. Now they had the ear of the tsarina, now they knew her every worry and wish, they were not about to let that position slip. They were the inner circle—and there was no one else. Through her they could influence the tsar, and their father was delighted because the old alliances between Russia and Montenegro were back in place. And as one of Russia’s closest allies, he could expect the perks of this honored status: financial assistance and greater diplomatic weight on the world stage.
And besides, the sisters had promised the tsarina they would help.
So they enlisted the help of the tenacious Brana and the trusted members of the Countess Ignatiev’s Black Salon, and together they trawled the streets of the city and its outlying churches in search of miracle workers, mystics, and the latest iurodivye. They found a young woman, Matryona, from nearby Peterhof, who arrived barefoot, dressed in rags, and carrying an icon. She stayed at the court for a month, shouting prophecies like Delphic oracles that Militza was called upon to translate. Although she was not prone to fits and could speak, the noise and her filthy clothes eventually made Alix ask Matryona to leave.
In the sinking traktirs, or communal dining rooms, near the crowded, desperate slums around Sennaya Ploshchad, Brana found an old woman who swore that if you collected the menstrual blood off the tsarina’s sheets you could predict the sex of the next child. The sheets were duly collected and rinsed, and the menstrual water was used to fertilize a small pot of earth. Should a blue flower grow, the tsarina would have a son. Unfortunately, after a month of waiting, only a tiny pink flower pushed its head up through the well-tended soil.
Militza was also in regular correspondence with her mother, who sent her a collection of ancient chants and tinctures. A follower of the Zoroastrian religion, she also sent a small bronze statue of Anahita, the fertility goddess, which the tsarina was instructed to bathe with, as well as a collection of poppets to be placed under the tsarina’s bed. The first, with its wooden crone face and its cotton scarf pinned tightly around its cheeks, looked like the old kitchen witch that used to hang by the fire in Cetinje and was supposed to prevent the roasts from burning and the milk from boiling over, but this one came accompanied by a small cloth baby-boy doll filled with yarrow, the love plant. The tsarina was instructed to rock the doll to sleep at night and sing it a sweet lullaby. Which she duly did. Every night.
All the while the three women prayed for a miracle, and all the more Alix cleaved to the sisters, and all the more the pressure mounted. Then suddenly, out of the blue, the Countess Ignatiev called.
Chapter 9
May 18, 1900, Tsarskoye Selo
IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF MAY, AND A BLANKET OF PURPLE crocus carpeted the woodland surrounding Tsarskoye Selo. Militza and Stana had been invited to an intimate luncheon to celebrate the tsar’s thirty-second birthday.
By the time Militza and Peter arrived, most of the guests were already assembled in the Rosewood Drawing Room. Felix and Zinaida Yusupov were just back from Moscow and talking to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden, the tsar’s old friend and the tsarina’s new lady-in-waiting. Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich and his eldest brother, Uncle Bimbo, were ensconced in the corner with the Countess Marie Kleinmichel and, on the right, wearing a brand-new couture dress of spring-yellow silk teamed with a diamond-and-pearl collier du chien, the Grand Duchess Vladimir. Standing next to her portly husband, she was sipping champagne and admiring the view over the park when Militza and her husband approached.
“How are you, Militza, darling?” she said, looking Militza up and down and kissing the air beside her cheeks.
“Very well, Maria Pavlovna,” replied Militza, slightly taken aba
ck by her apparent friendliness. “Um,” she floundered. “What a nice dress.”
“From that little place on Moika, Madame Auguste Brissac. You must go.” Maria smiled, raising her eyebrows. “She always says she drops her prices for me because I wear her clothes so well, but then I hear she says that to all the ladies! Oh!” she continued, turning to talk to Stana, who had entered behind her sister. “Still no George?”
“Sadly, no,” replied Stana, with a formal smile.
“Not still in Biarritz, surely? No one can possibly fathom quite what keeps him there!”
The portly Grand Duke Vladimir chortled into his vodka shot as he exchanged a knowing glance with his wife and whispered loudly in her ear, “I hear the prince is washing his filthy body in the waves of the ocean!”
Stana flushed. It was becoming abundantly clear the nature of George’s “business” in France was something that could not be contained en famille any longer.
“Isn’t the new decoration looking wonderful?” suggested Militza as she looked around the room with a deliberate fascination.
“Haven’t you been here since Roman Meltzer supervised the renovations?” asked Maria, her top lip curling slightly as she eyed the endless watercolors of Hesse palaces. “Very homely, don’t you think?”
“I have been here a few times since,” replied Militza, unable to control herself.
A butler announced luncheon was served. Peter finished up the joke he was sharing with Uncle Bimbo, while Militza and Stana walked through to the Corner Salon, where Monsieur Cubat’s famous suckling pig with horseradish sauce would be served.
“Here come the Black Pearls,” mumbled Zinaida Yusupova as the girls walked past her.
“Don’t you mean the Black Peril?” added the Grand Duchess Vladimir.
Count Yusupov remained silent and sipped his drink. He had not spoken to Militza since his visit to the Monday salon. In fact, he rather avoided her. Her dark hair, her large oblong black eyes and unusually pale skin, gave him the creeps. As for her pleading with him to look after his sons, it was obviously all nonsense—but there was something about her tone that still haunted his dreams.
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