The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “The knives are still out for us, Milly, let me tell you,” Stana hissed.

  “Jealousy is the weakest of emotions,” whispered Militza as she took hold of her sister’s arm. “Don’t worry.”

  “But I do worry.”

  “Our position is secure.”

  “How can you say that?” Stana pulled her sister aside into the Small Library opposite the Corner Salon. “We are not at all secure. Quite apart from my marriage becoming the laughingstock of the whole city, they are waiting for us to slip up. And we’re just about to. We have trawled town and country and found nothing. The tsarina is not even remotely pregnant, let alone carrying a son. The people are watching her belly like a hawk. Where’s the heir? Where’s the son? Where’s the tsarevich? And just as long as that is the case, our position is perilously weak—we could be dismissed at a moment’s notice.” She looked intensely at her sister, before adding in a soft voice, “We could use the price—the one we extracted from Maria Pavlovna. It wouldn’t take much and you could do it.”

  “You panic too easily, little sister. You always overreact. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I’m thinking perfectly clearly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Militza looked affronted. “We’re not going anywhere near the price.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are not desperate!”

  “But we are.”

  “Not after today,” whispered Militza.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have faith.”

  “I have plenty of faith,” replied Stana, more than a little irritated. “I say my prayers every night. In the absence of my errant husband, that is all I have! Faith and a loveless future.”

  “Someone very powerful has just arrived in the city.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have been waiting for him.” She smiled contentedly. “And what is more, he will be much more to the tsarina’s liking.”

  “He had better be,” snapped Stana, staring fiercely at her sister. “Because you and I are rapidly running out of time. We need a son! And we need him soon!”

  “Everything all right in here?” The tsar was standing in the doorway, looking curiously at the two sisters. They both had their hands on their hips, and the atmosphere was as frosty and frigid as the steppes in winter.

  “Fine,” they both replied rather too quickly.

  “Shall we go through?” he suggested.

  “Of course.” They nodded.

  “Militza?” he said. “May I have a word?”

  “Of course, Imperial Majesty,” she replied.

  “I need to see you. Alone.” Militza blushed, while Stana obligingly left the room. “It is urgent—I need to speak to my father. I need to talk to him about Japan, Manchuria, about foreign policy. This evening?”

  “Absolutely, Imperial Majesty.”

  “Nicky. Please. It’s my birthday,” he said, smiling, taking hold of her hand.

  “And what a wonderful day for a birthday,” replied Militza, gesturing to the pale spring sunshine in the park outside.

  “The day of Job. The long-suffering Job.” He laughed a little. “Only the unluckiest man alive is born on the day of Job. I can’t help but think my life is predestined to be unhappy. I have a deep certainty I am doomed to terrible ordeals.”

  “We can all change our fate,” she replied. “No one’s life is predestined.”

  Although, as she looked at his pale eyes and his troubled face, she couldn’t help thinking how truly plagued by misfortune he was. To have married through his mother’s tears, to have a wife who entered the city behind a coffin, and to have his coronation tainted by the tragedy of Khodynka Field, when nearly fourteen hundred people died in the stampede—and yet to have gone to a party afterwards, while the field still flowed with the blood of his trampled subjects, as if he didn’t care, showed foolish judgment in the extreme. Maybe his misery was preordained, written in the stars before he was even born . . . or just maybe he was weak, poorly advised, and too powerless to do anything about it.

  “I wish I could believe you,” he replied.

  MOST OF THE GUESTS WERE SEATED WHEN THEY ENTERED THE Corner Salon. The Yusupovs were at one end of the table and the Vladimirs at the other. In the middle were the tsar and tsarina’s high-backed gilt carved seats, and on either side of them were three empty places. A hush went over the room as Militza entered on the tsar’s arm. They all watched as he escorted her to sit next to him. As Militza sat down, Maria Pavlovna could not stop herself from kicking her husband under the table.

  The luncheon was not protracted. The tsar only ever drank two glasses of wine at lunchtime, even on his birthday, and the tsarina was almost entirely teetotal. The conversation was mainly dominated by the presents the tsar had received—a cage of songbirds from the Yusupovs and a delightful Fabergé box from Alix. There was much made of the recent Peasants’ Ball held at the Vladimirs’, where the ballroom had been redecorated to resemble a cottage, real cows had wandered around, and the servants had been dressed in tunics and loose-fitting breeches as they had handed out the drinks. It had been hailed as one of the top five parties they had ever held—and they’d held many. The tsarina expressed great regret that she had been unable to attend what had obviously been such a marvelous and much-lauded event.

  The three courses started off with hors d’oeuvres of caviar, smoked goose, and pickled herring, followed by the famous suckling pig and horseradish and then fruit and cheese. The waiters, with their soft-soled shoes, were discreet and efficient, and as soon as the last plates were removed, the tsar lit a cigarette, indicating that the rest of the party were allowed to follow.

  Coffee and birthday cake, with port wine and Allasch kümmel, were taken standing up in the Maple Drawing Room, which, although full of Fabergé-framed photographs and trinkets, was still awaiting renovation.

  “How long are you here for? Is Felix enjoying his new posting in Moscow? We must come and see you now that you are here?” Peter suggested to Zinaida Yusupova as she sipped a cup of strong coffee.

  Her delicate features formed a small smile. “Yes, that would be nice,” she lied. “Be sure to bring your charming wife.”

  “She is so busy these days—I hardly see much of her myself,” joked Peter. “She is always here!”

  “So I gather,” laughed Zinaida. “It’s quite the little group!”

  “If you will excuse me?” said Militza as she walked across the room towards the empress, who was engaged in conversation with Sophie Buxhoeveden. With a sure-footed directness, she went straight to the tsarina’s side. “I have some good news.” Her voice was hushed so that only Alix could hear. Alix’s face lit up.

  “Meet me in the Mauve Boudoir in five minutes,” she whispered, before turning back towards the baroness and looking out of the window. “Aren’t the flowers so beautiful at this time of year?”

  MILITZA FOUND HERSELF WAITING FOR A FULL FIFTEEN MINUTES for Alix to extricate herself from the party. She sat on the chaise longue in the corner of the room, furnished entirely by Maple & Co. of London in the empress’s favorite color, pale purple. From the Chinese bowls to the furniture to the striped Parisian silk wallpaper, it was all mauve. The only exception was the cream-colored enameled upright Becker piano.

  “I am sorry,” declared Alix as she burst through the door. “Felix Yusupov would not let me go. He kept fingering that giant mustache of his, talking about some dull military parade he saw in Moscow.”

  “I have found someone!” Militza declared immediately, leaping off the chaise. “Someone so powerful, so clever, so brilliant. He lives between two worlds, and he has power, real power . . .”

  “Does he believe in God?”

  “He was sent from God. He is the answer to your prayers, all our prayers . . . to all Russia’s prayers!”

  “When?” asked Alix.

  “Now. He is here.”

  “In St. Petersburg?”

  Militza
nodded. Alix fell upon her, enthusiastically kissing her cheeks. “Thank you!” she said, kissing her hands, her forehead. “Thank you, thank you. I knew you’d find him. I knew you’d find the One. I knew you would not let me down.” The tsarina pulled Militza closer and embraced her tightly.

  “Don’t worry, my darling,” soothed Militza, her soft cheek caressing the tsarina’s. “Help is on its way.”

  Chapter 10

  June 16, 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof

  MILITZA RECALLED HOW SHE SPENT ALL THAT MORNING briefing Philippe. Not that the tsarina’s desire for a son was a secret anymore. There had been mutterings in the foreign press, even the New York Times, and it was by now, frankly, all the salons of St. Petersburg could gossip about—that and her persistent bouts of back pain, her reclusiveness, plus her inability to attend any event at court without looking visibly bored or withdrawn or leaving early.

  So both Militza and Stana, who sat side by side on the buttoned sofa in her red salon, felt no discomfiture in enthusiastically sharing Alexandra’s innermost secrets.

  To say that Militza wanted to believe all of Philippe’s glittering recommendations was an understatement.

  She remembered feeling this man had been sent to her by Spirit. She had seen his face at night as she stared between two mirrors, chanting her mantras and burning her herbs; he’d appeared to her with his beatific smile and his healing hands, crossing himself and assuring her that all would be well. He was exactly who she had been waiting for: a mystic from Lyon who had been feted in the fashionable drawing rooms of Paris. What higher recommendation was there?

  And here he was. Just as she’d hoped, he was finely dressed, with clean, manicured fingers, and he neither screeched, nor vomited, nor stank of the slums of St. Petersburg. He was shorter and more rotund than she’d anticipated; however, he could mix easily at court and, naturally, spoke excellent French and was far more palatable to the tsarina’s refined sensibilities. In short, he wasn’t Russian, and frankly, that was a relief.

  So Militza was not only relieved as they retired to the salon after their light luncheon; she was bristling with optimism. And her sister? Well, Stana already appeared to be in his thrall. Her dark eyes were shining, and her lips could not help but smile.

  The footman just managed to announce the arrival of the tsarina before she burst into the room, her white chiffon skirts rustling.

  “You’re here!” she declared, directly addressing Maître Philippe, who was so shocked at the speed of her arrival, he didn’t know whether to leap out of his seat, or bow, or both.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, standing to attention before bending deferentially low.

  “Your Imperial Majesty, please may I present Monsieur Philippe Nizier-Vachot?” said Militza. “A truly holy man.”

  “Impératrice . . .” He bowed again. His southern French accent grated slightly.

  “How was your journey? How long have you been here? Tell me . . .” Alix paused, looking a little wistful. “How is Paris? Cannes? Didn’t you meet in Cannes?”

  “Not meet exactly, but when I was there Count Muravyov-Amursky could talk of nothing else,” Militza acknowledged. “We were having luncheon on La Croisette when he told me so many stories about Maître Philippe’s abundant gifts, his ability to cure so many varied ailments, it was imperative he come here to St. Petersburg. Countess Ignatiev invited him.”

  The tsarina sat down, her white skirts spread out over the divan, her back straight, her pale eyes catching the afternoon sun; Militza had not seen Alix this engaged or this excited in months. It was clear that she too felt the power of Philippe; he was most certainly the man to answer both her prayers and the nation’s.

  “Dear lady,” began Philippe, smoothing down his thick lengthy mustache, “tell me your problems, for I am here to help.”

  THE POT OF TEA HAD LONG SINCE TURNED COLD BY THE TIME the tsarina had finished talking. Philippe was now more intimate with her thoughts and fears than perhaps even the tsar himself. As Alix left, Militza could not believe quite how wonderfully well the first meeting had gone. Maybe she and her sister had been a little indiscreet in telling him so many of the tsarina’s secrets? Maybe they had revealed rather too much? But the result was so marvelously above their expectations. What did it matter they might have betrayed a few too many confidences? Everything was going to be fine from now on.

  IT TURNED OUT TO BE A GLORIOUS SUMMER. EVERYONE DECAMPED for the long warm evenings of the Crimea, Nicky and Alix moving with their three little grand duchesses to the imperial summer palace, Livadia, along with the head nursery nurse, Mrs. Orchard, and their Irish nanny, Margaretta Eagar, while Militza and Peter with Marina, Roman, and Nadezhda, as well as Stana, George, and their children, Sergei and Elena, moved nearby into their new summerhouse, Dulber.

  An homage to Peter’s obsession with fifteenth-century Egyptian architecture and inspired by his travels in Syria, Dulber (meaning “splendid” in Persian) was a grand and glamorous project that had taken him two years to oversee. With silver domes and more than one hundred rooms, it was stocked with delicious wines and had beautifully planted exotic gardens full of palms and fountains. It was like a vision from one of Scheherazade’s tales and their little slice of paradise. And, of course, Philippe came too.

  The families were inseparable. These were relaxed, languid, happy days, away from the prying eyes of the court, where the hours were whiled away playing cards and highly competitive games of tennis, at which Nicky particularly excelled. In the afternoons the gentlemen swam off the Sapphire Coast, while the ladies took afternoon carriage rides and long walks in the fragrant rose gardens. Luncheons, spent together at Livadia, were long and included all the staff, as well as any visiting dignitaries who’d traveled the five days from St. Petersburg with important court papers for the tsar to sign. Afternoon tea à l’anglaise was taken promptly at four, also at Livadia, while the evenings were spent in either of the palaces, discussing the day’s events, plus the goings-on at the numerous nearby country estates, before finally, after dinner, withdrawing to gather around the card table in the salon, where Philippe or Militza would host séances long into the night, while the smell of henbane and hashish drifted out onto the verandas beyond.

  Mostly Nicky wanted to converse with his father, discussing complex affairs of state, constantly asking, “What would Father have done?” which bored his wife but intrigued both Peter and George, who couldn’t help but question the veracity of such a discourse. It took all Peter’s willpower to hold his tongue.

  On one memorable night the party spent the evening in the old emperor’s bedroom in the Maly Palace, where the armchair in which Alexander III had died remained untouched and unmoved, still turned to face the window and the view out over the Black Sea. The tsar wept so uncontrollably while sitting in his father’s old armchair that everyone, save Alix, was forced to withdraw due to acute embarrassment.

  However, the majority of the time Alix would try and control events, steering conversations away from dull foreign policy, the unrest in Manchuria, and the dreary politics of government and back to family matters, summoning either her dear departed mother or her little sister, May. Mostly, these sessions passed without incident. There were the occasional breakages; little cut glass goblets would tumble and shatter on the parquet floors at moments of particular excitement, and once a Venetian lamp was upset during a vigorous bout of table tipping.

  But there was one night in Livadia towards the end of August when the group was visited by something very uncomfortable indeed.

  It was a particularly dark night, for the summer was on the move and the moon had long since disappeared behind thick clouds. The party had been drinking kümmel, some of them smoking small amounts of hashish out of little clay pipes. The mood was relaxed and a little merry. Even Militza had filled her small bowl full of aromatics and was feeling the pulsing force of her belladonna drops as her heart raced and her vision grew a little blurred. Despite the autumnal chill in
the air, her hands, as she held on to the tsar, were damp with sweat. She had been channeling for a while, her spirit guide leading the way through the miasma of souls and visitors who wanted to communicate with the illustrious company.

  “Wait!” said Militza, her eyes half closed, her elbows on the table as she held on to Nicky and Philippe. Her pale green silk evening dress shimmered in the candlelight. “There is someone else here . . .” She opened her eyes and glanced around the room. “There!” She spotted something in the corner. The rest of the assembled followed her gaze.

  “Where?” asked Peter, trying to see into the darkness.

  “Behind Stana,” whispered George, who was transfixed, his mouth slightly ajar; his pupils, dilated through hash and alcohol, shone in the half-light. This was more than the usual trickery he’d been witness to.

  Alix gasped as a young girl dressed in a white nightdress walked slowly out of the shadows. She must have been about six years old; her feet were bare, her hair hung long and loose over her shoulders, and her hands were covering her eyes.

  “May?” asked Alix, a little confused, for the girl was small enough to be her sister, but so far, in all their conversations, May had never actually manifested, and anyway, this child was thin and dark, whereas May had had blond hair and deliciously fat cheeks.

  “Happy . . . birthday . . . to . . . you . . .” Philippe started to sing in a quiet, low voice. For the child looked as if she were covering her eyes, waiting for her birthday surprise. A cake with candles? “Happy birthday . . . to . . . you . . .” continued Philippe, conducting along with his short fingers.

  “. . . to you . . .” Stana joined in, nodding and smiling at Philippe across the table, matching him note for note.

  “Happy birthday . . .” sang Alix, also copying Philippe, her head nodding in time to the song.