The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  But as they stepped off the train that searing-hot afternoon, nothing could have prepared them for the spectacle before them. The station, the platforms, and the road leading towards the white cupola cathedral and the walled monastery, where the imperial entourage was to collect the disinterred body of Seraphim and rebury him as a saint, were awash with people. They were everywhere—four or five deep along the road, hanging out of windows, up in the trees, every balcony and wall crammed to jostling room only. They were chattering, excited, but as the royal party approached, they all simply fell silent and stared. Through the heat and the dust, all that was visible was row upon row of faces.

  Militza was exhilarated, but Stana was overwhelmed. Three days spent locked in the claustrophobic confines of the imperial train, so close to her lover, unable to make true physical contact or properly converse, permitted only polite conversation about religious relics, Old Believers, and the fascinating lot of the Russian peasant whom they viewed, fleetingly, out the carriage window, had taken their toll. Desperate for shade and respite from the constant cloying smell of incense and the low murmur of prayer, she felt herself swoon.

  “Milly,” she whispered from under her white, broad-brimmed hat. “Help me!”

  Militza’s grip was swift and strong. “Here,” she said as she riffled in the folds of her white chiffon skirt. “Have some of my elixir—it will help.”

  She slipped the red glass pipette between her sister’s parched lips.

  “Cocaine. Everyone should take a little of that every day,” whispered Nicky as he stood next to her, holding her up by the elbows. “It will make everything appear much brighter.”

  However, Alix didn’t need any such help. The crowds, the heaving multitude, and the magnificent sight of some two hundred or so priests clustered outside the entrance to the church, with their long beards and flowing black robes, their waists encircled with belts of golden rope, assured her of one thing: she had been right all along. No matter what the higher echelons of the church said. No matter what the mealymouthed aristocrats of St. Petersburg spluttered and spat about in their gilded drawing rooms. She, Alix, spoke for Russia. She was Little Mother Russia. And here she was with the people. And the people loved her.

  Forgotten was the sciatica that had been plaguing her on the train; forgotten too was her rosacea, and her overwhelming shyness in front of an inquisitive public. Taking up her white skirts, a hand on her hat covered in white silk flowers, Alix started to walk. Despite the heat of the day and the clouds of dust churned up by tens of thousands of pilgrims, she walked from the station to the church. Cossacks lined the route, but interspersed between them were the ill and the infirm. There were men bent over walking sticks, women clutching children, a one-armed man who couldn’t see, another horizontal in a wheelbarrow, a laborer with no legs who propelled himself forward using two metal irons in his hands. But Alix was not distracted by the pilgrims. In fact, she felt as if she were walking with them, for along with the thousands of ill, lame, or deformed, she too had come to Sarov hoping to be healed.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME THE DISINTERRED BODY of Seraphim arrived in the church in a new cypress coffin supplied by the tsar. The coffin’s procession through the streets, carried by Nicky and other members of the royal family, escorted by some seven hundred priests, all dressed in their golden ceremonial robes, holding aloft golden crucifixes that glittered in the sun, had moved Alix to tears. But inside the church she was inconsolable. The singing, the heat, the constant standing, and the tremendous expectation that all her maladies were about to be cured made her weep continuously for herself, her lost daughter, and most especially the son she did not have. Militza stood next to her. She was conscious of the eyes of the Vladimirs upon them. The trial of being forced to travel to the desolate Tambov steppes, plus the tedium of the day, had not endeared Alix to them. This had been her idea and they were less than delighted at having to attend. The Grand Duchess Vladimir repeatedly flapped her fan and her gloves throughout the service, constantly sighing and checking her watch. The tsar’s sisters, the Grand Duchesses Olga and Xenia, also looked visibly bored. Only Ella, standing next to her husband, Sergei, really mirrored the religious ecstasy so felt by her younger sister.

  The church bells rang at six o’clock, announcing the beginning of the all-night vigil and the procession of pilgrims inside to view the relics of the new saint. The effect of some three hundred thousand souls, all holding candles and gently singing, was mesmerizing.

  “All you can hear is music,” whispered Alix, taking hold of Militza with her damp, shaking hand. “It’s as if the voices are coming from heaven itself.”

  As dusk fell, the royal party dined in the town hall with the local mayor dancing attendance. Militza sat in silence, forking her cold mutton stew with little interest while the mayor talked of his plans to build around the cathedral and how long it had taken to build the shrine created in St. Seraphim’s honor. He was most probably angling for more money, but Militza was only half listening.

  “And of course we must build something near the river,” continued the mayor, attempting to fold his arms across his stomach.

  “Must you?” inquired Nicky.

  “The sick and the crippled keep slipping into the Sarov,” he replied. “And it can be almost impossible to get them out. Our saint used to bathe there,” continued the mayor, “so the waters have healing properties. Hundreds of pilgrims bathe there every day.”

  “The river!” Alix’s eyes shone brightly, remembering Philippe’s words. “We must go.”

  “I am not sure Your Imperial Majesty, if you will forgive . . .” ventured the mayor. “It is dangerous . . .”

  “We must go!” insisted Alix.

  “Absolutely, of course, you must, Your Imperial Majesty,” he agreed effusively, his round dark eyes flickering around the room. “The waters are said to be most powerful at midnight.”

  IT WAS A SMALL GROUP THAT SET OFF FROM THE TOWN HALL towards the river. Both Nikolasha and Peter elected to stay behind drinking cognac with the mayor, while Alix, Nicky, Militza, Stana, and three bodyguards dressed in full military regalia stepped out into the warm night under a full moon and walked the mile or so to the riverbank. As they made their way out of the town, the full extent of the number of pilgrims gathered for the canonization became apparent. There were hundreds of small fires all along the side of the road, and the air was heavy with smoke and the smell of sizzling shashlik. It was like an army encampment made up of the sick and frail. Everywhere they walked, they heard the mellifluous sound of singing and the gentle ringing of small bells.

  “It is as if the Holy Spirit is moving amongst us,” whispered Alix, looking left and right, drinking it all in.

  Nicky, in his white uniform, was equally entranced. The two of them moved slowly and quietly, she in a gleaming white dress, like ghosts among their people. In the darkness they walked unrecognized, and those who suspected they might be the “Little Father” and “Little Mother” of Russia dismissed them as a vision, something else extraordinary in a truly magical day.

  Upon reaching the river, they paused while the guards cleared a path. Those clustered around the riverbank, dressed in simple cotton shifts, the women with scarves pulled tightly around their faces, were instructed to pull the infirm, the frail, and the limbless from the waters in order to make way for the royal party. Next to the river was a small wooden structure that was used for bathing. Inside were three naked men whose wet, scrawny frames shone in the moonlight as they left the shed and searched in the bushes for their damp clothes.

  Alix was too self-possessed to notice the procession of naked and gnarled flesh in front of her. She had been thinking about this moment for an apparent eternity and was nearly there. All she had to do was bathe in the river and it would come to pass, just as Philippe had promised. Her hands were shaking as she began to unbutton her clothes. Militza and Stana helped her with her clothes as they tried not to stare at the other naked bodies a
round them. Neither of them had been confronted by such poverty since they had arrived in Russia all those years ago, and it stirred a terrible sense of foreboding in Militza’s troubled thoughts.

  She, Stana, and Alix finally disrobed in the shed near to the river, and then the three of them walked towards the river. Alix went first, her naked backside glowing a luminous alabaster white against the black shallows of the river. Nicky couldn’t believe it! His wife was normally so prudish; even the lavatory at Tsarskoye Selo had a special cover on it, so as not to offend her, and now here she was, walking completely naked into the river. He felt such a joyous rush of exhilaration that he laughed out loud.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” said Alix as she picked her way through the mud, gingerly cupping her own breasts as she slipped into the water. Quite what had come over her, Nicky didn’t understand, but he was delighted. He too stripped naked in the hut, and just as Militza and Stana immersed themselves in the water, he came careering towards the bank and, leaping into the air, jumped right in.

  The cool water was pure bliss after the airless heat of the day, the joy of its chilled softness against their bare skin so relaxing and liberating. It felt marvelous, so free. After the oppressive, claustrophobic religiosity of the day, to swim naked in the cool river felt like an incredible release. Militza was immediately reminded of her childhood when she and Stana used to run and swim naked in the streams at the foot of the Black Mountains.

  “This is wonderful!” exclaimed Alix, swimming and splashing in the water.

  “Glorious!” agreed Nicky, executing a few vigorous strokes before relaxing back on the surface.

  Just then the clouds cleared and the full moon shone, its silver light dancing on the surface of the water, making the river shimmer and sparkle around them. Above, the stars covered the sky as if they’d been spilled out of a pot of bright white paint.

  “You can feel the magic,” said Militza as she looked across at her sister’s dark silhouetted face.

  “Yes.” Stana nodded, and they both turned to watch Alix as she lay, smiling, on her back in the river, her naked body floating on the surface of the water, staring at the sky, and quietly began to pray to St. Seraphim, her saint, her people’s saint, to grant her the deepest wish of all.

  Chapter 17

  August 12, 1904, St. Petersburg

  MILITZA WOULD NEVER FORGET HEARING THE BOOM OF the gun salute. She held her breath. Bang! There it was.

  One hundred and two.

  It echoed around the city.

  And the city stopped in its tracks.

  Militza ran to the window and threw it wide-open. Bang! Another one. She couldn’t believe it. Bang! Again. She looked down into the square to see that all the traffic had halted. The trams were not moving. Pedestrians were stationary, rooted to the spot on the pavement, in the road, frozen in an instant. They were all listening. Could it really be true? Were they hearing correctly? Had the cannons at the Peter and Paul Fortress just announced the birth of a male heir to a reigning monarch for the first time since the seventeenth century? Bang! There it was again. It was as if the cannon itself were blowing away all that was miserable, all that was woeful and depressing about the war: the loss of life in Manchuria, the endless news about the Japanese sinking Russian ships. Great explosions of hope and happiness were being blasted through this troubled city.

  Militza’s telephone rang urgently. Stana! She couldn’t wait for her butler to answer, so she ran down the stairs in her morning dress and picked it up in the hall.

  “God be praised!”

  “Philippe be praised!” Stana replied. “We are saved! The tsarina is saved!”

  “Russia is saved,” enthused Militza.

  “And so is Montenegro!”

  The rush of adrenaline was so powerful Militza began to tremble. It had all been worth it! They had done what everyone else had failed to do. They had managed to furnish the barren tsarina with an heir. A son! At last.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, laughing down the telephone. “We did it!”

  “We did,” came Stana’s reply. “No one can touch us now.”

  Outside, church bells began to ring. There were ripples of applause and shouts of joy from the street below. The servants began to arrive in the hall, their normally sullen, uncommunicative faces beaming with elation.

  “It’s a boy!” shouted a footman.

  “A boy!” confirmed a lady’s maid.

  Bang! The cannons carried on firing. Again and again. Three hundred and one times in total. It went on for well over an hour and by the time they had finished and Militza looked out again into the streets below, flags were being hoisted up poles, the double-headed eagle was flapping from every conceivable vantage point, and the national anthem was playing in the park across the street. This was going to be a party, a very large party, and everyone was going to join in. Work was most definitely over for the day, and when the factories opened their gates, hours before schedule, the laborers and machinists poured out into the streets. Instead of closing, most of the restaurants pulled their tables out into the streets, and in the more expensive hostelries, the managers cracked open champagne, serving regulars free of charge.

  At about four, Stana arrived, running into her sister’s salon. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her dark eyes shone as she hurled herself into her sister’s arms.

  “A boy! A boy! A boy!” She kissed her sister, hugged her tightly, and started to laugh. “I am giddy!” she exclaimed. “Positively giddy! It really is incredible. I thought it would never happen. Do you think it was Seraphim? Philippe? Dr. Badmaev’s herbs? The dolls? The poppets? And have you heard the other news?” she said, smiling even more.

  “What other news?”

  “Nikolasha told me.” Stana looked like she was fit to burst. “The Vladimirs are furious! Incredibly furious because Kirill, Boris, and Andrei are now one step further away from the throne.

  “Apparently,” she said, grinning, “Vladimir went completely silent at luncheon when he received the telegram. He left and didn’t return for an hour; then, when he did return, he continued to sit in silence, all the while being handed fresh cigarette after fresh cigarette by the Cossack standing behind him. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, apparently. No one knew what to do or say. And when your host isn’t speaking, what are you supposed to do? Nikolasha was told by the American military attaché who was there! It was only when he was leaving to return to St. Petersburg that Colonel Mott found out what was in the telegram and what had made them so annoyed!”

  “Oh, the poor Vladimirs, all that plotting, all that money, all those connections, undone by a baby that is not even twenty-four hours old.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Are you ready?” asked Peter, marching briskly into the room. He was dressed in a white naval jacket with golden buttons and large gold epaulets, clearly ready to go out.

  “For what?” Militza looked confused.

  “There’s been a telephone call inviting us to come and look at the baby.”

  “So soon?” asked Stana, her eyes darting from her sister to her brother-in-law. “Are we to be the first?”

  “Well, apart from Ella and Sergei, who were there for luncheon today, I suppose we are.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Peter. “Apparently, almost as soon as Alix sat down for luncheon at twelve thirty, she felt pains; she went upstairs immediately and then the baby was born less than half an hour later.”

  “Just in time to ruin someone else’s luncheon.” Stana smiled. Peter looked across at her. “Don’t worry,” she said, shrugging, “I’ll explain another time.”

  “So I have the car ready,” continued Peter. “We should go.” He looked at the two sisters. “Immediately.”

  DRIVING THROUGH THE STREETS OF ST. PETERSBURG AND OUT into the countryside beyond was one of the most memorable journeys of Militza’s life. The air was warm, the sky was a clear c
obalt blue, and the noise of singing and the ringing of bells, plus the strains of the national anthem, serenaded them almost all the way to the Gulf of Finland. Even in the tiniest villages, where the chickens outnumbered the wooden houses that clung to either side of the dirt road, they were celebrating. Royal flags were as ubiquitous as the smiles on the faces.

  But no one was smiling quite as much as Nicky. When he met them on the top of the steps of the Lower Dacha, it was as if all the worries of the last few years, all the strains that had etched themselves all over his ashen face, had disappeared. He looked so happy, so light and carefree, he almost danced like a feather in the wind before them.

  “What an unforgettable day!” he declared from the threshold, his pale eyes shining. “How blessed we are! How blessed we were the day we met Maître Philippe. Come and see him. Come and see the future Alexei II.”

  “Alexei?” asked Militza as she walked into the hall.

  “Named after the father of Peter the Great! Alexei the Great, that’s what they’ll call him! My son! My heir!”

  “How exciting!” said Stana.

  “He is such a big boy!” continued Nicky. “Eleven and a half pounds.”