“Quiet?” laughed Militza. “I am not sure your life will ever be quiet.”
“But that is all I want.”
Militza looked at her sister. “But you’re only thirty-nine years old—there is much ahead of you.”
“Nikolasha is fifty.”
“And still playing politics and soldiers,” said Militza.
“He wants nothing to do with politics, and he says he wants to retire from the army and hunt wolf with his borzois.”
“Of course!” laughed Militza. “So what was last summer about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Me persuading Nicky to replace Prime Minister Goremykin with Stolypin? Who do you think was behind all of that?”
“Peter?”
“Nikolasha! Nikolasha and his friend General Rauch. They begged me to ask Nicky and Alix. They were desperate for Stolypin to be prime minister. So I asked. And it happened. You don’t get more political than that.”
“Well, he’s not interested anymore,” she said, taking a small sip of champagne. “Quiet. That’s what we want. Nice and quiet.”
“This coming from a man who sliced his borzoi in half at the dinner table just to demonstrate how sharp his sword was?”
“That was years ago and no one remembers that,” mumbled Stana. “Anyway, he’s happy now.”
That much was certainly true. Nikolasha was unrecognizable from the fractious giant he once was. Famed for his quick temper and rash actions, he had become a much more jovial, affable fellow since he’d been with Stana. Militza had once joked it was the power of regular intercourse that had changed the man, much to her sister’s annoyance. Stana put it down to the far more cerebral meeting of souls. She even credited Philippe, posthumously, with granting her fulfillment at last. Nikolasha himself, when talking of happiness, told Militza, “For a long time I sought it, and when I had lost all hope of finding it, unexpectedly I received it.”
THE WEDDING WAS SIMPLE. DESPITE PETER’S OFFERING, STANA chose to walk down the aisle alone because none of her brothers, nor indeed her father, was able to attend. Her brother-in-law had been terribly charming to offer, but she preferred to stand firm. Meanwhile, Nikolasha was flanked by a guard of honor led by Colonel Dundadze, commandant of the Yalta garrison. There were representatives from Montenegro and Italy, as well as various members of the army present, but the most notable absence was the royal family. They all stayed away; their excuses, Militza remembered, were too numerous to recount. An illness. Urgent travel. Business abroad. Nicky and Alix sent the charming Prince Vasily Dolgorukov in their place, but the others were not so diplomatic. Xenia was so horrified she told everyone who’d listen she couldn’t believe they’d found a church that would actually marry them! Her husband, Sandro, refused even to send a telegram of congratulations, and the Dowager Empress was said to have been so appalled when she’d heard the news that the wedding had actually taken place she’d had to retire to her chamber and be administered with tranquilizing drops.
Stana and Nikolasha smiled broadly as they left the church, apparently oblivious to the outrage they had unleashed. After the ceremony, the luncheon that followed the service was a subdued, abstemious, but nonetheless joyful affair. Plates of smoked sturgeon were followed by spring lamb, pheasant in aspic, fresh asparagus, forced rhubarb and sweet fruits in wine, and ice cream, plus plenty of toasts. There was a gypsy band playing, but they did not kidnap the bride as usual; instead, Nikolasha insisted on paying them beforehand: the idea that anyone might relive or be reminded of that hideous night—of Grand Duchess Vladimir’s bloodied skirts and the scarlet trail she left across the ballroom—was more than anyone could bear. So the guests retired into the balmy southern spring evening with memories of a pleasant afternoon that was neither ostentatious nor inappropriate.
LATER THAT WEEK, STANA AND NIKOLASHA WENT ON A HONEYMOON tour of his many country estates, where the groom hunted wolf and fox with his hounds while his new wife read and walked his expansive grounds, delighting in her own company, her pain, loneliness, and humiliation a thing of the past.
Meanwhile, Militza returned to St. Petersburg, alone.
Still engulfed in the last gusts of winter, the city felt cold. Perhaps it was simply the inclement weather, after the longer, milder days spent in the Crimea, or maybe it was her reception that was enough to chill the blood. Either way, Militza felt a certain froideur every time she entered a room. Before her sister’s wedding, all eyes had naturally turned towards the two of them, even at a discreet dinner at the Yacht Club. But now, suddenly on her own, with her sister enjoying the first flush of marriage, Militza found herself isolated.
And Peter was no help. The fact that he had helped persuade her father and thereby Montenegro to back Nicky in the failed war against Japan was enough for him to want to maintain a low profile. He’d believed, like the late Minister of the Interior Vyacheslav von Plehve, that “a short victorious war would save Russia from all its internal problems.” The war had not been short, or remotely victorious: it was catastrophic, with appalling loss of life, and it had gone a long way to exacerbate Russia’s internal problems, with strikes, insurrections, and insubordination on the rise all over the country—so much so that no one who held office was safe; death in the form of ardent revolutionaries stalked the streets, ready to strike at any moment. Even Plehve, who’d survived at least two assassination attempts, had finally succumbed to a bomb back in July 1904.
So Peter had suddenly, rapidly, become very interested in the running of his estates. His conversion was practically Tolstoyan; he developed an all-encompassing fascination with land management and the welfare of his workers. He was happy to spend the occasional evening with the tsar at Tsarskoye Selo, as well as give little dinners for twenty or thirty or so at Znamenka in the countryside. But that’s where he wanted to stay, at Znamenka; therefore he was much less inclined to come into town to attend the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s parties or any of the court balls. He left Militza to go on her own.
Towards the end of May, she accepted an invitation to a soirée chinoise at the Vladimirs’ on the Palace Embankment. Given the recent defeat at the hands of the Japanese, some would have thought any Oriental theme tasteless, but such nuances had never bothered the grand duchess, and with Alix always detained in the countryside, so prone to ailments and aches and so terribly, terribly frail, there was a vacuum at the heart of St. Petersburg society that Maria Pavlovna thought it her duty to fill. “One ought to know one’s job,” she would say. And her job was to make up for the darkened windows of the Winter Palace, where not one glass of fizz was served, nor a note played.
As Militza entered the Raspberry Parlor in the second floor of the palace, Maria greeted her with unusual enthusiasm. A symphony of golden thread and diamonds, the Grand Duchess Vladimir shimmered with delight.
“How are you?” she inquired, thrice kissing the air on either side of Militza’s white cheeks. “And how was the little wedding? Do tell all!”
“Intimate wedding,” corrected Militza.
“Very intimate. I hear poor Alix’s sciatica prevented her from attending?” Maria’s face was positively contorted with delight. “Anyone else make it?”
“Is she unwell again tonight?” asked Militza, pretending to look around the room in search of the empress.
“Poor Alix.” Maria nodded, looking over Militza’s shoulder. “To be so afflicted.”
“Poor Alix.” They paused to agree. “What a stunning dress,” added Militza. “Gold.”
“Isn’t it charming? I was inspired by my recent trip to Vienna. We took our little train, and I met this very interesting artist, Gustav Klimt. I’m thinking of ordering a few works. He’s not terribly expensive.”
“Is the tsar coming?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” She looked around the room. “Ma chère!” she called to a friend, waved, and walked off. “Have I told you about my trip to Vienna?”
Militza smiled stiffly and took a sip of her champagn
e. It had been a long time since she’d felt this out of sorts. Surely her sister’s marriage could not have such dramatic repercussions? Was she imagining this feeling? They were four of the most powerful, connected people in the whole of Russia; everyone knew they had the ear of the tsar and the tsarina and control over Rasputin. There was no one more powerful than they were. Nikolasha was president of the Council of State Defense, in charge of rearming the troops and the navy; he was popular with his soldiers, well loved. They were all well loved, she concluded, walking towards the ballroom and the sound of the orchestra. Then why didn’t she feel it?
She paused by the impressive dining table that ran the length of the banqueting hall. It was groaning with curls of smoked salmon, silver bowls brimming with caviar, and a mountain of exotic-looking fruits—pineapples, cherries, oranges, apricots, and grapes—that, on closer inspection, turned out to be made entirely of marzipan.
“Well, if it isn’t one of the Black Crows,” came the familiar voice of Count Yusupov.
Militza turned around. How dare he call her that! She’d heard that some referred to her and her sister as Crows, or Spiders, or Black Crows or Black Spiders, but never to her face. He was deliberately riling her, and she needed to calm down. Why on earth was she feeling so vulnerable?
“Good evening.” She smiled briefly. “I was on my way to the ballroom. I’ve heard there’s a performance.”
“Anna Pavlova and the rest of the corps did a little Chinese thing organized by Diaghilev,” he replied, popping a small marzipan apricot into his mouth. “You missed it.” He chewed. “How were the heinous nuptials? Did the Lord strike with a thunderbolt? Did the heavens weep at such a union?” He chuckled to himself, wiping the length of his thick mustache with the back of his hand. In fact, such was his mirth that his small eyes watered.
“The wedding passed without incident,” replied Militza. “How very kind of you to ask.”
“And without witnesses?”
“There were plenty who came.”
“No one of significance. Poor Nikolasha, a man of his standing and not a royal cousin to be seen; he has indeed fallen under some spell.”
“I can assure you, the man is of sound mind,” replied Militza.
“Not that your little tricks are much good,” he declared. “‘Look after your son!’ you said to me once in that silly salon of yours. ‘Look after him.’ Pah! As if you knew what you were talking about. What rubbish! Both my sons are alive and well. Felix is here tonight.”
“Not singing in the Aquarium Café?” The count stared at her, his florid cheeks pulsating with anger. He slowly opened his mouth as if to speak, but words failed him. “This is a small city,” continued Militza. “And stories travel like head lice in a workhouse. Particularly the ones about naughty boys who like to dress up as pretty girls and sing cabaret songs for a living, despite being from the richest family in all of Russia.” She smiled. “It’s going to take more than those daily icy showers to cure such flamboyance, I’m afraid. Now, if you will excuse me . . . ?”
MILITZA WALKED THROUGH THE LARGE, OAK-PANELED BANQUETING hall with its polished red copper chandeliers and walls decorated with traditional Russian fairy tales, painted to look like tapestries. It was an odd room that felt dark and solid and was in great contrast to the large, open, gilt and pale gray ballroom, with its elaborate ceiling of pert-breasted caryatids and well-nourished cherubs.
Inside the ballroom, the music was loud and the air was heady with the smell of cigarettes and champagne. Many of the guests had arrived in splendid Oriental outfits, many borrowed from the Mariinsky Theatre but others speedily made in the ateliers around Nevsky Prospekt. Some—the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s, most certainly—had surely come from Madame Auguste Brissac’s studio on Moika. The overall effect was of effortless decadence as the shimmer of silk and the rustle of taffeta accompanied the glorious music. A green-liveried footman arrived with a silver tray heavy with champagne coupes. He bowed his head while Militza helped herself. As she sipped from the chilled glass, she watched the tsar drift around the room. He looked well, nodding his head, smiling at the guests; it even looked for a moment that he might be about to dance. Alexei must be doing better, thought Militza. The tsar’s health and happiness were now so inextricably linked to the welfare of his son and Alix that his humors were like some sort of medical weather vane.
She smiled as he approached. She could feel the eyes of the room looking sidelong at her. Would the tsar still be irritated by the wedding? Would he hold a grudge? Would he punish her for her sister’s happiness?
“So, it is done!” he said as he came over to embrace her. “Stana and Nikolasha are at last united!”
“They are.” Militza smiled, trying not to appear too relieved.
“My mother is furious,” he whispered in her ear, “and my sisters are horrified. But they’re only upset because I refused Michael and Baby Bee.”
“They were first cousins.”
“Yes, and Nikolasha and Stana are brother and sister.”
“Not really.”
“I know.” He paused. “You must come and tell us all about it. We miss you. It has been two months at least. And you missed Anna’s wedding.”
“Anna?”
“Taneyeva, now Vyrubova. Our Friend warned her a few days before that it would be an unhappy liaison, but she went ahead regardless.” He shrugged his large golden epaulets. Militza stared at him. How on earth could the tsar be talking about the marriage of the plump, dull Anna? As if it would be of any interest to anyone! “She has a little cottage now, just by Tsarskoye Selo.”
“Who has? Anna?”
“Alix much prefers to meet people there these days,” he declared. “Far fewer guards.” Nicky patted her upper arm and turned to move on. “Oh, by the way, your father isn’t worried about being left out of the peace treaty with Japan, is he? It’s not like the Montenegrins did that much fighting or committed many troops. You lot don’t really have that much of an army or navy to speak of!” He laughed a little. “Your father’s support was more symbolic, I feel.”
“Of course,” replied Militza.
“Jolly good,” said Nicky.
THREE DAYS LATER, MILITZA’S CAR PULLED UP OUTSIDE A SMALL yellow-and-white villa just two hundred feet from the gates of the Alexander Palace. It was a low two-story building, more of a summerhouse, really—absolutely not the sort of house Militza would have ever noticed before. There was no garden to speak of, but the surrounding trees were in bud and blossom, making the approach to the house a little more charming. As Militza walked up the short path, she stopped. She could hear the sound of piano music drifting out of the open window, and there were two people singing. One was a high soprano voice; the other was low and unmistakable—the tsarina. Militza had heard Alix sing before, a few times, but never outside her Mauve Boudoir.
A footman showed her into the small, cluttered drawing room. The flock-paper walls were full of paintings, and nearly every table, sideboard, or dresser was covered in little knickknacks, bits of china or porcelain—cups, jugs, dogs, cats, and little cherubs. There were newspapers and magazines piled high on various tables, and plates of nuts and sweetmeats at every turn. Alix and Anna had their backs to the door as they sat at the piano, squeezed onto one chair, only one buttock each firmly on the seat. They were laughing and bickering slightly over what piece of music to duet next. Militza cleared her throat. They both turned.
“Your Imperial Highness!” said Anna, immediately leaping out of the seat. “I am afraid I did not hear you enter!”
“Militza,” Alix said, smiling. “I am afraid you have discovered our terrible secret!” She laughed a little.
“Secret?”
“Our awful piano and our even more terrible singing!”
“On the contrary, I thought it very jovial,” said Militza.
“As did I.”
Militza turned around. There he was, sitting in the shadows, watching them.
“Grish
a!” Her voice was unexpectedly high with surprise.
He nodded. “How was the wedding?”
“Well—” began Militza.
“Don’t let’s speak of it,” interrupted Alix, her thin white hand in the air. “I never want it spoken of again.”
Militza was about to say that Rasputin had himself blessed the union and that she herself had persuaded the tsar to give his permission, but there was something about the adamant little hand in the air that made her realize some things were best left unsaid.
There was a pause. Militza remained standing, while Rasputin looked from one to the other. This was the sort of uneasy situation that amused him.
“I met a very pretty young lady yesterday.” He watched as all three women turned to look at him. He had their attention. “Very pretty,” he added. “And so very young,” he embellished, his pale eyes darting around the room, reading all their facial expressions. “Munia Golovina.”
“Princess Paley’s niece?” asked Alix.
“Perhaps.” Rasputin was not entirely sure.
“She is a close friend of the Yusupov family,” added Anna, nodding knowledgeably. “Some say she might marry Nikolai Felixovich one day. They are practically betrothed.” Rasputin looked at her, his eyebrows raised with interest. “Although he perhaps has his eyes on another, someone who is already taken?”
“Married?” Militza asked.
“I couldn’t possibly say,” replied Anna, her round face shining with innocence. “I am not a woman who likes to gossip.”
“Quite right,” said Alix brusquely. “I can’t abide idle chatter. It’s the devil’s work.”
“She was most ardent in her questions,” continued Rasputin.
“Not as ardent as I, surely?” asked Anna.
“No one is more ardent than you,” replied Rasputin. “No one believes quite like you, my child.”
“Mama! Mama!” The two eldest grand duchesses, with long blond hair around their shoulders and large picture hats, came dashing into the room. “Please say yes,” they began, their young hands clasped together in prayer. “Oh, please do, please say yes.”
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 30
