The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Apparently, it is up to her.” Miechen motioned. “Minnie, sit. Have a cigarette.” She extended her case. “Turkish tobacco. I was nearly fined for importing it without a permit. Goremykin may have been useless, but he had our customs officials working overtime to find any contraband upon which to levy a fine.” She snorted. “I sent some to Nicky for his Name Day. He liked them so much, he asked the Turkish ambassador to provide him with an annual supply. So much for contraband, if the tsar himself allows it.”

  After lighting the aromatic cigarette and gulping down my tea, I blurted out, “Nicky dismissed Goremykin on my advice. I first suggested we bring back Witte, who can manage the Duma, but Nicky wouldn’t hear of it, so we agreed on Stolypin instead. Stolypin proposed that the Duma hold new elections; now, he wants to increase state funds for the peasants to acquire farmland. Keeping them content in the country, he claims, will deprive the revolutionaries of fodder.”

  “Ah.” She reclined in her chair. “That must explain the bomb that went off at his house, after he barred the Duma from assembly to force them to these new elections.”

  My cigarette wavered as I lifted it to my lips, as much from the memory as from her callous recollection of it. “Miechen, you mustn’t make light of it. Twenty-eight of his guests were killed by that bomb. His own daughter’s legs were crushed when the balcony fell on her.”

  “Yes. It was terrible.” She dropped four lumps of sugar into her cup. She didn’t seem perturbed; no matter what happened, she never seemed perturbed.

  “How can you be so calm?” I said in despair. “Look at me. My nerves…Misha and Olga are determined to send me to an early grave, and we’ll have no peace until those monstrous revolutionaries are destroyed. They want us all on our knees.”

  “Or shot in the head. Minnie, I’m rational. We’re not dead yet.” She sipped her tea before she said, “As for Stolypin’s daughter, she is walking again. Her injury mustn’t have been as severe as you were led to believe. Or perhaps this friend of Gigogne’s is truly what they say.”

  “Friend?” A sudden pit yawned in my stomach. “Dr. Philippe died four years ago.”

  “Not Philippe.” She savored the moment of catching me off guard. “Haven’t you heard? I understand this latest one is right out of Dostoyevsky. When that bomb went off at Stolypin’s house, Gigogne dispatched her new friend there at once. Apparently, he healed the girl. The doctors were preparing to amputate her legs, and he prayed over her. Lo and behold, by the next week she’d risen to her feet like Lazarus. Wherever do they find these miracle workers? Whenever I have a pain in my back, there’s nary one to be found.”

  Resisting my barrage of questions, I drew on my cigarette. It had gone out; as I reached for her gold-plated lighter, she added, “His name is Rasputin,” in a tone that implied the name should mean something to me.

  I now let the moment get the better of her. “Is that so?” I said.

  “It is. And he’s no fraud from Paris, though he too was introduced to Gigogne through her lady Vyrubova,” she replied tartly. “A Siberian peasant, who claims he had a vision of our Lady of Kazan and became a strannik, making pilgrimage to all the holy sites—barefoot, naturally. Vyrubova heard of his allegedly miraculous healing powers, traveled all the way to his home village to consult with him, then invited him to the Alexander Palace to meet with Gigogne. From what I hear, she’s very taken with him.” Miechen paused, gauging me. “He now resides here, in St. Petersburg, and was invited again to Tsarskoe Selo as recently as last week, to what purpose is anyone’s guess—which, as you can expect, everyone is doing. A man of such ill repute, visiting the empress at her own palace…”

  “Ill repute?” I shed my feigned disinterest. “How can I not know any of this? I was only abroad for four months this year!”

  “I’m only telling you what I heard, Minnie.”

  “Yes, and how did you happen to hear it?” I retorted.

  “At a luncheon at the Yusupov Palace,” she said, as if it were to be assumed. “By the way, I saw your granddaughter Irina there. Such a beauty she’s become. All that time away in the Crimea must agree with her, though it’s a shame we don’t see more of Sandro and Xenia these days. I forget, how old is their daughter now?”

  “Almost fourteen.” I found myself gripping her Limoges teacup so hard, I feared I might shatter it. I wasn’t about to discuss Xenia with her. She was no doubt already fully apprised of the disintegration of my eldest daughter’s marriage.

  “Only that? She appears older. You must keep close watch over her. She and Prince Felix Yusupov seemed rather fond of each other, and he’s already twenty-one.”

  “What harm is there in it?” I replied. “Felix is heir to one of the largest fortunes in Russia. We’ve both known his mother, Princess Zenaida, for many years; our circle isn’t so large that we can forbid their acquaintance. Irina could do worse.”

  She smiled. “You might not be so amenable if you knew more about Felix than his worth. Suffice to say, he suffers from the same vice as our late Sergei. Only Felix doesn’t care to hide it. And he prefers to dress for the occasion, if you understand my meaning.”

  I did. And I’d rather not have known. All of a sudden, as often happened, I wished I hadn’t come to her to spill out my troubles. From my upset over Misha and Olga to my fear that Russia careened again toward revolution, we’d come full circle to sordid gossip. Inevitably, I would leave her feeling as if I’d confided more than intended.

  But I did not leave. Instead, I said testily, “You were saying about this new friend?”

  “Oh, yes. Well. It seems Felix has developed an interest in mysticism, as indolent rich young men are apt to do. Zenaida told me he made a trip to Moscow to visit Ella. The poor dear’s grief over Sergei has unhinged her.” She grimaced. “Madness must run in their Hesse blood. Ella showed Felix one of Sergei’s fingers. It was found on the Kremlin’s rooftop after his funeral, and she keeps it in a reliquary. She also spoke to Felix at length about renouncing her worldly goods to endow a convent. A Romanov grand duchess, serving gruel to the poor!” Miechen started to laugh, until she saw the look on my face.

  “It’s not cause for derision,” I said. “I know how it feels to lose a husband.” I abruptly came to my feet in disgust and was reaching for my shawl when she said hastily, “Zenaida was the one who mentioned to me that Gigogne has this new friend. Just by coincidence, her son Felix is acquainted with Anna Vyrubova. Apparently he either heard of Rasputin through her or met the man in person at one of the usual assortment of salons.”

  I stared at her. “Did Zenaida say anything else I should know?”

  Miechen waved her hand. “Only that Gigogne’s favor has made Rasputin exceedingly popular. Entertaining enough for some, I suppose, but I never attend such gatherings. Felix Yusupov does, however. Perhaps you should pay a visit to Zenaida? She told me she hasn’t received you in over two years and fears she may have done something to offend.”

  “She has not. What of his ill repute?”

  She hesitated, making me clench my teeth. “He’s amassed quite the following,” she said. “All women, naturally, and of all sorts. He’s known to frequent gypsy taverns and brothels on the islands…I don’t wish to be indelicate, Minnie. Must I spell it out?”

  Since when had she not wished to be indelicate?

  “Yes,” I said. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

  I could see her aversion wasn’t pretense. Were it the habitual peccadilloes, she’d have had no reluctance in describing them. She never had in the past.

  “A lecher,” she said. “Orgies. Public drunkenness. He seduces his acolytes, telling them God wants us to sin because only then can we be forgiven. A harem at his disposal, yet he has a wife and children in Siberia. Is that enough? As I said, Felix Yusupov might know more. How much more do you need? An uncouth peasant who abandons his family to come to S
t. Petersburg and frolic like a satyr is hardly suitable company for our tsarina.”

  Having heard enough, I abruptly changed the subject. “Alexis took me to Louis Cartier’s establishment in Paris. Such beautiful things. I purchased several brooches. Monsieur Cartier told me you’re a favored customer and maintain an open account with him.”

  Her face immediately brightened, gossip tossed aside for her favorite passion: jewels. She had her maidservant bring down her coffer, spreading out for me her latest acquisitions—a ransom of diamonds in white gold, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and topaz, embedded in filigree settings depicting insects and animals, all delicately wrought as lace.

  “You’ll never be able to wear all of it,” I remarked sourly, thinking that even in the midst of chaos, she never ceased to indulge herself.

  “I most certainly will. Just as soon as we’re rid of these tiresome revolutionaries and can hold a proper Season again. Here, take this.” She handed me an enamel-and-gold cigarette case edged in pink diamonds, monogrammed with an M. “Isn’t it convenient that we share the same initial? You must put some of my Turkish cigarettes in it for Nicky.”

  To no avail, I protested against her generosity, leaving her palace with a new bauble and an inescapable trepidation. I refused to ask the Yusupovs about my own family.

  Instead, I would go to Tsarskoe Selo and find out for myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The estate, enclosed by its wrought-iron palisade and patrolled at all hours, was quiet, the miniature Chinese hamlet built for the children like an exotic mirage in the morning mist. Though the morning was still mild for late November, frost sparkled on the grounds; the chill in the air meant the palace would be icy. Alexandra shared her late grandmother’s notion that cold environments were healthy, even if on a whim, she’d suddenly decide to order the stoves lit and have us sweltering.

  Footmen unloaded my luggage from the carriage that had conveyed me across the park from the private train station. While the trip was only a little over an hour by train, coming here was never a daylong event. I had to pack for a week’s stay, as I could never be certain of what I might find. If Alexandra was ill, as she often was, I’d have to tarry before I saw her.

  In the palace vestibule, I paused. It was a dark space with a black-and-white marble floor and glazed cloth on the walls, the repository for gifts from officials—symbolic keys to cities in the empire and other items no one knew what to do with, its mélange of bazaar-like offerings propped in niches and curio cabinets. Unhooking my ermine mantle—today the palace was heated, and it hit me like a blast—I wondered if Nicky was in his study or with Alexandra in her apartments on the east side that overlooked the lake and the gardens.

  Around me, the footmen bustled, nodding at my request to have my bags taken to my suite of apartments. I was about to inquire why no one was here to greet me when I caught sight of two figures hastening toward me down the corridor.

  I immediately recognized Prince Vladimir Obolensky, Nicky’s gof marschal and one of his few trusted intimates. Obolensky was regal in his bearing, with perfectly waxed mustachios and a mournfully aristocratic face. Impeccable in his red-and-gold uniform, a cousin of my own head steward, he’d mastered centuries of convoluted court etiquette to fulfill his exacting position.

  He quickened his pace at the sight of me. Beside him loped an unfamiliar figure with a straggling black beard and shoulder-length hair, dressed in loose trousers tucked into his boots like a moujik and a cassock-like linen peasant shirt. A vagrant caught wandering inside the palace? I wondered as Obolensky bowed before me.

  “Your Majesty, we were not expecting you,” he said, with evident dismay that I’d been left to attend to myself.

  I glanced at the stranger at his side. He did not bow. He was shorter than the prince and no vagrant, either, despite his disheveled appearance. In fact, he looked well fed, a working man, his legs strong, his broad shoulders straining his cassock, and his large, veined hands with tapered fingers clasped at his midriff. A plain wood crucifix hung on a leather cord about his neck. His eyes were arresting—almost sulfuric in their pale-blue intensity, like glazed ice. He regarded me with undisguised interest.

  “Didn’t you receive my telegram?” I asked the prince, having to tear my gaze away as the man’s thick lips under his unkempt beard parted in a leer.

  “We did.” Obolensky sounded agitated, highly unusual for him. “But we thought you would arrive later this afternoon.” He was upset that he’d not been informed of my train’s arrival; someone’s head would roll for the lapse, if I knew the prince. “I must beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness. It is inexcusable of me to have left you waiting.”

  “I’ve not been waiting long.” I was starting to feel uneasy. Who was this stranger staring at me? The moment I thought this, I realized: Alexandra’s new friend, Rasputin.

  “I’ll only be a moment, Majesty.” Obolensky turned toward the entryway, about to escort the friend out. The friend didn’t follow. He continued to regard me as if he could see my discomfort under my skin. He made a sudden, almost predatory move. Thinking he sought to embrace me with the traditional Russian hug and triple kiss, I stepped back. In a rough-gravel voice, he said sadly, “Matushka, why do you fear me? I wish you no harm.”

  “Fear you?” I echoed. “I certainly do not.”

  He inclined his head, greasy hair cascading over his face and hooked nose. He followed Obolensky out. I felt as if I should take a bath. The man surely had fleas. He had left in his wake an unpleasant odor, of sour sweat and dirty clothing. This was the friend with whom Alexandra was so taken? Had she lost her mind? He was nothing but a common serf, evidently unaware of St. Petersburg’s numerous public bathhouses.

  Moments later, Obolensky returned. With murmured apologies as I reassured him again that I was fine, he led me past the Abyssinian guard posted at Nicky’s study door.

  It was my favorite room in the palace: masculine, with polished walnut cabinets and high paneling, above which ran a strip of red damask wallpaper. He’d filled the room with personal articles, a globe on a brass tripod and shelves lined with his leather-bound books. His desk was orderly, for he liked to keep his papers tidy, populated by silver- and enamel-framed family photographs, many taken by Alexandra and the girls with their box Brownies. The air smelled of tobacco and linseed oil, of paper and ink—redolent of Nicky himself, reminding me of his devotion to literature and need for solitude.

  “Her Imperial Majesty the Dowager Empress,” announced the prince, before he bowed to me and retreated.

  Nicky had been dozing in his green leather armchair, a book on his lap. When he heard my entry, he came so suddenly to his feet, he tipped the book to the floor. “Mama.”

  I peeled off my gloves. “It seems no one was expecting me. You must reassure Obolensky that I don’t hold him responsible. I can handle my own reception, if need be.”

  He lit a cigarette, still in his dressing gown, a tasseled velvet bedcap on his head. His breakfast tray sat untouched on his desk. Had he overslept? He always rose hours before Alexandra. Surely he should have eaten and dressed by now.

  “Did you spend the night here?” I asked, in concern.

  He nodded. “Alexandra is exhausted. I let her have our bed to herself.”

  I knew from my visits that, unlike most married couples, they still shared a bed despite maintaining separate apartments—proof of their devotion to each other and of mutual tolerance. But the manner in which he spoke increased my concern.

  “Is she unwell?” I said, wondering how long I’d be required to stay here.

  He nodded, motioning me to the matching armchair beside his. “She’s been caring for Alexei. He had an accident.”

  I went still. Then I made myself sit, scavenging in my wrist bag for my new cigarette case. “Is it serious?” I couldn’t stanch the accusation in my voice. “I had no word
of it.”

  Nicky sighed. “He fell while playing with the girls. At first we thought it was just a contusion, but his knee swelled up—” His voice caught; he smoked nervously for a few moments, reaching for his silver lighter and handing it to me. “It was twice its normal size. The pain, Mama…Nothing eased it. Alexandra followed Botkin’s advice and gave him the salicylic acid, which she takes for her lumbago. It didn’t help. He developed a fever. We didn’t know what to do.”

  I was horrified by the news. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come at once.”

  “He’s much better now.” Nicky finished his cigarette; in the awkward silence, I extended my case to him. “The Turkish ones, from Miechen. She tells me you like them.”

  “Did she?” He extracted a cigarette from the case, turning the Cartier object over in his hands as if he were admiring it. He wasn’t. He was prolonging the moment, loath to admit that he would have sent for me, only Alexandra wouldn’t allow it.

  “I am his grandmother,” I said. “I’d rather be informed by you. Miechen mentioned to me that a new friend has been visiting here. Is Alexei the reason why?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Does Miechen know about my son?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, my voice sharpening at the suspicion in his tone. “I’ve told no one, as you requested. But she suspects something grave ails the child. They all do. What can we expect? If they don’t know the truth, they speculate.” I paused, drawing on my cigarette. “Was that the new friend just now, leaving the palace?”

  “Yes. Father Grigori. He’s been a godsend to us.”

  I found it difficult to believe. “How so?”

  “He has a power—” Nicky paused, amending his words, for he knew I didn’t believe in such things. “A way with Alexei. He calms him. He sits with him, prays, and talks to him. He stops the bleeding. He came when it was at its worst. Alexandra was in such despair, I didn’t have the heart to refuse her, though I’d barely met the man. But he did the impossible.” His sleep-deprived eyes were full of relief. “Within a day, the swelling started to abate. No hemorrhage. Alexei is still abed, but Father Grigori has assured us he’ll recover. He never says more. He never promises, but he gives us such hope.”