“Such a tragedy to bury a husband,” she said. “Which, sadly, you know, Minnie.”
“I suppose it depends on the wife.” I tasted her pungent coffee before adding another lump of sugar to the thick brew.
“Or the husband.” She laughed. She had a subtle laugh, perfected in salons; she knew all eyes were upon her, so she had no need to attract attention. “How does Her Majesty your sister fare?” she said, referring to Alix by her title. Zenaida never assumed familiarity.
“As well as can be expected. Apparently they have no provision in England for a dowager queen. Alix had to surrender her jewels.”
“All of them?” She knew better than to display shock, but I could see by the lift of her plucked eyebrow that she felt it.
“All her royal ones,” I said. “The misfortune of a husband’s death reaches even to one’s adornment when one’s husband happens to be a king.”
She made a tut-tutting sound. Then she motioned to my bag with her long-nailed white hand. “Let us smoke, Minnie, in honor of the occasion. It’s been so long since you visited me.”
I took out my case.
“Cartier.” She nodded in approval, though she hadn’t seen the insignia. “How charming. He does make such innovative objets d’art. I understand our Grand Duchess Pavlovna is one of his greatest sponsors here.”
“And no doubt he has the unpaid bills to show for it,” I said, extracting two cigarettes and offering her my lighter.
She smiled; society-born and bred, gossip was her pastime. “Grand Duke Vladimir must have rued the day he said ‘I do,’ as far as access to his fortune was concerned.”
We laughed together, two women smoking over coffee in a salon that could accommodate five hundred. Tapping her cigarette ash into a porcelain Fabergé plate on her table, she asked, “Have I done anything to offend?”
“No, no. I’m the one who’s been remiss. My schedule these days…” I sighed. “It seems I do nothing but rush abroad, return, and rush abroad again. This must be the price of longevity. Those we love leave us, and we’re left to wonder when our time will come.”
“Come now. You haven’t aged a day since I met you. Unlike another whom I’ll refrain from mentioning, so as not to spoil our afternoon.”
I understood. She and Miechen shared antipathy of Alexandra, whose inability to conduct herself as an empress had put a damper on the very lifeblood of St. Petersburg—entertainment. The empty halls of the Winter Palace, once ablaze with glamour, were proof enough. Where I’d once reigned supreme, Alexandra left only vacancy.
“I actually have a reason for coming to see you,” I began, suddenly ashamed of my self-interest, having been so engrossed in my travails that I’d neglected my social obligations. “Miechen mentioned something to me about Felix.”
She made a gesture. The maidservant in a distant corner, out of earshot but not out of sight, came forward to pour us more coffee and replenish the platter of petit fours. Then Zenaida dismissed her. “Please, speak openly. If I can be of assistance, I’m at your disposal.”
I gave her a grateful smile. “You’ll think it rather silly, I’m afraid.”
“Not at all. Irina is your granddaughter. I’ve been most firm with Felix on her account. He cannot entertain proposing to her until she’s reached her eighteenth year.”
I belatedly remembered what Miechen had also said about my granddaughter and the Yusupov prince. “Has it gone so far?”
She might have appeared unsettled, had she been any other. “I thought you wished to discuss the matter on Xenia’s behalf? I realize my son might not be the spouse that she and Sandro would desire for Irina.”
I swallowed. Zenaida must have also heard of my daughter’s separation from her husband, so there wasn’t a way to avoid it. “Xenia hasn’t said anything about it. She…she’s often in the Crimea now, so perhaps she’s unaware of Felix’s affection for Irina. But, yes, it would be her and Sandro’s decision; Irina is their child.”
“I see.” To my relief, she sat attentive, until I said in a voice that sounded more conspiratorial than justified for the situation, “I’m actually here about Grigori Rasputin.”
She didn’t react in a visible manner, yet I sensed a sudden tension emanating from her, as if an unidentifiable foul scent had leached into the room. Then she took a delicate inhale of her cigarette, saying through smoke trailing between her lips, “Alas, in that matter, I cannot be of any assistance. Whatever Miechen told you is all I know.”
“Miechen thought Felix may have met him, as your son has an interest in mysticism and even paid a visit to Ella at her convent in Moscow. I thought perhaps…”
“Dearest Minnie, you too have grown sons. How often do they inform you of their interests or acquaintances?”
“Rarely.” I forced out a smile in return. “As I said, it’s rather silly of me.”
“Not at all. If I were in your shoes, I’d be concerned myself. May I speak freely?” When I assented, she said, “Her Imperial Majesty does not endear herself. For our empress to entertain such a man in her palace, with four young daughters and a son who will one day inherit the throne: It’s not only unseemly but also quite dangerous. I needn’t remind you of how difficult our situation is. The Duma in disarray; the secret police on a rampage; the revolutionaries planting bombs and threatening annihilation—she has no idea of what she might be inviting inside. A wolf is still a wolf, even in holy guise.”
A chill crept through me. “You think he is a wolf.”
“I do. I’ve never met him, but one doesn’t need to meet the wolf to know when to bolt the door.” She crushed her cigarette out on the plate. “I can say that Felix did visit Ella and found her an inspiration, raising Grand Duke Paul’s children after Sergei was appointed their guardian, then, upon Sergei’s death, seeing young Maria betrothed to the Prince of Sweden and insisting her brother, Dmitri, complete his education before he was installed in his palace here. Only then did she sell off her possessions to endow her convent. Such piety is exemplary. Felix was so impressed, he vows to do the same. I owe Ella a debt of gratitude for opening my son’s eyes to the suffering in this world.”
I nearly laughed aloud. “He wishes to endow a convent?”
“For the moment,” she said dryly. “I assured him that as my sole surviving son, his first duty is to continue our family line. He can marry and give me grandchildren, and then, by all means, he may dedicate himself to charity. I daresay it’ll be a relief once he does, for his aimlessness has not come without a price.”
“I sympathize more than you can imagine,” I muttered, thinking of Misha, whose mistress, Natalia, had given birth to a son while I’d been abroad, precipitating his urgency to marry her, even as I’d begged him for more time.
She regarded me pensively. “If you wish to speak to Felix in person, I’ll have him call on you as soon as he returns. He’s not in Russia at the moment; I sent him to study fine arts at Oxford. I insisted he must cultivate interests beyond racehorses and clothes if he hopes to wed Irina. However, I don’t think he’s ever met the man, either. My son has his eccentricities, but I believe I would have heard of it. This city isn’t so vast that Felix can go unperceived, particularly given Rasputin’s reputation. I will, of course, inform you should I discover anything more before Felix’s return.”
“Thank you,” I said, finishing my coffee. I felt dejected, having embarrassed myself to no purpose, other than to learn what I already knew. “In any case, I suppose I should speak with him. Xenia will want my opinion on him, should he propose to my granddaughter.”
“Yes, I think you must. I want to be quite certain you’ll have no objection. Felix can be determined when he wants to be, and he’s determined to wed Irina. As I’ve said, he’s attempting to mend his ways, but he still has a past to contend with.”
For the sake of propriety, I stayed with her for another
hour or so, inquiring about our acquaintances and catching up on the latest intrigues. None of it gave me solace. Times past, I’d have reveled in the betrayals and affairs, the petty lies and competitions, but now it felt as though that world in which I’d once excelled had left me far behind. Society continued to outspend and outdo one another, mounted on a lavish carousel spinning round and round, without any thought for the future.
Zenaida was wise, but, unlike her, most of those we knew were not. They did not see the wolf prowling outside, and their doors remained wide open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Nicky refused me,” cried Olga, as I sat in my study in Gatchina and avoided Misha’s stare, wishing I could set sail for Denmark this instant. They had come to me as a united front, with Olga launching a tirade. “Peter can continue to enjoy the privilege of calling himself a grand duke, while I’m seen as the wayward adulteress.”
“Peter cannot call himself a grand duke,” I said. “Nicky knows you are separated and will not allow him the imperial title.”
“As if that matters,” Olga replied.
We’d been through the argument so many times—albeit without my younger son present to add fuel to the fire—that I didn’t know what to say, repeating the same advice that even to my ears sounded unconvincing.
“We face too much upheaval. Our new Duma has barely opened and already there’s dissent. Prime Minister Stolypin threatens to resign, and revolutionaries plot our downfall at every turn. To allow his own sister to divorce is a disgrace Nicky cannot allow.”
“The disgrace is in his own palace.” Olga rarely minced words now, not where her Kulikovsky was concerned. “He should look first to his wife, who’s letting that starets dictate who should be appointed to this or that office.”
I started in my chair. Olga glared at me. “It would be on all the front pages, were the Okhrana not arresting every editor who cites his name. Perhaps I should petition Rasputin instead for my divorce.”
“He is not a starets,” I said wearily.
“Whatever he is, he exerts more influence than we do.” She turned to Misha. “I told you she wouldn’t listen. Maybe you can present a better case. I’m going back to Xenia’s house. I cannot abide it here another moment.” Before I could respond to her harsh judgment, my daughter stormed out, slamming doors.
“This cannot go on,” I said, meeting Misha’s gaze. “Olga cannot parade about the city with her lover while still married. What kind of example does it set?”
He tossed his hat onto a chair. “Perhaps you should ask Nicky about examples. He’ll not hear of Olga divorcing so she can marry Kulikovsky because he’s not of noble birth, nor of me marrying Natalia, though we have a son. Yet he allows this Rasputin free rein.”
“I…I didn’t know,” I said, wishing I’d taken the matter in hand after my visit to Zenaida and confronted Nicky. “Is it true he counsels Alexandra on political issues?”
“That is the rumor,” replied Misha. “Whatever Nicky does in his palace is his own affair. I only wish he’d allow us the same. Instead, he has left Olga in misery, and my Natalia must live like a prisoner because no one in society will receive her.”
“I did warn you. She has no position.”
“You told me you’d speak on my behalf.” He was controlling his tone of voice, but I could tell that, like Olga, he’d reached his limit. “Have you?”
“What would you have me say? Nicky cannot permit you to throw away your life on a woman who is not of noble birth.”
I saw his entire being congeal, like Sasha had when he found himself faced with a compromise he couldn’t tolerate. “I will marry her, regardless. Even if we must go abroad and live in exile.”
“Misha. Please wait awhile longer. Transfer back to the Chevaliers at Gatchina,” I said. “My villa on the grounds is unoccupied. She can live on my estate with your son. Once society hears I’ve accepted her, doors will open. When the time is right—”
“The time will never be right,” he interrupted. He didn’t attempt to engage me further, taking up his hat and leaving me, though he refrained from slamming any doors.
A month later, he moved Natalia to Gatchina. Having not met her until now, I found her a surprise. At thirty-one, she wasn’t particularly beautiful, in my opinion, certainly not the brazen adventuress I’d expected. I found her rather timid and plain, in fact, but her and Misha’s love for each other was also undeniable; I saw it in the way they looked at each other, those quick reassuring glances that made me feel invisible.
And when I beheld their sturdy little boy, christened George in honor of my late son, with his lopsided smile and ferocious appetite, I couldn’t help but think that here was a Romanov. I felt ashamed to compare him to the sickly heir Alexandra had borne, which was the reason we found ourselves in this untenable position. Had Alexei not inherited her Hesse curse, there would be no Rasputin or familial discord. Divorce might still be contentious, but it may have been less so had we a healthy tsarevich.
Meeting my new grandson lent me fortitude, even if my relationships with my children were anything but congenial. Still, it took an unexpected visit from Prime Minister Stolypin himself to prompt me to action.
A thickset man, bald as an egg and with a manicured beard and steel-gray eyes, he warned me that the new Duma muttered of “dark forces” near the throne.
“They’ve finally endorsed my bill to reform the provincial soviets and provide land grants for the peasantry,” he said. “But the state council refuses to approve it. Rasputin is blamed for adversely influencing the council through his contact with Her Majesty.”
I sat in troubled silence. What I had feared was true. The mystic did harbor ambitions, and Alexandra was encouraging him.
“Our metropolitan has disavowed him after hearing of his vices,” Stolypin went on. “And I prepared a report for His Majesty, detailing everything I could compile. His Majesty suggested that before I defamed him, I should meet with Father Grigori in person. Which I did.”
“And…?” I recalled the report I’d had prepared on Dr. Philippe and Nicky’s adverse reaction to it. I didn’t want Stolypin to fall into disfavor, for he’d proven to be the effective overseer of the Duma that we desperately needed.
“There can be no doubt he believes he has great power,” Stolypin said. “He tried to mesmerize me with those strange eyes of his, muttering inarticulate words and making odd movements with his hands. When I told him I wasn’t susceptible to trickery, he made no attempt to justify himself. Never have I felt such loathing for any man.”
I sank deeper into my chair. “Is he so dangerous?”
Seeing my distress, Stolypin softened his tone. “He’s not a revolutionary, Majesty. If anything, he’s overly ardent in his devotion to the tsar and tsarina. But he’s still a peasant to whom they give too much credence. He’s become inviolate because they permit it.”
“Dear God.” I forced myself to sit up straight. “What can I do?”
“I fear not much. There are also letters to contend with. He was drunk and the letters were stolen from him, then sold to one of the newspapers. We have the Okhrana searching for them, but we don’t know which newspaper has them.”
I regarded him, aghast. “Letters? From whom?”
“From Her Majesty, and their Highnesses the Grand Duchesses.”
As I let out a horrified gasp, Stolypin paused, as if considering how candid he should be. When I did not avert my eyes, he said, “As Your Majesty must be aware, letters can be misinterpreted to highlight an agenda, and many of our journalists have become secret revolutionary sympathizers. We cannot shut down every newspaper in the city. We’ve done our utmost to enforce His Majesty’s mandate against printed criticism of Rasputin by arresting the most egregious offenders, but a free press is considered essential to constitutional liberties, as set forth in the tsar’s own manifesto. He can r
etain the privilege of some of his powers, but in censoring the press to this extent, all he accomplishes is to incite the Duma’s fear that he has no intention of honoring his promised reforms.”
“Then I shall speak to my son,” I said. “That much, at least, I can do.”
“Majesty.” He inclined his head in gratitude.
“In the meantime, see that the Duma doesn’t fall apart again over this land bill of yours,” I told him. “If the peasants can acquire their own land, perhaps it will help end the unrest.”
“I’m due to address the state council next month in Kiev. The bill must be passed. However, some new council members were recommended by Rasputin; as they’re in the man’s debt, they will vote as he tells them.”
“Or as the empress tells them. He carries no weight on his own.”
“I appreciate Your Majesty’s wisdom,” he said, implying he found too little of it elsewhere.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MONTH, Stolypin traveled to Kiev to address the state council. Afterward, he attended a performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tale of Tsar Saltan at the Kiev Opera, in the presence of Nicky, Olga, and Tatiana. At my urging, my son had gone to Kiev as a gesture of support for his beleaguered prime minister. Despite the security posted throughout the opera house, as Stolypin conversed with a general during intermission, he was shot by a revolutionary. The assassin was apprehended; when the wounded Stolypin caught sight of Nicky rising in alarm from his imperial box, he raised his hands to ward my son away. Nicky had to herd his terrified daughters out amid the uproar.
Stolypin died that very night.
Only days after his funeral, the newspapers published Alexandra’s letter to Rasputin via hectograph and distributed illicit copies throughout St. Petersburg.
* * *
“HOW MUCH MORE do you need?” I sat in the Alexander Palace, brandishing the hectograph copy delivered to my doorstep. “They’re passing these out everywhere, like confetti. Everyone is reading it. You must banish him before he casts her reputation into further ruin.”
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