“But she has Feofan. She has Iliodor and Hermogen and Father Ioann,” I said, referring to the senior members of the Church.
“They won’t do,” Father Grigory told me. “They are rigid, trite Orthodox priests. The tsarina is waiting for a true mystic, and what’s more, she believes this starets will come not from the capital, but that he will arise from among the common folk in some distant village-a true Russian who loves God, the Church, and the divine Romanov dynasty.” He nodded solemnly to himself. “I will be that emissary, Misha. And we will rescue the tsarevich and, with him, the monarchy.”
I could not have hoped for a more noble, or a more redemptive, use for my discovery.
Saint Simeon was truly walking alongside us.
MY MENTOR’S UNSHAKABLE FAITH, his intense passion, and his formidable inner strength had all combined to make a remarkable healer out of him, but this would require everything at our disposal. The life of a young child hung in the balance, and not just any child. This was the heir to the throne. Failure would mean a shameful end to our crusade.
In October of 1906, and through the championing of Olga Lokhtina and other members of the court, Father Grigory was finally granted an audience with the royal couple. For this occasion, I wouldn’t be able to accompany him. I wouldn’t even be able to be close by. We had anticipated this moment, of course, and I had been hard at work devising an alternative to my machine that my master would be able to carry with him. I was able to produce a small version that could be carried in a low-slung pouch under his coat. I ran a wire up the inside of each of the sleeves of my master’s coat. The wires ended at two small transducers that I sewed on the inside of his cuffs. The whole apparatus was powered by four small dry-cell batteries such as those that Gassner had demonstrated years earlier at the World’s Fair in Paris. I had first seen them for myself in the laboratory of Akiba Horowitz, who had since found fame and fortune in America under the new name of Conrad Hubert, of course, with his “Ever Ready” Flash Light devices. The alternative Father Grigory would be taking with him was not anywhere near as powerful as the larger version, of course. It would only really affect anyone sitting right next to my master, and it would only have one setting.
We hoped that it would suffice. And, as providence would have it, it proved wondrous.
I watched anxiously from the nearby corner as one of the tsar’s attendants, a slim man in royal livery and topped by a flat hat festooned with tall red and yellow ostrich feathers, came to fetch my master from the Lokhtin residence. My master appeared, wearing the coat I had prepared and carrying the gift we had carefully sourced. The canvas-topped motorcar disappeared in a belch of smoke, and I could hardly wait until they returned to hear how it went.
The Alexander Palace, he told me, was magnificent. He had never seen anything like it. The reception rooms were enormous, paved with acres of the finest marble and illuminated by dazzling chandeliers. The chambers had sumptuous gilded furniture, walls that were teeming with glorious paintings and ceilings bedecked with the most exquisite moldings. And in one of those rooms, the tsar and the tsarina awaited him.
His audience with the royal couple lasted far longer than had been anticipated-over an hour. He sensed their nervousness immediately. He began by presenting them with his gift: an icon of Saint Simeon, the miracle worker of Verkhoturye, the monastery where he and I had first met. He astounded me by telling me he did not make use of my device, not then. He decided he would simply use his own acumen and the powers of insight he had honed for so many years.
The royal couple were, he told me, enchanted by his words. The empress, in particular, seemed giddy at the prospect of miracles. He spoke to them of the sin of pride and prophesied a great future for the dynasty.
“You should have seen the delight in the empress’s eyes when I told her she and her husband should simply spit on all their fears and just rule, as God had intended,” he told me.
It was then that Father Grigory asked for permission to see the child. They did not resist.
He was led to the children’s wing, where he met the nurses looking after the baby and the heir himself. The tsarevich, now a little more than two years of age, was unwell and in pain. He hadn’t been able to sleep.
“How long has he been like this?” he asked them.
“Five days,” the empress replied, pain cracking through her polished veneer.
“And the doctors?”
She shook her head. “They say there is nothing they can do. He is in God’s hands.”
“You are right,” Father Grigory replied. “He is in God’s care now. But he will be fine. Of that I can assure you.”
Without asking for permission, Father Grigory approached the crib, leaned over it, and began praying. The room fell silent. He prayed hard, as he did in these situations, sweat breaking out across his face, his limbs shaking. After many minutes, he reached out and placed his hands on the baby boy’s temples. The royal couple watched in astonishment as their son calmed down visibly, then fell asleep.
The next morning, Madame Lokhtina received an excited phone call from Tsarskoye Selo. The heir had woken up without crying. He seemed in perfect health.
Saint Simeon had smiled upon us. I struggled to understand what had happened-had it simply been my master’s gift of healing at work, or did my device contribute to the miracle? After much deliberation, I determined it to be an effect of both. There is no doubt that my master possesses a magical power of his own, and in the case of the tsarevich, the calming effect of my binaural beats had slowed his pulse rate right down as intended, allowing the blood time to coagulate. It was this serendipitous combination that would remain the miracle cure for the ailing prince throughout his short life-and turn my master into the royal couple’s untouchable man of God.
OVER THE FOLLOWING MONTHS, my master became the royal couple’s intimate friend and counselor. He is particularly close to the empress, who is prey to many anxieties and suffers from migraines. Father Grigory’s words of comfort about her future in this life and the next soothe her. By getting her to divulge all her innermost fears and desires, he knows everything about her. Then, when she is fully conscious, he regurgitates these secret wishes of hers, presenting them to her as prophesies of his own. Then he schemes to make them come true.
They summon him every time the prince is ill, and each time, my master restores him to good health. They believe he is the key to their son’s survival, which, in truth, he is. Moreover, he has convinced the royal couple that their own survival, the very survival of their dynasty, depends on his presence and his prayers on their behalf.
They cannot imagine a life without him.
Of course, there are many detractors. Tongues throughout society are wagging about this crude peasant and his unsavory influence over the royal couple. It is mostly jealousy about his growing power, of course. But it is also about the women.
The women are becoming a problem. I worry that this will cause our downfall and prevent us from accomplishing the divine mission I have been blessed to participate in.
I shall never forget the first time I got wind of the gravity of this situation. It happened late one morning, when I went to visit him for tea at the Lokhtin apartment. There was a screen in his room there, behind which sat his bed. As I entered, I heard what sounded like loud slaps accompanied by moans, then I heard my master hollering, “Who am I? Tell me who I am.”