‘Don’t worry.’ Militza smiled. ‘It will be back.’
19
2 November 1905, Znamenka, Peterhof
Militza and Stana were sitting in the Red Salon, staring at the clock on the fireplace, glancing occasionally towards the door. It was approaching three o’clock in the afternoon and Bishop Theofan was late. He’d been asked to come at two o’clock to hear their confessions. It was All Souls’ Day, the day to remember the dead and they had spent the morning in their chapel next door to the house, saying prayers for their sister Zorka who had died in childbirth fifteen years before, and of course Militza’s own daughter, Sofia, the twin sister of Nadejda, who had arrived innocently into this world, never to draw breath.
It was very unlike Bishop Theofan to be late. A small bird of a man, with a gentle demeanour and a soft, whispering voice, he was the confessor of choice for the Tsar and Tsarina and therefore everyone else at court.
‘Perhaps he’s forgotten?’ suggested Militza. ‘But he is usually so reliable.’
‘Maybe Bishop Hermogen has asked him to do something?’ said Stana, getting out of her seat. ‘Anyway, I am not hanging around much longer. I have better things to do than confess my sins and take bread and wine; besides, one of Nikolasha’s dogs is very ill. I need to tend to her.’
‘I don’t like Hermogen,’ Militza said. ‘He’s such a great big beast of a fellow who takes up too much space and is far too much of a traditional thinker – fancy demanding the excommunication of Tolstoy, of all people.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Stana, letting out a long sigh, followed by an even lengthier yawn. ‘Terrible…’
A loud knock at the door made them both jump and in walked the bustling, genuflecting, obsequious Bishop Theofan. Head down, his black robes flowing, his thin hands mincing together as he approached, he spouted a lengthy litany of apology and excuses. But neither of the sisters was listening, for behind the bishop stood someone else. Someone tall, broad, with a narrow face and a large irregular nose, thick sensual lips, a long beard, his smooth dark hair parted down the middle – this, Militza was later to learn, was to conceal a little bump, a protrusion, reminiscent of a horn.
‘Your Imperial Highnesses, please may I introduce to you a very dear friend of mine, even though we have only just met?’ He smiled, before proffering up a small, white hand. ‘Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin. A holy man from Siberia.’
‘From Tobolsk, Tyumen Province,’ Rasputin elaborated.
His voice was thick and deep and as he walked towards them, striding across the salon, unfazed by the art, the wallpaper, the gilt furniture and the opulent rugs, he held up a large, work-worn hand and placed three fingers together, in the manner of an Old Believer, crossing the air in front of him. Militza and Stana were transfixed.
‘Mamma,’ he said as he kissed Militza three times on each cheek and shook her left hand. ‘At last we meet.’
Militza was shocked by his intimate approach, his pagan left handshake, his kissing her cheek, but it was his eyes she found the most fascinating and could not stop herself from staring. Pale blue like the Siberian dawn: if eyes are the windows to the soul, then what a soul this man must have!
Stana was equally beguiled. Her cheeks pinked the moment he turned his gaze on her.
‘Mamma,’ he repeated, also kissing her cheeks three times. ‘At last we meet.’
Stana giggled despite herself, positively overcome. Rasputin bent down and kissed the back of her left hand, squeezing it as he lowered his head.
‘Grigory Yefimovich!’ she said. ‘Do sit down.’
As he turned his back to find somewhere to sit on the numerous chairs and divans, Militza glanced, smiling, at her sister who smiled in return. This was the one.
Over tea, the animated bishop recounted how he came across the Muzhik from Siberia at the Academy of Theology and how this religious pilgrim had spoken to the students and won them over with his knowledge and his incredible humility.
‘It is as if the voice of the Russian soul speaks through him,’ he enthused, rapidly stirring his jam into his tea. ‘I then introduced him to Bishop Hermogen and the Monk Iliodor, who were equally impressed! He has travelled throughout our great land and seen so many things, haven’t you, Grisha?’
Rasputin nodded and stared without blinking at the two sisters.
‘Tell us about where you are from, Grigory Yefimovich,’ said Militza.
‘Grisha,’ he replied, and talked to them of the Siberian steppes, his small village, Pokrovskoye, by the River Tura in Tobolsk, the river where his sister had drowned and his brother had died of pneumonia having fallen into its depths. He spoke of his leaving his village and taking up a pilgrimage that had led him to walk the length of the land, sleeping under the stars, going from monastery to monastery, living on the charity of others. And now his wanderings had brought him here, to St Petersburg, where he was looking for finance to help build a church in his village, back on the Siberian steppes.
The language he used, simple and evocative, in the thick Siberian accent of a true peasant, charmed them with its simplicity and its veracity and held Militza and Stana in thrall. Accustomed to the arch, acerbic, overly intellectualized conversations of the rarefied circles they moved in, his guilessness and his ability to paint broad, vital pictures of where he’d been and what he’d seen was so delightfully refreshing it verged on the hypnotic.
It wasn’t until Grisha had finished speaking that Militza realized her tea was cold.
‘There you are!’ declared Nikolasha, bursting into the room. ‘Gentlemen,’ he acknowledged, bought to a stop by the surprise guests. ‘It’s Luna!’ he said to Stana. ‘She is breathing very heavily. The vet said she has a few months to live but I fear death is upon her.’
‘Oh no!’ Stana leapt out of her seat. ‘Will you excuse me, please?’
‘May I help?’ asked Rasputin, putting down his cup.
‘You?’ Nikolasha did not conceal his disdain. ‘Who are you?’
‘Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin,’ pronounced Bishop Theofan, as if the man’s reputation preceded him.
Nikolasha frowned. What could this peasant dressed in a long black tunic with his wild beard and smoothed-down hair possibly do to help his ailing borzoi?
‘Come,’ said Militza standing up. ‘We’ll all go.’
They left the house for the magnificent stable block and carriage house. Built of red brick, with white pillars and impressive towers at either end, above the double doors stood a large Nikolayevich crest. Once inside, past the rows of some one hundred horses, the party approached a stable where, lying on a bed of straw, was a beautiful cream and white borzoi bitch. Luna was on her side, her long tongue hanging out as she panted, her ribs easy to see through her damp coat, her flanks rising and falling in rapid succession.
‘My darling!’ said Nikolasha, bending down to stroke the dog. ‘Look how much pain and suffering she is in.’ His face was dreadfully distressed when he looked up and it appeared he was on the verge of tears.
‘Move aside,’ said Rasputin, nodding over his shoulder at the Grand Duke.
Nikolasha glanced at Stana and Militza. He clearly did not like the man’s tone, but as neither sister reacted he did what he was told. Meanwhile, the bearded Siberian knelt in the straw and placed his hand on the dog’s head, then closing his eyes he began to pray. Quite what prayer he was saying neither of the sisters could ascertain, for although he moved his lips, the words were inaudible.
Some fifteen minutes later the dog ceased to pant, simply relaxed its strained head back down on the ground. What had he done? The dog lay quite still in the straw. The Grand Duke moved as if to step forward but Rasputin raised his hand, stopping Nikolasha in his tracks. ‘Back!’ he commanded and the Grand Duke, after a moment’s hesitation, complied.