‘He’d like that,’ Alix said, her voice weak as if she were in a dream. ‘He likes stories very much. But he must rest now,’ she added, looking from one sister to another. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s past three in the morning,’ said Stana.
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Alix, leaping out of her chair. ‘It is long past Alexei’s bedtime. The girlies will be up soon, wanting to play with him. I must stop that from happening. He needs his rest. He must rest. The boy has been through a lot, poor thing. He must rest.’
All three returned to the boy’s bedroom to find him still sitting up in bed, entranced by Rasputin’s stories.
‘And then the bear—’ said Rasputin, rounding his shoulders, pretending to look fierce.
‘And then the bear went to bed!’ interrupted Alix.
‘Oh please, Mama!’ begged Alexei, pulling his sheets towards him.
‘Another time, my darling,’ she replied. ‘You must rest.’
‘No!’
‘Do as your mother tells you, little one,’ said Rasputin, getting off the bed.
‘How can I thank you!’ said Alix, embracing Rasputin and kissing his cheek. ‘How can I ever thank you!’ She took hold of his hands and kissed them.
Rasputin made the sign of the cross over her head. ‘Believe in the power of my prayers and your son will live.’
She kissed his hands again.
‘Come tomorrow! Please, Little Father, come tomorrow,’ Alexei demanded from his bed. ‘I will not go to sleep until you come.’
‘Will you come tomorrow?’ asked Alix.
Militza could see him, feel him, staring at her from the corner in the dark.
‘Of course he’ll come tomorrow,’ she replied brightly. ‘We all will. All three of us, together.’
22
23 September 1906, St Petersburg
Over the next few months Militza and Stana kept their eye on Rasputin. The three of them were quite inseparable and, as his reputation as a healer grew, they made absolutely sure that everyone knew they were his champions. Somehow the fact that Bishop Theofan had discovered him first, or that he’d been seen around the seminary, or had already been spoken about by some of the faithful in church, was all lost in Militza and Stana’s version of the story. Rasputin was their muzhik, the faith healer they had conjured from the dying sighs of the night – and as they already had a reputation for rather an esoteric approach to Christianity, everyone believed them.
Soon Militza was claiming that she had met Rasputin years ago in Kiev. She told a story of visiting the Ukraine to see her mother-in-law, Grand Duchess Alexandra Petrovna, who was living as a nun after her husband, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich, the elder, had fathered five illegitimate children with the ballerina, Catherine Chislova. The bastard children and her reason for being a nun were not mentioned in the story, of course; neither was her real reason for going to visit the grave of her dear daughter, Sofia, who was born and died on the same day. She dwelt comprehensively on her meeting with Rasputin, out in the countryside, where he was chopping wood. She embellished the story every time she told it, describing how, despite his abruptness, she’d spotted a miracle worker. His rudeness was part of his integrity, she said. The more offensive and boorish the man, the more genuine were his feelings and emotions. Rasputin represented the true Russian soul; he was not affected or arch or pretentious. In a world when no one ever meant what they said, you could rely on him to speak the truth, no matter how difficult or painful it was.
And he went everywhere with them, regularly attending dinner at Znamenka. He’d also take tea at Sergievka and was often seen accompanying Militza and Stana with Peter and, more recently, Nikolasha, to some of the most fashionable drawing rooms in town. He even summered with them for a few weeks in Crimea, only to return, via his family in Siberia, to St Petersburg at the beginning of September.
His return to St Petersburg saw his reputation flourish even more as his fame became more widespread. Stories of his greatness travelled back with him from the steppes. How he healed the sick, cured the lame and calmed the minds of the insane. Countess Ignatiev insisted he attend her Black Salon any Monday he was in town. So stratospheric was Rasputin’s rise through the social ranks of St Petersburg, it was inevitable that he would end up having dinner in the Imperial Yacht Club on the Morskaya.
There were many clubs in St Petersburg, the English Club, the New Club, the Arts Club, but the Yacht Club, as it was informally known, with only 150 members, was considered the most aristocratic in the capital, frequented by Grand Dukes, by the highest dignitaries in the court and well-connected diplomats. The waiting list for membership was almost always closed. It was said that those who walked past would stare enviously at this bastion of the establishment and wonder what intrigue, what plot, what career was being made, or indeed, broken, whose luck was in or out within its hallowed walls. It was also said that even the meekest and mild-mannered of fellows could have their heads turned by gaining membership to the club. Pumped up on self-importance, not a sentence would pass their lips without mention of the Yacht Club. ‘The Yacht club thinks this…’ ‘The Yacht Club thinks that…’
Where it would normally take a young man a lifetime to infiltrate the club, Rasputin had managed to penetrate it in little under a year.
It was a clear, cold night, when Militza, Stana, Peter and Nikolasha arrived at the Yacht Club; the frosts were early this year and everyone was feeling the chill. Wrapped up in their furs, with pretty plumes in their hair, both Militza and Stana were covered in an impressive collection of diamonds, rubies and pearls. They were both wearing new dresses. Militza’s was of dark grey chiffon with a square neck and simple, tight sleeves to the elbow and it was trimmed with crystals and fine Chantilly lace. Stana wore a pale green chiffon dress with a low neck, large sleeves that puffed to the elbow and a thick lace sash. Unlike the gentlemen’s clubs of London where ladies were not permitted, the Yacht Club was a place to be seen, where dresses were scrutinized and fashion statements made. One didn’t simply turn up at the Yacht Club, one dressed for it.
Despite its high, baroque ceilings with turquoise and white mouldings and stunning crystal chandeliers, the dining room still managed to feel intimate. There were heavy gilt-framed paintings on the wall, small piles of leather-bound books lined the alcoves and round linen-covered tables were surrounded by comfortable, padded chairs. It felt more like a private salon than a restaurant.
It was just after ten when the party arrived and, although it was early, the club was already full. Peter and Nikolasha immediately went to have a glass of champagne at the table while the sisters deposited their furs. As they came into the dining room they stood for a second behind a silk screen, surveying the tables, waiting to be seated.
‘The full expression of his personality is expressed in his eyes,’ came a distinctly French-sounding voice from behind the screen that shielded one table from the entrance. ‘They are pale blue, of exceptional brilliance, depth and attraction.’ Militza glanced across at her sister to see if she were listening. She most certainly was. ‘His gaze is at once piercing and caressing, naive and cunning, far off and intent.’ The man paused. Perhaps to drink from his glass of wine? Or make sure he had the full attention of those he was addressing. ‘When he is in earnest conversation his pupils seem to radiate magnetism. He carries with him a strong animal smell, like the smell of a goat.’
‘Goat!’ said a female voice. ‘How terribly apt, bearing in mind his—’
‘What a good evening!’ pronounced Militza poking her head around the screen. ‘Zinaida! I’d recognize that voice anywhere!’