As the chauffeur drove through the chilly streets of St Petersburg, Militza listened to Rasputin ramble on about his dealings with the Tsarina and his afternoons at Anna’s little yellow house. He was obviously drunk – and with her he did not feel the need to hold back.
‘That fat little Anna,’ he laughed. ‘She just repeats everything I say; it’s as if she does not have a mind, or will, of her own! She is the emptiest of vessels. Like a great big bell. If she weren’t so plain, like a poorly cooked suet pudding, I might bend her over a table and show her the way of the Lord! As for the other one, Little Mama, squeaking through the gardens in that wheelchair of hers, she is so scared and isolated from her own people. I don’t think she’s left her quarters for months. She claims ill health but I am not so sure.’ He snorted. ‘But she listens to me, and me alone. She’ll do anything I say, anything to keep that little boy of hers alive. It would be sweet if it weren’t so pathetic.’ He leant over towards Militza, his eyes staring into hers, the pupils slowly dilating. ‘See this,’ he said, waving his hand in her face. ‘Between these fingers I hold the Russian Empire! Its future is in my hands.’ He laughed as he thrust his fingers between her thighs.
27
20 November 1907, St Petersburg
It took Militza the summer to betray him.
She was not a woman to react rashly, so she went over and over what she had seen and heard during the last few months and just before the Tsar went on manoeuvres with the Navy, she, together with Peter, invited Rasputin to dinner at Znamenka. It was far enough away from the city, they concluded, that he couldn’t arrive and then disappear off on another appointment. They also invited Nicky and Alix – and were somewhat surprised when they both accepted.
What passed was an extraordinary evening, where the true extent of Rasputin’s influence became frighteningly apparent. They learnt he visited the palace two or three times a week, turning up unannounced, arriving at any time he pleased and that Alix was calling him frequently on the telephone. It wasn’t daily (not yet, anyway) but she spoke to him three or four times a week, about many subjects, but mainly for advice on the Little One.
‘He is always so reassuring,’ she said, playing with her food.
‘It makes Alix happy,’ Nicky added, patting his wife on the back of her hand.
Rasputin simply sat there, smiling, soaking it up, drinking more wine, eating more sweetmeats, appearing more and more benevolent.
‘Just so long as I am near, the young boy will be well,’ he declared, his knife and fork in the air.
‘So reassuring,’ Alix nodded.
‘Very reassuring,’ agreed Nicky.
‘I don’t know what we’d do without him,’ smiled Alix.
Fortunately, Alix and Nicky left early, because Alix had a slight chill. As soon as the door was closed, Peter and Militza turned on Rasputin. They accused him of betraying them, of ignoring their wishes, their express wishes, for him not to visit Tsarskoye Selo without them. They told him he was disloyal, unfaithful, treacherous, untrue. He was trying to undermine them. He was trying to edge them out, pushing himself forward at their expense. Somewhat embarrassingly, they ended up shouting at him. Both of them raised their voices in fury.
‘You are a charlatan! And a traitor!’ Militza yelled.
‘We trusted you!’ added Peter.
‘We made you!’ Militza continued.
‘You couldn’t make a simple borscht!’ sneered Rasputin, before starting to laugh. ‘You can’t make anything! You, Mamma, are nowhere near as powerful as you think. I could destroy you – like this!’ He clicked his fingers. ‘I have Philippe’s icon, John the Baptist…’ He smiled wolfishly and then laughed louder.
‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Peter, looking bemused and certainly the worse for wine.
Her husband could wait. She could explain away the icon and the wolfish stare. It was the laughter that really unsettled Militza. She hated the sound of laughter. It reminded her of the night when George – Stana’s George – had laughed in her face, showering her with spittle and humiliation. How she hated the sound of laughter. And Rasputin would not stop. He laughed as he walked down the steps of Znamenka and laughed as he stepped into the car to take him to the station. Militza imagined he laughed all the way back to St Petersburg.
If she’d doubted her plan, or hesitated for a moment, then it was Brana who strengthened her resolve. The stories the old crone had discovered after ferreting about in the filth of St Petersburg beggared belief.
‘Sex,’ she said as she shuffled along the path to the walled herb garden, her stooped shoulders covered in a dark cape despite the sunshine.
‘Oh?’ Militza feigned surprise.
‘In the banya…’ This was news. The banya? ‘In the afternoons. Two, three – as many as four at a time. Women. Girls. Sometimes it is hard to see through the steam and the writhing flesh. But he’s there, all right, surrounded by a harem. It’s like an orgy, sometimes they’re whipping each with birch. You can hear the screams—’
‘Of pain?’
‘No. Pleasure,’ replied Brana. ‘They scream for more, apparently. They drink vodka, loads of it. Beer, sometimes. And not all the girls are young. Some are married. Wives, whose husbands are hoping that if they manage to satisfy the Beast, he might put a word in, write a letter, get them a job or a promotion.’
‘So the women are prostitutes?’ Her mind was whirring with confusion.
‘No, Madame. Aristocrats. He is said to have bedded half the court.’
‘Not half, surely?’ Her hand quivered, as she gripped her parasol.
‘His member is reported to be the size of a horse’s,’ Brana continued, with a wide toothless grin. ‘It has a wart on the end, which apparently makes it more pleasurable.’
‘Really?’ Militza swallowed.
‘A healing – that’s what he calls it.’
‘That’ll be all, thank you, Brana,’ she snapped. How much more detail could she bear?
In the end it was easy to denounce Rasputin as a member of the Khlysty. If he were going to offer himself so freely around town, with his favours and his healings and not acknowledge her as his mistress, if her charge would not behave, then she would see him hounded out of the city herself.
It was not difficult to convince the police that Rasputin was some sort permanently priapic Holy Satyr. His behaviour in the city was enough. Plus, there were the rumours beginning to surface out of Siberia, where as many as eight women were cited as living in his house in Pokrovskoye. The house that she, Militza, had paid for! She had also donated 5,000 roubles to build a new church in his village. Where had that money gone? Blackmail? Prostitution? Corruption? There was talk of meetings below his floorboards, of secret dancing and whipping. Plenty of whipping. There were also several young girls who came forward and spoke of being stroked and caressed, so the Tobolsk Ecclesiastical Consistory was alerted and an investigation was launched.
All Militza had to do was to put her considerable weight, rank, connections and credibility behind these allegations; sitting there, dressed in black, a heavy veil over her face, as she convinced them the dreadful sectarian should be banished back to Siberia with his substantial tail between his legs.
Did she feel guilty while she was whispering, playing with her handkerchief, sharing her accusations? Not in the slightest. He’d betrayed her confidence and been totally duplicitous. Even Stana was inclined to agree that Rasputin had overstepped the mark. Not that she was prepared to put her name to anything. The man had been so instrumental to her current happiness she could not turn against him. And besides, she was still such a firm follower of Philippe (who’d foretold of Grisha) and a colleague of his, the eminent Papus who had come to visit over the summer and had shared his knowledge and his Martinist beliefs, that she found it hard to speak ill of Rasputin. In fact, truth be told, she was a little scared. She’d seen him read minds, look into souls. What if he could read hers? See into hers? What if he knew she’d betrayed him? What then? She knew how powerful he was. She’d been there, at the beginning, knew how powerful the magic had been to create him. So she was glad when he disappeared, glad he’d been warned about the investigation, glad he’d decided to go back to Siberia, to lie low, hoping the thing would blow over.