Along the Nevski a few high-stepping horses still pulled fine carriages. As snow fell and rivers froze and ice formed on the streets some troikas appeared. But along the gravel walks between the main pavements and the roads, there hopped a variety of cripples. They had missing legs and arms, bandaged faces, peculiar, rolling limps; they wore uniforms and frequently paused as if expecting a friend to approach and offer help. They lined up beside newspaper kiosks. They stood talking in low voices as they leaned against the railings of parks and private gardens. The Petersburgskaya Vedomosti, a special copy of which was printed on vellum every day for the Tsar, always referred to these wretches as ‘heroes’ and would show pictures of them waving, smiling, saluting: the very essence of courage and hope. Charitable institutions could not deal with the numbers. Thousands of deserters sneaked back with the wounded. Some were caught and shot.
Stories of Rasputin grew increasingly bizarre. One afternoon Kolya took me to a great Petrograd house overlooking a more picturesque part of the river. Various members of the Mikhishevski family were gathered for tea. Clearly neither I nor the Count was particularly welcome. The over-furnished house contained a bewildering mixture of old, heavy sofas and tables and the very latest modern furniture from France and England. Here I met my first aristocrats ‘at home’. They seemed a rather ordinary group of people. They were richly dressed, had perfect manners and the china from which they drank their tea was very thin, but their conversation was not as brilliant as I had hoped.
When the older relatives had left, two girls and a youth, cousins of Kolya, who appeared to be their hero, gathered about my friend and discussed the Court gossip. Rasputin had strengthened his grip on the Tsarina. As a result the Tsar, who doted on her, was losing interest in the War. Only his honour, and the Rumanian alliance, made him refuse to consider making peace with Germany.
I paid very little attention to what was said, so I cannot report it faithfully. My interest was in the Fabergé objects: a frog carved from Siberian jade, several Easter-eggs, a little model of a policeman, also carved from stone and tinted with colours impossible to distinguish from the natural hues. The intricacy of the work intrigued me. The rest of the room had the usual naked nymphs supporting lampstands, mirrors, bon-bon trays and flower-vases, all of which might have been more suitable to a bordello. It was a sign, I suppose, of how decadent Russian aristocracy had become. Less liberalism, and we should have a Tsar on the throne to this day.
I was distracted by the voice of a pretty young girl with all the animation of a true ‘Natasha’, whose light auburn hair hung in heavy curls to her shoulders. She was dressed in a yellow silk day-dress trimmed with sable. ‘Anna Virobouffa says we must follow Rasputin’s example and find redemption through debauchery.’
Kolya was amused. ‘Really, Lolly, I don’t feel redeemed yet!’
‘Oh, Kolya!’ She brandished a cigarette which was lit for her by her brother, who wore the uniform of a lieutenant in an engineering regiment.
‘She says it was a wonderful experience. It freed her spirit.’
‘I’ve heard the phrase. I knew a political assassin who claimed the act of murder also freed his spirit? Have you been to Rasputin’s séances?’
‘One, yes. Mother wouldn’t let me go to another.’
‘Were you redeemed?’
‘Lolly’ simpered. ‘Of course not. It’s a salon, you know, full of wonderful perfumes and fabrics. You sit at an ordinary tea-table and have an ordinary afternoon tea. But he talks all the time to you. His eyes!’
‘What does he smell like?’ asked Kolya. ‘I heard he never bathes.’
‘He smells like - ‘ Lolly blushed.
‘Like a dirty peasant,’ said the young man. The girls laughed, ‘It’s true! He smells awful. Of sweat!’
‘Dishonest sweat. How valuable it can be.’ Kolya looked to me for appreciation of this, but I did not understand the witticism. The young engineer, however, laughed.
Lolly continued. ‘He talks about God and the world, you know. About our souls, our bodies, our need for experience not usually associated with the kind of lives we lead even - even with our husbands ...’ She sighed. ‘He’s so convincing. He’s in touch with the common people.’
‘He cured the Tsarevitch.’ This was the other girl. She wore a red dress.
‘The poor boy’s still dying,’ said Kolya.
‘While you’re with him,’ Lolly went on, ‘he transports you from all cares. We were allowed to ask him questions, you know. He was like a wonderful, simple father. And then he just took one of the ladies - I shan’t say her name - and they went into the next room. After a while he came back alone. The lady leaves by another door. Or stays on until later. Whatever he tells her.’
Kolya frowned. ‘You aren’t disturbed by this behaviour?’
‘It is spiritual, Kolya. He shows you Light in Darkness. The Divine Light.’
‘You’d give up everything for him?’
‘Everything. He’s holy, Kolya. He pretends to be a charlatan. He sometimes says he is. He has the most wonderful sense of humour. There’s something about him. I’ve studied Madame Blavatsky, of course, and the Theosophists. This is so much more real and intense.’
‘He hypnotises them,’ said the lieutenant. His name was Alexei Leonovitch Petroff and he seemed anxious to impress his older cousin. He ignored me and made me feel uncomfortable. ‘What do you think, Kolya? Anna Virobouffa says they obey him absolutely. He drugs them, I suppose. The more there are together, the more they vie to display their obedience to him. Haven’t there been some suicides?’ He touched his moustache and sought inexpertly for a fallen monocle.
Lolly dropped her head. ‘So Anna Virobouffa says.’
‘They kill themselves to show devotion?’ Alexei laughed. He sought Kolya’s approval. His eye caught mine and shifted.
‘I don’t think that’s the reason. It’s spiritual,’ said the girl in red.
‘The canals are full of young women who at this moment are discovering the truth of Rasputin’s spiritualism. Isn’t it a sin? Don’t they go to Hell?’ Alexei Leonovitch was goading her. I found his sneering tone unpleasant. He was only a year or two older than me but seemed to regard me at once as an inferior and an interloping superior.
Kolya stopped him. ‘Grigory Yefimovitch has abolished Hell in the after-life, Alexei. Hell has now come to Earth. Hadn’t you heard?’
‘You’re an abominable cynic, Kolya.’ The monocle was screwed, at last, into the appropriate eye.
‘I’m a realist. Why should people believe in the conventional God? There’s no evidence he any longer exists. Rasputin could well have the right idea.’
‘You’re being terrible, Kolya,’ said Lolly.
‘I’ll stop if you wish. I was speaking to a soldier only yesterday. Not a poor mouzhik who never knew why he’d been recruited, but a young man. He had been a cadet and had become a lieutenant. Like you, Alexei. He had only one arm, only one eye, only one leg and part of his right ear was missing - ‘
‘Kolya!’
‘I’m training to fly,’ said the lieutenant, ‘so this doesn’t really apply to me.’
‘I’ll stop,’ Kolya offered again.
‘Go on.’ Lolly used a tone, mixed sympathy and morbidity, typical of Russian women to this day.
‘He was glad he was out of it because he might have run away if he’d been returned to the Front.’
‘Not a gentleman, then,’ said Alexei Leonovitch.