The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹³ December 1901, St Petersburg

Militza was sitting in the back of the covered carriage, swathed in silver fox, watching her sister. From low in her seat, her stole covering half of her face, she stared through the gaps in the fur. She wasn’t sure if Stana could see her staring; perhaps she didn’t care. Either way her behaviour was verging on the flirtatious. In fact, it was not verging on the flirtatious, concluded Militza, it was completely flirtatious. Stana was sitting close to Peter’s elder brother, Nikolasha, very close, a large diamond necklace glinting around her neck, laughing at his every word, touching the back of his gloved hand, letting her sable fur hang loosely around her shoulders, exposing her pale white throat to his gaze.

‘I promise you, you will enjoy it,’ she said, stroking the sleeve of Nikolasha’s greatcoat. ‘The Black Salon is among the highlights of St Petersburg night life.’

‘Better than the gypsies in The Islands?’ Nikolasha had certainly been drinking, otherwise it was unlikely he’d be so candid about his choice of after-dinner activity.

Stana sat upright, opening her pretty mouth with faux prudishness. ‘I didn’t think you were the sort of man to frequent the gypsies?’

‘Well…’ Nikolasha blushed a little, unable to tell whether she was joking or not. ‘Don’t all men?’ he stammered. ‘After too much Madeira at the Cubat or the Donon? They say there is nothing more beautiful, more full of soul and melancholy than to hear Varya Panina sing? There’s many a man in St Petersburg whose huge debt and frequent visits to the moneylender are due to nights of carousing in the Villa Rhode. Or so they say.’ He hesitated. ‘Some would use their last thousand just to spend the night, hypnotized by wine and song, till dawn in Novaya Derevnaya.’

‘Personally, I am not overly fond of gypsies,’ replied Stana, biting her bottom lip, as she leant in closer, slowly turning the button on his coat with her white gloved fingers.

‘Really? I would have thought their bright clothes – the red, the violet, the purple – would appeal to you. Surely their dark exoticness must remind you of home?’

‘No, just her wedding party,’ Militza muttered through the tail of her silver fox. What was her sister doing, flirting so heavily with Nikolasha? ‘Look,’ she said, as she glanced out of the frosted window, ‘we are here.’

It was gone midnight by the time the three arrived at 26 Kutuzov Embankment and the Countess Ignatiev’s salon soirée was in full swing. Having tired of a rather boring dinner at Grand Duchess Vladimir’s, where the young actors and singers who were supposed to arrive from the Mariinsky Theatre had failed to materialize, it had been Stana’s idea to continue the evening at the Ignatievs’ as she was loath to let the handsome Nikolasha disappear off into the night. She had spent most of the summer in the company of her children, had seen her sister obviously and the Tsarina, but with George in Biarritz, she’d been deprived of male company. Not that she ever enjoyed her husband’s company: his wits were too slow and his conversation too dull for her liking. Nikolasha, however, was bright and sharp and rather attentive.

‘My darlings!’ declared the Countess, as the butler showed them in to the raspberry drawing room. ‘Grand Duke,’ she added, looking up at the imposingly tall and immaculately presented Nikolai Nikolayevich, ‘you are very welcome.’ She smiled. Dressed in a House of Worth evening gown of black velvet, embroidered with silver leaves and with a large frill across the shoulders, the Countess looked extremely glamorous. Gone was the yellowed court dress; popularity was clearly suiting her. ‘What an evening! What an evening. Toute le monde is here. How wonderful that you are here also! Your friend Philippe is next door!’

Weaving their way through the crowd of guests and the dense, sweet-smelling smoke, Militza spotted Dr Badmaev in the corner.

‘My dear,’ he said, putting down his clay pipe and getting out of his chair. His eyes were smiling as he came over to kiss her. ‘I didn’t know you were coming this evening.’

‘No, neither did we,’ replied Militza. ‘We were having such a very boring dinner at the Vladimirs’, discussing the Christmas Bazaar and the problems in Manchuria, waiting for some actors to jolly things up, but when they didn’t arrive, we made our excuses.’

‘Manchuria? How interesting.’

‘You would think.’

‘Was anything said?’

‘I am not sure many in the room knew where it was!’

He leant forward and muttered into her ear. ‘His Imperial Majesty and I have been discussing the very subject recently. He thinks I should travel there myself. He says I might be able to help, opening up some diplomatic channels, hand out some small change, line a few pockets.’

‘I could think of no one better to calm troubled water than you,’ replied Militza.

‘Or you!’ smiled Dr Badmaev.

‘Now you flatter me.’

‘I don’t believe so.’ He smiled again. ‘I hear the Tsar is giving your father thousands more rifles, mountains more grain and more roubles than he’s spent on any of his palaces.’

‘You are remarkably well informed.’

‘Isn’t he arriving in St Petersburg next month?’

‘Once again, may I remark on the reliability of your sources?’

‘It is amazing what you pick up at my simple little apothecary,’ he laughed.

‘Or indeed, during your little personal consultations.’

‘I hear also that your Friend, next door, is going to be made a doctor.’

‘Such a lovely idea. The Tsarina came up with it herself!’ It was Militza’s turn to smile.

‘I didn’t know The German had any ideas of her own.’

‘Oh,’ replied Militza, ‘I take it you don’t approve?’

‘Approve of him? Or the doctorate?’

‘Both.’

‘Of neither, I am afraid.’

‘But he is a man of God!’ Militza’s response was reflexive.

‘Really?’

‘He works between two worlds.’

‘The question is, which two?’

‘He can cure syphilis.’ Militza could feel her pulse rising.

Dr Badmaev had been her friend and ally ever since she and her sister had arrived in the city. He leant in very close and whispered carefully in her ear.

‘Let me give a word of advice. Rifles? Grain? Money? Your father arriving next month? All eyes are on you. Your time is running out. The knives are out. You need the boy, Militza, and you need him now.’

‘Oh, there you are!’ declared Stana, taking her sister by the arm. ‘We’re all waiting for you next door. Philippe says he won’t start without you.’

‘Me?’

Militza was confused. Dr Badmaev’s words had upset her, he had never spoken to her like that before and he was a man who knew much, everything perhaps. He had more direct access to power than anyone, even the Yusupovs or the Vladimirs. And moreover, unlike the Yusupovs and the Vladimirs, people trusted him. He was a doctor, after all.

Stana directed her sister into the darkened adjacent room where, clustered around a large, highly polished dining table was an expectant crowd. Countess Ignatiev was sitting across from the door, rubbing her hands with excitement. Next to her was a buxom woman in a defiantly low-cut dinner dress whose husband, so it was rumoured, had recently run off with a dancer who was great friends of the ballet-dancing courtesan, Mathilde Kschessinskaya. To her right was a French diplomat whose legendary fondness for wine often resulted in him slithering down the walls at parties. Tonight, observed Militza, he looked more sober than usual and opposite him was a heavily moustached general whose well-known fondness for paying for ‘conversation’ had seen him visit Philippe’s late-night clinic on more than one occasion. Next to him was a British journalist who Militza always tried to avoid due to his irritating habit of pinning one into a corner and talking at one like the captive audience you were.

And so it went on around the table, old faces, old acquaintances – and yet, on closer inspection, the circle was decidedly more peppered by a new crowd. It looked a little more louche, a little more decadent, a little more fashionable. Militza was slightly taken aback. Perhaps the closest confidantes of the Tsarina and her physician should not be here? Clearly the Countess’s little Black Salon was no longer the best-kept secret in town. In fact, she’d go so far as to say it was not a secret at all.

‘Ma chere,’ said Philippe, patting the seat next to him. ‘How very delighted I am to see you.’

Militza smiled tightly. She smoothed down her dark green silk dress and took her seat, inhaling a large curl of sickly, heavy, incense as she did so.

‘I was just about to begin,’ he said, wrapping his long, sharply filed fingernails around the planchette in the middle of the green felt Ouija board. ‘This…’ he began, explaining to the crowd in his heavily accented French, ‘is the planchette…’ There were murmurs of acknowledgement. They were clearly used to the vagaries of the Occult. ‘One keeps one’s fingers lightly in contact with the planchette but one makes no attempt to move it oneself,’ he continued, fanning his short fingers at his audience. His buffed nails shone in the candlelight. ‘And my close friend, the Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna, will assist me.’

‘Right,’ replied Militza, a little taken aback. She was not prepared for a séance; she had not contacted her spirit guide nor had she opened her chakras or even administered her belladonna drops. She’d had a few large goblets of claret at dinner and she was more than a little tired which was not the ideal preparation; then again, she thought, as she looked around the crowded, increasingly hot and airless room, this was not the sort of atmosphere conducive to contacting a passed-over soul, no matter how far down the lower astral they were. This was surely an occasion when only drunkards, or the murdered, would be likely to appear and even then, she thought, they probably would not bother. They’d be lucky if any old soul could make it through.

Philippe brought out a small ceramic bowl and began to light a selection of herbs, adding to the already heady and thick smoke. Militza blinked as her eyes watered and turned to look at her sister. But Stana was looking at Nikolasha who was standing behind her, his hands resting on the back of her chair. He smiled at her and twisted up the corners of his moustache.

Philippe began to chant. At first in French, then he moved on to a rather poorly pronounced version of Sanskrit.

‘Please,’ he said finally, indicating for Militza to manage the planchette. ‘I know you are good at channelling.’ She looked at him and didn’t move. She had no desire to take it up. ‘There are a lot of people here,’ he hissed. ‘Show them how it is done.’

Reluctantly, she placed her fingers on the upturned glass and closed her eyes. Almost immediately she felt some movement, a force tugging at her fingers, pushing her hand this way. Militza tried to resist. Personally, she didn’t like using a planchette. When she made contact with the spirit world this was her least preferred method and she was not hugely familiar with the technique. But this entity was determined to be heard. A terrible shiver came over her body and she could feel a biliousness that made her want to be sick. She felt the colour drain from her cheeks as she rocked in her chair.

‘Someone is here!’ declared Philippe, stretching his arms out dramatically across the table. ‘See! Spirit makes a wind. Look how the candles move!’ He flapped his hand in front of the silver candelabra on the table. ‘It is someone important!’ he added. ‘I feel it. Terribly important! I feel the weight of State… or perhaps… of legacy.’

‘How exciting!’ Countess Ignatiev couldn’t contain a small squeal of delight.

‘Let’s hope it is not bloody Pushkin,’ drawled the British journalist. ‘I remember he came through the other day and was awfully full of himself.’

‘Shh!’ said the buxom woman in the low-cut dress.

Militza felt the planchette move swiftly across the felt, dancing from letter to letter at slick and accurate speed.

‘P…’ said Philippe as he watched Militza’s hands move across the board. ‘A…’ he continued. ‘U… L… Paul,’ he pronounced. ‘Spirit? Is your name Paul?’ Militza felt the planchette move quickly across to ‘Yes.’ But as she did so, she gasped.

‘Oh,’ she exhaled as she doubled up over the table.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Stana, immediately taking her arm.

‘I feel… I feel…’ Militza was breathless and panting, gasping for air. ‘I feel as if I have been stabbed in the stomach. The pain! The agony!’ She began to sway listlessly in the chair and yet her fingers firmly remained gripped onto the planchette. ‘I was murdered,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘I am unshriven…’

‘Paul?’ continued Philippe, leaning forward, looking keenly at the board, clearly delighted that such a communicative spirit had come through with such a large audience to witness it. ‘Were you murdered?’ Militza practically punched the ‘yes’ square with the glass. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Three times the planchette struck the square, three times Militza’s arms shot forward. Her eyes were closed and her head was on one side, as her tongue began to loll out of her mouth. Yet her back and arms were rigid, alert, attentive, waiting to respond to the next question. It was as if her body had been completely taken over by something – or someone – else and she was no longer capable of controlling it.

‘Is she all right?’ Nikolasha asked Stana. His concern was touching.

‘I think so,’ replied Stana. ‘She has done this many times before.’

‘My neck,’ wheezed Militza. ‘I can’t breathe…’

‘Spirit? Paul?’ continued Philippe, staring at Militza, trying to read the expression on her face, as she appeared to fight for breath. ‘Were you throttled? Strangled?’

Militza’s body went limp but once again her arms shot across the board, hammering the planchette up and down on the ‘yes’ square.

‘Oh!’ declared the Countess, leaning back, away from the table. ‘How ghastly.’

Standing behind Stana, Nikolasha gripped the back of her chair. His impassive face with its straight nose, fine brows and elegantly upturned moustache began to sweat. His normally erect back hunched forward. Stana sensed his discomfort and, turning around, touched his right hand; it felt cold.

‘Ask Paul if he was trampled?’ he whispered quietly into Stana’s ear. She looked at him, frowning. ‘Just ask,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Please.’

‘Spirit?’ The whole table turned to look at Stana. ‘Were you trampled?’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ Militza hammered the glass down repeatedly as if she were in some sort of frenzy.

‘Oh my God, save us!’ exclaimed Nikolasha, staggering back from the table, covering his mouth and breathing heavily. ‘It can’t be! It can’t be!’

‘What?’ Stana leapt out of her chair and went immediately to his side.

‘I thought this was supposed to be frivolous? Entertaining?’ He was speaking in a low whisper in a dark corner of the room; had grabbed hold of Stana’s shoulders and was spitting as he spoke, clearly fighting some very deep-rooted emotion. ‘Instead you bring me here and raise the hideous spectre of Paul I’s unshriven soul! The very ghost that has haunted Gatchina since he was strangled and trampled to death at the Michael Fortress by his own army. Nicky, me, Peter – we have always been terrified of him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Stana.

‘None of us could ever sleep at that hideous palace.’ He shivered a little at its memory. ‘The irony! Sent there for our own safety after his murder, only to have our nights turned white with the noise of Paul’s screaming, the wailing soul. And now,’ he said pulling her extremely close, so that his nose was almost touching her, ‘you have brought him here! For fun?’

‘Time to grow up. Go and rule!’

Nikolasha froze and looked over Stana’s shoulder in the direction of the voice. Militza was standing by the table, facing him. Backlit by candles, she appeared in silhouette, the index finger of her right hand pointing at him.

‘Time to grow up. Go and rule!’ Her tone was hateful, hard and completely heartless. It did not sound like her at all.

‘Lord Jesus,’ whispered Nikolasha, crossing himself as he looked across at her in the darkness. ‘How does she know?’

‘Know what?’ asked Stana.

‘What the murderers said after they pulled my great uncle from his bed having just killed his father? “Time to grow up. Go and rule.” He shook his head. ‘No wonder my family are haunted by death, no wonder they hide in their palaces, fearful of assassination. No wonder they cower when they’ve been hunted and shot like dogs over and over again, for centuries.’

‘Sergei!’ Militza declared.

Nikolasha left the corner of the room and approached her. Militza was standing next to her chair, her hands by her sides, her eyes glazed, repeating the same word. ‘Sergei.’ Over and over.

‘Sergei? What? Sergei? Who?’ Nikolasha quizzed her ever more intensely. ‘None of the assassins were called Sergei.’

‘Spirit?’ Philippe now stood up, his voice sounded a little panicked. ‘Spirit. Paul. Who is Sergei?’

‘Sergei!’ Militza crashed her fist on the table. Everyone gasped as glasses smashed and a goblet of red wine splashed across the table.

‘Oh dear!’ Countess Ignatiev leapt out of her seat. ‘Someone call a servant!’

Then suddenly there was shouting and a loud hammering of rifle butts on the panelled wooden doors. A man burst through, accompanied by the sound of rattling sabres.

‘Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna?’ he bellowed, his cheeks crimsoned above the great grey bushiness of his moustache. ‘Grand Duchess Anastasia Sergeyvna?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Philippe Nizier-Vachot?’

Everyone stood still, some with drinks in hand, as if paused mid-conversation. A small group of soldiers entered the room and surveyed it, taking in the Ouija board, the planchette, the smell of incense and the heady aroma of hashish and herbs. It was obvious this was no ordinary gathering. The dark arts were most certainly being practised here.

‘Nizier Philippe?’ the red-faced officer barked again.

‘Oui?’ came Philippe’s tentative reply.

‘Outside!’ the soldier ordered, pointing towards the next room.

There was a pause as Philippe, his faced blanching rapidly, walked slowly out of the room.

‘Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna?’

His eyes darted from face to face. Stana said nothing. She silently picked up her small evening reticule and walked in a slow and dignified manner towards the door.

‘But this is a private party—’ began Countess Ignatiev, starting towards the door.

‘Sit down!’ he shouted. ‘This is not a matter that concerns you.’

‘But it is my house,’ she insisted.

‘Then do as you are told!’ he replied, indicating a chair.

‘I am not sure this is correct,’ announced Nikolasha, stepping forward.

‘Grand Duke,’ replied the officer, bowing his head, ‘I have my orders if you would like to see them?’

‘Yes, I would,’ he stated stepping forward. ‘What is your business with Monsieur Philippe and their Imperial Highnesses? One of whom is my sister-in-law?’

‘Nikolasha, there is no need. Let us not make a scene and ruin everyone’s evening. I am sure it is nothing. I am sure we shall be fine; just let my husband know what has happened. Let’s go,’ declared Militza, gathering herself up off her chair. Spirit apparently having left her almost as quickly as it had arrived, she appeared to be alert and focussed. ‘And let us accept whatever the Fates have in store for us.’

Outside on the street it should have been too cold to snow, but somehow flakes were falling. Beneath a street light, their white breath bellowing, a small unit of waiting soldiers were covered, their shoulders and bearskin hats frosted white. They had been outside for quite some time.

‘In here.’ The crimson-faced major indicated a large carriage.

‘Who? Me? Just me?’ asked Philippe, skittish with panic, looking left and right, slipping and dancing about in the snow. His round face was growing red as he tugged repeatedly at the large corners of his moustache. ‘I am a French citizen, you know; I need to contact the Embassy. I have done nothing wrong. I know lots of people, very important people – I know the Tsar!’

‘All of you,’ the officer hit the side of the door with the butt of his rifle, ‘in here.’

‘All of us?’ Philippe’s relief was palpable. He had no idea where he was going but at least he was not going on his own. ‘After you, ladies!’ he said, laughing a little wildly as he opened the carriage door and offered his hand.

Wrapped in her sable fur, Stana was the first inside, sitting down on the poorly padded seat. Militza followed, her silver fox in hand.

‘It’s all right,’ she said sitting down next to her sister. ‘Look,’ she said, nodding towards the bench opposite. ‘We have travelling rugs. They don’t give prisoners travelling rugs.’

‘They might do,’ replied Philippe, sitting down and immediately covering his legs with the thick rug. ‘You never know what is going to happen. Especially not in this Godforsaken country. I wish I had never set foot in the place. It’s freezing and dark and so are the people. This is not going to end well.’

‘That is neither charming nor helpful,’ snapped Stana. ‘Just because you have been arrested before.’

‘Not for anything serious,’ insisted Philippe.

‘I call impersonating a doctor serious.’ Stana grabbed hold of the blanket.

‘Not if you are curing people,’ he replied.

‘It’s against the law.’

‘So is witchcraft.’

‘Not if you are curing people,’ retorted Stana, shivering with cold. She pulled back the short black curtain and peeked through the frosted glass of the carriage window. The streets of St Petersburg were almost entirely deserted, the few people braving the cold at such a late hour wrapped up tightly, their footsteps silent and their shoulders hunched. ‘I wonder where they are taking us?’ she asked suddenly, inhaling and biting her bottom lip as she tried to control the wave of rising panic. She looked across at her sister. ‘Where do you think? Why didn’t you let Nikolasha stop them?’

‘I didn’t think there was much he could do,’ she replied sanguinely.

‘But where are they taking us?’

Militza shrugged. ‘We shall know soon enough.’

They travelled in silence through the night. The only noise was that of the carriage wheels slicing through the snow and the longer the journey continued, the tighter the knot became in Stana’s stomach. Philippe somehow managed to doze, occasionally erupting into loud snores as his large nose tipped backwards towards the ceiling of the carriage. Militza, on the other hand, never moved. She sat stock-still, staring ahead as if in some sort of trance.

Finally, towards the early hours of the morning, they arrived. The carriage pulled up outside a large building and they were released, hearts racing, back into the night. Standing in the snow, still dressed in their evening wear, fine diamonds around their neck, the two sisters held hands for comfort. They blinked as they took in their surroundings.

‘Tsarskoye Selo!’ exclaimed Militza, looking at her sister.

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Stana, with increasing confusion.

‘Follow me,’ barked the major.

Still surrounded by guards, the three of them were escorted into the back of the palace, past the sentries and up the back stairs into the Tsar’s private quarters and the bedchamber. As one of the guards raised his hand to knock on the door, Alix burst out. Dressed in her nightclothes, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes were wide with panic.

‘You’re here! You’re here!’ She embraced first Militza and then Stana covering them with kisses, as if she were a lost child, found in the woods. ‘Philippe!’ she embraced him too. The three prisoners stood there, their arms by their sides, too shocked to understand what was going on. ‘They have searched St Petersburg for you. Or so I hear. From the Vladimirs’, to the Yacht Club and finally the Ignatievs’ – you have been hard to find! But I was desperate, you see, desperate, so Nicky sent for you.’

‘Nicky?’ Stana frowned.

‘Sent for us?’ asked Philippe.

‘Yes, you see I had a terrible dream!’ declared Alix.

‘A dream?’ Stana was bewildered.

‘Arrested? In front of all those people? For a dream?’ asked Philippe, looking from Stana to Militza. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious.

‘You weren’t arrested,’ Alix said, laughing. She looked from one to the other, appearing feverish, her skin shining with sweat and her lips pale. ‘Nicky only asked them to fetch you! How silly. Oh, how silly everything is.’ She laughed again. ‘But I just had to tell you my dream, it was so terrible and I need your help. So…’ She clapped her hands together.

‘What was your dream?’ asked Militza, her dark eyes narrowing.

‘Oh, it was terrible!’ Alix shook her head.

She walked back into the bedchamber, indicating that they should follow. She climbed back into her bed and, drawing her knees up under her chin, she went on to explain she felt as if she had been visited by an evil spirit.

‘It stood,’ she said, ‘at the end of the bed. It was tall, much taller than a man but was the shape of a man. It was wearing a black hooded cape like Santa Muerte and it carried a baby. But the baby was tiny and red and covered in blood and it was screaming, it wouldn’t stop screaming. The man was doing nothing to stop the screaming and all the time the blood dripped out of the baby and landed on the floor – there,’ she pointed, ‘at the foot of the bed. And then it laid the baby on the bed, still covered in blood and screaming. I leant forward to comfort it, to stroke it, to stop it from screaming and it turned into a snake and slithered away, leaving a trail of blood behind it. By then I was screaming so loudly in my sleep that I woke Nicky and some of the servants, I was shaking and covered in sweat – I couldn’t stop shaking and I went to be sick, but there was nothing to throw up, so I retched and retched until eventually I had no strength in me, but still I cried and shook, so Nicky offered to send for you.’

Just then Nicky appeared at the doorway. ‘There is nothing to worry about, is there? It was just a dream?’

‘But all dreams have meaning,’ replied Philippe, sitting on the end of Alix’s bed, taking charge. ‘Just as all illness is the soul’s memory from a past life. The soul is much older than the body and, as such, we return to this world to pay our debts, because everything has to be paid for. To heal the sick, you have to ask God to forgive your faults and at the same time the soul is strengthened and the body is healed.’

‘I knew you’d understand. I knew you would know,’ replied Alix, staring at Philippe, a smile curling her lips. ‘You always understand.’

‘In the heart is the thought, in the brain is the reflection of that thought. Thought is distinct from reasoning; a thought is a direct penetration into the light.’ He smiled and patted the back of her hand.

‘The light…’ Alix nodded in agreement.

‘But what does it mean?’ asked Nicky.

‘It means—’ Philippe began.

‘It means that you are pregnant,’ interrupted Militza. ‘The baby is small and not yet full of blood, so it must be nurtured, it must be succoured, fed with blood.’

‘I knew it!’ beamed Nicky. ‘I knew it!’

‘A baby…’ Alix smiled and rubbed her flat stomach. ‘I do feel pregnant.’

‘And this time,’ said Philippe, ‘you will trust me and trust in God and it will be a boy. The son that all of Russia wants.’

‘Yes! A son. The son that Russia wants,’ confirmed Militza.

‘And this time,’ Alix said, smiling broadly, ‘there will be no Dr Ott. No doctors at all. Apart from my very own Dr Philippe and his beautiful Montenegrin nurses.’