Cyril Vlasenko hobbled up the steps of Count Ignatiev’s home, ebony cane gripped firmly in his right hand. His wife was at his side and two footmen hovered protectively behind him. He was certain he could manage without the footmen, but, even though the bombing had occurred seven years ago, he still felt vulnerable when alone. Thus, when he went outside, he always had an escort of some kind.
This evening, however, his thoughts were far from danger and fear. His life was looking decidedly better than it had in years. He had just been appointed Assistant Minister of Agriculture. Perhaps it wasn’t much to brag about for a man who had been on the verge of becoming Minister of the Interior. But it was a move in the right direction.
It had only been four years since Cyril had returned to government service, and he practically had to begin at the bottom again. It helped that he now had an important ally at Court. Without the influence of Rasputin, Cyril would still be wallowing in provincial government. It had been fantastic insight on his part to stay close to Rasputin, who, even a few years ago, was gaining stature at Court. Cyril knew he had made the right move when he saw that even Count Witte was friendly to the starets. Witte had also retreated from government in 1905, though the cause was more his own doing. He now was ambitious to return to power and, like Cyril, saw Rasputin as a tool to that end.
Witte, however, would not be at Ignatiev’s home tonight. This was entirely a gathering of right-wing adherents who were, among other things, devoted to reversing the disastrous constitutional reforms of 1905. They were closely related to the Union of Russian People, and some, like Cyril, were even members of the more militant Black Hundreds. Tonight, however, was to be a purely social gathering. Rasputin himself would be in attendance. And Cyril would have to thank the starets for his recent appointment.
In the last several months since the tsarevich’s near fatal illness, Rasputin had risen enormously in power. It was said the tsar counted on Rasputin to look into the eyes of prospective Imperial appointees in order to discern the particular man’s worthiness for office. Cyril had no doubt that he himself had been so scrutinized. For once he was in the right place at the right time—this evening’s invitation proved it even further. He was certain the starets had wrangled it for him, and because of it he could now hobnob once again with some of the highest ministers, church officials, and aristocrats in the country.
Cyril and his wife, Poznia, were received cordially by the Ignatievs and the other influential guests. None had forgotten that once Cyril had wielded some power himself—and that as a former director of the Third Section, he knew more about their affairs than they did themselves.
Rasputin arrived later and was received with great affection, especially by the women. Poznia all but fawned over the man, but Cyril didn’t mind. His wife spent a great deal of time with the starets, and when she wasn’t meeting with him, she was sending him flowers and sweets—almost like a courting lover. All the other women did the same. Cyril had no idea what went on between Rasputin and the women when the men were not present, nor did he want to know. Many believed the worst. Cyril, however, agreed with the tsaritsa when she defended the starets, saying, “True saints are never accepted in their own country. And, as far as those low rumors go about him kissing women . . . well, one only has to look in the Bible to find that kissing is an accepted mode of greeting.”
And Cyril would continue to agree with the empress as long as it benefitted him. And he would turn a blind eye toward his wife’s involvement. It kept her happy, and it hadn’t hurt Cyril.
When Rasputin arrived, he became the instant center of attention, a fact that he seemed to revel in. No one seemed bothered by the starets’ rather crude behavior. He grabbed food from the table with his bare hands—quite dirty hands, too. He talked with his mouth full of that food and seemed to have no use at all for a napkin, using the sleeve of his dusty old cassock instead. He laughed louder than anyone and drank more. He appeared more the lusty peasant than a man of God.
The talk that evening turned to the upcoming tercentenary celebration of the Romanov dynasty.
“Here’s to three hundred more years!” said Ignatiev, raising his champagne in a toast.
All drank heartily. They knew their own political health depended mightily on the longevity of the Romanovs.
“Sometimes I think it will be a miracle if we make it three years, much less three hundred,” exclaimed one of the men. “Every day revolutionaries and liberals rob more and more of the prestige of the throne.”
“I, for one, believe in miracles,” said Rasputin. “Come now, let’s drink to miracles!” He tipped his glass to his lips and drained it.
“What do you think of the Duma, Father Grigori?”
“They are a bunch of dogs collected to keep other dogs quiet!” The starets laughed loudly at his wit and was joined by everyone.
“Father Grigori,” Cyril asked, anxious to be part of the interchange, “will the tsar dissolve this Duma as he did the others?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” said another guest.
“He will, if he’s smart,” another chimed in.
Rasputin said, “Do you wish a prophecy, my dear Count Vlasenko?”
“Prophecy or keen insight, Father Grigori,” said Cyril diplomatically. “You could offer either.”
“That ragtag bunch of ruffians and revolutionaries some broadly refer to as an official government body will self-destruct one day, even if the tsar does nothing.” Rasputin smiled. He must dearly hope that time would be sooner rather than later, for much of the debate in the Duma of late had involved censorship of Rasputin himself.
“You can be sure, Grigori Efimovich,” said Ignatiev, “that no one with an ounce of sense places any stock in the gibberish spoken in the Duma.”
“I know,” said Rasputin, “but the tongue is a dangerous beast. A very small member, yet more difficult to tame than a wild lion. It is the flaming gateway to iniquity, defiling all in its path, sparked by the very fires of hell. Yet, oh, how man is ruled by this ravenous animal! How can both blessing and curse flow from the same organ? But it does, stirring envy and strife in the hearts of men. Only by true, godly wisdom can we rise above the ravages of that instrument of evil. And is not the fear of the Lord the beginning of wisdom . . . ?”
It was in moments such as this that Cyril almost regretted his association with the starets. Once Rasputin got going on his sermonizing, he could go on seemingly forever. Half of what he said made no sense, especially to a man like Cyril who knew little of spiritual things. And, as much as his relationship to Rasputin was getting him more and more attuned to his neglected spiritual nature, Cyril still hated sermons. But no one dared interrupt as Rasputin rambled on for the next fifteen minutes.
Later in the evening, Cyril was certain his perseverance had been worth it. He managed to get Rasputin alone for a moment.
“I want to thank you, Father Grigori, for my recent good fortune,” said Cyril.
“And what might that be?”
“You must be aware of my appointment to the agriculture ministry.”
“That is only the beginning, Cyril Karlovich.”
Cyril beamed and afterward celebrated so heartily on champagne and sweets that, upon leaving Ignatiev’s, he needed the support of his footmen more than ever.