54

It was odd how society seemed to continue to function, regardless of the fact that the world as they knew it was crumbling by degrees. But as Yuri stood in the Youssoupov parlor, surrounded by thirty or forty of Russia’s social elite, he had the impression that they were more like the shell of a bombed-out building, ready to crumble with the least wind or earthquake. They were functioning out of mere habit, he supposed. They simply knew of no other way to live. They went to the opera or ballet, played faro, danced, drank champagne. Their jewels sparkled, their expensive clothes shimmered. What else was there?

For years, Yuri had dreamed of being a part of this society, but now he could feel nothing but pity for them. What was he thinking? He was part of all this. He was here. He had arrived.

He was to be pitied, too, he supposed. Maybe everything Andrei used to say was true: the depravity of the ruling classes, their oppression of the masses, their irresponsible use of wealth, the—

“Yuri, you seem so distant.” Katya came up next to him and slipped her arm around his. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes, I suppose . . .” He glanced at her. A peasant family could live for a lifetime on the diamond necklace she wore. Her gown of white satin trimmed in white rabbit fur was one of Worth’s latest designs. But he was not garbed as a pauper either. His tuxedo had been tailored by a Frenchman whom Felix Youssoupov himself patronized, costing several hundred rubles. There was no bread in the city, but the rich, of course, could get anything they desired.

Suddenly he sobered. Katya, his own wife, was one of the wealthy. This was the life he had always longed for. And because of his contacts he was truly able to do good with his medical training. Was it all wrong, then?

“Do you want to go home, Yuri?” asked Katya solicitously.

“Am I spoiling the party for you, my love?”

“I thought I might enjoy socializing a bit,” she said. “It has been such a long time. I thought it might help me shake the sadness I’ve felt since . . . well, you know. But, Yuri, it’s not the same. Maybe I’ve grown up a bit, do you think?”

He smiled. “We both have. It’s something to truly thank God for. I wouldn’t want to be here completely oblivious to the darker side of life, dancing and laughing as if I were not at all aware of what is happening a few hundred miles away.”

“Do you think that’s how everyone else is?”

“Some, but I pray not everyone. We’re here, aren’t we? Trying to put the best face we can on pain and loss. Most of the men here are in uniform and have been to the war. They know.”

“I can name at least four families present who have lost sons and brothers and husbands. The war has touched the upper classes.”

“You’re right. God forgive me for my judgment of them. I guess it comes from my own sense of guilt for being here in comfort and ease knowing how much I am needed at the Front.”

“Yuri, you’ve done your part.” There was more than a hint of scolding in her tone.

He wished he hadn’t said anything. But his leg was getting better. He was using only a cane now to get around. He was working a full load at Youssoupov’s hospital. There was no reason why he couldn’t function at a dressing station or a field hospital. Surely Katya realized that he wasn’t home permanently. But he didn’t have the heart just then to pursue the subject.

“Yes . . .” he sighed.

Then Youssoupov came up to them. “You will dance with me, won’t you, Katya? You need not be a wallflower just because your husband is incapacitated.”

“Thank you, Felix, but—”

“Go on, Katya, if you like,” said Yuri. “You’ve hardly danced at all this evening.”

Yuri watched Katya dance away and wondered if his marriage were a mirror of the Youssoupov party. On the surface all seemed well. Yet often he had the distinct impression they were merely acting out a marriage. When he talked to his mama about it—at least sharing the little he felt comfortable expressing—she assured him that they were still newlyweds in spite of the fact that they had been married two years. It would take time for them to adjust to each other and to marriage in general. And, she said, he must be patient and persistent.

He did not pursue the discussion with his mama. He couldn’t admit that there seemed to be more to it. He would not have been able to explain it, anyway. He and Katya were kind and considerate and loving to each other. They never argued or disagreed as they used to do before they were married. But that was it—there was no life or passion. Of course it was physically too soon for them to be intimate after Katya’s pregnancy, but it seemed to Yuri that if they were newlyweds, there should be an energy to their relationship on many different levels.

Maybe he was expecting too much.

Then there was the matter of Father Grigori. Katya had hinted several times that she would like to see him. She believed he had the power of healing and thought—or hoped—he could prevent her from having another miscarriage. Yuri had seen Rasputin at work, and even he had wondered if miraculous powers had been responsible for the tsarevich’s inexplicable recoveries. Even a scientist like Yuri could believe in a God of miracles. What he questioned was that God would use as a vessel a man like Rasputin.

What was most disquieting about his and Katya’s brief discussions about the starets was that they hadn’t really argued over it. The tension between them was repressed, but he could almost feel the pressure build up inside them. Was it ready to blow? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was just newlywed insecurity. He didn’t know what to do about it.

In spite of his growing disquiet about the Rasputin situation and his marriage in general, Yuri nevertheless agreed to Felix Youssoupov’s invitation to meet with some friends to discuss Rasputin. To be invited to join with a clique of Russia’s highest and finest appealed to Yuri’s ego, and he pushed aside his apprehensions.

He should have known he was in for trouble when Youssoupov gave him some rather suspicious instructions for the meeting. A waiter named Martìn would be looking for him and would take him to Youssoupov’s private room in the restaurant. The secrecy seemed overdone and a bit ominous, but curiosity prevented Yuri from bowing out.

Yuri entered Felix’s private room, to find a small group already present. Yuri recognized only one man besides Felix—the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, the tsar’s young cousin. He was about Yuri’s age, a handsome man surrounded by a definite air of royalty. He was, in fact, in the line of succession to the Crown. Yuri knew Dmitri and Felix were best friends, and he also knew that, until a few months ago, Dmitri had lived in Alexander Palace with the tsar’s family and was considered by them to be practically a son. Dmitri’s father, the tsar’s uncle, Paul Alexandrovich, had been exiled some years previously because of his second marriage, an ill-advised union with a commoner. And, thus, the tsar had taken the young Dmitri under his wing. But Dmitri recently moved out of Alexander Palace because the tsar and, especially, the tsaritsa disapproved of Felix, whom they believed was a bad influence on the younger man.

Yuri was introduced to the others in the room. A Captain Soukhotin, who was on leave from the war, recuperating from a wound. And a commoner named Pourichkevich, who was a right-wing member of the Duma, and though a fervent monarchist, an outspoken critic of Rasputin.

“So, Yuri Sergeiovich,” said Felix lightly, “you must be wondering what this little clique of conspirators is all about.”

“Conspirators, eh?”

“I hope that doesn’t scare you away.”

“I am only here out of curiosity.”

“That’s well enough. I can assure you that we are concerned only with the welfare of Russia and the monarchy.”

Dmitri Pavlovich added, “I know for a fact that you care about the welfare of the tsarevich.”

“I do,” said Yuri. “And the tsar. I am a loyal subject.”

“As are all of us!”

“So, what is this all about?”

“Grigori Rasputin,” Felix answered.

“Yes . . . ?” Yuri wondered at the meaning of the peculiar tone of Youssoupov’s voice.

“My aunt Alexandra has criticized you, Yuri Sergeiovich,” Dmitri said.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry I have displeased her,” he said cautiously. “Can you say what I have done to offend Her Highness?”

“She knows you disapprove of the starets. She believes you have requested that he be removed from Court.”

Yuri smiled at the preposterous statement. “Your Highness,” he said to the grand duke with barely controlled amusement, “I am just a physician. I hardly have the nerve to look the empress in the eye, much less make demands about how she runs her Court.”

“So you don’t disapprove of the Mad Monk?”

“I didn’t say that. I can’t lie even if it incurs the disfavor of Her Highness. I highly disapprove of the man. I have looked into his eyes, and I have been appalled at what I’ve seen in them.”

“For that very reason,” put in Felix with excitement, “we’d like to ask you to join us—”

“Join you in what?”

“It is time for that man’s reign of evil to end!” Dmitri Pavlovich interjected passionately. “It is time to take back the monarchy.”

“Can he really have as much power as people say?”

“I have been there, Yuri,” said Dmitri. “I have been in the middle of it all. I have seen him give counsel to the tsaritsa, not only on personal matters—that might be tolerable—but on issues of state, on military matters, for heaven’s sake! It must stop!”

“Dmitri,” said Felix, “tell him about your suspicions about the drugs.”

Dmitri shook his head with disgust and dismay. “While I was at Stavka I noticed the tsar was taking some medicine. I asked him what it was, and he casually said it was something Grigori had given him, just something to relax him, that’s all. But I fear it is more than that.”

“I had a conversation with Rasputin about this,” said Felix. “He freely admitted that he is supplying the tsar and tsarevich with medicine. Some of it, he says, causes divine grace to descend upon them—imagine that! But some is intended to—and these are Rasputin’s words—‘fill the tsar with peace, so everything appears good and cheerful to him.’”

“Sounds like mood elevators, perhaps narcotics and the like,” said Yuri. “I wish I had some samples to test.”

“The point is, Yuri, that even if you proved Rasputin is drugging the tsar, it wouldn’t matter. They would find a way to rationalize it, to defend Rasputin. While they are under his power, there can be no reasoning with them.”

“So, you propose to eliminate the man? To exile him—?”

“Exile, be hanged!” said Dmitri. “He’s been made to leave many times, but he always returns. And now nearly everyone in power is a tool of Rasputin’s, handpicked by him, and so they would never agree to exile him. Look what happened after that deplorable incident at the Villa Rhode? Absolutely nothing! We are left with only one recourse—to assassinate him!”

Yuri gaped at the men, shocked.

“Certainly, you can’t be surprised, Yuri,” said Felix. “We’re not the first to suggest such a solution to the Rasputin problem.”

“You must be the first of the tsar’s own family to suggest it. You are hardly Bolsheviks or Social Revolutionaries.”

“And that is the exact reason why we are the best suited for the task. The Revolutionaries don’t want to kill the man—Rasputin is playing right into their hands. Give the starets a little more time and the government and the monarchy will crumble completely. But if they were to kill Rasputin, it would only place power right into their hands instead of ours. Only if a loyal subject does the deed will there still be a chance to save the Crown.”

“But you are talking about murder!”

“Political assassination,” put in Pourichkevich. “There is a difference.”

Yuri shook his head. “I am a doctor, sworn to uphold life, not destroy it—for any reason.”

“Tell me, Yuri, that you wouldn’t kill to protect your family, your loved ones!” said Dmitri.

“I suppose I would.”

“And that is what this is all about.”

“If you put it that way, then my only response is that it is your family, Dmitri Pavlovich, not mine.”

“It will be your family soon enough. If the Crown falls, do you think any of the nobility will be spared? Do you think Russia will escape its own Reign of Terror? Either we take action now or we might as well resign ourselves to watching our loved ones march to the guillotine. Are you prepared to sacrifice your wife and daughter, your mother and sister, in order to spare the life of one evil, vile monster?”

Yuri swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. He couldn’t refute Dmitri’s argument. It was the age-old dilemma: sacrifice the one to save the many. He had already practiced that very thing at the Front. And, to further support the medical metaphor, Rasputin was a malignant growth. Cutting him out would save the rest of the body.

But could Yuri be a part of such a thing? Call it political assassination—it was still murder.

Yuri decided to skirt that issue for a moment. “What do you want of me?” he asked. “Surely the four of you can adequately handle eliminating a single man.”

“We need a doctor,” said Felix. “We’d need you to obtain poison and to instruct us on the proper dosage. Also, we’d want you to . . . uh . . . pronounce the man dead. We don’t want any slipups.”

“I just couldn’t do such a thing. The sanctity of life is just too deeply ingrained in me.”

“I am not a violent man either, Yuri,” said Felix. “The thought of all this repulses me. But I am bound by honor and duty. If I don’t do this, no one else will. I could not live with the repercussions of that. I don’t expect an immediate decision from you. Think it over. We have a little time, which I will use to curry a friendship with Rasputin so that when the time is right he will not be suspicious about coming to my house. That will be the best place to . . . do the deed. Think about it, Yuri—please! We need you.”