Rasputin's Revenge (20 page)

Suddenly I remembered Kapov’s politics from the night of Anastasia’s party. I couldn’t help but interrupt.

“You mean Minsky?”

“Is that the fellow’s name? Yes, I think so.”

“Excuse me, but may I ask what you’ve just seen the Czar about?”

The secretary began to protest, but Kapov stopped him. “No, it’s quite all right in this case.” I got the impression that he also suddenly remembered my politics from the other night. His blue-green eyes flashed gray-green, the shade and temperature of the Baltic in winter. It was the briefest look, but it convinced me that this man was no mere royal playboy. His every pore breathed a commitment that, in the quiet formality of the drawing room, seemed to verge on the fanatical.

“I’m afraid, sir,” he began, his sarcasm thinly veiled, “that your own interview might bear upon the same issues with different results. Dear old Nicky has completely lost his heart for this war. He believes that someone is killing his friends to make him stop fighting. Since he can’t seem to win on the battlefield, he sees his only chance to save lives—real lives of people he cares about—is to give up. He’s terrified his family might be next. I shouldn’t be surprised if he wires Willy tonight suing for peace.”

“But it’s absurd,” I said. “The War isn’t a personal matter at all.”

Kapov smiled condescendingly. “Be that as it may, someone has made our Emperor feel like it is, and I applaud them.”

“Them?” I asked, jumping on the word.

Was it guilt, suspicion, or mere annoyance I read in his eyes. Whatever it was, he dismissed it. “A matter of semantics. I applaud the action.”

“And what of the victims?”

He shrugged. “There are always victims in a war.”

“Even an innocent man like Minsky?” I knew he was right, but his attitude frustrated and angered me.

His pretty face set in an arrogant mask. “My dear Giraud,” he said, “if it would shorten this war by a single day, I myself would kill a hundred Minskys.” He paused for his words to sink in. “And then,” he sneered, “then I would dance on their graves.”

Upon meeting Nicholas for the second time, with him behind his desk with the mildest of expressions, I realized how much I had let his position impress itself on me. The man had receded behind his office. Now, as I faced him, I was struck anew by his calm, good-natured demeanor, the slightly bemused look he wore, his air of quiet respectability.

I presented my compliments and he asked me to sit, which I did on one of the stiff chairs in front of his desk. After having put the moment off for so long, I felt a great relief finally to be in a position to present my offer, and I came straight to the point.

“Your Majesty,” I began, “as you know, both of our countries are struggling to bring this War to a successful conclusion. No one knows more than yourself how bravely your troops have fought, and what price of blood they have already paid. And still the War continues stalemated on both the Eastern and Western Fronts.

“We look back gratefully to your help in the early months of the War, when your loyalty to our alliance, though it meant great suffering for your own country, allowed France to survive.

“I know that your troops are low on weapons and even ammunition. You have lost ground in the North, and are barely holding your positions in Galacia. There are rumors that you may seek a separate peace.”

I stopped, watching him carefully, but his face showed nothing more than a wistful interest. “Could you blame me?” he asked mildly, as though my answer truly interested him.

“I don’t think the Kaiser’s terms would be particularly generous.”

He smiled coldly. “No, not if I know my cousin Willy. But what is your alternative, Giraud, a noble annihilation of all my country’s manhood?”

“I have been sent to assure you that the fight is still worth it, that victory is still possible, and that France is committed to her alliance with you.”

He nodded. “That is very heartening,” he said with thin irony.

But I pressed on. “Specifically, your Majesty, I am authorized to present to you an offer of one hundred thousand rifles with bayonets, an equal number of grenades, two hundred fifty heavy guns, five million rounds of ammunition, and whatever other ordnance and supplies you might need to keep your armies in the field until August first of next year.”

“Next year,” he said softly, looking down at his crossed hands, “August of next year.” He shook his head. “And what will happen then?”

“There is a chance America will enter the War. The balance of power may shift. It is a hope. It is not defeat.”

“No,” he repeated. “No, it is not defeat.” His eyes met mine. “The offer is generous, Giraud.”

He said no more. I waited silently while he took a cigarette from an ornately carved box on his desk. For nearly two minutes that seemed like an hour, we sat across from one another, the Czar smoking calmly.

Finally he sighed and smiled at me almost apologetically. “You have made quite an impression on my son,” he said.

It was an unexpected tangent that nearly caught me off guard. What about the offer? But he had changed the topic, and he was the Czar. There was nothing to do but respond. “He is an extraordinary young man. I like him very much.”

He nodded. “It is hard to know where to draw the line between protecting him and teaching him. Hard for me and my wife, I mean.”

“I think all parents face that dilemma,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed in an abstracted way, “yes, but in his case, with his illness, it is, pardon me, doubly so.”

No response seemed appropriate, so I sat and waited while the Czar fumbled with a paperweight and other bric-a-brac on his desk.

“The point is, I suppose, that we should read the signs. For a long while, he was just a boy. And now, so suddenly, he isn’t … or isn’t quite
the same.” He laughed in his self-deprecating way. “He let me know rather strongly this morning that he was ready to … to begin his active training.

“It’s strange,” he continued, musing. “He is so different than I am. When I was his age, I only thought of playing. I thought my father would live forever and somehow, eventually, I would get the training I needed to become Czar. My father seemed to think the same thing—he never appointed me to any government posts or gave me any responsibility, and that all seemed perfectly natural.

“But then he died, and I was Czar.” Lost in his thoughts, he stopped speaking for a moment, then pushed himself back from his desk. “Let’s have some tea,” he said. “Do you mind?”

We walked to the ubiquitous samovar in the corner of the room and he filled two translucent porcelain cups with strong, nearly black tea; then he motioned to a couple of comfortable chairs on either side of a small table, and we retired to them.

“The desk,” he said, “is the enemy of communication.”

I took that heartily, as a sign that his decision hadn’t yet been made. It gave a boost to my patience.

“My wife isn’t for it,” he said, rather enigmatically.

“What is that, your Majesty?”

“Alyosha. She doesn’t think he’s old enough. Though of course, she didn’t talk with him this morning. He seemed quite mature and determined to me. Said I was confusing my duties as Czar with my personal feelings.” He smiled again, but there was flint in it. “Why do I suppose you have some influence there, Monsieur Giraud? Is that what you think? I would not like to think you are criticizing my handling of my office to my son.”

I took a sip of the tea to stall for time. This was unexpected, though upon reflection I now realize that it might have been foreseen.

“Alexis is astute enough to ask his own questions, your Majesty. He asked them of me, and I told him to bring it up with you. As far as I recall, I ventured no opinion on the topic.”

Those mild eyes stared at me from an expressionless face. Perhaps stalling for time himself, he sipped his tea. “I believe you. It’s natural that the boy should grow up. I’m proud that he’s showing such concern. But my wife, the Empress, doesn’t like it.” He gestured helplessly. “She is … oversensitive, I believe, regarding criticism. When I told her about Alexis’ questions …” He hesitated. “Well, at first she was all right, just surprised as I had been. Then, after lunch—we had Rasputin to lunch; he presided over the service for Boris—after lunch, she was suspicious of you. She cannot abide disloyalty.”

“Forgive me, sir, but with all due respect I am not your subject.”

“But as Alyosha’s tutor …?”

“I would never abuse the trust you placed in me, your Majesty. Or your wife’s.” I leaned back in the chair, in a relaxed pose, my teacup perched on my knee. “If you’ll allow me to say so, I think Alyosha has been waiting for an opportunity to speak his mind. He has been trying out some ideas on me—ideas that I think you’d approve of, even be proud of.

“It may be that his physical breakouts of the past, eluding Derevenko and riding runaway horses, for example, were merely manifestations of the same impetus. He’s his own person, maybe a little headstrong, but I think this avenue of expression is a safer one, all in all, than a physical one.”

Nicholas lit a cigarette and considered what I’d said. Finally, exhaling with what appeared to be a sigh of relief, he gave me a really wonderful smile. “I will pass your thoughts along to the Empress. I am convinced and delighted by your answer.”

The Czar stood up and walked to the window, drumming his fingers on the sill. According to Paleologue, John Tucker Wilson, my briefings, and every etiquette book I had read regarding audiences with Nicholas, there was unanimity on one thing—when Nicholas went to the window and began drumming, it signaled the end of the interview.

But I could not leave. I hadn’t come to discuss either my loyalty or his son.

I put my cup on the table with a small clatter. No doubt Nicholas expected next to hear the door closing as I made my way out. Instead, I went to the center of the room, went to one knee and remained so, and spoke: “If your Majesty will excuse me?”

It startled him—he spun around and faced me, a scowl darkening his countenance.

“I know I have taken too much of your time, and I must beg your Majesty’s forgiveness for my presumption, but we’ve spoken frankly up until now, and my duty compels me to request another few minutes.”

To my surprise and relief, his frown gave way to a bemused smile. “You’re an original, Giraud. I grant you that.” He stepped away from the window, his hands fluttering like birds before him. “Come, come, please rise. Don’t be ridiculous.”

I stood. We are almost exactly the same height, and our eyes met and held. He was no fool—there was no question as to why I had stayed or what we would have to discuss. And there was no more denial of the hurts we would have to expose to come to an understanding.

For a terrible moment, I saw in his eyes all the anguish of his position, the responsibility and the fatigue. But that reality was as a palimpsest behind which those eyes limned the enormity of his personal loss.

I cast diplomacy aside. “Sometimes it must seem almost too much to bear,” I said quietly.

The man’s shoulders sagged. “Most of the time,” he began, even more softly, “I am able to put aside these, uh, personal matters.” He turned his back to me. “I understand what my son was saying. He was right. But I feel I am at the mercy of events that I can no longer even pretend to control.” Again he faced me. “My judgment is affected, Giraud. I can’t seem to do anything about it. Aside from my wife, Boris was my closest friend, and many of the things we discussed I couldn’t even say to the Empress—man things, jokes, you understand?”

I nodded.

“It didn’t take the pressure off—nothing can do that, I suppose—but it was a relief, a tie to normal life.” He paused, sighing again. “Perhaps my last. Come, let’s sit down.”

We went back to the chairs, and I waited while he went through the ritual of lighting another cigarette. Finally, resting his elbows on his knees, he hung his head and continued. “I just don’t feel I can take this anymore. I wasn’t born for this, like my father, or even like my son. I am a ruler by circumstance only. If they next attack my family, I …” He paused. “I couldn’t stand it, Giraud. I can’t put them to that risk.”

So we have lost, I thought.

I felt for the man, but my job was to influence the king. Fleetingly, I wished Paleologue, or Foch, or Grand Duke Nicholas, or even Lupa were here with their strengths, their personalities, their powers of persuasion. But they weren’t. It was up to me, and I had no answers, only a redundant empathy and, hopefully still, a soldier’s heart.

I could argue the niceties of treaties and alliances, of commitments, promises and common goals, but it would all be wasted. There was no logic left—only feeling.

“I have a family, too,” I said. “A wife and a daughter. My wife has already lost her first husband and two sons on the battlefield.”

The monarch raised his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry.”

I shrugged.
“C’est la guerre
. I would only ask you, as a man, to wait, if you can, just a little longer. Perhaps the murderers can be caught. If you don’t, sir, you are not only surrendering Russia to the Kaiser, you are dooming France”—I paused—“and my own family.”

He gazed at me, levelly and soberly, for several seconds. Then he stood and for the second time went to the window. After a minute, he began drumming his fingers on the sill, and this time, since there was nothing left to say, I bowed to his back, and tiptoed from the room.

12