Robert Alexander - Rasputin's Daughter

As soon as he said it, I realized my father was right. I didn’t know if I’d inherited something from him, much in the same way as a singer or painter or sculptor inherits gifts from her parents, or if in fact I had merely observed and absorbed my father’s skills. But I felt something, a power perhaps, albeit nascent. Or perhaps what I recognized was simply belief, a trust that these things can be made to happen, that the power of prayer can indeed beckon God to shine down and heal someone.

I turned to the bed and stared at the Heir Tsarevich, who lay there against his sheets like a pallid ghost hovering in a pale cloud, his eyes sunken and rimmed with ashen circles. Several days ago he’d nearly died from a simple nosebleed. Today he’d fallen, and now his leg was horribly bloated and twisted; blood had rushed to the contusion on his knee, filling the entire joint and forcing him to make more room by bending it up. A deep wave of pity surged in me and I wanted to cry out, but Aleksei smiled weakly up at me. He will take his cue from me, I thought, so I must convey my belief and my hope. I must give him my strength so he can find his. So I smiled warmly down upon him.

Behind me, Papa raised one hand again to the Kazanskaya, while he clasped me on my shoulder with the other. Oh. So this was how. We were to telegraph the energy from the icon through my father, through me, and down to the boy. I can do that, I said to myself with confidence. I reached down and placed my right hand on the boy’s hot forehead and my left gently onto his swollen leg. Aleksei flinched ever so slightly, but I remained sure in my newfound confidence, and a moment later I sensed him already relaxing.

Papa breathed in, exhaled, and intoned the trope, half chanting, “O fervent intercessor, Mother of the Lord Most High, You do pray to Your Son Christ our God and save all who seek Your protection. O Sovereign Lady and Queen, help and defend all of us who, in trouble and trial, in pain and burdened with sin, stand in Your presence before Your icon, and who pray with compunction, contrition, and tears and with unflagging hope in You. Grant what is good for us, deliverance from evil, and save us all, O Virgin Mother of God, for Thou art a divine protector to Thy servants.”

Throughout the years my father had studied the Scriptures endlessly, memorizing long passages because he could not read, and this afternoon none could have pronounced the prayer more simply or more humbly. He went on and on, beseeching the heavens for mercy, for comfort, for intervention. And I could feel it, the warmth rushing down my father’s arm onto my back, through my body, out my hands, and into the Tsarevich. I closed my eyes tightly and felt the power burning out of my fingertips. It was as if Dr. Derevenko, the Heir’s personal physician, had attached one of his electrical apparatuses to me. My entire body began to tremble. Something akin to perspiration began to bubble from my palms onto the boy’s skin and sink into his wounded body. One moment I was overcome with warmth, the next I was shivering, icy cold. Papa’s words echoed in my ears and resounded through my entire body.

I don’t know how long I stood like that, ten minutes or two hours, but I came to understand something that had always been before me but which I had never seen: the infinite power of love. Yes, truly, the power of love to calm and strengthen, the power of love to relax and imbue confidence-and, most important here this afternoon, the power of love to nurture and heal. Such were the lessons of Christ Our Lord, and such was my father’s simple and secret weapon. The monarchists, the social democrats, the rich, and the poor were all seeking to use my father, to turn the fabled Rasputin into a political legend of one kind or another for their own benefit. My father knew that but didn’t care, for he had found the ultimate truth, this intense feeling of affection and caring called love and the extravagant benefits love could lavish, not just on the heart and soul but on the physical being as well.

After a while Papa turned from the icon and, still chanting, came over to the other side of the bed and touched the boy ever so gently. And I saw it with my own eyes, my father’s prayers lifting Aleksei to a place where there was no pain. From my father’s mouth the words of the Lord fell upon the Heir, carrying him on a soft cloud to a place of heavenly rest. And like a fever that burst, I could see the pain pass from that small body and move on like a quickly passing storm.

Then Papa took Aleksei on a trip to other lands and other times.

“Close your eyes and hold my hand, dear boy,” came Papa’s deep, sweet voice. “Now imagine we are strolling through the forest near my home in Siberia. Can you picture it? Can you see the endless pine wood and smell the sweet scent? The trees-they are so big!”

His eyes closed, Aleksei breathed in, exhaled, and replied softly. “I see it all, Father Grigori…so many pine trees…and mushrooms too! Lots and lots of mushrooms!”

“Yes, that’s right! Let’s pick some, shall we?”

“Da-s!”

So Papa led the boy via a story to our forest, showing him all the glens and little brooks and the best places to find endless numbers of mushrooms. And when they were done there, when their baskets were overflowing, the snow fell, soft and white.

“Alyosha, would you like to go on a wild troika ride pulled by three of the most beautiful horses in the Empire?” asked Papa.

Aleksei, seeing it all as he lay there with his eyes pinched shut, grinned and nodded, and off they flew through the snow, my father at the reins, whooping and hollering, the bells jingling, and the cold, cold air rushing against their rosy cheeks.

“Here, you drive, Alyosha. I’m going to hand you the reins.”

“But…but I’ve never-”

“Of course you can do it! You have power, you have strength! Here they are, take the reins…but be careful! Stay on the road! Watch out for the trees! And just look at the snow, it’s up to your waist!”

Aleksei laughed aloud and drove them on through fantasy.

After that, Papa took him fishing and hunting, walking and hiking, and finally swimming in the cool waters of our favorite brook. And in all this the boy found peace and comfort and did not that afternoon, thanks to my father, step over the threshold of death.

When Aleksei fell from story into sleep, Papa slipped into prayer and stood there by the bed for hour after hour, mumbling and chanting to the heavens. His strength and endurance were incredible, something I could not even aspire to. At some point I started to sway. My head became light, and I slumped to the floor, pulled my cloak over me, and tumbled into dream, lulled by the deep tones of Papa’s voice. I was awakened only by the sounds of the Tsar and Tsaritsa coming back into the room. It was dark of course, our northern sun had already fallen, but it was obvious that a miracle had indeed taken place, for not only was Aleksei’s temperature back to normal but his hideously swollen and twisted leg was resting flat on the bed. To everyone’s great relief, the boy’s color had returned as well, and within the hour he ate two eggs and drank an entire cup of tea with milk.

With the crisis averted, Papa and I were back home by ten that evening.

We decided on poison.

You probably realize that by this time Vladimir Purishkevich, the great monarchist, was deeply involved. Also old Dr. Lazavert, whom I know you have already questioned at length. We were all terribly nervous-we were talking of the sin of murder, after all-but the nightmare of Rasputinism had to be stopped at all costs.

Purishkevich ran his own charitable hospital train, gathering the wounded at the front and bringing them home. Dr. Lazavert worked on this train, as I’m sure you’re well aware. It was there, in Purishkevich’s private car, that we gathered to make the final arrangements. We decided on the night of December 16 because Dmitri Pavlovich was busy every other night, and we didn’t want to change his schedule, lest we attract attention. And, as I’ve said, we decided on poison. In fact, I clearly remember Dr. Lazavert holding up a small glass vial of potassium cyanide dissolved in liquid.