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It ended sooner than they had thought. In hindsight, the whole plot was improvised. The dying took too long, so Felix Yusupov made no backup plan, before he realized that Rasputin had already died --- or somehow just stopped breathing --- after eating cyanide-laced cakes, absorbing some bullets to the chest, surviving another shot to the head, and sustaining heavy punches, kicks, and stabs; but even that, most curiously, the mad monk still mustered some breath to move his lips and mutter something (perhaps a prayer to the Virgin), as blood and life seeped away from his body, like wine flowing out of a knocked-over chalice, and dyed the snowbank into shades of crimson, scarlet, and magenta, yet the sinner still had more strength to attempt at climbing up: he slipped three times while pushing himself to roll away or sit up, but each time with lower lift from the ground and less strength in him, his palms skidding and dangling their way into fluffier snow layers nearby, warm white fogs from breathing getting thinner, and the only thing on guard that cares for its master's imminent demise was the bushy and thorny long beard he had.
"Tonight, here, we disposed of a great sinner. Mother Russia will be saved," Prince Felix Yusupov proclaimed to his noble friends. In silence, they all followed him to retreat from the ice hole. Behind them, hair and rags of the dead peasant monk were still poking their way above water.
Tomorrow, at dawn, when the old ladies come by the Little Neva, they would find the lifeless and frozen body of Grigori Rasputin, and weep their loss of a holy man. Years later, when they meet again in exile, Mitya would insist that they made a mistake, a fatal miscalculation that threw the Romanovs, Yusupovs, and Russia into the merciless currents of time, and lamented their loss of an empire. Their empire.
But Felix didn't know Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich's future grief yet. His head was ringing with pleasure as if it was him, not Rasputin, who drank all the alcohol. With his leadership, they removed the most terrible influence to their Little Father the Tsar. They actually executed what Stolypin could only fantasize in his wildest dreams. Such grand service onto Russia! Yet when Stolypin stopped by the next day, he spoke of a different matter with Felix.
"I visited Rasputin's daughters."
Felix recoiled in his seat and avoided meeting Stolypin's eyes. Stolypin continued. "They will be taken good care of. Vyrubova will arrange everything."
"Pyotr Arkadyevich, You are such a kind man." Felix responded, still evading eye contact.
Stolypin sighed. "Poor girls. They will find out everything. And His Majesty will, too. I don't know how this will end for You."
"To serve my country, I gladly give my all."
"I will pray for You."
"You want to remove this peasant quack as much as I do." Felix looked Stolypin in the eyes.
"He healed my daughters. I saw it happen. His blood is on Your hands, Felix Felixovich."
But Pyotr Arkadyevich, on whose hands is Your blood? Did You, or anyone else, ever find out?1. Felix wanted to ask. But Stolypin already turned away, and Felix heard a strange call from afar: "Darling, wake up! MVD investigators are here. They say they have a direct order from His Majesty." Winter's sunlight dazzled in Felix's dozing eyes, his wife Irina stood before him, gentle nudges falling on his shoulder.
In fact, His Majesty gave two orders. First: these MVD minions are here to turn over every thread of fiber and every peck of dust. Second: until further order from His or Her Majesty, Felix shall be confined within his palatial home. But if Felix must not go to the world outside, then the outside world will come to Felix. As the investigators were standing over the trains of blood blots at the rear door, the patriarch, prelates, bishops, archpriests, and priests were streaming through the front gate. They crammed into the drawing room, and their black garbs, decorated cuffs, funny hats, and flashy belts would all follow Felix wherever he moved, and Felix would always stand in a semicircle of upturned eyes and blabbering mouths:
Russia is saved. Our Tsar the Little Father is saved. You delivered a great service to the country and the Church. That peasant monk was a false prophet. That mad man was demon incarnate. Justice should be done by any means necessary. A great evil is erased...
The mouths came and left and blabbered on and on; Felix kept a smile, and occasionally responded in terse sentences to acknowledge that he heard the blabbers. Useless cowards, all of them. Felix thought. Their God's wrath could not kill Rasputin. Their holiness drove the capital to follow Rasputin. Their prayers could not heal the Crown Prince nor Stolypin's daughters. Rasputin healed them. And I killed Rasputin. Mitya and I, we killed Rasputin. We saved the Empire. Not you, not any one of you. But enjoy the fruits of our labor now, for your hours may not last long. Felix bid the last bishop a peaceful new year, and strolled to his library, in yet another futile attempt to pass out. Might as well talk to Stolypin's ghost, if I can't see Mitya. Felix thought.
Some few days later, Mitya, dressed in full soldierly garments most suitable for the desert, came to bid farewell to Felix. The Tsar was merciful to his own kin: the Grand Duke was exiled to the Persian front, and the Prince was banished to his country estate near Moscow. The hustling and bustling of servants and carriages never ceased, but in Felix's library, Felix and Mitya sat in silence, and drank red wine.
"Good wine. Shame you wasted some on Rasputin." Mitya commented.
"A small price to pay for a grand service." Felix responded.
"Right. Look at our rewards for the service. Here's mine. Yours, there." Mitya pointed to the map on the desk.
"You will be back in no time. His Majesty will realize how---" Felix's words were severed by Mitya's interjection.
"No! Forget about it. We'd be dead now if Rasputin's daughters didn't intercede to Her Majesty."
"Wasn't it Vyrubova?"
"And who do you think convinced Vyrubova? And the Empress? We owe his girls--" Mitya stopped to let out a deep sigh. "I'd much prefer the firing squad."
Rasputin's daughters? Again? Felix held his wine glass half-air, and did not make a movement or noise for a good while. Mitya slumped back on his seat, and drank in silence, if only for a brief moment.
"Those boyfriends of Christ --- did they bug you too? They are so loud and boring."
Felix chuckled. "They pillow-talk to Christ. Maybe they can bless us with something then."
Mitya laughed. Just the kind of eerie cheerfulness he needed, before leaving the home that gave him life, to a foreign land that may end his life. "Do they pillow-talk to St. George? I need St. George's blessing."
"You can borrow St. George from our British cousins."
"In Persia? If they want to lose, sure. I'll take St. George home. Here." Mitya dried his wine glass, and loosened into an abandoned slumber. Felix, still sober and alert, took in all the noises: servants packing things, his valet bellowing orders, and Irina playing the piano. Very soon, life in the capital will come to an end, it is the country life, an unexpected retirement and peace that awaits him near Moscow.
Country life is too quiet and too peaceful. Duck hunting and fishing could not hold Felix's attention; and when he took strolls in forests, by whim or sheer boredom, he would start galloping and skipping, or dashing around to and fro many times, with a hysterical chortle to accompany his movements. Then suddenly, he'd stop, the sullen and solemn expression returning to his face, then trudge away. Irina seemed to adapt better to country life: she passed her time by painting the local landscape, and was happy as she had been. But Felix wanted an adventure, like the one Mitya was going through --- so he could tell Mitya when they see each other again!
Shortly after his forced retirement, Felix departed on a trip to Siberia. His carriage was light, for he made no backup plan and prepared few items. The most significant was the painting tools Irina lent him. These times were perilous; only the foolish, the reckless, and artists would travel. It was still winter, but the wheels sank and moved laboriously sometimes, as if rasputitsa had already descended upon the land.
Raspu--rasputin--rasputitsa. Rasputitsa. Rasputin. Felix repeated these odd syllables quietly, as the carriage trod on a bumpy country road. Rasputitsa. Rasputin. Did Rasputin take his name from rasputitsa? Who'd do that? But listen to this: Rasputin rots in rasputitsa.2 The alliteration works very fine. Felix congratulated himself on his verbal ingenuity.
On a dry patch near a crossroad, the carriage driver and the local guide stopped to take a respite. Felix also stepped out for some fresh air. He suddenly heard riotous laughter and singing from distance, and searched for the source. His eyes made out a small human figure, surrounded by even smaller figures, dancing and moving about in the field, not far from where he stood. He asked the local guide, which courageous soul dared to brace the winter season and the perilous times to play in a wild field.
"M'lord, that one was a priest. He got sent here, because he got into trouble in Tiflis. He's bad temper, but he's good manners and people like him.3"
An ex-boyfriend of Christ? What kind of trouble in Georgia? Priest. Trouble-maker. Popular with people. Is this man of Rasputin's stock? With piqued curiosity, Felix asked if he could be introduced to that man, and was promptly granted his wish.
The man met Felix on the dry patch near the crossroad. Felix introduced himself as an artist. His name is Dmitri, Dmitri Pavlovich Smirnov4 in full. His patrons are the Yusupovs in St. Petersburg. He was commissioned to paint a series of landscapes to show the vast natural riches of the Empire. That's why he is in Siberia. Besides painting, he wants to make acquaintance with the local people, too.
"Young friend! I am delighted to make Your acquaintance! My name is a peculiar Georgian one," the short and thick man responded, facial pock mark and yellow scratches on his swarthy teeth glaring at Felix. "It is Josif Vissarionovich Jughashvili. But I go by Stalin."