The Fabergé Secret Read online

  ‘We missed you at Easter, Dimitri,’ said the Tsar.

  ‘You should not have gone away,’ Grand Duchess Olga scolded him. ‘Bad boy!’

  Dimitri laughed. Olga was the wittiest child, but also the naughtiest.

  ‘Your little Highness, I promised Count Bykov to come down to look at the completed mansion and make a few re-visions.’ When talking to the children, the parents spoke in Russian, as did Dimitri. But the Imperial Couple always spoke English to each other, so Dimitri did as well. This habit had to do with the fact that the Tsarina was a granddaughter of Queen Victoria of England. Alexandra had lived with her after her mother died when she was six and she was English to the bone. Alexandra had only been in Russia a month when she married Nicky, so she was at a great disadvantage from the start and still spoke Russian with great difficulty.

  Dimitri always felt so happy being with the family. Maybe because this was where his friend Nicky was happiest and completely at ease. Away from the public, the Tsar wore a simple cotton peasant blouse with baggy breeches tucked in soft leather boots. He preferred to be Russian in all aspects of his private life. He once told Dimitri that he had disdain for Peter the Great having built St Petersburg as a city of Western architecture, and making his subjects adopt Western dress and ways or be punished.

  As Dimitri ate his lunch, the Grand Duchesses chattered on telling him what they did for Easter.

  ‘I ate the biggest piece of pashka,’ Marie boasted to Dimitri.

  ‘But I won the Easter egg game,’ Tatiana crowed. The family played a game where one struck an Easter egg of another with theirs. The one whose eggshell was broken was out of the game.

  ‘Anastasia bit the ears off my chocolate rabbit when I wasn’t looking,’ Olga complained. Anastasia giggled at Dimitri.

  ‘Here, my love,’ Nicholas said as he handed Alexandra a piece of black bread he’d buttered for her. Dimitri smiled when he saw their exchange of warm looks over such a simple act. Unlike most aristocratic marriages which were arranged for political and financial reasons, theirs was a marriage based on true love. Nicholas had been in love with Alexandra for five years before their marriage in 1894. Now, in 1903, they still acted like young lovers. ‘Real love,’ Dimitri remembered Nicholas telling him, ‘is a gift from God that becomes stronger and purer by the day.’

  Dimitri both admired and envied this. He and Lara had been truly in love when they married ten years ago. Their passion for each other was intense as Nicholas and Alexandra’s. No one had to force Dimitri and Lara into an arranged marriage. But then the exact opposite of the Tsar’s marriage happened to them. He remembered the precise moment when everything had changed.

  ‘Colonel Dorogyn, Larissa?’ Dimitri had asked, standing in a state of confusion and disbelief in the middle of the bedroom.

  Lara didn’t reply, and just kept brushing her hair in front of the mirror of her dressing table. She finally turned in her seat to face him. Her expression was blank.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been having an affair for almost two months, Dimitri.’

  ‘I didn’t believe the gossip, but it wouldn’t let up. I had to see for myself. I stood outside Dorogyn’s flat, and you came out before midnight.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have hurt you.’

  ‘But do you still love me? Because I still love you with all my heart, Larissa.’

  Lara didn’t reply, she just looked down at the carpet.

  ‘Answer me!’ Dimitri ordered. Tears were burning his eyes.

  There was just a deafening silence in their bedroom. Like a crushing blow to his stomach, he realized it was her answer.

  ‘I was always so proud of you for never succumbing to the advances of all these men. Because I was your special love, and you’d always be faithful to me, like I was faithful to you.’

  ‘Don’t be so provincial, Dimitri. Everyone has affairs. So many men admire me; surely you understand. And you’re free to play around too, of course,’ she said dismissively.

  Dimitri was stunned by Lara’s response. In a complete daze, he staggered out of the room and down into the street. For three hours, he drifted like a somnambulist along the quay overlooking the Neva. When he returned home, Lara’s maid told him she’d gone out for the evening.

  Since divorce was not an option for aristocrats, Dimitri eventually strayed. His affair with his first lover, the young Marya Belyi, was intensely passionate but devoid of any love. It left him sexually satisfied, but empty inside. The next affair, with Countess Sigorsky, lasted a month and gave him the same feeling, as did the scores of them over the past eight years. Only the affair with Princess Betsey, which lasted almost a year, came close to feeling like love.

  So, like most couples in the Imperial Court, Lara and Dimitri led two lives, an outwardly proper aristocratic marriage with separate bedrooms, and a second life of discreet sexual affairs.

  Dimitri was so lost in this bitter memory that he didn’t realize that Nicky was talking to him. ‘Dimitri, who is Russia’s greatest composer?’ asked the Tsar.

  Dimitri snapped out of his reverie. ‘That’s easy, Nicky – the one and only Tchaikovsky.’

  ‘Our very favorite Russian composer. Don’t you think it’s time for the Empire to build a memorial to honor the late genius?’

  ‘Long overdue.’

  ‘Then my friend, you will design Tchaikovsky a great memorial – not just a statue but a great complex that has a grand concert hall, a music conservatory, and a music library housing all his work,’ said the Tsar excitedly.

  ‘What a tremendous honor, Your Majesty! Thank you so much!’ Dimitri replied, almost shouting.

  ‘It will be on a site just off the Nevsky Prospect on the Griboedova Canal, millions will visit it,’ said the Tsar grinning from ear to ear.

  Dimitri was completely bowled over by the announcement. Throughout the years, Nicholas had personally given him commissions for libraries, public buildings like the Imperial Tax Office, and bridges because of his engineering training. But this was far and away his most prestigious commission.

  ‘I’ll start design sketches at once,’ he said excitedly. He felt like bolting out of the dining room to his drawing board.

  The Grand Duchesses clapped their hands and cheered. ‘You are the Tchaikovsky of architects,’ shouted Olga.

  ‘You’re the only person we thought of for the job,’ said the Tsarina, patting Dimitri’s hand.

  Dimitri smiled at her. If Alexandra didn’t act like an empress in the cruel eyes of the Court, she certainly looked like one. Dimitri thought her quite beautiful with her large gray eyes, lovely white complexion, and that red-golden hair. She always wore high-collared dresses that accentuated her graceful long neck. Sometimes, he thought he was a tiny bit in love with her.

  ‘I want this building to be Russian not Western in style. This Art Nouveau style from Paris is quite lovely,’ said the Tsar. ‘Some architects are doing a Russian version of it. Maybe you could, too, and include some old Muscovite and Kievian symbols.’ The Tsar was the leading patron of the arts in Russia, and up on all the latest trends, so he enjoyed giving Dimitri unsolicited design advice. He loved everything in the arts to be Russian-inspired.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty, it is a most interesting trend.’ Dimitri knew of the style, which had come from Paris in the 1890s and now had taken root in Russia. Trends and fashion always arrived late to Russia. He had seen photographs of the work in magazines by its leading architects, Henry van de Velde and Victor Horta. He had visited the Paris World Exhibition in 1900, when the style was first presented internationally. He didn’t think much of the facile style; he was a devoted classicist.

  ‘When someone says a thing is “interesting,” that means they don’t like it, but are too polite to say so.’

  Dimitri and Nicholas exchanged grins.

  As they finished lunch, the Tsar raised his hand. ‘I must go back to work, but first let us show you something special.’ He motioned for Dimitri to follow him and the children tagg
ed along. The Tsarina bid Dimitri goodbye, and Jim opened the door to let her out. From the dining room they walked into the Tsar’s study. Dimitri’s eyes lit up when he saw what was standing on Nicholas’s desk.

  ‘Here is this year’s Fabergé Easter egg I gave to Sunny. It’s called the “Peter the Great Egg.”’

  Was there anything in Russia that Lara didn’t know about? She should be running the Okhrana, Russia’s secret police. The newest Easter egg was set in its own three-legged stand. Its outside had intricate detailing of gold cattails surrounding a miniature painting of the Winter Palace that was outlined in little diamonds. The Tsar lifted the hinged lid on the egg. Inside was a miniature gold statue of Peter the Great on a horse atop a black boulder; a copy of the one that stood by the Winter Palace. It was not more than an inch high. As usual, the workmanship was incredible, every detail impeccable.

  ‘Superb!’ Dimitri bent over to take a closer look, circling the egg to take in every detail. ‘Peter Carl Fabergé is such a genius in everything he designs.’

  Fabergé employed two hundred craftsmen in St Petersburg alone, with branches in London, Paris, and Moscow. He also provided exquisite jewelry to the royalty of Europe, including the Tsar’s uncle, King Edward VII. The Russian of French descent produced not just the Imperial Eggs but an astounding array of beautifully designed pieces – brooches, cigarette cases, necklaces, clocks, cufflinks, and picture frames. One could even buy pearl and diamond-encrusted knitting needles. No aristocratic Russian celebration was complete without Fabergé gifts to hand out.

  ‘Ah, but Fabergé’s greatest act of creativity was the Imperial Easter Eggs – started by my father,’ the Tsar said proudly.

  Nicholas had continued the tradition begun by his father, Alexander III, in 1885 by commissioning Fabergé to create two Easter eggs each year: one for his mother, the Dowager Empress, and one for the Tsarina. The design and choice of materials was left up to Fabergé, who hid the annual designs under a cloak of secrecy. His brilliant idea was to use the egg as a shell which would be opened to reveal a ‘surprise.’ The very first was the ‘Hen Egg,’ a white enameled egg lined with gold that, when opened, held a little golden hen. But Fabergé didn’t design the eggs, he only provided the basic idea every year then let his master designers carry it out to the most minute detail.

  ‘You know, Nicky, before they were exhibited for the first time in Paris three years ago, the world outside of the Court didn’t know the Imperial Easter Eggs even existed,’ Dimitri said, while still examining the egg. ‘It sort of angers me that it’s no longer our special secret.’

  Nicholas patted Dimitri on the back and nodded in agreement.

  ‘Mama feels the same way.’

  ‘What treasure did she receive this Easter?’

  ‘I sent her the “Royal Danish Egg.” It’s done in blue and white enamel, and the surprise is a double portrait of her mother and father.’

  ‘Ah, she’ll love that.’

  The Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna had been a Danish princess. She lived in Anichkov Palace in St Petersburg, but spent part of the year in Copenhagen, where she was now.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing it.’ Dimitri liked the Dowager, but she, too, harshly criticized Alexandra and drove the Court against her.

  ‘I’ll wager you still think the “Trans-Siberian Railway Egg” is the best of all.’

  Nicholas was absolutely right. That egg from 1901 was made in honor of the Trans-Siberian Railway that was under construction. On the outside was a map of Russia with the route of the railway to the Pacific Ocean engraved in silver. But it was its surprise inside that was so incredible. Inside was a scale model of the locomotive and five cars of the Siberian Express. When connected together, they measured one foot in length. A few turns of a golden key and the locomotive of gold and platinum actually pulled the train. It was an unbelievable piece of workmanship. Dimitri didn’t envy Fabergé; every year’s masterpiece made the next egg more difficult to surpass.

  ‘Yes, that is my very favorite. I’ve gone into the display room to look at it many times.’ Most of the Fabergé items were kept in a special room at the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar’s retreat outside the city. The Tsarina and the Dowager Empress kept a few in their private apartments. Olga tugged on Dimitri’s arm. ‘The “Lilies of the Valley Egg” is my favorite because it has a picture of me that pops up,’ she exclaimed. ‘And me,’ shouted Tatiana in indignation. That was an unusual Art Nouveau design with the pink enameled egg covered in lilies of the valley, each made of a pearl crested by tiny diamonds.

  Dimitri affectionately put his hand behind Tatiana’s head and pulled her toward him. She hugged his thigh tightly. What a wonderful feeling, he thought as he stroked her soft dark hair. She didn’t let go, and he didn’t want her to. To hug a child, to caress its hair, to watch it sleep were sensations he desperately wanted to experience. But it was never to be. After two years of trying, Lara did not get pregnant. After his wife’s first infidelity, they never shared a bed again.

  ‘Give Dimitri his gift, Papa,’ Olga cried. Tatiana released her grasp and began jumping up and down clapping her hands with glee.

  ‘Dimitri Sergeyevich, this is our Easter gift to you from Sunny and the family.’ He held out a gorgeous cigarette box enameled in light blue that was lined with tiny diamonds in an X-pattern. It had a little gold Russian eagle mounted in its middle. As an architect, he liked the fact that Fabergé never went in for an ostentatious display of precious gems but subordinated them to the overall design of the piece and focused on the incredible enameled finishes. Enamels were applied by fusing a thin layer of powdered glass, heated to 600 degrees centigrade, on a metal surface. Fabergé’s genius was creating a hundred colors – blues, purples, pinks, and greens with an amazing translucent depth made possible by multiple applications.

  ‘We had them filled with your favorite Turkish cigarettes,’ Olga said excitedly.

  ‘Thank you so much, Your Majesty. And to Your Highnesses,’ Dimitri said, bowing to Olga and her sister. ‘You know I’ll be using my gift immediately.’

  ‘You smoke too much, Dimitri,’ Tatiana scolded him. Her nickname for him was ‘Old Smokestack.’

  ‘Don’t you dare leave without taking our gift for Larissa,’ commanded Olga.

  ‘A beautiful blue Fabergé hairbrush and comb that I picked out,’ Tatiana said proudly.

  ‘Now I must return to running the Empire. There’s been such a fuss about the riot in Kishinev. Everyone’s in a fury over it,’ said the Tsar in an annoyed tone. ‘Even Teddy Roosevelt and the United States are angry.’

  Dimitri was just about to blurt out that he’d seen a wagon of dead bodies in Kishinev, but he held his tongue. On the train ride home to St Petersburg, the image of the curly-haired baby kept running through his mind. But since he’d gotten back, he had thought less and less about it. Nicky’s mention of the riot jolted his memory, and the image vividly returned. It occurred to Dimitri that nobody had explained the extent of bloodshed of the riot to Nicky.

  ‘Yes, on the way home we saw—’ he began, but Nicky interrupted him.

  ‘The Jews are money-lenders who take advantage of the simple peasant. They are tavern-keepers who get their customers drunk, causing widespread resentment. No wonder we have these occasional attacks,’ Nicholas said testily.

  The Tsar swung Tatiana into his arms and gave her a big kiss on her rosy cheek. The children ran off to the nursery.

  ‘Ah, von Plehve has arrived.’

  Vyacheslav von Plehve, the Minister of the Interior, bowed when he entered the study. A stout man with bushy receding hair and a walrus mustache, he handled the Empire’s domestic affairs, and was also director of the Imperial Police. He said nothing because court etiquette dictated that one never spoke first to the Emperor.

  ‘Von Plehve here says the Jews stand in the forefront of the revolutionary movement. You remember, Dimitri, Jews killed my grandfather.’

  As a
young boy, Dimitri remembered the assassination of Alexander II, the ‘Tsar Liberator’ who freed the serfs and had just eased the restrictions on Jews. Blown to bits by a bomb in the street in 1881, they brought him back to the palace literally in pieces. He died on a blood-soaked sofa as his thirteen-year-old grandson, Nicholas, looked on in horror. Nicky had never recovered emotionally from the event.

  ‘Here is the survey of the land where the Memorial will go,’ the Tsar said handing Dimitri a rolled drawing.

  As the Tsar was about to address von Plehve, a servant entered carrying his personal mail on a large silver platter.

  ‘There may be a letter from Mama about her Easter egg,’ said the Tsar excitedly as he sifted through the mail. ‘What’s this? It’s marked “private.” He held up a small flat parcel. ‘It’s postmarked from Suez.’ When he opened it, inside was a dirty piece of blue cloth. A puzzled look came over his face.

  ‘Suez, Egypt!? Don’t touch it, Your Majesty. Drop it on the floor!’ screamed von Plehve. ‘For God’s sake, don’t touch it!’ Nicholas did as he was told.

  ‘It’s infected with plague germs!’ von Plehve cried out.

  Dimitri fought back his panic-stricken urge to run out of the study. He frantically looked about and saw a large pair of scissors on the Tsar’s desk. Using them like tongs, he carefully lifted up the filthy piece of cloth. Von Plehve had picked up a metal waste basket, and Dimitri dropped the cloth in it. The Minister shouted for his Imperial police officers to come in.

  ‘The Okhrana’s laboratory will test this, but I know it’s plague.’

  The officer to whom he handed the can, widened his eyes in horror and swallowed hard. Holding the can away from his body as if there was a king cobra inside, he slowly walked out.

  ‘This is deadlier than any bomb,’ Nicholas shouted. ‘The entire palace – the children could have been infected.’