The rain continued that night and Agnessa allowed Father, down with the cold as well, to stay home with Luba and Max. Father seemed relieved he would miss his least favorite activity, dancing, for guests were all to perform a Persian-style ballet, an audience-participation event. I shared Father’s feelings about dancing but looked forward to presenting Eliza to the tsar’s wife, Tsarina Alexandra, who would be in attendance.
Eliza and I set off from our townhouse, side by side in Father’s carriage, driven by our coachman Peter, who, in his city uniform of high fur hat and scarlet jacket, made quite a show of it, whipping the horses.
How good it was to have Eliza all to myself. Agnessa and Afon took a separate carriage so she could come home early to check on Father. I wanted to arrive at the palace relatively dry, introduce Eliza to Tsarina Alexandra, and return home to curl up with infant Max in my arms.
We made good time down Nevsky Prospekt, the fine shops shuttered for the night. Halfway to the palace we passed a group of ruffians near a liquor shop confronting a well-dressed young gentleman, clearly pressing him for money.
“Criminals?” Eliza asked. “On the best street in the city?”
“They call them ‘hooligans.’ Nothing new.” Hooliganism was an established practice heralded by the newspapers, where unemployed, drunken men used petty violence to intimidate the wealthy—often women. Rogue gangs bumped and badgered, robbed and mugged, let loose wasps’ nests on the trams, and, from tea shop doorways, threw hot tea on passersby for sport.
Eliza craned her neck as we rode by. “Should we alert the police?”
“They rarely come.”
“It seems to be getting worse just in the time I’ve been here. How is the tsar helping?”
I shrugged. “He believes if he supports the rich, prosperity will trickle down to the people. Private individuals pick up the slack. Like the women’s home Father and I opened. Father funds it himself.”
“The tsar hasn’t helped the others still living in the slums.”
“New York has no slums? Here, it’s the Bolsheviks’ fault—stirring up discontent. They called for another factory strike.”
“I’m afraid for you, Sofya. The people are getting desperate. The tsar’s solution seems to be to kill all protestors.”
“What of your Mr. Rockefeller’s guards just machine-gunning striking coal miners to death? Eleven children died there.”
Eliza looked out the window at the dark streets, silent, the reflection in the window showing her pained expression. Had I been too harsh? She was right, of course. Perhaps it was better if we had a successful revolution, installed a more modern form of government. Half of St. Petersburg seemed ready to sweep out the tsar.
The carriage approached Anichkov Palace, the four-story white facade aglow, even more beautiful than usual, washed with rain.
“We’re almost there, Eliza. I’ll make sure you meet the tsarina.”
“Will she expect an expert curtsey? Mine’s a bit rusty.”
“Yes. And she speaks English and French. Prefers English but you’ll impress her with your French. Ask her about her son, Alexei, the heir. You’ll get extra time.”
We joined the crowds of Persian-dressed guests streaming into the high-ceilinged entry space and followed the crowd up the red carpet, past the usual magnificent guards at attention in their gold-braided, black jackets. We’d visited Anichkov Palace many times with our parents to call on the tsar’s mother and it was always one of my favorites, more intimate than the tsar’s official residence that was just minutes away, the immense Winter Palace.
Though I was in no rush to speak with them, I knew most of the belaya kost there, the “white-boned,” the blue-blooded Russian families full of princes, dukes, counts, and barons that held most of Russia’s wealth.
We entered the ballroom through gilded doors thrown open to reveal a wide ballroom, the walls shining in turquoise silk. Tall mirrors reflected the guests’ brocades, silks, and beadwork lit entirely by flickering wax candles burning in the chandelier above. Great clusters of towering palms, flowering orange trees, and great blooming azalea gently swayed in the breeze of the open windows.
Eliza drew a quick breath. “Oh, Sofya. I’ve never seen such a place. The plants alone.”
“The gardeners use massive hoists to lift these in through the windows—all from the tsarina’s imperial greenhouse. You should see it, Eliza: three stories high, full of lilacs, her favorite. Before I went off to school, I practically lived there.”
At the far end of the room, the dowager empress, the tsar’s mother, and the tsarina sat on golden thrones, with a throng of guests