The Elder

 
  The Elder

 Part 1. The Awakening of the Gift

 Chapter 1. Siberian Roots

**Pokrovskoye Village, Tobolsk Governorate. 1885.**

Grigory Rasputin stood at the bedside of a dying peasant woman and felt something strange happening in his head. The words of prayer flowed by themselves, but these were not ordinary church texts—something else, more ancient, more powerful.

"Release the pain, Marya," he spoke in a low, hypnotic voice. "Don't hold onto it. Pain is not you. It's just a sensation that passes through you, like a cloud across the sky."

Twenty-year-old Grigory didn't understand where these words came from. He was an illiterate peasant's son who had never studied medicine or theology. But when he spoke in that voice, people calmed down. Pain retreated. Sometimes even illnesses passed.

Marya Semyonovna was breathing heavily, her face twisted with agony. Stomach cancer—a death sentence for a simple peasant woman. Doctors in the provincial town cost more than a cow. All that remained was prayer.

"Close your eyes," Grigory continued, lightly touching her forehead. "Imagine... a large bright field. A warm summer field where you were a little girl. Do you remember?"

The touch was light but purposeful. Grigory felt how the woman's breathing gradually slowed, her muscles relaxed.

"Yes... I remember," Marya whispered, and for the first time in several days her voice sounded calm.

"You're running through that field, and the wind plays in your hair. There's no pain. Only freedom, only joy. Feel it."

Grigory didn't know he was using a technique that would be called "regression to a resourceful state" a hundred years later. He acted intuitively, following some inner knowledge.

"I... I feel it," the sick woman said in amazement. "The pain is going away."

Grigory slowly removed his hand from the woman's forehead. His own face was damp with sweat—such influence required enormous concentration.

"Sleep, Marya. Sleep and heal."

He turned to the sick woman's husband, who stood in the corner of the hut with his mouth open.

"Semyon Ivanovich, your wife will sleep peacefully until morning. And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll see what the Lord sends."

The next morning, Marya Semyonovna got up from bed on her own for the first time in a month and asked for food. The cancer hadn't gone anywhere, but the pain had retreated for several weeks. For a peasant family, this was a miracle.

News of "the healer Grisha" quickly spread through neighboring villages. Sufferers began coming to the Rasputins' hut—with sick children, incurable ailments, family problems.

And each time Grigory was amazed at himself. How did he know what words to say? How did he guess exactly what to touch? Why did his voice possess such power?

Old deacon Peter Vasilyevich, one of the few literate people in the village, tried to explain:

"This is from God, Grisha. A special gift. But be careful not to become proud. The gift is given for service, not for glory."

But Grigory already understood—this was more than a gift. This was power. Power that could be developed, studied, applied. And not only for healing illnesses.

 Chapter 2. First Experiments

**Tobolsk. 1887.**

Grigory stood on the porch of the cathedral and observed the crowd of pilgrims. He had spent two years wandering to holy places, studying techniques of influence from holy fools, elders, and sectarians. Now he was returning home no longer just a peasant healer, but a man beginning to understand the nature of his gift.

During this time he had learned much. For example, that human consciousness could be "redirected" with a special rhythm of speech. That touches to certain points on the body caused uncontrollable emotional reactions. That a gaze, if used correctly, could completely subjugate another person's will.

Today he was to test a new technique on merchant Kalugin—a greedy and cruel man who cheated peasants when buying grain.

"Vasily Petrovich," Grigory called to the merchant as he left the cathedral. "A word with you."

Kalugin reluctantly turned around. He knew Rasputin as a local "holy fool" and regarded him with contempt.

"What do you want, Grishka?"

"I'm thinking about your soul, Vasily Petrovich," Grigory began speaking in a special tone—slowly, rhythmically, somewhat melodiously. "About how it suffers."

"What soul?" the merchant snapped, but already less aggressively. Something in Grigory's voice compelled listening.

"Listen to yourself," Grigory continued, slowly approaching. "Listen... to what's happening inside. Your heart is beating... breathing is slowing... and somewhere deep in your chest... heaviness."

Kalugin actually felt a strange heaviness in his chest. How did Grigory guess this?

"This is conscience, Vasily Petrovich. It's speaking to you. Speaking about those people you deceive. About children who go hungry because of your greed."

Grigory stopped directly in front of the merchant, looking into his eyes. His gaze was strange—very calm, but penetrating to the very depths.

"I haven't..." Kalugin began, but his voice trembled.

"Don't say anything," Grigory gently interrupted. "Just feel. Feel this heaviness. It will grow if you don't change. Grow until it crushes you."

The merchant stood as if enchanted. The heaviness in his chest was indeed intensifying, and it seemed to him that Grigory somehow controlled it.

"And now imagine," Grigory's voice became even more hypnotic, "how this heaviness disappears. How light it becomes when you help people instead of deceiving them. How well you sleep with a clear conscience..."

Kalugin felt amazing relief, as if a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders.

"What are you... what are you doing to me?" he whispered.

"I'm not doing anything," Grigory smiled. "Just showing what's already in your soul. The choice is yours."

He turned and left, leaving the merchant standing in confusion.

The next day rumors spread through the city: Kalugin had returned money to several peasant families he had cheated, and announced new, honest prices for grain.

"What happened to him?" the traders wondered.

"Grigory Rasputin talked to him," replied those who had seen their conversation.

The fame of the mysterious peasant who could change a person "with one word" grew daily.

 Chapter 3. The Calling

**Verkhoturye. St. Nicholas Monastery. 1888.**

Grigory knelt before the relics of Saint Simeon of Verkhoturye and tried to understand what was happening to his life. In three years, the gift had become something frightening in its power. He could make a person forget about pain, change beliefs, even influence physical processes in the body.

But the more he understood the nature of his abilities, the clearer he realized: this was not just a gift of healing. This was power over human souls. And such power demanded a choice—how to use it?

"Do you doubt, my son?" a quiet voice made Grigory turn around.

Behind him stood Elder Makary—one of the most revered monks of the monastery. They said he possessed the gift of clairvoyance.

"I doubt, Father," Grigory answered honestly. "The Lord gave me power, but didn't give me understanding of how to apply it."

The elder sat down next to him on a bench.

"Tell me about your gift."

Grigory told him—about healing, about how he could influence people, about the strange knowledge that came by itself.

"And what do you feel when you use this power?" the elder asked.

"At first—joy from helping. Then..." Grigory fell silent.

"Then?"

"Then I realize that I could make a person do anything. And this... is frightening and tempting at the same time."

Elder Makary was silent for a long time.

"Do you know, my son, what distinguishes a saint from a sorcerer?"

"No, Father."

"Intention. A sorcerer uses power for himself. A saint—for God and people. But the most terrible thing is when a person begins to think that he himself is the source of power."

Grigory felt how these words resonated in his soul. Yes, sometimes it seemed to him that he was special, chosen, standing above ordinary people.

"What should I do, Father?"

"Go into the world. Your place is not in a monastery. But remember—the more power over people, the greater the responsibility before God."

"And if I can't withstand temptation?"

The elder looked at him with a penetrating gaze.

"Whether you withstand it or not—time will show. But know: your gift was not given for a quiet monastic life. You must go where there is the most suffering and the most sin."

"Where?"

"To the capital. To Petersburg. There lies your destiny."

That night Grigory had a strange dream. He stood in a huge golden palace, around him—noble people in luxurious clothes. And they all looked at him with hope and fear. And in the center of the hall—a woman in a crown who was crying and stretching her hands toward him.

"Save my son," she said. "Only you can."

Grigory woke in a cold sweat. The dream was so vivid it seemed like a prophecy.

In the morning he approached Elder Makary.

"Father, I'm ready. I'm going to Petersburg."

"May the Lord bless you, Grigory. And remember—in the capital they will worship you and hate you. They will call you a saint and a devil. But you hold to the truth that is in your heart."

"What if I don't recognize where truth is and where temptation is?"

"You will recognize it. By their fruits you will know them. If your deeds bring healing and peace—then God acts through you. If pride and destruction—then you serve another master."

The elder blessed Grigory and gave him a small icon of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker.

"Let this be your protection and reminder of humility."

A week later, Grigory Rasputin left Siberia and set off for Petersburg. In his pocket he had several rubles, in his heart—a strange mixture of fear and anticipation, and in his head—a clear understanding: his real life was just beginning.

In the train car he looked out the window at the flashing forests and fields and thought about what awaited him in the capital. He didn't know that in a few years he would be one of the most influential people in the Russian Empire. He didn't know that his name would go down in history as a symbol of mystical influence on power.

For now he was just a Siberian peasant with an unusual gift, who was going to seek his purpose in the big world.

But the power that slumbered within him was already awakening. And this power was destined to shake the foundations of the empire.

 Part 2. The Ascension

 Chapter 4. Capital Customs

**St. Petersburg. October 1903.**

Grigory Rasputin stood on Nevsky Prospect and felt how the capital pressed on him with its magnificence and vices. Fifteen years had passed since he first came to Petersburg. Fifteen years of studying human souls, perfecting the gift, gradually ascending the steps of influence.

Now he was no longer an unknown wanderer. Now he was known in high society salons as the "Siberian elder" who worked miracles. He had patrons among the aristocracy, permanent housing, income from "donations." But most importantly—he had learned to read people like an open book and control them with surgical precision.

Today he was awaited by another "patient"—Countess Natalya Ignatyeva, wife of an influential dignitary. The woman suffered from depression after the death of her only son and had refused to leave the house for several months.

Grigory climbed the marble staircase of the mansion on the Fontanka. He was met by a butler with an icy expression—servants always sensed something alien, dangerous in him.

"The Countess is waiting in the small salon," the butler announced dryly.

Grigory walked through the enfilade of rooms, mentally preparing for work. He already knew much about Countess Ignatyeva: a widowed mother who had lost her son in the Japanese war, religious but disappointed in the church, seeking comfort in mysticism. An ideal target for his methods.

Natalya Ignatyeva sat by the window in a black dress, pale as a ghost. A once-beautiful woman had turned into a shadow of herself.

"Countess," Grigory bowed and sat opposite her without waiting for an invitation. This small audacity was calculated—to show that he was not an ordinary petitioner.

"Are you that elder everyone is talking about?" the woman's voice sounded lifeless.

"I am one who can help," Grigory replied, carefully studying her condition. Shallow breathing, extinguished gaze, hands clenched into fists—classic signs of deep depression.

"No one can help me. My Nikolenka is dead, and there's no point in my living."

Grigory leaned forward, establishing closer contact.

"Tell me about your son. What was he like?"

The Countess looked up in surprise. Usually everyone tried to distract her from thoughts of her deceased son, but this strange man, on the contrary, asked her to talk about him.

"He was... bright," she said quietly. "Kind, honest. He wanted to serve the Fatherland."

"And he serves," Grigory said in a special tone—deep, convincing. "Only now he serves not on earth, but in heaven."

"What do you mean?"

"Close your eyes, Countess. Close them and listen to your heart."

Grigory began speaking slowly, rhythmically, using a technique he had developed over years:

"Your son hasn't disappeared. He has simply moved to another state. And the connection between you hasn't been broken, it has become... different. More subtle, but purer."

His voice possessed a special quality—it seemed to envelop consciousness, penetrating to the very depths of the soul.

"Imagine a bright room," Grigory continued. "Very bright and warm. And in this room is your Nikolenka. He smiles at you and says: 'Mama, don't cry. I'm happy. And I want you to be happy too.'"

Tears flowed down the Countess's cheeks, but these were no longer tears of despair, but of some strange relief.

"Do you see him?" she whispered.

"I see him. And he asks you to live. To live for those who need your kindness. Your pain must become strength that helps others."

Grigory slowly extended his hand and touched the Countess's forehead. The touch was light but purposeful—he knew points on the head that when affected caused certain emotional reactions.

"Do you feel warmth?" he asked.

"Yes," the woman answered in amazement. "As if the sun is shining from within."

"This is your son's love. It's always with you. And when you help others, this love becomes stronger."

The session lasted an hour. Grigory used all his skills—suggestion, emotional anchoring, work with resourceful states. When he finished, Countess Ignatyeva looked alive for the first time in months.

"What did you do to me?" she asked.

"Simply reminded you of what you knew but had forgotten. Life is a gift. And this gift must be used."

"I want... I want to help the families of fallen soldiers," the Countess suddenly said. "Create a fund, a shelter for widows and orphans."

Grigory smiled. This was exactly what he had been aiming for—to redirect the energy of grief into a constructive channel.

"An excellent idea. And I think your son would be proud of such a mother."

Leaving the mansion, Grigory received a generous donation and, more importantly, another influential patroness. Countess Ignatyeva began telling everyone about the miraculous healing, and the fame of the "Siberian elder" grew.

 Chapter 5. Meeting the Elite

**Anna Vyrubova's Salon. December 1903.**

Anna Alexandrovna Vyrubova, lady-in-waiting to the Empress and her closest friend, held meetings in her salon for the "chosen ones"—those interested in mysticism, spiritualism, and various forms of "spiritual seeking." It was here that the meeting that would change the fate of the Russian Empire was to take place.

Grigory entered the exquisitely furnished drawing room where about fifteen people had already gathered—representatives of high society interested in occultism. He immediately felt the atmosphere: these people were satiated with ordinary pleasures and sought something "special," mysterious.

"Gentlemen," Vyrubova announced, "allow me to introduce Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, the Siberian elder about whom so much is said."

Grigory surveyed those gathered with a glance, instantly calibrating each one. Here was an elderly general with tired eyes—seeking meaning after long service. Here was a young princess with a nervous look—family problems, possibly an unsuccessful marriage. And here was a middle-aged banker with a tense expression—financial difficulties, stress.

"They say you work miracles," Prince Orlov said skeptically. "We'd like to see some."

"God works miracles," Grigory replied calmly. "I simply... help people see what's already in their souls."

"And what do you see in our souls?" Princess Beloselskaya asked challengingly.

Grigory slowly approached her, studying every detail: trembling hands, tension in voice, way of holding her head.

"I see a beautiful woman who is unhappy in marriage," he said quietly, but so all could hear. "I see longing for true love and fear that it will never come."

The Princess paled. He had hit the target exactly.

"How do you know this?"

"It's written in your eyes, in how you hold your hands, in your voice's intonation. For one who knows how to see, people are open books."

He turned to the general:

"And you, Vasily Ivanovich, are tormented by the question: did you live your life correctly? Was your service worth the sacrifices you had to make?"

The general flinched.

"How do you..."

"Because at your age this question torments every honest person. And the answer is—yes, it was worth it. Because you served not for rewards, but according to conscience."

Grigory walked around the entire circle, making strikingly accurate observations about each person present. He used no magic—only sharp understanding of human psychology and ability to read non-verbal signals.

"But the most important thing," he said when everyone was conquered by his insight, "is not to learn about your problems. The main thing is to find strength to solve them."

"And how?" the banker asked.

"Through accepting your true self. Through liberation from what prevents you from being yourself."

Grigory asked for water and began one of his "sessions." He spoke about how every person carries a divine spark within themselves, but it is obscured by fears, resentments, false beliefs.

"Close your eyes," he said in a hypnotic voice. "And imagine that all your fears are just shadows. And shadows disappear when light is kindled."

The room filled with a special atmosphere. People really relaxed, their faces became peaceful. Grigory knew—he had gained power over them.

After the session, Anna Vyrubova approached him.

"Grigory Efimovich, you must meet a very important person."

"Who?"

"Their Imperial Majesties. The Empress has long been seeking a spiritual mentor. And after what I saw today..."

Grigory's heart beat faster. The Imperial family—this was the pinnacle of power he had strived for so long.

"When?" he asked, trying not to show excitement.

"Soon. I'll speak with Her Majesty. But remember—this is enormous responsibility. The Tsar's family is going through a difficult time."

"What kind of time?"

Vyrubova lowered her voice:

"The Tsarevich is ill. Very ill. The doctors are powerless. And if you really possess the gift of healing..."

Grigory understood. A sick heir to the throne—this was his chance to become indispensable to the Tsar's family. If he could help the child, his influence would become limitless.

"I am ready to serve Their Majesties," he said solemnly.

"Then wait for an invitation. And pray, Grigory Efimovich. Pray that the Lord gives you strength to help the Tsar's family."

Going out onto the cold Petersburg street, Grigory raised his eyes to the starry sky. He felt—the moment was approaching for which he had been moving toward power all these years. The meeting with the Imperial family would open the road to influence he had not dared to dream of.

But he also understood—from this moment there would be no way back. Either he would become the most influential person in the empire, or he would perish, crushed by the forces he had decided to play with.

 Chapter 6. Tsarskoye Selo

**Alexander Palace. November 1, 1905.**

Grigory Rasputin walked through the palace corridors accompanied by Anna Vyrubova and felt history holding its breath in anticipation. Two years had passed since their first meeting in the salon. Two years during which his fame grew, connections strengthened, and influence spread ever wider.

Now the moment of truth had arrived.

"Remember, Grigory Efimovich," Vyrubova whispered, "behave with proper reverence. These are Their Imperial Majesties."

"I remember," Grigory replied calmly. Actually, he was calm only outwardly. Inside, excitement was seething—not fear, but anticipation. He had been preparing for this meeting his entire life.

They stopped before the doors of the Crimson Drawing Room. Vyrubova knocked quietly.

"Enter," came a woman's voice.

Grigory crossed the threshold and saw them—Emperor Nicholas II and Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. They sat in armchairs by the fireplace, and in their postures, in their gazes he immediately read everything: fatigue, anxiety, despair of parents who didn't know how to save their child.

"Your Majesties," Grigory bowed, but not too low. He understood—excessive subservience could be interpreted as weakness.

The Emperor studied him with an attentive gaze. Nicholas II was a short man with soft facial features, but steel could be read in his eyes. The Empress seemed more tense, almost desperate.

"So you are that Siberian elder Anna told us about," the Tsar said. "They say you possess the gift of healing."

"I possess the gift of seeing what is hidden from others," Grigory replied. "And sometimes a force acts through me that can help the suffering."

The Empress leaned forward:

"Can you help our son?"

Grigory felt the tension in her voice. This was a mother ready to do anything for her child.

"Tell me about his illness," he requested.

"Alexei has... bleeding," the Empress said quietly. "The slightest bruise can be fatal. The doctors say it's incurable."

Hemophilia. Grigory knew about this disease—a hereditary disorder of blood clotting. Indeed, medicine was powerless. But he also knew something else: the psychological state of the patient and his surroundings played a major role in the course of the disease.

"May I see the Tsarevich?" he asked.

The Empress hesitated. To admit a stranger to the heir to the throne...

"Alix," the Emperor said quietly. "If there's even the slightest hope..."

They went to the nursery. Eleven-year-old Alexei lay in bed, pale and weak after another attack. A nanny sat next to the bed, and by the window stood four Grand Duchesses—the Tsarevich's sisters.

Grigory approached the bed and looked at the boy. The child was beautiful, but fear could be read in his eyes—fear of pain, fear of death, which an eleven-year-old boy should not know.

"Hello, Alexei," Grigory said gently.

"Hello," the Tsarevich replied weakly.

Grigory sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the nanny's frightened look. He knew—the first thing to do was remove fear and tension.

"You know what I'll tell you?" Grigory began speaking in a special tone—warm, lulling. "You're a very strong boy. Stronger than you think yourself."

"But I'm sick," Alexei whispered.

"The body may be sick, but your spirit is healthy. And spirit is stronger than body." Grigory carefully placed his hand on the boy's forehead. "Close your eyes and listen to my story."

He began telling a tale about a little tsarevich who was enchanted by an evil wizard but found the strength within himself to defeat the spell. Grigory's voice possessed an amazing quality—it calmed, entranced, instilled hope.

"And what helped the tsarevich defeat the sorcery?" Alexei asked, his voice no longer so weak.

"Faith in himself. And the love of those who surrounded him."

Grigory continued the session for half an hour. He used all his skills—suggestion to relieve anxiety, relaxation techniques, work with imagery. By the end of the session, the boy looked noticeably better, even a blush appeared on his cheeks.

"How do you feel?" Grigory asked.

"Better," Alexei replied in amazement. "As if a weight was lifted from my chest."

The Empress looked at her son with wide-open eyes. She saw how the child had changed—that sickly tension that hadn't left him for months had disappeared.

"What did you do to him?" she whispered.

"Simply reminded him that he is not only a sick boy, but also the future emperor of Russia," Grigory replied. "Sometimes we forget our strength, focusing only on weaknesses."

When they returned to the drawing room, the Empress was already looking at Grigory with completely different eyes.

"You really helped him," she said. "For the first time in many months I see my son... alive."

"This is only the beginning, Your Majesty. Healing is a lengthy process. But I'm ready to help as long as necessary."

The Emperor thoughtfully studied Grigory.

"What do you want in return?" he asked directly.

"The opportunity to serve," Grigory replied. "To serve Their Majesties and Russia."

"More specifically?"

"Sometimes to turn to Your Majesties for advice on spiritual matters. Sometimes—to ask protection from those who don't understand my methods."

This was truth, but not the whole truth. Grigory wanted influence, but understood—he couldn't rush. First he needed to become indispensable.

"Very well," the Empress said. "You may come to Alexei. Whenever you deem necessary."

"And one more request," Grigory added. "For now it's better not to speak of our meetings to outsiders. There are people who might misunderstand."

He knew—secrecy would only increase his influence. Secret meetings, special closeness to the Tsar's family—all this would work for his authority.

Leaving Tsarskoye Selo, Grigory understood—his life had changed radically. Now he was not just a famous healer, but a trusted person of the Imperial family. And this opened completely different possibilities.

But he also felt the danger. Closeness to power attracts not only opportunities, but also enemies. And the higher he rose, the more people would want to bring him down.

Ahead lay years of triumph and tragedy, love and hatred, divine gift and human weaknesses.

 Part 3. The Pinnacle of Power

 Chapter 7. The Gray Cardinal

**Winter Palace. March 1915.**

Grigory Rasputin stood in the Emperor's study and felt power flowing through his veins like a narcotic. Ten years had passed since the first meeting with the Tsar's family. Ten years during which he had transformed from a simple healer into the most influential person in the empire.

Now ministers came to him for advice. His recommendations determined appointments to the highest posts. His word could save or destroy a career, and sometimes a life. He had become what he had always dreamed of—a master of human souls.

"Grigory Efimovich," the Emperor looked exhausted. The war with Germany had been going on for eight months, and things at the front were bad. "What do you think of Goremykin's candidacy for the post of premier?"

Nicholas II asked this question as if Grigory were a member of the State Council, not a Siberian peasant. But this was precisely the magic of influence—to make people believe that your opinion was more important than their own.

"Ivan Logginovich is a man of the old school," Grigory replied, carefully studying the Emperor's reaction. "He is devoted to Your Majesty, but... perhaps too cautious for wartime."

This was masterful manipulation. Grigory didn't give direct advice but directed the Tsar's thoughts in the right direction. A technique he had honed to perfection.

"And whom would you recommend?"

"Someone who understands that in difficult times a firm hand is needed. Someone who isn't afraid to make unpopular decisions."

Nicholas II pondered. Grigory saw how an internal struggle was going on in his eyes between the desire to shift responsibility and understanding that the Emperor himself must make decisions.

"St;rmer?" the Tsar finally asked.

"Boris Vladimirovich is a capable administrator," Grigory replied cautiously. "And he... understands the importance of spiritual guidance in governing the state."

This meant that St;rmer would listen to Grigory's advice. Exactly such people were needed by the elder to strengthen his influence.

The study door opened quietly, and Empress Alexandra Feodorovna entered. Over ten years she had transformed from a cautious mother into a fanatical admirer of Grigory. For her he was not just a healer—he was God's messenger, savior of her son and dynasty.

"Our Friend," she always called Grigory in the presence of others. "How is Alexei?"

"The heir feels well," Grigory replied. "But I see anxiety in him for his father. The boy understands more than it seems."

This was truth. The thirteen-year-old Tsarevich really worried deeply for his parents, for the country. And Grigory had learned to use this anxiety as a lever of influence on the Imperial couple.

"What troubles him?" the Empress worried.

"He feels that papa is tired. That he's pressured by people who don't understand Russia's true needs."

Grigory spoke these words looking directly at the Emperor. The message was clear: the Tsar should listen less to ministers and rely more on spiritual guidance.

"Grigory Efimovich is right," the Empress told her husband. "You work too much. You need to devote more time to family, prayer, contemplation of higher things."

Nicholas II nodded wearily. Grigory saw—the Emperor was increasingly falling into a state where making decisions became torturous, and he wanted to shift responsibility to others.

"Perhaps I really should take a vacation?" the Tsar said. "Go to Tsarskoye Selo, spend time with the children..."

"A wise decision," Grigory supported. "A ruler should draw strength from family and faith. And state affairs... there are faithful people for them."

"Faithful people"—this meant those who would consult with Grigory before making important decisions. In fact, the elder was proposing that the Emperor step away from governing the country, leaving control in the hands of his appointees.

After leaving the palace, Grigory went to his apartment on Gorokhovaya Street. Here petitioners awaited him—dozens of people seeking his protection, asking for appointments, intercessions, help in solving problems.

Reception in Grigory's "reception room" had become a ritual of Petersburg life. Generals and merchants, officials and society ladies came here. Everyone understood—in wartime the elder's word could be more important than official channels.

"Grigory Efimovich," the wife of a wealthy industrialist approached him, "help! My husband is accused of supplying substandard uniforms to the army."

Grigory carefully studied the woman. Expensive jewelry, nervousness, readiness to do anything to save her husband. An ideal situation for demonstrating power.

"The matter is serious," he said slowly. "But... perhaps a way can be found to help. If your husband is really innocent."

"He's innocent! I swear!"

"Then we need to talk to the right people. But this will require... efforts."

The woman understood the hint and produced a thick envelope. Grigory didn't even look at it—money no longer interested him. He was interested in power over people, the ability to decide their fates with one word.

"Very well," he said. "I'll speak with the War Minister. But remember—justice must triumph. If your husband is guilty..."

"He's innocent!" the woman assured again.

Grigory nodded and dictated a short note to the War Minister to his secretary. He knew—his word alone would be enough for the case to be reconsidered. Such was his power.

But with each day he felt the danger more. Rumors circulated in the city about "dark forces" around the throne, about "German influence" on the Empress, about the "corrupt peasant" who ruled the empire. Hatred toward him grew not only among liberals, but also among conservatives who saw him as a threat to traditional foundations.

 Chapter 8. Enemies at the Gates

**Prince Yusupov's Palace. November 1916.**

Prince Felix Yusupov stood at the window of his palace on the Moika and looked at snow-covered Petersburg. In his hands was a note from Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich: "Everything is ready. Tomorrow we decide Russia's fate."

Felix was one of the richest and most influential people in the empire. Handsome, educated, married to the Tsar's niece, he had access to the highest circles of society. But most importantly—he, like Grigory, possessed knowledge of human psychology and knew how to influence people.

Only unlike Rasputin, Yusupov studied European methods of influence. He knew the works of Charcot and Freud, understood the mechanisms of mass consciousness, mastered techniques that today would be called NLP and social engineering.

And now these two masters of psychological influence were preparing for their final battle.

"My Prince," the butler reported, "Rasputin has agreed to come tomorrow evening."

"Excellent," Felix replied. "Are all preparations made?"

"Yes, sir. The basement is ready, Doctor Lazovert brought the cyanide, Purishkevich and the Grand Duke will wait upstairs."

Yusupov nodded. The plan was simple—invite Grigory under the pretext of meeting his wife, poison him, and if that didn't work—shoot him. But Felix understood—the opponent must not be underestimated. Rasputin possessed an almost supernatural instinct for danger and the ability to escape hopeless situations.

Therefore the Prince prepared for a psychological duel.

He studied everything he could learn about Grigory—his weaknesses, habits, methods of influencing people. He knew that the elder was vain, loved to feel his power over aristocrats, was susceptible to feminine beauty and expensive things.

Yusupov's plan was to lull Grigory's vigilance, make him relax, and then strike.

**The next evening**

Grigory Rasputin climbed the stairs of the Yusupov palace and felt strange unease. Something was wrong, but he couldn't understand what exactly. Intuition, which had saved his life more than once, was sending alarm signals.

But curiosity was stronger. Yusupov promised to introduce him to his wife—the beautiful Irina, the Tsar's niece. For Grigory this was an opportunity to expand his influence on the Imperial family.

"Grigory Efimovich!" Felix met him in the entrance hall with the most charming smile. "How glad I am to see you!"

Yusupov looked impeccable—elegant suit, refined manners, welcoming smile. But Grigory noticed small details: too bright a gleam in the eyes, barely noticeable tension in the voice, the way he held his hands.

"And I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Your Highness," Grigory replied, carefully studying the host.

"Irina, unfortunately, isn't ready yet," Felix said. "Women, you know... But let's go to the basement, I have a cozy drawing room there. We'll wait for her there."

Basement. Grigory became even more alert. Why meet in a basement when the entire palace was at their disposal?

But he followed the Prince. In the basement there really was a luxuriously furnished drawing room—Persian carpets, expensive furniture, paintings. On the table stood exquisite pastries and wine.

"Please, help yourself," Felix offered. "Pastries from Petersburg's best confectioner."

Grigory took one pastry and brought it to his mouth, but at the last moment something made him stop. Too insistent an offer, too bright a gaze from the Prince, watching his every movement.

"Thank you, but I dined recently," he said, setting the pastry aside. "Better tell me about your wife."

Felix almost imperceptibly winced. The first part of the plan had failed.

"Irina is an amazing woman," he began, but Grigory was no longer listening. He was studying the room, looking for possible escape routes.

One exit—the stairs they had descended. No windows. In the corner—some kind of cabinet. The situation was becoming more suspicious.

"Tell me, Prince," Grigory interrupted, "why are we waiting for your wife precisely here? Wouldn't it be better in the drawing room?"

"Oh, it's her whim," Felix tried to joke. "She loves originality."

A lie. Grigory saw this in the micro-expressions of the Prince's face, in the change of voice tone. The danger was real.

"You know what," Grigory said, rising, "perhaps I'd better wait for the Princess upstairs. It's somehow... stuffy here."

He headed for the stairs, but Felix blocked his way.

"Come now, Grigory Efimovich! Irina will come down any moment. A little more patience."

Now Grigory was certain—this was a trap. But he also understood that panic was a bad advisor. He needed to play his own game.

"Fine," he said, sitting back down. "But then let's talk business."

"What business?"

"About why you lured me here."

Felix was momentarily confused. He hadn't expected such directness.

"I don't understand..."

"You understand," Grigory leaned forward, fixing the Prince with his gaze. "You understand very well. The question is only—what do you plan to do next?"

An invisible duel began between them. Two masters of psychological influence, each trying to outplay the other.

"Grigory Efimovich," Felix tried to take the initiative, "I want to talk to you about Russia's future."

"About Russia's future?" Grigory smirked. "Or about my future?"

"Aren't they the same thing?" the Prince parried.

A clever move. Yusupov was trying to shift the conversation to an ideological plane.

"Perhaps," Grigory agreed. "Then tell me, Prince—what do you see in Russia's future?"

"I see a country without dark forces, without corruption of power, without... influences that destroy the monarchy from within."

The cards were revealed. Yusupov was accusing Grigory of destroying the empire.

"An interesting point of view," the elder replied calmly. "And who, in your opinion, are these dark forces?"

"I think you know the answer better than I do."

Grigory stood and slowly approached the Prince. Felix instinctively stepped back.

"You know what I see, Prince?" Grigory's voice became hypnotic, penetrating. "I see a young man who thinks he's saving Russia. But actually serves completely different forces."

"What forces?"

"Forces of destruction. Chaos. Revolution."

Grigory spoke slowly, rhythmically, using all his mastery of influence.

"You think that by removing me, you'll save the monarchy. But actually you'll destroy the last thread that still connects the Tsar's family with the people."

Felix felt how Grigory's words affected him, made him doubt. But he was prepared for such an attack.

"You're trying to hypnotize me," he said with a smirk. "But I've studied your methods. I know how you operate."

"Then you know I'm right," Grigory replied. "And that you're making a fatal mistake."

At that moment footsteps sounded upstairs. Felix realized—time was running out. His accomplices were losing patience.

He took a revolver from his pocket.

"Forgive me, Grigory Efimovich. But Russia is more important than one man."

Grigory looked at the weapon and smiled strangely.

"Do you think that by killing me, you'll solve Russia's problems? You're mistaken. My death will be the beginning of the end for the dynasty."

"That's the price that will have to be paid."

"Then shoot, Prince. But remember—in a few months you'll understand that I was right."

The shot thundered in the basement of the palace on the Moika at half past midnight on December 17, 1916.

 Chapter 9. The Prophecy

**Basement of Yusupov Palace. December 17, 1916. Night.**

Grigory Rasputin lay on the basement floor, and blood slowly spread across the Persian carpet. The bullet had hit his chest, but he was still alive. Felix Yusupov stood over him with a smoking revolver in his hand.

"It's all over," the Prince whispered.

But Grigory unexpectedly opened his eyes. In them was no fear—only strange calm of a man who knows something very important.

"No, Prince," he said in a weak but clear voice. "It's all just beginning."

Yusupov shuddered. He had expected anything—curses, pleas for mercy, threats. But not such calm.

"Do you want to know what will happen next?" Grigory continued, leaning on his elbow. "First you'll think you saved Russia. Then you'll understand you destroyed it."

"You're dying," Felix said. "Your prophecies no longer interest anyone."

"Dying?" Grigory smiled strangely. "Perhaps. But before death I'll show you the future you've chosen."

He closed his eyes, and his voice became different—solemn, prophetic:

"In two months the Tsar will fall. In eight months the Emperor's family will be in prison. In a year and a half they'll all be shot in a basement like this one."

Felix paled. In Grigory's words was such conviction that one involuntarily wanted to believe.

"You're delirious."

"Delirious?" Grigory opened his eyes and looked at the Prince with pity. "And where will you go, Prince? To Paris? To London? Will you gamble away money you stole from Russia before the revolution in casinos?"

How could he know about the secret accounts in Swiss banks? Yusupov felt cold in his chest.

"Be silent!"

"I won't be silent. Because you must know the truth about what you've done." Grigory struggled to his knees. "You thought you were killing a dissolute peasant. But you're killing Russia's last chance to avoid catastrophe."

"You were destroying the country!"

"I?" Grigory laughed, and this laughter was more terrible than any curses. "I held the Tsar's family together. I gave them faith that God was on their side. I was the only thread connecting the throne with the people."

"The people hated you!"

"The people hated what the newspapers wrote about them. And the newspapers... newspapers wrote what people like you ordered them to write."

Grigory slowly rose to his feet. The wound was mortal, but some inhuman force supported him.

"Do you want to know who really destroyed Russia?" he stepped toward Yusupov. "Liberals who dreamed of a constitution. Generals who thought only of their careers. Bankers who transferred capital to Europe. And aristocrats like you who were ashamed of their own country."

"Enough!" Felix raised the revolver.

"Shoot," Grigory said calmly. "But know—by killing me, you're killing the Russia you knew. In a year there won't be a trace left of your world."

The second shot sounded louder than the first. Grigory fell but continued speaking:

"The Tsar will be shot in July of eighteen. In Ekaterinburg. In the basement of the Ipatiev House. First the children, then the parents."

"Be silent!" Yusupov fired a third time.

"The Empress will be killed longest of all," Grigory continued, as if not feeling the bullets. "Because the bayonets will be dull. And the Tsarevich... the Tsarevich they'll finish with rifle butts."

Fourth shot. Fifth. The revolver's cylinder was empty.

Grigory lay in a pool of blood, but his lips still moved:

"And you, Prince... will die in Paris. In poverty. In oblivion. And before death you'll understand—everything I said came true."

Finally, silence fell.

Felix stood over the body, breathing heavily. From above came voices—accomplices had arrived.

"Felix!" Grand Duke Dmitry shouted. "What's happening there?"

"It's all over," Yusupov shouted back.

But when half an hour later they came down to the basement to take the body, Grigory wasn't there. On the carpet remained only blood stains and tracks leading to the back door.

"Where could he have gone?" Purishkevich whispered in horror.

"This can't be," Dmitry repeated. "I checked his pulse myself."

They found Grigory in the courtyard, crawling toward the gates. They finished him with blows of a club and threw the body into an ice hole in the Neva.

But his words continued to ring in Yusupov's ears.

**Epilogue**

Two months later Emperor Nicholas II abdicated the throne. Eight months later the Tsar's family was arrested. On July 17, 1918, in the basement of the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg, all were shot—the Emperor, Empress, Tsarevich, and four Grand Duchesses.

The murder happened exactly as Grigory had predicted. The children were killed longer than the adults—jewels sewn into their clothes hindered the bullets. The Tsarevich was indeed finished with rifle butts.

Felix Yusupov emigrated to Paris, where he lived a long but unhappy life. His fortune was confiscated by the Bolsheviks, aristocratic connections didn't help in exile. He died in 1967 in poverty and oblivion, tormented to the very end by memories of that December night.

Before death he dictated memoirs and constantly repeated one phrase: "He predicted everything. Everything to the smallest detail."

The Russia that Yusupov wanted to save disappeared together with Grigory Rasputin's body in the icy waters of the Neva. And perhaps the elder was right—he really was the last thread connecting the old world with the new.

A thread that was cut in the basement of the palace on the Moika on a frosty December night in 1916.

**THE END**