The Name on Every Lip
"Rasputin, Rasputin, Rasputin" — the name pounded like surf on a crumbling shore. In the food lines and salons and rooming houses of Petrograd, in the autumn of 1916, a single syllable cluster had become the universal refrain of a city drowning in its own ill humor. "It was like a refrain," one Petrograd lady wrote. "It became a dusk enveloping all our world, eclipsing the sun. How could so pitiful a wretch throw so vast a shadow? It was inexplicable, maddening, almost incredible." The censors did their best to suppress him. They daubed ink over newspaper columns that mentioned his name; the black blotches were called caviar. Readers knew exactly whom the caviar was protecting, and they invented stories of their own — wilder, more lurid, more baroque than anything the papers might have printed. A society hostess, irritated that her guests talked of nothing else, posted a printed sign above her dining room fireplace: "In this house we do not discuss Rasputin." But they did. Nothing would stop them.
The man at the center of this obsession was a muzhik — a dark peasant from a distant Siberian bog, a creature who had defecated in the open as a boy, who sucked soup from the bowl and ate fish with his fingers, whose body gave off a powerful and acrid odor, who could scarcely scrawl his own name. And yet. Who it was rumored had the ear — enjoyed the body — of the Empress. Who, with her, appointed the mightiest officials of state. Who treated fawning "duchesses, countesses, famous actresses, and high-ranking persons" worse than servants and maids. Who could see the future. Inexplicable, indeed. Incredible, except that he was visible — a shaggy figure with a sable coat thrown over peasant boots and blouse, catching cabs, dining at Donon's, reeling out of the Gypsy houses in Novaya Derevnya blind drunk in the early hours.
His very eyes betrayed his identity to strangers. The ballerina Tamara Karsavina — the most beautiful dancer of her generation, who had never met him — recognized him instantly in the street through their "strange lightness, inconceivable in a peasant face, the eyes of a maniac." Others described the effect differently: a piercing quality, like needles. An impossible weight, a material force. Women said his stare made them want to scream. One acquaintance recorded that "the charm of this man lies in his eyes. There is something in them that draws you in and forces you to submit to his will. There is something psychologically inexplicable in all this." This was the paradox that consumed late imperial Russia — how a semi-literate peasant, smelling of the barnyard, became the most powerful man in an empire of 170 million souls — and, in the process of consuming it, helped bring the whole thing crashing down.
By the Numbers
The Shadow Over the Throne
47Age at death (December 30, 1916)
11Years of proximity to the Imperial family (1905–1916)
~170MPopulation of the Russian Empire he helped destabilize
250 roublesFee charged for a single petition to the Tsar
1,000 roublesSingle bribe delivered by an industrialist's employee (Jan 18, 1915)
3Children who survived to adulthood
73 daysBetween his murder and the abdication of Nicholas II
Crossroads and Debauchery
Even his name was contested — the first layer of myth in a life that would become little but myth. Some writers assert that
Rasputin derived from
rasputstvo, the Russian word for debauchery, bestowed on the young Grigory by scandalized villagers who could not believe the depths of his carousing. Others, including the historian Douglas Smith, whose 880-page
Rasputin: Faith, Power, and the Twilight of the Romanovs remains the most exhaustive biography ever attempted, note that the surname likely derives from
rasput'e — crossroads — describing the geographical feature near his family's land. A crossroads. A debauchery. That both etymologies clung to him simultaneously tells you everything you need to know about Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin: he was, from birth, a man people projected meaning onto, a blank screen for Russia's fears and desires, a walking Rorschach test administered to an empire in its terminal crisis.
He was born on January 22, 1869 — or January 10, Old Style — in the village of Pokrovskoye, near Tyumen in western Siberia, some 2,000 kilometers east of Moscow. His daughter Maria later claimed the date was 1871, and that a fiery meteor had streaked across the sky at the moment of his birth, which tells you something about the family's relationship with facts. The Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry established by the Provisional Government in 1917 guessed his birth year as 1864 or 1865, overestimating his age because years of hard drinking had ravaged his body beyond its years. The local registry recorded 1869, and that is what we have.
His father, Yefim Rasputin, was a peasant — but a relatively prosperous one, literate, who served as an elder in the village church and supplemented his income as a coachman and driver. One villager recalled his "learned conversations and wisdom." His mother, Anna Egorovna, bore eight children. Seven of them died. Grigory alone survived to adulthood, a fact that in Siberian peasant culture carried the faint whiff of either divine favor or demonic protection. Young Grigory was alternately moody and mystical, drunken and rakish — "his personality embodied divergent and contrasting strains," wrote the biographer Joseph T. Fuhrmann, "the religious seeker and the debauched hell-raiser." He attended school briefly and failed to learn to read or write. He stole horses, or was said to have stolen horses — no police records survive. He got into fights. He harassed women. He was publicly whipped by order of the county magistrate. His father, who never quite understood his strange son, once observed that "Grigori became a pilgrim out of laziness — nothing else."
And yet something happened to him. Something at the monastery at Verkhoturye, where he was sent as a young man — some accounts say as punishment for vandalism, around 1885. There he encountered a hermit named Brother Makary, an ascetic who wore chains against his flesh and preached a kind of anti-theology: faith should be accepted, unquestioned, as the burning center of existence. Whatever Makary said, whatever Grigory experienced in those silent Siberian months, it lit a match. He returned to Pokrovskoye a different man. He had married Proskovia Fyodorovna Dubrovina on February 2, 1887 — she was plump, with dark eyes and thick blonde hair, strong enough to bear children and tackle the harvest — and they would have seven children, though only three survived: Dmitri (born 1895), Maria (born 1898), and Varvara (born 1900). But marriage did not settle Rasputin. Nothing settled Rasputin.
The Wanderer's Education
In 1897, at twenty-eight, Rasputin embarked on the first of his great pilgrimages, and for the next eight years he was a strannik — a wandering holy man, a figure of ancient tradition in Russian Orthodoxy who held no formal position in the Church but was credited with religious insight and the ability to calm troubled souls. He walked from monastery to monastery, sometimes for days without eating or stopping. He did not wash or touch his body for months. He wore shackles to increase the hardship of his journey. His travels took him to Kiev, to Jerusalem, to Mount Athos in Greece — the Orthodox Vatican — though the monasteries there failed to impress him and, more importantly, his having made the trip enormously impressed his compatriots. He returned to Pokrovskoye periodically, always in time for the working seasons, always close to his children. But each time he came back, the villagers noticed a change. He walked differently. He spoke differently. His eyes had acquired that quality — the quality everyone would later write about, that piercing, unsettling luminescence.
By the early 1900s, Rasputin had gathered a small following. His uncle Yefim's household featured a chapel in its root cellar where they held secret prayer meetings on Sundays and feast days. Relatives and other peasants found themselves drawn to him. He built a windowless structure in his own courtyard, which he said was for a bania — a steam bath — and held mysterious gatherings there. Rumors spread: strange singing, wild dancing, and whispers of sexual relations with female followers. The village priest accused him of blasphemy and membership in the khlysty — the Flagellants, an underground sect whose adherents believed that sin was necessary to achieve unity with God, and whose worship culminated in ecstatic spinning, flagellation, and orgiastic sex.
Whether Rasputin was ever formally a member of the khlysty remains one of the great unresolved questions of his biography. No proof emerged during his lifetime. Smith, after exhaustive archival research in seven countries, concludes that Rasputin was not a member and denied any connection. But the accusation never died, because even if Rasputin did not belong to the sect, he had absorbed — and perverted — something of its central insight: that the pathway to God runs through sin, not around it. He developed a theology of redemption through transgression. You sinned, and you repented, and in the oscillation between debasement and grace you drew closer to the divine. It was a theology perfectly suited to a man of enormous appetites and genuine spiritual hunger, and it would prove devastatingly effective in the salons of St. Petersburg, where the aristocracy was bored enough, and spiritually hungry enough, to find the proposition intoxicating.
The Capital of Credulity
Rasputin arrived in St. Petersburg in 1903 — a filthy, unkempt wanderer with brilliant eyes and a reputation for healing the sick and predicting the future — and walked straight into a city that had been waiting for him. The court circles of the capital were entertaining themselves by delving into mysticism and the occult. Fortune-tellers, faith healers, holy fools, and wandering pilgrims circulated through the drawing rooms of the nobility like hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party. Matrona the Barefooted, an aging peasant fortune-teller, was already a regular visitor to the Romanov family. The French charlatan Philippe Nizier-Anthelme Vachod, known as "Doctor Philippe," had preceded Rasputin at court, claiming he could determine the sex of unborn children and commune with the dead. The ground was richly tilled.
Rasputin was welcomed by Theophan, the inspector of the Religious Academy of St. Petersburg, and Hermogen, the Bishop of Saratov — serious men of the Church who saw in this unlettered peasant something they believed to be authentic spiritual power. His captivating personality, his prodigious memory for biblical passages, his sensitive and discerning manner drew important clergy and laypeople. They made possible his introduction to the royal family.
On November 1, 1905, Tsar Nicholas II recorded in his diary an entry of extraordinary understatement: "We have made the acquaintance of a man of God named Grigorii from the government of Tobolsk." The story opened almost unnoticeably. It would end with an empire in the Neva River.
We have made the acquaintance of a man of God named Grigorii from the government of Tobolsk.
Nicholas II — Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias — was, by most accounts, a decent man and a catastrophically inadequate ruler. He had come to power in 1894 at age twenty-six, with almost no political experience, following his father Alexander III's sudden death from kidney disease. He had witnessed his grandfather's assassination as a child, a trauma that never fully left him. Gentle, devout, deeply attached to his family, Nicholas combined personal kindness with political paralysis in a combination that was, for an autocrat overseeing a creaking empire of 170 million subjects, essentially lethal.
His wife, Alexandra Feodorovna — born Princess Alix of Hesse, a favorite granddaughter of
Queen Victoria — was his opposite in temperament: fierce, domineering, deeply anxious, and consumed by a religious mysticism that deepened as the years passed. She had rejected a proposal from the British heir, her first cousin Prince Albert Victor, to marry Nicholas, the man she loved. But she never fully adapted to Russian culture. She seemed cold and curt at formal events; in reality, she was paralyzingly shy. Her German ancestry would later prove catastrophic as Russia faced Germany in World War I. And the event that sealed her relationship with Rasputin — and, through that relationship, the fate of the dynasty — arrived on August 12, 1904, with the birth of her son.
The Blood That Would Not Clot
Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich was the answer to a decade of prayer. Nicholas and Alexandra had four daughters — Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia — and the succession laws of the Russian Empire demanded a male heir. When Alexei finally arrived, the joy was unbounded. But within weeks, the boy began to bleed. He had inherited hemophilia — the "royal disease," passed through Queen Victoria's bloodline — and his blood would not clot. A bruise could become a life-threatening hemorrhage. A fall could kill him. His condition was kept secret from the Russian public; the full extent of his illness was known only to the immediate family, a few trusted servants, and their doctors, whose treatments — then limited to bed rest and hope — repeatedly failed.
Into this crucible of parental desperation walked Grigory Rasputin.
He was first summoned to the Alexander Palace in late 1906 — or possibly 1908; the sources disagree, as they disagree about virtually everything in Rasputin's life — during one of Alexei's bleeding episodes. What happened next became the foundation myth of Rasputin's power. He prayed at the boy's bedside. He spoke to him calmly, told him stories, soothed him. The bleeding eased. The boy recovered.
How? The explanations are as various as the storytellers. Some historians, including Pierre Gilliard, the French tutor to the Imperial children, speculated that Rasputin succeeded because he insisted on disallowing the administration of aspirin — a known blood-thinning agent that doctors of the era routinely prescribed, inadvertently worsening the condition. Joseph Fuhrmann's biography reviews the theories and concludes that Rasputin exercised genuine healing gifts through prayer. Robert Massie, in his classic
Nicholas and Alexandra, explored hypnosis but rejected the idea that hypnosis alone could suddenly stop severe hemorrhages. Others suggest that Rasputin's calming presence simply lowered the boy's blood pressure, slowing the bleeding. The truth is that nobody knows. The mechanism remains mysterious.
But the effect was unambiguous. Upon leaving the palace, Rasputin reportedly warned the parents that the destiny of both the child and the dynasty were irrevocably linked to him. Whether he actually said this, or whether it was retroactively attributed to him — another layer of myth — hardly matters. Alexandra believed it. And from that moment, Rasputin was untouchable.
The most dramatic episode came in October 1912, at the imperial hunting lodge at Spała in Poland. Alexei suffered a severe internal hemorrhage that brought him to the brink of death. The doctors despaired. Alexandra, in agony, sent a telegram to Rasputin, then in Pokrovskoye, more than two thousand miles away. He wired back: "God has seen your tears and heard your prayers. Do not grieve. The Little One will not die." The next morning, the bleeding stopped. The boy recovered.
Whether one attributes this to divine intervention, coincidence, or the placebo effect of maternal hope matters less than the fact that it happened — that Alexandra experienced it as proof, absolute and irrevocable, that this filthy Siberian peasant was God's instrument on earth, sent specifically to protect her son and, by extension, the dynasty. Against this conviction, no argument, no report, no scandal could prevail. Ministers who criticized Rasputin were dismissed. Generals who warned Nicholas were made enemies. The family's private tragedy had become the state's political catastrophe.
Two Faces of the Holy Man
In the presence of the royal family, Rasputin consistently maintained the posture of a humble and holy peasant. He addressed Nicholas and Alexandra with the informal ty — an intimacy that shocked courtiers, who had never heard anyone address the Tsar so casually — and they permitted it, even welcomed it. He called Alexei "the Little One." He prayed with the children, who were completely at ease with him. Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, Nicholas's sister, met Rasputin in 1907 in the nursery: "All the children seemed to like him. They were completely at ease with him."
Outside the palace, however, Rasputin shed the holy man's garb with the speed of a man loosening his collar after church. He drank prodigiously. He visited brothels. He groped freely. He preached that physical contact with his own person had a purifying and healing effect — a doctrine of remarkable convenience — and acquired mistresses among the duchesses, countesses, and fashionable women who flocked to his St. Petersburg apartment seeking spiritual counsel. He operated as a fixer, accepting payment in cash and intimate favors. He took bribes from industrialists and petitioners: on January 12, 1915, according to an Okhrana (secret police) surveillance report, he received a petition from a peasant of Saratov province who had been convicted of sect membership, and another from a peasant of Tambov convicted of check forgery. "Rasputin charged them 250 roubles for his trouble." On January 18, a coal contractor's employee delivered him 1,000 roubles in cash, for which Rasputin provided a receipt in the delivery book.
Extracts from secret police surveillance of Rasputin, January–February 1915
Jan 12Receives two petitions to the Tsar from convicted peasants; charges 250 roubles for each
Jan 17Spends 50 minutes in public baths; agents cannot determine if he was alone
Jan 18Receives 1,000 roubles from a coal contractor's employee
Jan 26Hosts a dance party for discharged prisoners; guitar, singing, dancing until late at night
Feb 12Returns home at 4:30 a.m. with six drunken men, one carrying a guitar; singing and dancing until 6 a.m. Sleeps through the following morning, receives nobody
The surveillance reports — meticulous, quotidian, almost comic in their bureaucratic precision — reveal a man living simultaneously in two worlds. By day, telegrams to Anna Vyrubova at Tsarskoye Selo: "Although I was not present in the body, in spirit I rejoiced with you. My feelings are the feelings of God. I send an angel to console and calm you." By night, reeling home with drunken companions and their guitars at four in the morning. The dualism was not hypocrisy, exactly — or not only hypocrisy. It was the logical extension of his theology of redemption through sin. You fell, and you rose. You debauched yourself, and you prayed. The oscillation was the point.
But for the Russian public, who did not have access to this theological framework and would not have been impressed by it if they had, the contradiction was simply obscene. Here was a man who stank, who ate with his fingers, who could barely write his own name, who spent his nights in orgies and his days whispering in the Empress's ear — and the Tsar did nothing about it. What did that say about the Tsar?
The Scandals Accumulate
By 1911, Rasputin's behavior had become a general scandal. Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin — a reformist administrator of considerable intelligence and iron will, the one man who might have steered Russia through its crisis had he been given the chance — sent the Tsar a detailed report on Rasputin's misdeeds. Stolypin reportedly referred to Rasputin as a "reptile," a designation that carried the full contempt of a man who understood what the peasant's presence at court was doing to the monarchy's credibility. Nicholas expelled Rasputin. Alexandra had him brought back within months.
Stolypin himself was assassinated on September 14, 1911, shot at the Kiev Opera House by a young revolutionary who was also a police informant — a detail that captures the bizarre hall-of-mirrors quality of late imperial Russian politics. With Stolypin gone, Rasputin had lost his most formidable opponent. The scandals continued to mount, but now there was no one with the stature or the courage to press the case.
— Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin, describing Rasputin
The press, when the censors allowed it, was savage. Russian cartoons depicted Rasputin as a puppet master dangling Nicholas and Alexandra on strings. Satirical poems circulated underground. The rumors were extraordinary in their range and their venom: Rasputin was a khlyst. He was a German spy. He was working for "international Jewry." He had raped nuns in a convent. He was stealing from the royal treasury. He had an enormous member and could maintain an erection for hours. He was sleeping with the Tsarina. He was the actual father of the Tsarevich. He controlled the Tsar with oriental drugs. He was a sorcerer. He was the Antichrist. Nobody knew if these rumors were true, but nearly everybody believed them.
The deeper irony — and Douglas Smith's biography makes this point with devastating clarity — is that the myths about Rasputin may have mattered more than the man himself. "The deeper I went into my research," Smith writes, "the more convinced I became that one of the most important facts about Rasputin, the thing that made him such an extraordinary and powerful figure, was less what he was doing and more what everyone thought he was doing." The stories, the rumors, the pornographic cartoons — these were the weapons that destroyed the monarchy's legitimacy. Rasputin himself was merely the screen onto which an empire projected its terror, its rage, and its hunger for an explanation of its own decline.
The Pinnacle of Borrowed Power
Rasputin reached the apex of his influence after September 1915, when Nicholas II made the fateful decision to assume personal command of the Russian armies on the Eastern Front. It was a catastrophic choice, born of the Tsar's romantic conviction that his presence would inspire the troops and his advisors' universal failure to dissuade him. By leaving Petrograd for military headquarters, Nicholas effectively handed control of domestic affairs to Alexandra — and Alexandra, in turn, handed herself to Rasputin.
The wartime letters between the Tsarina and her husband reveal the extent of the entanglement. Alexandra relayed Rasputin's counsel as though it were divine instruction. "Our Friend" — always capitalized — advised on the appointment of ministers, the selection of bishops, the management of the food supply, even military strategy. She dismissed officials who crossed Rasputin and installed his nominees — frequently incompetent opportunists whose chief qualification was obedience to the starets. Between September 1915 and December 1916, Russia cycled through four prime ministers, five ministers of the interior, three ministers of war, and three foreign ministers. The resulting administrative chaos, during a war that was already going badly, accelerated the empire's disintegration.
Rasputin himself appears to have had no coherent political program. He supported no particular faction. His interventions in military matters were occasionally disastrous but never systematic. What he had was something more dangerous than an ideology: he had access. He was the gateway to the Empress, and the Empress was the gateway to the Tsar. Petitioners, industrialists, generals, and bishops competed for his favor because his favor meant a telegram to Anna Vyrubova, and a telegram to Vyrubova meant a word in Alexandra's ear, and a word in Alexandra's ear meant policy. The corruption was structural, not intentional. Rasputin did not set out to destroy the Russian Empire. He simply existed at its weakest point, and the weight of an empire's dysfunction concentrated on that point until it cracked.
There is one counterfactual that haunts his story. In the summer of 1914, as Europe lurched toward war, Rasputin — still recovering from a near-fatal stabbing by a deranged woman named Khioniya Guseva on June 29, outside his home in Pokrovskoye — reportedly begged Nicholas not to mobilize. "God willing there won't be a war," he told an Italian journalist, "and I'll get busy on that score." Had Nicholas listened to his disreputable
starets instead of his generals and his sense of Slavic honor, the entire catastrophe of the twentieth century — the war, the revolution, the Soviet Union, the gulag, the
Cold War — might have unfolded differently. Or not. But the possibility is there, glinting like a coin at the bottom of a well.
Teffi's Dinner
What was he actually like? Not as a myth, not as a symbol, but as a human being sitting across a dinner table? The Russian writer Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya — known by her pen name Teffi, a literary celebrity of the pre-revolutionary era — left one of the most vivid accounts. She met Rasputin twice, briefly, and found his character "etched into my memory, as if with a fine needle."
Teffi was born in St. Petersburg in 1872, the daughter of a prominent lawyer, a woman of sharp intelligence and sharper wit who became one of the most widely read humorists in Russia — so popular that a brand of perfume and a brand of chocolates were named after her. She went into exile after 1919, first to Istanbul, then to Paris, where she published her account of the meetings in 1924. Her testimony is valuable precisely because she was neither a devotee nor an enemy — she was a writer, and she saw what writers see.
"This man was unique, one of a kind, like a character out of a novel," she wrote. "He lived in legend, he died in legend, and his memory is cloaked in legend. A semi-literate peasant and a counsellor to the Tsar, a hardened sinner and a man of prayer, a shape-shifter with the name of God on his lips. They called him cunning. Was there really nothing to him but cunning?"
That last question — was there really nothing to him but cunning? — is the one that every serious historian of Rasputin has struggled with. The easy answer is yes: he was a charlatan who exploited the credulity of a desperate mother and the weakness of a vacillating Tsar. But the easy answer doesn't explain the eyes, or the healing, or the fact that people who met him — hard-headed, worldly, skeptical people — came away shaken. Smith's biography, after six years of research across seven countries, arrives at a portrait of genuine complexity: "man of God, voice of peace, loyal subject, adulterer, drunkard." Not a caricature. Not a saint. A human being of extraordinary contradictions who happened to exist at the precise historical moment when those contradictions could detonate an empire.
The Night at the Yusupov Palace
By late 1916, the consensus among Russia's conservative elite was that Rasputin had to die. The monarchy was hemorrhaging legitimacy. The war was going disastrously. The food lines were growing. And at the center of it all, like a spider in a web that nobody had asked him to spin, sat a Siberian peasant whose very existence had become an insult to the social order.
The conspiracy was organized by three men who represented, in their different ways, the panic of a class watching its world collapse. Prince Felix Yusupov — young, fabulously wealthy, married to the Tsar's niece Irina, a man of aristocratic refinement and theatrical temperament who would later write multiple self-aggrandizing accounts of the murder, each more dramatic than the last. Vladimir Purishkevich — a reactionary monarchist, member of the Duma, founder of the extreme nationalist Union of the Russian People, a man who had spent hours in parliament cataloging Rasputin's misdeeds with the passionate indignation of someone who genuinely believed the peasant was destroying everything he held sacred. And Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich — the Tsar's own cousin, twenty-five years old, who lent the conspiracy the imprimatur of the Romanov blood.
On the night of December 29–30, 1916 (December 16–17, Old Style), Rasputin was invited to the Yusupov palace on the pretext that Yusupov's wife Irina wanted to meet him. Irina was actually at the family's estate in Crimea. What followed has been recounted so many times, in so many contradictory versions, that the truth has become almost impossible to excavate from the legend.
According to Yusupov's account — the most famous, the most dramatic, and the least reliable — Rasputin was taken to a basement room decorated to look like a cozy sitting room and fed cakes and wine laced with potassium cyanide. The poison, supposedly enough to kill five men, had no visible effect. Rasputin ate, drank, asked repeatedly to meet Irina, and showed no signs of distress. The conspirators upstairs — Purishkevich and the others — played the American song "Yankee Doodle" on the gramophone to simulate a party, growing increasingly frantic as the poison failed. Finally, in desperation, Yusupov shot Rasputin in the chest. Rasputin collapsed. Yusupov left the room. Minutes later, the dying man revived, crawled up the stairs, and staggered into the courtyard. Purishkevich shot him again — twice, three times, accounts vary. The conspirators bound him and threw him through a hole in the ice into the Neva River.
When the body was recovered days later, the arms were strangely locked above the head. The rumor spread that even in the freezing water Rasputin had managed to untie his hands and make the sign of the cross.
The autopsy largely refuted this narrative. The forensic evidence suggests Rasputin was simply shot to death. The poisoning may have been bungled, or fabricated entirely. The dramatic resurrection in the courtyard may have been Yusupov's embellishment — a way of transforming a sordid murder into an epic battle between civilization and a demonic force that refused to die. But the legend proved more powerful than the facts. It always had.
The Prophecy and the Pyre
Before his death, Rasputin had reportedly written a letter to Nicholas containing a prophecy — or so it was later claimed, in another layer of myth that cannot be fully separated from fact. If he were killed by common assassins, Russia would be fine. If he were killed by the nobility, by relatives of the Tsar, then "none of your children or relations will remain alive for more than two years. They will be killed by the Russian people."
Seventy-three days after Rasputin's body was pulled from the Neva, Nicholas II abdicated. Sixteen months after that, on July 17, 1918, the Tsar, the Tsarina, and all five of their children — including the hemophiliac boy whose suffering had brought Rasputin into their lives — were executed by Bolsheviks in the basement of the Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg.
Rasputin's own body had already been destroyed. He was buried at Tsarskoye Selo, near a small church that Anna Vyrubova had been building. After the revolution, soldiers of the Provisional Government dug up the coffin. On March 9, 1917, they desecrated and burned the remains — probably at the Petrograd Polytechnic Institute, under mysterious circumstances.
The Tsar's comment upon learning of the murder carries the weight of everything that would follow: "Before all Russia," Nicholas said, "I am filled with shame that the hands of my relatives are stained with the blood of a simple peasant."
A simple peasant. It was the last thing Rasputin was.
The Man and the Myth's Long Shadow
In the village of Pokrovskoye today — a sleepy settlement of 2,000 people, log cabins and small wooden houses on the banks of the placid Tura River, 1,200 miles east of Moscow — the Communists razed Rasputin's house, exiled his surviving relatives, and even demolished the small dacha by the river where he had reputedly entertained female admirers. They tried to erase him entirely. They failed.
A local handyman named Viktor Prolubshikov, who claims his great-grandmother was Rasputin's maid, bears a startling resemblance to the mystic — the flowing hair, the slicked-down part, the nose that a contemporary described as looking "like it had been slapped on with a trowel," the bulging, hypnotic eyes. Prolubshikov styles himself deliberately, wears a rough cotton tunic and tall black boots, and enjoys shocking the handful of tourists who find their way to the village. "There was no evil in him," he says of his supposed ancestor. "My grandfather told me he was a kind man who loved working on the land." Then, earnestly: "I also have special powers. I, too, can heal."
Some villagers take clippings of Prolubshikov's beard for luck. Others say he is merely a lookalike and nothing more. In this village, as in the larger story, the line between inheritance and performance, between fact and legend, remains permanently blurred.
Smith's biography — which strips away a century of myth, fabrication, gossip, and lies — ends not with definitive answers but with a more honest uncertainty. Rasputin was not the demonic puppet master of popular legend. He did not single-handedly destroy the Romanov dynasty. The empire was already crumbling under the weight of an inept autocracy, a catastrophic war, and a social order that had outlived whatever legitimacy it once possessed. But Rasputin was the figure onto whom all of these failures were projected — "the black mud that gets smeared all over the throne," as Smith puts it — the embodiment of everything that had gone wrong. He was the explanation that Russia reached for because the true explanation — that the system itself was broken, that the Tsar was inadequate, that the war was unwinnable, that modernity was arriving whether anyone wanted it or not — was too vast and too terrifying to contemplate.
It became a dusk enveloping all our world, eclipsing the sun. How could so pitiful a wretch throw so vast a shadow? It was inexplicable, maddening, almost incredible.
At his apartment on Gorokhovaya Street in Petrograd, the Okhrana agents recorded, Rasputin gave a dance one January night in 1915 in honor of some discharged prisoners. Six unknown women attended. Four unknown men. One of the men carried a guitar. The party was very noisy, with singing, dancing, and applause. It lasted till late into the night.
