Some notes on
The Legend of
Theodore Kuzmich
By
Metropolitan Andrew
The
Emperor Alexander I was the first son of Emperor Paul I. He was the favourite
of his grandmother Catherine the Great and was groomed by her to be the next
Emperor, since from the reign of Peter I to that of Catherine II the succession
depended on the will of the Sovereign rather than birth. Because of Catherine’s
manifest preference for her grandson, the relations within the Imperial Family
were strained to say the least.
Paul
upon accession to the throne published the Fundamental Law of Succession, which
for the first time since Peter I provided for an orderly transfer of power. He
also initiated other reforms in the Empire, some of which were not at all to
the liking of powerful people in the Capital. These formed a conspiracy to
assassinate the Emperor. To this end, they convinced Grand Duke Alexander
Pavlovich that he and the other members of the Imperial Family were in mortal
danger. They got an agreement form the Grand Duke that in the case of the
abdication of the Emperor, he would agree to assume power. The conspirators
promised that the Emperor would not be harmed which was the only way that they
could get an agreement in principle from Alexander. Now, all historians agree
that Alexander must have known the character of his father well enough to know
that he would never quietly abdicate and retire to the country. In fact, on the
night of March 11, 1801 o.s. he was murdered in the Michael Fortress, because
he refused to sign the act of abdication presented to him by the conspirators.
Alexander was crowned and began a brilliant reign. However, there runs a dark
streak through all his years on the throne. He had a deep and abiding sorrow
which never completely left him. He was tormented by guilt for the death of his
father.
As the
years past, Alexander turned more and more to religion [not all of it Orthodox]
and he spoke of the burdens of office. In the autumn of 1824, one of the worst
floods in the history of St. Petersburg left 600 people dead and thousands of
homes destroyed or ruined. As the Emperor stood on an eminence surveying the
devastation in tears, an old man walking by said “God is punishing us for our
sins.” The Emperor said “No, not for our sins
but for mine.” The sin was his, unforgotten and unexpiated – parricide. At the
same time the Empress was lying sick in the Winter Palace with a pulmonary
disease.
In the
Spring of 1825 Alexander began a tour of the Empire which included many of the
scenes of is youthful triumphs. With 20/20 hindsight, historians say that he
was taking leave of his old haunts in preparation for – death? By the time
Alexander returned to the Capital, Elizabeth Alexeievna was much worse. Her
temperature was now constant and she was coughing up blood. The doctors
recommended a change of climate and the Emperor, for no logical reason chose
Taganrog, a small sea port town with few amenities and inferior climate to that
of the neighbouring Crimea.
Early
in the morning on August 31 Alexander left the Winter Palace for the last time
and made his way to St. Alexander Lavra, where he stood through the Liturgy
praying with tears. After Liturgy the Emperor visited the cell of a holy elder
and then made his way to Taganrog. Arriving on Sept. 13, he began to prepare for
the arrival of the Empress. She arrived on Sept. 23. They settled into a quiet
life, Alexander taking a few side trips. During one such trip a soldier who had
come with a message or the Emperor was killed in an accident, and was buried in
the town. It has been suggested that it was his body which was used to fake the
Emperor’s death.
On
November 5 the Emperor returned form ride complaining of feeling ill and
suggesting that he may have caught a touch of Malaria. From this point on we
have very few documents concerning events in Taganrog, because Nicholas
Pavlovich, upon taking the throne, destroyed much of the material relating to
his brother’s reign, including the letters sent to the Empress Dowager from
Taganrog. What does remain is contradictory and suggest that some cosmetic
surgery was done on the reports after the death/disappearance of the Emperor.
Be that as it may, on November 19, 1825 Alexander passed from the pages of
history.
The
account of the autopsy is revealing. Everyone reports that the body was
decaying at an unusually fast rate. And the doctors were all reported as having
been smoking during the process which is shocking in itself but doubly so if
this were really the body of the Emperor, the anointed of God. Believers in the
legend hold that the cigar smoke was intended to mask the smell of decay from
the body used to replace the Emperor. The body was kept as cold as possible
during the entire trip to St. Petersburg, yet it continued to decompose at a
great rate, and was never displayed to the public, a most unusual thing. When
the Empress Dowager finally saw the body late at night she is reported to have
said, “ ‘Yes that is my Alexander.’ Almost as thought she were trying to
convince herself.”
The
following paragraphs are taken from the Imperial Legend by Alexis
Troubetzkoy, to which the reader is referred for the most complete discussion
in English of the mystery surrounding the death of Tsar Alexander I and the
appearance of St. Theodore Kuzmich.
The Life and Death of
Feodor Kuzmich
ONE
CHILLY SEPTEMBER DAY in 1836, a stranger astride an impressive white horse rode
into the Siberian town of Krasnoufimsk, in Perm province. A tall, balding
figure, with a full gray beard, he was a man in his fifties or early sixties
and modestly dressed in a peasant’s black tunic and trousers. He made his way
to the blacksmith’s shop and asked to have his steed reshod. Then as now,
strangers in provincial Russian towns invariably aroused curiosity, and the
blacksmith made little attempt to disguise his interest in the
distinguished-looking visitor standing before him. The bearing and manner of
speech of this solitary horseman were those of a refined gentleman, yet his
ordinary dress was that of a common peasant. As he set about his work, the
blacksmith engaged the visitor in idle banter. Where had he come from? Where
was he headed? What was his business?
The
stranger responded evasively and volunteered little helpful information,
obviously not anxious to talk. The blacksmith pressed more aggressively but received
little satisfaction; he continued at his forge. Before long, a small crowd had
filtered into the shop, as much to enjoy the warmth of the furnaces as to
satisfy their curiosity about the new arrival. They listened attentively to the
exchange and, perceiving that the stranger seemed to be deliberately hiding
something, they grew suspicious. Perhaps the fellow was on the run. Perhaps he
was wanted by the law. After some dispute among themselves, they forcefully
hustled him off to the police station for questioning. Try as they might,
however, the authorities were no less successful in finding out anything
meaningful about the man, who volunteered nothing. He told the police that he
had no recollection of his past, but he knew his name to be Feodor Kuzmich. It
was not that he was really suffering from amnesia, but that he was unwilling to
reveal his true identity to the police. He also informed them that he was
homeless and that the horse belonged to him. The irritated officials persisted
in their questioning and even threatened him with the whip. In those days the
laws governing vagabondage were inordinately harsh. Kuzmich nevertheless
steadfastly maintained his silence.
When
all else had failed, the exasperated police stripped Kuzmich of his tunic and, according
to the law, beat him soundly with a birch rod. He received twenty strokes and
was sentenced to exile near Tomsk, a few hundred miles deeper into Siberia.
On April 8, 1837, Feodor Kuzmich
arrived from Perm to join the 43rd Exile Settlement at Bogotolsk, near Tomsk.
This time he came by cart and foot; his horse had been sold to settle his
account with the Perm innkeeper, with whom he had lodged before being sent into
exile. The long and arduous passage was shared with prisoners of every sort,
including thieves and murderers. But the elderly man endured the trip patiently
without complaint, even offering encouragement to the weaker prisoners. When
they arrived, Kuzmich was assigned to work in a vodka distillery, to which he
assented without complaint. From the outset, a warm relationship developed
between the newly arrived exile and the plant’s administration. The
distillery’s director treated him especially well, with considerable deference;
this workman, he had decided, was no ordinary person. After the first few weeks
of hard toil, no further demands were made of him and he was excused from
compulsory labor. Factory staff and colleagues showed equal consideration.
Everybody liked the reclusive gentleman, who got along readily with one and
all. Within the distillery’s precincts, Kuzmich spent nearly five years, living
in relative solitude.
In
1842, for reasons unrecorded, Feodor Kuzmich was moved to another exile
settlement at Beloyarsk, where he eventually took up residence in a small hut,
generously constructed for him by a Cossack named Simeon Siderov. Within a few
months, Kuzmich had developed a local following. Attracted by his ascetic mode
of life and good education, people gravitated to him for every conceivable
reason, mostly to ask questions and to seek advice and spiritual comfort. On
the one hand, he enjoyed receiving visitors but in small doses and mostly when
it suited him. On the other hand, his burgeoning popularity denied him the
privacy and seclusion he so desired. Eventually it became such a problem that
he left Siderov’s cabin and Beloyarsk and moved on.
For
the next fifteen years, Kuzmich moved from one place to another. From Beloyarsk
he traveled to Zertsaii, thence to the gold-mining center at Enyisei, and
eventually to the secluded banks of the Tchuivin River. Later he relocated into
the deep taiga near the village of Korobeinikov, where he spent a few months,
following which he moved on to Krasnaya Rechka. In all, Feodor Kuzmich spent
almost three decades in the greater Tomsk area. They were searching years,
during which he seemed never fully satisfied. His constant moves suggested that
he was in quest of an elusive something, or perhaps escaping from some
invisible force.
Wherever
he traveled or settled, the local populace invariably took to him. Peasant
children in particular were attracted to him, and he freely instructed them in
grammar, history, geography, and religious knowledge. With adults, he held
religious discussions and recounted colorful events of national history the old
man was well versed in the details of various battles. His followers were
especially captivated by his vivid accounts of life in St. Petersburg. By his
piety and simplicity and through the sympathetic counsel he freely offered,
Kuzmich earned the warm affection of those around him. As in his earlier years
in Beloyarsk, visitors of every sort sought spiritual counsel from him or
simply asked for practical advice. At first he appeared genuinely to welcome
his callers, but as time went on it became increasingly clear to the people
that the starets required privacy and seclusion. A tacit understanding was
eventually reached, and before long people ceased imposing on the old man’s
hospitality.
The longest time Kuzmich spent in
any one place was in Krasnaya Rechka. There a wealthy peasant named Ivan
Latyshov took an exceptional liking to him and generously erected a small cabin
for him. As in his previous places of domicile, the poor, the lonely, and those
in need of advice or moral support came to him, initially out of curiosity, but
before long out of affection and a sense of deference. The starets received
everyone equally warmly, and shared whatever food happened to be at hand. He
was especially fond of children, whom he continued to teach, and who frequently
brought him flowers.
When
visitors did call, the starets was invariably polite, although on rare
occasions he showed flashes of irritation. Once, for example, a couple of
workmen were sent to repair a broken window frame in his cabin. The carpenters
set about their work noisily while Kuzmich remained at his table inside the
hut. Twice he asked them to be less noisy, to no avail. Finally, he raised his
voice and ordered them to do as he bid, adding threateningly, “If only you knew
who I am, you would not dare aggravate me this way! “
Among
the regular visitors whom Kuzmich received were two elderly sisters living
nearby, who noted that the old man was particularly attached to St. Alexander
Nevsky, the patron saint of Tsar Alexander. An icon of St. Alexander hung in
Kuzmich’s cell, and each year on August 30 the starets made a point of marking
the saint’s feast day. One year on that day the sisters baked sweet cakes,
which they took to him. The starets seemed pleased to receive the women and was
openly moved by their attentions. He sat them down at the little table to share
the cakes, and in the course of conversation he enthusiastically told of the
massive celebrations that took place in St. Petersburg on St. Alexander
Nevsky’s Day. The women listened attentively, enthralled by the colorful
details of the large crowds massing the streets, the spectacular fireworks, and
night-time illuminations decorating the city. Kuzmich assured them that such
festivities gave much pleasure and happiness to the Tsar.
One
incident that provoked comment related to the visit paid by Count General Pyotr
Kleinmikel to Krasnaya Rechka. From earliest days, the count had been one of
Alexander’s closer friends and advisers. By 1825, he had risen to become one of
the most influential officials in the country, serving as Arakchey’ev’s chief
of staff. During an extensive inspection tour of Siberia, the general stopped
off at Krasnaya Rechka and visited the local hospital. As coincidence would
have it, Feodor Kuzmich, whose health had always been sturdy, was at the time
suffering an illness that required hospitalization. He therefore happened to be
in the hospital during Kleinmikel’s visit, which was something of a state
occasion for the staff and patients. When the inspecting party entered the ward
where Kuzmich was lying, the physicians were upset to see the starets turn his
face to the wall and cover himself with a blanket, as though trying to avoid
eye contact with the honored guest. Until then, Kleinmikel had been greeted by
one and all with the warmest Siberian hospitality. Now, it seemed, he was
ignored, if not insulted. Why had Kuzmich acted so churlishly? It was so
uncharacteristic of him. One can only surmise that he might have feared the
general would recognize him. Given the more than thirty years that had elapsed
since Alexander’s death, it was highly unlikely that Kleinmikel would have
known the patient, but Kuzmich was doubtless taking no chances.
On
another occasion in Krasnaya Rechka, three peasants called on Kuzmich and, no
doubt having been taken by rumors concerning the possible imperial origin of
the starets, bluntly asked him, “Little father, is it true that you are the
Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovich [Alexander’s younger brother]?” The starets
crossed himself and blurted out without thinking, “Thank God, I’m not. He’s
shorter than me, not very handsome, and has a pug nose.”
At the end of October 1858,
Kuzmich made his final move. From Krasnaya Rechka he relocated to the outskirts
of Tomsk itself. Earlier in his wanderings, he had met and was befriended by a
merchant named Khromov. The kindly businessman offered to settle the starets on
his country property just outside the city, where he proposed to build him a
cabin, or rather a cell. Kuzmich gratefully accepted the generous proposal and
soon found himself in his new quarters, where he lived out his final years.
During
those years, Khromov’s guest aged rapidly. When they had first met, Kuzmich was
still tall and broad-shouldered, a handsome man with delicate features, his
deep blue eyes sparkling with kindness. Now he was nearly bald and sported a
graying beard. The merchant was taken by the man’s gentle, reserved manner and
by his thoughtfulness and generosity. A considerate person, but oh so secretive
never speaking of his past or of himself. The old man soon captured a place not
only in Khromov’s heart but in those of his family as well. But why so guarded?
Who was he really? The “vagabond” was obviously a cultured person who possessed
the sort of tact one could hardly expect to find in an ordinary peasant. Might
there be something dark in his past? Surely such a man should have the
initiative and wit to secure honest work, and make something of himself.
Perhaps, thought Khromov, he had sometime in the past committed a crime or
serious transgression and now, in his declining years, was destined to wander
the vast country, knocking on monastery doors for food and shelter.
From
the start, the relationship between Kuzmich and the Khromovs was familial, and
soon the starets became something of a fixture in the household. An especially
close friendship blossomed with the merchant’s young daughter, Anna, and she
was always welcome at the old man’s cabin, where the two spent hours in
discussion. Over time, Anna recorded many anecdotes and incidents concerning
the family’s enigmatic guest, which, if we take them at face value, and there
is no reason we shouldn’t, comprise a valuable record of the starets during
that period.
The
mode of Kuzmich’s life was simplicity itself. His dress invariably consisted of
a peasant’s full-length chemise of crude linen, loose trousers of the same
cloth, thick white stockings which he changed daily and hard leather shoes. His
hut was a single room with a tiny vestibule leading outdoors, a sort of
mudroom, in which hung a heavy winter overcoat. The cell itself measured eleven
and a half by fourteen and a half feet and was sparsely furnished, containing
only a rough wooden table with two or three chairs and a cot with wooden slats
that served as a mattress, together with a pillow and a heavy quilt. In
addition, there was a small stove, a couple of benches, and a shelf. On the
table lay a Bible and prayer book, and a wall shelf contained a collection of
religious books. On another wall hung a crucifix and a display of icons with a
votive lamp that burned day and night. The two small windows provided little
light; in freezing winter, however, the room was warm and cozy. Visitors
invariably remarked on the tidiness and cleanliness of these spartan quarters.
Among
Kuzmich’s belongings was a chest containing writing materials and packets of
papers that he scrupulously concealed from all but his most trusted visitors,
such as the Khromovs. He wrote many letters, but always behind a locked door.
Few people were aware of the extent of his contact with the world at large, an
aspect of his life Kuzmich guarded jealously. Letters were received and sent;
unfamiliar visitors came and went, often bearing a parcel or an envelope.
Khromov tells us that on one occasion he and members of his family overheard
Kuzmich speak with his visitors in a foreign tongue, which he presumed to be
French.
The
starets arose early in the morning but did not emerge from his cell until well
into the day. Weather permitting, he spent as much time as possible outdoors,
usually working the garden or tending his bees. At night he slept fitfully,
with long hours given over to prayer. The old man dined sparingly and simply
mostly hard biscuits, vegetables, and water. Occasionally he ate some fish or
meat that was offered to him, which he consumed with indifference. “You see,”
he declared to one visitor, “I’m not a rabid vegetarian! “
Even by the time of Kuzmich’s
move onto the Khromov property, the staret’s notoriety had already spread throughout
the region. The inhabitants were now drawn to him in ever greater numbers. An
aura of sanctity seemed to envelop him. “The saintly old man of Tomsk,” they
called him. One longtime resident of Tomsk, V. Dolgoruky, recounts the
following prophetic story that circulated in Siberia at the time. On an
especially cold midwinter day, Kuzmich asked one of Khromov’s workmen to report
to his master in Tomsk and request additional firewood. Without hesitation, the
obliging merchant dispatched his servant back to the starets with the message
that firewood would be arriving shortly. Khromov then ordered another employee
to load up a cart and make the delivery. The delegated servant, enjoying the
warmth of his own hut, was displeased with the order but grudgingly carried out
the task, all the time cursing his lot, his master, the starets, and the
two-and-a-half mile journey ahead of him. But when he arrived at Kuzmich’s
cell, the old man informed him that the wood was no longer required.
“What do you mean, you don’t need
the wood?” protested the exasperated workman.
“From you, I won’t accept the
wood,” replied the starets. “You bring the logs with resentment and anger. As
you loaded your cart, you swore and cursed me.” And the old man repeated to the
dismayed deliveryman every word that he had uttered in Tomsk before departure.
The awe-struck workman fell to his knees and pleaded for forgiveness, which was
readily given and the wood accepted. Real or apocryphal, the story reflects the
way the people regarded their starets.
Anna Khromov relates how she and
her father once called on Kuzmich, who, on seeing them approach, exited his
cell and asked if they would kindly wait for a few moments until his guests
left. The two distanced themselves from the cabin and patiently bided their
time. The “few moments” turned into an hour, then two, before they finally saw
Feodor Kuzmich emerge from the cabin together with a young woman and an officer
in a hussar’s uniform. The starets escorted the couple for some distance and,
as “they were leaving,” recalled Anna, “it appeared to me that the hussar
kissed the old man’s hand, something he never permitted anybody to do.” It is
surmised that the mysterious hussar whom the Khromovs observed that afternoon
was none other than the Tsarevich, Alexander II. In his work on Alexander I,
Prince Vladimir Bariatinsky provides solid evidence that the heir at one time
did visit Feodor Kuzmich, who, if the Legend is true, would have been the young
man’s blood uncle.
Another
extremely intriguing incident was related in Anna’s diary. As Kuzmich awaited
the construction of his cell, he was provided a room in the Khromov house for a
brief period. One evening, as was their wont, the family was gathered around
the dining room table, listening to the younger daughter read aloud. Kuzmich’s
room was adjacent, its door ajar. The girl had chosen to read from a newly
published work on the reign of Alexander I. She came to a passage that read,
“Emperor Alexander turned to Napoleon and said to him…,” and she quoted a
statement Alexander was alleged to have made when the two emperors met.
Suddenly an angry voice was heard to cry out, “I never said that!” At first
nobody understood where the voice had come from, but then they all rushed into
the starets’s room, where they found him “on his knees in submissive prayer.”
The historian Grigory Vasilich
tells of Kuzmich’s attachment to a young orphan girl called Alexandra, who
often visited him, frequently bearing fresh berries, mushrooms, or other little
presents.
At
an early age she was adopted into the large family of a priest, a certain
Father Polikarp, who lived not far from Kuzmich’s cabin. While on a walk with
her brothers, Alexandra, then twelve years of age, first saw the starets and
immediately wanted to run up to him. The boys held her back, arguing that it
wasn’t for her to bother the stranger, and that at any rate the old man would
never speak to her. A few days later as Alexandra emerged from the forest where
she had been alone picking bilberries, she again spotted the starets. Without
hesitation, she ran up to him, held out her basket, and said, “Grandfather,
would you like some berries?”
Kuzmich smiled tenderly, clasped
her head in his hands, and kissed her forehead. Tears welled in his eyes
perhaps he was touched by the child’s impetuosity and purity, or possibly from
some memory that the unexpected encounter dredged up from the past. It didn’t
take long for the old man and the girl to bond, and before long they were
spending many days together. Alexandra helped Kuzmich work the garden and
delighted in helping him clean his cell. The old man taught her reading and
writing and gave her lessons in history, geography, and religion. The girl was
enchanted by the stories her friend told of far-off countries and places, of
the monasteries he had visited and of holy sites and pilgrims.
Alexandra was a religious girl,
which no doubt helped cement the incongruous relationship. Over the years, the
girl’s admiration for the starets developed into a profound affection, obviously
reciprocated by the old man. At age twenty, Alexandra announced her intention
to make a pilgrimage to the holy places of Russia. Her brothers did all they
could to dissuade her from such an uncertain and possibly perilous undertaking,
urging her instead to seek a husband. Kuzmich, however, encouraged her. “Wait,”
the starets advised, “there’s plenty of time to marry; none of these people is
worthy of you. When you marry, it will be to a fine officer.”
Plans for the trip went ahead,
and Kuzmich worked out a detailed itinerary for the girl. He counseled her on
which monasteries to visit, what people she might turn to for hospitality, and
gave her all sorts of practical advice on the do’s and don’ts of travel. Years
later, Alexandra recalled an exchange that took place during those planning
sessions. At one point, in her exuberance, she asked the starets how she might
arrange to see the Tsar when she was in Russia. “You really want to see the
Tsar?” asked Kuzmich. “Of course, father,” Alexandra exclaimed, “how can one
possibly miss seeing the Tsar? Everyone speaks of the Tsar, the Tsar, the Tsar…
but what sort of person is he really like?”
“Wait,”
replied the starets. “Perhaps in the course of your life you’ll have a chance
to meet more than one Tsar. God willing, you will speak with him and then
you’ll see that tsars are human like everyone else!”
Alexandra
bade farewell to her family and to her beloved starets and set off on her
lengthy pilgrimage. In Kiev, she visited the sacred Kievo-Pechersky Monastery,
which since 1051 had been Russia’s foremost monastic and religious center.
While in that ancient capital city, Alexandra also called on Countess
Osten-Sacken, to whom she bore a letter of introduction from the starets. The
countess was much taken by the new arrival and hustled her off to their country
home at Kremenchuk, to introduce her to her husband, Count Dimitry Erofeyevich,
a much-decorated general who later became one of the heroes of the Crimean War.
It is reported that he and Feodor Kuzmich exchanged letters, although no hard
evidence of any such correspondence has been found. After the count died, his
wife returned to Kremenchuk and opened the secret box in which her husband had
locked his most valued papers; presumably, Kuzmich’s letters might have been
there. However, she discovered the box empty; evidently someone had already
opened it and managed to remove the contents. Nothing else in the house was
reported missing. It is also possible, of course, that the count himself had
removed the contents. But it is equally feasible that the same forces
responsible for the destruction of material related to the Taganrog death were
at work here, in Kremenchuk. The apparent connection between Alexander I
Osten-Sacken, and Kuzmich is tantalizing. A further interesting aside: for
decades, Count Osten-Sacken steadfastly refused to attend memorial services for
the emperor.
Both the count and countess were
delighted to receive the Siberian girl and persuaded her to stay on with them
for a while; Alexandra dallied for several months. During her stay at
Kremenchuk, Emperor Nicholas I happened to be touring the region and was a
guest of the Osten-Sackens. The couple informed him of Alexandra’s presence in
the house and he asked to see her. The young pilgrim was brought before him,
and in the company of their hosts a leisurely conversation took place between
the Tsar of Russia and the Siberian peasant girl. The emperor queried her on
her life there, on her family, and on Feodor Kuzmich. Alexandra answered the sovereign’s
questions enthusiastically and with childlike naiveté, often causing him and
the Osten-Sackens to chuckle with delight. “Well,” said the Tsar at one point,
turning to his hosts, “you’ve certainly got a daring young girl in your house.”
To this, Alexandra shot back, “What’s there to be afraid of? I’ve got God on my
side… and also, the powerful prayers of Feodor Kuzmich are with me. Besides,
you’re all very kind people.” At this spontaneous cri de coeur, Nicholas became pensive and softly commented, “Feodor
Kuzmich is indeed a holy man.”
As he left, Nicholas asked
Osten-Sacken to give Alexandra a pass – a laissez-passer – and told the girl
that if ever she got to St. Petersburg, she should come to the palace. “Present
the pass and nobody will stop you.”
Alexandra never did get to St.
Petersburg, but sometime later she returned to Siberia, to the relief and
embrace of her anxious family. She lost little time in calling on Feodor
Kuzmich, who received her enthusiastically. Over the next few days, the girl
related to him the details of her adventures. During one of the sessions,
Alexandra records, “I observed him with intense care and blurted out, ‘Father
Feodor Kuzmich, how greatly you resemble the Emperor Alexander Pavlovich!’ No
sooner had I said this than his face changed. He rose out of his chair, his
eyebrows contracted menacingly, and he looked sternly upon me. ‘And how do you
know? Who prompted you to say that to me?’ I became frightened.
“‘Nobody prompted me. In Count
Osten-Sacken’s study I saw a full-length portrait of Alexander Pavlovich. The
thought then, as now, came to me that not only do you look like him but you
even hold your hands as he did.’ The starets made no reply but simply moved
away into the entry hall, apparently overcome by emotion.”
Five years later, the Russian
historian Lev D. Lubimov tells us, Alexandra made a second pilgrimage to
Russia, and again Kuzmich gave her letters of introduction. One of the people
upon whom the girl called directed her to the monastery of Valaam on Lake
Ladoga, north of St. Petersburg, an enormous lake navigated by capital vessels.
By chance Alexandra found herself on the same ship as the Empress Maria
Alexeyevna, wife of Alexander II, who was also traveling on a pilgrimage to the
island monastery. The empress learned of the Siberian girl’s presence on board
and invited her to her cabin; the two were closeted together for a long time in
conversation. If one does not question the authenticity of this report, then it
might well be asked why a reigning empress would not only deign to receive a
simple Siberian girl in her stateroom but would also engage her in extended
conversation. Maria Alexeyevna must have been aware of some connection between
the girl and Feodor Kuzmich.
Years later, again in Russia,
Alexandra met a dashing officer, Major Fedorov. The two fell in love, married,
and raised several children. The prophecy of the starets was thus realized, and
Alexandra never returned to her Siberian roots.
The substance of what we have on
Feodor Kuzmich, particularly his various movements from place to place, comes
from civic records studied by historians such as Grand Duke Nikolai
Mikhailovich, Vladimir Bariatinsky, Lev Lubimov, Anatol Kulomzin, and others.
Fleshing out the starets’s life is possible only through memoirs and anecdotes
of his contemporaries -what they themselves recorded or related to others, who
in turn set it down.
We come now to where we began
with Kuzmich. By late January 1864 the starets was nearing his end. His
breathing grew increasingly labored; it was evident that he was suffering great
pain, and he appeared totally wasted. By January 31, his eyes remained closed,
but his lips occasionally moved in silent prayer. Late that afternoon, a small
crowd of people filtered into the cell to be with their beloved recluse. just
before eight o’clock, it became evident that the end was truly at hand. In the
silence of the darkened cell, the weeping assembly held candles and prayed.
Kuzmich awoke.
Standing
at his side was his kindly benefactor, Simeon Khromov. As the old man steadily
weakened, the merchant gently persisted in the matter of his true identity.
Kuzmich determinedly deflected the questions, steadfastly refusing to divulge
anything. And then at last, pointing to his chest, he murmured, “Here ties my
secret.” And with those enigmatic, intriguing words, he died.
As
the body was being washed in preparation for burial, Khromov removed from
around the neck a small, stained cloth sachet, which was attached to a leather
cord. It was evident that, whatever it was, Kuzmich had carried it on his
person for years, wearing it much as one might one’s baptismal cross. On prying
open the packet, Khromov discovered a yellowed scrap of paper on which was
written a message in numbered cipher. A few recognizable words appeared on it,
as well as the initials A and P. The puzzled Khromov retained the relic but
made no secret of its existence. Some years later the scrap of paper was given
to the authorities in St. Petersburg and was eventually photographed and
examined by a succession of experts, including Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich.
But try as anyone might, for over sixty years the message defied decoding.
Finally, in 1927, two cryptographers, one in Riga and the other in Belgrade,
working independently of one another, almost simultaneously broke the code and
uncovered the secret. The message read:
Anna Vasilievna: we have
discovered an incredible flaw in our son. Count Pahlen informs me of
Alexander’s participation in a conspiracy. We must hide tonight, wherever it is
possible.
Paul
St. Petersburg March 11, 1801 [1]
Thus ends the chapter on the life
and death of the Starets.
There were many tales of the opening of
the grave of the Emperor, included one that reports that the Soviets opened the
grave and found it empty. This was told frequently during the 60’s and 70’s of
the last century; but there is no record of such a proceeding in the archives,
making it highly unlikely that the story is true. Soviets were meticulous
record keeper. It is next to impossible that they would have failed to make a
record of the opening of an Imperial grave, and they would have had no reason
to hide the fact that the grave was empty. Therefore we can make no assertion
about the state of that grave. However Theodore Kuzmich’s grave was opened some
years ago by the present Abbot of the monastery in which it is located and he
found that it had been opened at some point in the past and portions of the
relics had been removed. No record was made of this and no one knows what
became of the relics. But it looks very much like someone was trying to make
identification difficult.
As
mentioned above, the reports of the doctors do not agree among themselves, even
giving wildly varying times of death. And their diaries are silent about the
eight hours between the death of the Emperor and the evening when the men got
to their rooms, “…nothing worthy of note appears to have occurred – almost as
though on purpose.” And the autopsy was insufficient, irregular and
contradictory. Troubetzkoy gave copies of the autopsy to three leading
pathologists, withholding the name of the deceased. All three said that there
was not sufficient evidence to give a cause of death, though one did say that
there was nothing in the report to indicate that the subject had died of either
malaria or typhoid, which are the two diseases most often advanced as the cause
of Alexander’s death.
Of the
two chief physicians Tarasov never attended the annual memorial service held in
the chapel of the Winter Palace on November 19. He always seemed to have some
excuse for not attending until his friend, Vasili Sergeievich Arseniev , a high
ranking official at the court of Alexander II informed him of the repose of
Theodore Kuzmich. The next November 19, in full uniform, he attended the
Panakhida. Wylie the other physician left a very large estate upon his death –
larger than one would expect from a person of his rank. The conclusion is that
he was rewarded by the Crown for some extraordinary service [such as helping
Alexander I fake his own death and substitute another body for his own?].
There
is a story which I have heard many times from many people, among whom was
Princess Vera Constantinovna the daughter of Grand Duke Constantine
Constantinovich the Poet. I can not now recall whether or not she said
that the person involved was her father, but that was my impression. At any
rate she certainly believed the story and believed firmly that Alexander I and
Theodore Kuzmich were the same person. The story as given below is from
Troubeztkoy’s book.
In 1874
Mikhail Nikolayevich Galkin–Vraski the State Secretary was reporting to the
Tsar Alexander III Alexandrovich. Among the subjects he covered was the rumour
that the Elder Theodore Kuzmich was in fact Alexander I. Alexander Alexandrovich
sat in silence for a moment and then pointed behind him with his hand. There on
the wall were two large portraits in gold frames, one of Alexander I and the
other of Nicholas I. Between the two was a small portrait of Theodore Kuzmich.
The way
I have most often heard the story and the way Vera Constantinovna told it to
me, the official notices a portrait of the Elder among the portraits on the
Emperor’s desk and remarks on it. The Emperor then say’s, “Yes all my
predecessors are here.” This story makes more sense if the person speaking with
the Emperor were Constantine Constantinovich. A member of the Family would be
far more likely to receive such a response than would a State official, however
much trusted. There may, of course be two different events which have been
reported.
But
aside form all reason and argument there is something about this legend that
makes most people believe it. I don’t think that I personally have ever met
anyone who doesn’t believe it. As one writer put it, there is something that
speaks to the heart and says that thus it must be and no other way. But even if
one rejects the legend, there can be no doubt that Theodore Kuzmich, whoever he
was, was an extraordinary and saintly man. He was in fact canonized by the
Moscow Patriarchate [in 1984 I think].
[1] The note appears to be addressed to Paul’s
mistress, Anna Vasilievna Gagarina. Her apartment was in Mikhailovsky
Castle. [There is some question about
the exact relationship between Paul I and Anna Vasillievna. She and the Empress
were always on good terms, and it has been plausibly argued that Paul I and
Anna Vasillievna’s relationship was infact platonic. F.A.]
