Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

She finally learned to distinguish between the rich and beautiful and the Theosophists,
who, like Izabel, were dressed quite modestly. Alexandra blended in very well. "You seem to
recognize nobody in this glittering gathering of the St. Petersburg intelligentsia," said Vladimir
in a low voice. "But look, over there is the painter Ilia Repin with his homely wife. The ravishing
beauty with the big hat next to him is Maria Andreyeva, the sister of the playwright and
mistress of Maxim Gorky, the boyish looking man with the long hair next to Repin.
With a tilt of his head he pointed at two older gentlemen. "The man with the curled
mustache tips is Pyotr Stolypin, he is talking to Graf Sergey von Witte, our dismissed financial
genius. Both are feared and disliked by the Emperor, because of their intelligence and
outspoken criticism of the Emperor’s indecisive reign. Stolypin, in my father’s opinion, is the
only man in Russia who could save the unstable situation. Why these two are here, I don’t
know. Gratefully absent are the hard-core revolutionaries, the military, and the clergy as well as
all members of the extended imperial family. They follow other gurus."
Alexandra scrutinized the two politicians. "I have never seen Witte."
She stared at the slightly corpulent Witte. He had the high forehead of a professor
posturing fully aware of his importance. She lowered her gaze and in a conspiratorial voice
said. "Witte is a relative of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky and a distant, younger cousin of my
mother. He does look exactly like mother used to describe him, highly intelligent, incisive,
enlightened, and powerful. I am not surprised that the Tsar dismissed him despite his success
at bringing Russia into the twentieth century."
After supper everyone moved into the ballroom where a gaunt, sinewy, Indian fakir
demonstrated yoga. The man wore only a loincloth. He went through a sequence of impossible
contortions of his limbs and ended up standing on his head.
"To stand on the head and wiggle my feet, that I can do too," whispered Alexandra to
Izabel, "but the other positions are too complicated and entirely unnecessary to gain insight."
Izabel put an admonishing finger to her lips.
Everybody applauded.
"This man is a Kundalini master," said Izabel. "These positions are not for you to imitate.
I cannot produce them either."
The fakir retreated to the back of the room, where he lit a charcoal brazier. The
gentleman introduced the "Tibetan" pharmacologist, Doctor Pyotr Alexandrovich Badmaev.
"Oh, well, Tibetan!" whispered Vladimir. "That charlatan. He is an urbanized Buryat
shaman with a questionable medical degree who sells powders and cough remedies to the
gullible ladies of the better society. My mother once consulted him."
The stocky Badmaev sat self-important with crossed legs on a carpet and displayed an
array of medicines. With a monotonous voice and a strong accent he explained their origins
and use. A number of women flocked around him. Alexandra wanted to have a closer look, but
Vladimir held her back. "Stay away from him, he isn’t trustworthy."
Suddenly Badmaev threw a handful of seeds into the fakir’s brazier. Thick smoke began
to fill the room, and like a vision the face of Mme. Blavatsky appeared in the smoke.
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