The Murder of Rasputin

What better way to start an ad-hoc series on Rasputin than with graphic detail of his actual horrific murder – like in a movie where we witness the crime scene and then go back and look at the characters and events.

This compilation of first hand testimonies by the murderers themselves comes from the book “A Lifelong Passion – Nicholas and Alexandra - Their Own Story” by Andrei Maylunas & Sergei Mironenko.  I have included a few memoirs and diary notes from other sources for context.

Olga diary, Saturday, 17 December 1916

Father Grigori is missing since last night.  They are looking for him everywhere – awfully hard.

Maria [Matryona] Rasputin, from “My Father”:

My memories of that day are indelibly graven on my mind …  For some time the police had redoubled their watchfulness about my father, and he had been somewhat annoyed by it. Several times, and from different sources, he had been warned to be on his guard, that he was in danger ; and my sister Varvara and myself had been told the same thing.  In consequence, we continually begged my father to go out less often, to be careful ; but he paid no attention to our advice, and in order to avoid being followed by the police responsible for his safety, he went out preferably at night.

On this night, in order to force him to stay at home, my sister and I had hidden his boots before we went to bed at about ten o'clock, as was our habit.   My father bade us "Good-night", and blessed us with the sign of the cross, as he did every evening.  As he had on the light blue blouse and the velvet breeches that he used to wear for evening parties, we asked him if he intended to go out that night.  He replied off-handedly that he was invited to Youssoupof's.  At about midnight the bell of the door of the servants' quarters rang out, announcing some caller.  The faithful Katia had to help my father find his boots.  "It's those children again, they have hidden them.    They don't want me to go out," he said to his visitor, whom he then followed out to where the automobile waited that was to take them to the Prince's palace.

Katia, when she came back to our room, told us this ; that our father had searched for his boots in order to go out, and that when he found them he said to the Prince,

"It is the little ones who have hidden them, they do not want me to go out…  Then he went downstairs and out with Youssoupof.  We were not surprised at the mysterious arrival of the visitor, as Youssoupof came nearly every day to see my father, and always wished to be alone with him.  He often came in by the servants, entry, in order to avoid the crowd of visitors that waited in our ante-chamber.

A little before seven o’clock Katia woke us up, my sister and me, to tell us that my father had not come home, and that she was uneasy about it.  Half asleep, we refused to listen to her and her apprehensions ; but when we awoke a little later and realised that he had still not come back, we began to share her uneasiness.  "Some evil has overtaken your father, I feel that something has happened to him …”  she kept repeating.  We prayed together, and then tried to get some news.  I thought that the person best able to enlighten us would be Youssoupof, as it was with him that my father had gone out the evening before.”

From “A Lifelong Passion”:

THE NIGHT BEFORE – 16-17 December 1916

Purishkevich, Memoirs

Dr Lazavert is supposed to drive up to the Duma watch tower in an empty car, dressed as a chauffeur, and I am to get out and go to Yusupov’s palace. 

I feel completely calm and in control.  In any case, I have taken with me a steel knuckle-duster and my revolver, a wonderful thing, a sauvage model, who knows I might have to resort to either one or the other.

I don’t know why, this verse from Horace’s ode has been running through my head all day: ’Don’t ask, don’t try to guess, Leuconoe, it’s not for us to know end the gods have prepared for either you or I’. 

Felix Yusupov, Memoirs

In the middle of the room stood the table at which Rasputin was to drink his last cup of tea.

My two servants, Gregory and Ivan, helped me to arrange the furniture. I asked them to prepare tea for six, to buy biscuits and cakes and to bring wine from the cellar.  I told them that I was expecting some friends at eleven that evening, and that they could wait in the servants' hall until I rang for them.

When everything was settled, I went up to my room. By eleven o'clock everything was ready in the basement.  Comfortably furnished and well lit, this underground room had lost its grim look. On the table the samovar smoked, surrounded by plates filled with the cakes and dainties that Rasputin liked so much. An array of bottles and glasses stood on a sideboard. Ancient lanterns of coloured glass lit the room from the ceiling; the heavy red damask portières were lowered. On the granite hearth, a log fire crackled and scattered sparks on the flag-stones. One felt isolated from the rest of the world and it seemed as though, no matter what happened, the events of that night would remain for ever buried in the silence of those thick walls.

The bell rang, announcing the arrival of Dmitri and my other friends. I showed them into the dining room and they stood for a little while, silently examining the spot where Rasputin was to meet his end.

Purishkevich

We sat down at the round table and Yusupov invited us to have a glass of tea and try some of the cakes, before we laced them with the necessary ingredient.

Yusupov 

I took from the ebony cabinet a box containing the poison and laid it on the table. Doctor Lazavert put of rubber gloves and ground the cyanide of potassium crystals to powder. Then, lifting the top of each cake, he sprinkled the inside with a dose of poison which, according to him, was sufficient to kill several men instantly.

Purishkevich  

Choosing all the cakes with pink cream (there were two sorts, with pink or chocolate cream), Dr Lazavert took off the tops, spread each one thickly with poison, then replaced the tops so as to make them look normal.

Yusupov 

There was an impressive silence. We all followed the doctor's movements with emotion. There remained the glasses into which cyanide was to be poured.  It was decided to do this at the last moment so that the poison should not evaporate and lose its potency ...

Purishkevich  

We went upstairs to the drawing room.  Yusupov took out from the writing desk two phials of potassium cyanide solution, which he gave to Dmitri Pavlovich and myself, and with which, twenty minutes after he left to fetch Rasputin, we were to half-fill two of the four goblets standing next to the bottles downstairs in the dining room.

Lazavert changed into his chauffeur's uniform. Yusupov put on a civilian overcoat, turned up the collar and saying goodbye, went out.

Yusupov  

When everything was ready, I put on an overcoat and drew a fur cap over my ears, completely concealing my face.  Doctor Lazavert, in a chauffeur's uniform, started up the engine and we got into the car which was waiting in the courtyard by the side entrance.  On reaching Rasputin's house, I had to parley with the janitor before he agreed to let me in.  In accordance with Rasputin's instructions, I went up the back staircase; I had to grope my way up in the dark, and only with the greatest difficulty found the door. I rang the bell.

Who's that?' called a voice from inside.

I began to tremble. 'It's I, Grigory Efimovich.  I've come for you.'  I could hear Rasputin moving about the hall.  The chain was unfastened, the heavy lock grated.  I felt very ill at ease.

He opened the door and I went into the kitchen.  It was dark.  I imagined that someone was spying on me from the next room.  Instinctively, I turned up my collar and pulled my cap down over my eyes.

Why are you trying to hide?' asked Rasputin.

Didn't we agree that no one was to know you were going out with me tonight?'

‘True, true; I haven't said a word about it to anyone in the house, I'll go and dress.'

I accompanied him to his bedroom; it was lighted only by the little lamp burning before the ikons.  Rasputin lit the candle; I noticed that his bed was crumpled.  He had probably been resting.  Near the bed were his overcoat and beaver cap, on the ground his high felt-lined galoshes.

Rasputin wore a silk blouse embroidered in cornflowers, with a thick raspberry-coloured cord as a belt. His velvet breeches and highly polished boots seemed brand new; he had brushed his hair and carefully combed his beard  As he came close to me, I smelt a strong odour of cheap soap which indicated he had taken pains with his appearance. I had never seen him look so clean and tidy.

‘Well, it’s time to go; it’s past midnight.’

‘What about the gypsies?  Shall we pay them a visit?’

‘I don’t know; perhaps.’  I answered. 

"There will be no one at your house but us tonight?’  he asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice.

I reassured him by saying that he would meet no one that he might not care to see, and that my mother was in the Crimea.

"I don't like your mother. I know she hates me; she’s a friend of Elizabeth’s [Ella].  Both of them pot against me and spread slander about me too.  The Tsarina herself has often told me, that they were my worst enemies.  Why, no earlier than this evening, Protopopov came to see me and made me swear not to go out for the next few days.  "They'll kill you," he declared.  "Your enemies are bent on mischief!"  But they'd just be wasting time and trouble; they won't succeed, they are not powerful enough ... But that's enough, come on, let's go.'

I picked up the overcoat and helped him on with it.

Suddenly, a feeling of great pity for the man swept over me. I was ashamed of the despicable deceit, the horrible trickery to which I was obliged to resort.  At that moment I was filled with self-contempt, and wondered how I could even have thought of such a cowardly crime. I could not understand how I had brought myself to decide on it.

I looked at my victim with dread, as he stood before me, quiet and trusting.  What had become of his second sight?  What good did his gift of foretelling the future do him?  Of what use was his faculty for reading the thoughts of others, if he was blind to the dreadful trap that was laid for him?

Purishkevich  

At a quarter to one, as had been agreed, the grand duke and I went downstairs to the dining room and poured the potassium cyanide into the two goblets, at which point Dmitri Pavlovich began to worry that, as he offered the cakes to Rasputin, Felix Yusupov might in haste eat a pink one, or pick up by mistake one of the goblets with the poison.  'It won't happen,' I assured the grand duke.

'As far as I can see, Yusupov's distinguishing characteristics are his self-control and sangfroid.’  Having completed our task, we returned upstairs, straining to catch the slightest sound from the street. 

‘They’re coming!’  I whispered suddenly, moving away from the window.

Lieutenant S rushed over to the gramophone, and a few moments later the sounds of the American march "Yanky-Doodle' rang out, it still haunts me at times, even now. Holding our breath we went into the lobby and stood one behind the other at the top of the staircase leading down: I was nearest the stairs, my knuckle-duster in my hand, behind me the grand duke, then Lieutenant S, and lastly Dr Lazavert.

Yusupov  

As we entered the house, I could hear the gramophone played "Yankee Doodle went to town.'

'What's all this?' asked Rasputin. 'Is someone giving a party here?'

No, just my wife entertaining a few friends; they'll be going soon.  Meanwhile, let's have a cup of tea in the dining room.'

I offered him wine and tea; to my great disappointment, he refused both.  Had something made him suspicious?  I was determined, come what may, that he should not leave the house alive.

We sat down at the table and began to talk. We reviewed our mutual acquaintances, not forgetting Ania Vyrubova and, naturally, touched on Tsarskoe Selo.

Rasputin asked for some tea.  I immediately poured out a cup and handed him a plate of biscuits.  Why was it I offered him the only biscuits that were not poisoned?  I even hesitated before handing him the cakes sprinkled with cyanide.

He refused them at first: 'I don't want any, they're too sweet.'  At last however, he took one, then another ... I watched him, horror-stricken.  The poison should have acted immediately but, to my amazement, Rasputin went on talking quite calmly.

I then suggested he should sample our Crimean wines. He once more refused.  Time was passing, I was becoming nervous; in spite of his refusal, I filled two glasses.  But, as in the case of the biscuits - and just as inexplicably - I again avoided using a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin changed his mind and accepted the wine I handed him.  He drank it with enjoyment, found it to his taste and asked whether we made a great deal of wine in the Crimea.  He seemed surprised to hear that we had cellars full of it.

'Pour me out some Madeira,' he said. This time I wanted to give it to him in a glass containing cyanide, but he protested: 'I'll have it in the same glass.

' You can't, Grigory Efimovich,' I replied, 'you can't mix two kinds of wines.'

'It doesn't matter, I'll use the same glass, I tell you ...'

I had to give in without pressing the point, but I managed, as if by mistake, to drop the glass from which he had drunk, and immediately poured the madeira into a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin did not see anything.

I stood watching him drink, expecting any moment to see him collapse.

But he continued slowly to sip his wine like a connoisseur.  His face did not change, only from time to time he put his hand to his throat as though he had some difficulty in swallowing.  He rose and took a few steps.  When I asked him what was the matter, he answered:’Why, nothing, just a tickling in my throat.'

‘The Madeira's good’, he remarked, 'give me some more.’

Meanwhile, the poison continued to have no effect, and the staretz went on walking calmly about the room.

I picked up another glass containing cyanide, filled it with wine and handed it to Rasputin.

He drank it as he had the others, and still with no result.

There remained only one poisoned glass on the tray.  Then, as I was feeling desperate, and must try to make him do as I did, I began drinking myself.

A silence fell upon us as we sat facing each other.

He looked at me; there was a malicious expression in his eyes, as if to say: ‘Now, see, you're wasting your time, you can't do anything to me.’

Suddenly his expression changed to one of fierce anger; I had never seen him look so terrifying. He fixed his fiendish eyes on me, and at that moment I was filled with such hatred that I wanted to leap at him and strangle him with my bare hands.

The silence became ominous. I had the feeling that he knew why I had brought him to my house, and what I had set out to do. We seemed to be engaged in a strange and terrible struggle. Another moment and I would have been beaten, annihilated.  Under Rasputin's heavy gaze, I felt all my self-possession leaving me; an indescribable numbness came over me, my head swam ...

When I came to myself, he was still seated in the same place, his head in his hands. I could not see his eyes. I had got back my self-control, and offered him another cup of tea.

‘Pour me a cup,’ he said in a muffled voice, ’I’m very thirsty.’  He raised his head, his eyes were dull and I thought he avoided looking at me.

While I poured the tea, he rose and began walking up and down.  Catching sight of my guitar which I had left lying on a chair, he said: ’Play something cheerful, I like listening to your singing.'

I found it difficult to sing anything at such a moment, especially anything cheerful. ‘I really don't feel up to it, I said.  However, I took the guitar and sang a sad Russian ditty.

He sat down and at first listened attentively; then his head drooped and his eyes closed. I thought he was dozing. When I finished the song, he opened his eyes and looked gloomily at me: ‘Sing another.  I'm very fond of this kind of music and you put so much soul into it.'

I sang once more but did not recognize my own voice.

Time went by; the clock said two-thirty ... the nightmare had lasted two interminable hours.  What would happen, I thought, if I had lost my nerve?

Upstairs my friends were evidently growing impatient, to judge by the racket they made.  I was afraid that they might be unable to bear the suspense any longer and just come bursting in.

Rasputin raised his head:  'What's all that noise?'

"Probably the guests leaving,' I answered. 'I'll go and see what's up.’

In my study, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Soukhotin rushed at me, and plied me with questions.

Well, have you done it? Is it over?'

Purishkevich  

Yusupov silently entered the study, pale and upset.  No, he said, 'it's not possible.  Can you imagine, he's had two goblets of poison, he's eaten several pink cakes, and as you can see nothing has happened, absolutely nothing, and at least fifteen minutes have gone by since then.  He is now sitting on the sofa looking sombre, and as far as I can see the only effect the poison has had on him is to make him belch the whole time and dribble.

‘Gentlemen, what do you advise me to do?’

‘Well then,’ replied the grand duke, ’let’s leave it for today and let him go in peace, maybe we can get rid of him some other way, another time and in different circumstances.'

‘Never!’  I exclaimed.  'Can't you understand, your highness, that if we miss him today he will be out of our reach for ever, do you really think he’ll come back to Yusupov tomorrow once he realizes he has been deceived today?  Rasputin cannot and must not leave here alive,’  I added in a half-whisper, emphasizing every word.

'If poison doesn't work,’  I replied, 'we'll have to go for broke and show our hand, we can either all go down together, or let me do it alone, I'll either dispatch him with my sauvage or smash his skull in with my knuckle-duster.  What do you say?'

‘Well, yes,’ replied Yusupov, 'if you put it that way then of course we will have to resort to one of those two methods.'

‘Would you mind very much if I shot him, come what may? It will be quicker and easier.'

'By all means,’ I replied. It's not a question of who kills him, but of making sure he's killed tonight.'

No sooner had I said these words, than Yusupov crossed over to his writing desk with a determined air and, taking out of the drawer a small format Browning, turned and went downstairs with a firm step.

Yusupov

I took Dmitri's revolver and went back to the basement.

Rasputin was where I had left him; his head drooping and his breathing laboured.

I went up quietly and sat down by him, but he paid no attention to me. After a few minutes of horrible silence, he slowly lifted his head and turned vacant eyes in my direction.

'Are you feeling ill?' I asked.

'Yes, my head is heavy and I've a burning sensation in my stomach. Give me another little glass of wine. It'll do me good.'

I handed him some Madeira; he drank it at a gulp; it revived him and he recovered his spirits.  I saw that he was himself again and that his brain was functioning quite normally. Suddenly he suggested that we should go to the gypsies together.  I refused, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse.

I turned my head and saw the crystal crucifix. I rose to look at it more closely.

'What are you staring at that crucifix for,’ asked Rasputin.

‘I like it’, I replied, ‘it's so beautiful.'

Rasputin stood before me motionless, his head bent and his eyes on the crucifix.

I slowly raised the revolver. Where should I aim, at the temple or at the heart?

A shudder swept over me; my arm grew rigid, I aimed at his heart and pulled the trigger. Rasputin gave a wild scream and crumpled up on the bearskin.

For a moment I was appalled to discover how easy it was to kill a man. A flick of the finger and what had been a living, breathing man only a second before, now lay on the floor like a broken doll.

On hearing the shot my friends rushed in, but in their frantic haste they brushed against the switch and turned out the light.  Someone bumped into me and cried out; I stood motionless for fear of treading on the body.  At last, someone turned the light on.

Purishkevich

Without waiting a second, those of us who had been standing upstairs literally flew head over heels down the banisters, falling in our haste against the dining room door: it opened, but one of us must have pushed the electric switch, for the light in the room immediately went out.

Feeling along the wall by the entrance we put on the light and the following spectacle appeared before our eyes:

In front of the sofa in the seating area, on a white bear skin, lay the dying Grigory Rasputin, and over him, holding the revolver behind his back in his right hand, stood Yusupov, completely calm, looking into the face of the murdered staretz with an expression of indescribable loathing.

Yusupov

Rasputin lay on his back.  His features twitched in nervous spasms; his hands were clenched, his eyes closed. A bloodstain was spreading on his silk blouse.

A few moments later all movement ceased. We bent over his body to examine it.

The doctor declared that the bullet had struck him in the region of the heart.

There was no possibility of doubt: Rasputin was dead. Dmitri and Purishkevich lifted him from the bearskin and laid him on the flag-stones.

Purishkevich

Dmitri Pavlovich took the victim by the shoulders, I lifted him by the legs, and we carefully laid him on the floor, his feet towards the outside windows and his head towards the stairs by which we had come in.

Now as I stood over the body, I was seized by the most powerful and diverse emotions: but the main one, as I remember now, was a feeling of the greatest amazement that such a seemingly ordinary and disgusting peasant, this Silenus or Satyr, could have such an influence on the fate of Russia and on the life of a great nation, whose country comprised a whole section of the globe, rather than a realm. How did you manage to bewitch both the Tsar and the Tsarina, you scoundrel? - I thought.

He was not yet dead: he was breathing, agonizing.

With his right hand, he had covered his eyes and half of his long, pitted nose; his left hand lay along his body; his chest rose occasionally and his body shuddered.  He was stylishly dressed, peasant style, in magnificent boots, velvet breeches and a richly embroidered cream silk shirt, fastened with a thick, crimson, tassled silk belt.  His long black beard was carefully brushed and seemed even to shine or gleam with some product.

I don't know how long I stood there: finally Yusupov's voice rang out. 'Well, gentlemen, let's go upstairs and finish what we have begun.’   We left the dining room, putting off the light and pulling the door slightly to.

Yusupov

Our hearts were full of hope, for we were convinced that what had just taken place would save Russia and the dynasty from ruin and dishonour.

As we talked I was suddenly filled with a vague misgiving; an irresistible impulse forced me to go down to the basement.

Rasputin lay exactly where we had left him. I felt his pulse: not a beat, he was dead.

Scarcely knowing what I was doing I seized the corpse by the arms and shook it violently.  It leaned to one side and fell back. I was just about to go, when I suddenly noticed an almost imperceptible quivering of his left eyelid.  I bent over and watched him closely; slight tremors contracted his face.

All of a sudden, I saw the left eye open … a few seconds later his right eyelid began to quiver, then opened.  I then saw both eyes - the green eyes of a viper - staring at me with an expression of diabolical hatred.  The blood ran cold in my veins.  My muscles turned to stone.  I wanted to run away, to call for help, but my legs refused to obey me and not a sound came from my throat.

Then a terrible thing happened: with a sudden violent effort Rasputin leapt to his feet, foaming at the mouth. A wild roar echoed through the vaulted rooms, and his hands convulsively thrashed the air.  He rushed at me, trying to get at my throat, and sank his fingers into my shoulder like steel claws.  His eyes were bursting from their sockets, blood oozed from his lips.  And all the time he called me by name, in a low raucous voice.

No words can express the horror I felt.  I tried to free myself but was powerless in his vice-like grip.  A ferocious struggle began ...

This devil who was dying of poison, who had a bullet in his heart, must have been raised from the dead by the powers of evil. There was something appalling and monstrous in his diabolical refusal to die.

I realized now who Rasputin really was.  It was the reincarnation of Satan himself who held me in his clutches and would never let me go till my dying day.

By a superhuman effort I succeeded in freeing myself from his grasp.

He fell on his back, gasping horribly and still holding in his hand the epaulette he had torn from my tunic during the struggle.  For a while he lay motionless on the ground.  Then after a few seconds, he moved.  I rushed upstairs and called Purishkevich, who was in my study.

Purishkevich

I heard someone's footsteps at the foot of the stairs, then the sound of the door opening to the dining room where Rasputin was lying, which evidently whoever came out did not close.

‘Who on earth could that be?' I thought, but I hardly had time to think of an answer when a wild, inhuman shriek rang out, which seemed to me to be the voice of Yusupov.  'Purishkevich, shoot, shoot, he's alive!  He's getting away!'

'A-a-h. ' Yusupov appeared and rushed straight upstairs, still screaming; he looked simply ghastly; his handsome big blue eyes bulged and looked even larger than usual; he seemed to be only half-conscious, hardly seeing me, and with a mad look rushed to the door to the main corridor and ran to his parents' apartments.

There was not a moment to be lost and, without losing my composure, I took my sauvage out of my pocket, set it to 'fire' and ran downstairs.

What I saw downstairs could have been a dream, had it not been a terrible reality: Grigory Rasputin, whom I had seen half an hour ago breathing his last on the stone floor of the dining room, was running through the light snow of the palace courtyard along the railings leading to the street, falling from side to side, in the very same clothes I had seen him in almost lifeless.

For the first minute I could not believe my eyes, but his loud cries as he ran through the stillness of the night:

'Felix, Felix, I will tell everything to the tsarina! ...' convinced me that it really was him, Grigory Rasputin, that he could walk thanks to his phenomenal vitality, that in a few moments he would be through the gates into the street where, without giving away his identity, he could turn to the first passer-by and ask them to save him, as people were trying to kill him in that palace ... and all would be lost, we would be discovered. I rushed in pursuit and fired.

In the quiet of the night the deafening noise of my revolver carried through the air - missed.

Rasputin went faster; I fired a second time at a run - and again missed.

I cannot express the feeling of rage I felt against myself at that moment. The proficient marksman, who practised the whole time on Semenovsky parade ground with small targets, today seemed incapable of shooting a man at 20 paces.  The moments passed ... Rasputin was already at the gates, when I stopped and bit myself hard on the left wrist, to force myself to concentrate, and this third time hit him in the back.

He stopped; carefully taking aim I fired a fourth time, apparently hitting him in the head, for he collapsed face down onto the ground in the snow, tearing at his head. I ran up to him and kicked him as hard as I could in the temple.

He was lying with his hands stretched out in front of him, clawing at the snow as if he wanted to crawl forward on his stomach; but he was already unable to move and just lay there grinding and gnashing his teeth.

I was certain now that his time was up, that he would not get to his feet again. I stood over him for a moment or two to satisfy myself there was no longer any point in guarding him, and then crossed quickly back into the palace through the same little door, but I remembered clearly that in the interval between the shots two men had passed along the pavement in the street, one of whom rushed over to the railings upon hearing gunfire.

‘What to do?  What to do?’ I repeated to myself out loud, going into the drawing room.  I’m alone.  Yusupov is out of action; the servants have not been initiated into the affair, and the corpse is lying there by the gates ...

I found him in a brightly lit bathroom bending over the basin, holding his head and retching.

‘Dearest one!  What is it, calm ourself, he is no more. I've finished him off!  Come with me, dear, let's go to your study!

Visibly still feeling sick, Yusupov fixed me with a vacant look, but obeyed, and taking him by the waist carefully led him back to his apartments. As he was walking he kept repeating: 'Felix, Felix, Felix, Felix.'

It was obvious that something had happened between him and Rasputin during those short moments when he had gone to the apparently dead man in the dining room, and that something had deeply affected his mind.

We passed through the lobby at the very moment when downstairs Yusupov’s soldiers were dragging the corpse into the hall by the stairs.

Yusupov

I felt very ill, my head swam and i could scarcely walk. I rose with difficulty, automatically picked up my rubber club, and left the study.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Rasputin stretched out on the landing, blood flowing from his many wounds. It was a loathsome sight. Suddenly, everything went black, I felt the ground slipping from under my feet ...

Purishkevich

Slipping away from me, Yusupov dashed into the study, snatched from the desk a rubber dumb-bell, and rushed back downstairs towards Rasputin's body.

For having poisoned him and seen the poison have no effect, shot him and seen the bullet did nothing - he obviously couldn't believe that Rasputin was really dead, and now began to beat him around the temples as hard as he could with the two-pound weight, in an unbelievable state of frenzy and wild rage. 

From my position at the top of the stairs, I did not at first understand and was even more dumbfounded when, to my greatest amazement, Rasputin still appeared, even now, to display signs of life.

Turned over face upwards, he was rasping, and i saw quite clearly from upstairs how the pupil of his open right eye rolled as if looking at me, uncomprehending yet terrifying (even now I can see that eye before me).

Regaining my senses I shouted to the soldiers to pull Yusupov off the dying man, as he could splash himself and everything around with blood and in the case of an investigation the authorities would uncover the truth, even without police dogs, by the traces.

The soldiers obeyed, but it took an immense effort to drag off Yusupov, who was still beating Rasputin about the head, mechanically but with ever increasing ferocity. Finally they pulled the prince aside.

Together, the two soldiers led him upstairs by the arms and sat him down, covered in blood, on the deep leather sofa in the study. He was an appalling sight, not only was his exterior appearance terrible, but also his inner state, as he repeated inanely ‘Felix, Felix, Felix, Felix' with a vacant stare and twitching face.

I ordered the soldiers to obtain some material quickly from somewhere and to wrap the corpse in it completely from head to toe and bind it tightly with rope.

The body was completely wrapped in some sort of blue material; it even seemed to me it might be a curtain, tightly bound with rope. The head was covered. Now I saw that Rasputin was indeed a corpse and could no longer come to life.

Five minutes later I heard a car, and the grand duke and his companions quickly came up the stairs from the courtyard.

Dmitri Pavlovich was in an almost light-hearted mood; but when he saw me he understood that something had happened.

‘What's happened?' he asked, glancing around, and I explained the situation to them briefly, asking them to hurry, though this last request proved to be unnecessary: they themselves understood that there wasn't a moment to lose and leaving Yusupov in the care of one of his soldiers, we dragged Rasputin's body into the grand duke's car, where we added two two-pound weights and some chains I had brought that night to Yusupov's apartment and, getting in, we drove to the place we had chosen for drowning the corpse of the victim.

The grand duke was driving.

The car drove fairly slowly through the town. It was very late and the grand duke was obviously concerned about arousing the suspicions of the police by going too fast. The car windows were wound down. The clear, frosty air was vivifying. I was completely calm, despite everything I had been through.

I looked out of the window.  We were already beyond the town, judging by the surrounding houses and the endless fences.  The lighting was very dim.  The road became worse, we went over potholes and each time the body at our feet jumped, despite being sat on by the soldier, and I experienced a nervous shiver at every bump as my knee touched the soft, repulsive corpse which was not yet quite cold despite the frost.

At last in the distance appeared the bridge from which we were to throw Rasputin's body under the ice.

Dmitri Pavlovich slowed down, drove onto the bridge from the left and stopped by the parapet.

For one moment the bright headlights shone onto the guard hut on the right side of the bridge, but the grand duke immediately extinguished them and the surroundings were in darkness. The car motor continued to throb on the bridge.

Opening the car door silently and as quickly as possible, I jumped out and went over to the parapet, followed by the soldier and Dr Lazavert; we were joined by lieutenant S who had been sitting next to the grand duke, and the four of us (Dmitri Pavlovich was standing guard by the car) dragged out Rasputin's body and threw it through the broken ice under the bridge: we had forgotten to attach the weights to the corpse with the chains, so we hurriedly threw them in too, while we stuffed the chains into the victim's coat and threw that into the same hole.  Dr Lazavert felt round the car in the dark and found one of Rasputin's boots, which he also hurled from the bridge.

It all took only two or three minutes, after which Dr Lazavert, lieutenant S and the soldier got into the back, while I sat with Dmitri Pavlovich, we put on the headlights and drove on over the bridge.

That we weren't seen on the bridge seems to me to this day to be quite unbelievable. This was the sequence of events from the evening of the 16th December to the morning of the 17th.

It’s getting light.  I am writing these lines with the first rays of a dawning winter’s day.  It’s still dark, though I feel the day is near.  I cannot sleep.

-- END OF PASSAGE FROM A LIFELONG PASSION –

Olga diary, Monday, 19 December 1916

As usual, to Znamenie and to the infirmary.  Almost nothing to do.  Went with Kasyanov to the drawing room and behind closed doors, without anyone present I played and he sang various new beautiful things.  Ate with Mama.  Found out that Grigori was killed, likely by Dmitri [Dmitri was involved but did not do the killing] and thrown from a bridge by Khrestovsky.  They found him in the water.  It’s so terrible, should not even wrote.  Sat and drank tea with Lili and Anya and the entire time felt Father Grigori with us …

Nicholas diary, 21 December.  Wednesday. 

At 9 o’cl. The entire family dove past the photography building and to the Night towards the field, where we were present for a sad scene: the casket with the body of the unforgettable Grigori, murdered on the night of 17th December by the monsters at F. Yusupov's house, was already lowered into the grave. Father Alexander Vasiliev conducted litia, after which we returned home.

Olga diary, Christmas Day 1916

[…]   At 6 we 2 with Mama to our infirmary, a Christmas tree was set up in the drawing room.  Everyone except Sokolov was gathered there - Mama gave out gifts to all. Left at 7. Mama received Prince Golitzyn. After dinner I played [piano], at Papa's request, religious things [music] and everyone went to Anya's where Father Grigori's entire family was present: Paraskovia [Rasputin’s wife], Mitya, Matryona [Maria], and Varya [Rasputin’s son and daughters].

Epilogue #1:

Maria Rasputin in “My Father”

(I will cover that book in a future Mention.)

“The basement, the supper, the arsenic-cakes and the cyanide-wine, the music to drown the sounds - it is a refinement of horror worthy of the Borgias ! 

Of the drama of the 16th of December 1916 in the basement of the Fontanka, I only know the description furnished by its authors ; and yet, it seems to me that certain details do not ring true. Why should Youssoupof have provided poisoned cakes when he knew that my father never ate cakes? Never, since my childhood, do I remember seeing him eat pastries.”

[…]

“And who are they who have passed judgment on his memory ? First of all, his killers. How can a Youssoupof pretend to clear himself of the name of Assassin, he who, month after month, gradually duped my father by playing the role of favourite disciple ; he who, little by little, stole his absolute confidence ; he who was for us, my sister and myself," Fedya ", the friend of the household ; he who came to lead my father into the ambush that he had prepared for him ? How justify his conduct and his action save by making a repulsive monster of his victim ? Then Felix Youssoupof, assassin, became Youssoupof the Liberator, the man who had laid low the tyrant that oppressed his country, the incarnation of vice that polluted the very atmosphere of Russia. Youssoupof has redeemed himself ; a new Saint George, he has rehabilitated himself in the eyes of the nobility.

It seems to me that Youssoupof's book is in itself a sufficient accusation against its author. To me, it is atrocious ; and I do not believe that any decent person could help feeling a sentiment of disgust in reading the savage ferocity of this story of four men who, trembling with terror while they fling themselves on one unarmed man, attempt to do him to death by poison and with the revolver, and cast him, wounded but still living, into the icy waters ....”

Epilogue #2

Rasputin to Nicholas, sometime in first half of 1914 as rumblings of war (WWI) were happening

Dear friend/ one more time I say a terrible cloud is above Russia/ affliction/ much misfortune/ darkness with no light in sight/ a sea of tears/ there is no recourse but blood? What will I say? There are no words/ indescribable horror/ I know everyone wants wars from you most likely not seeing that it will mean death. Heavy will be God's punishment when he takes away reason/ it is the beginning of the end. You the Tsar father of the people/ do not allow insanity to triumph and ruin yourself and the people. they [the Bolsheviks?] will win over Germany but Russia? Just think/ truly there was not bitterer suffering for ages/ they will all drown in blood/ great ruin/ endless grief / Grigori

Footnote:

I am planning a few more in this series on Rasputin – some with the usual mainstream information and some that will make the reader ponder and question official history even more deeply.