I waited for some time alone in a little study until a man came in so noiselessly that I was almost unaware of his presence. It was Rasputin! Our eyes met, and I was instantly struck by his uncanny appearance. At a first glance, he appeared to be a typical peasant from the frozen North, but his eyes held mine, those shining steel-like eyes which seemed to read one’s inmost thoughts. His face was pale and thin, his hair long, and his beard a lighter chestnut. Rasputin was not tall, but he gave one the impression of being so; he was dressed as a Russian peasant, and wore the high boots, loose shirt and long, black coat of the moujik. He came forward and took my hand. “Ah ... I see. Thou art worried.” (He “tutoyed” everybody). “Well--nothing in life is worth worrying over--‘tout passe’--you understand--that’s the best outlook.” He became serious. “It is necessary to have Faith. God alone is thy help. Thou art torn between thy husband and thy child. Which of them is the weaker? Thou think’st that thy child is the more helpless. This is not so. A child can do nothing in his weakness--a man can do much.” Rasputin advised me to go to Copenhagen, but I did not go. I left Petrograd next day for the country--perhaps out of bravado! But the impression which Rasputin had produced on me was very vivid. I was at once attracted, repelled, disquieted and reassured; nevertheless, his eyes were productive of a feeling of terror and repugnance, and I made no answer when the Empress greeted me with the words: “So, Lili, you’ve seen our friend? He’ll always help you.” My second meeting with Rasputin took place in the winter. Titi was seriously ill, it was thought that diphtheric conditions would set in, and the poor little boy lay tossing from side to side in delirium. Anna, who made constant enquiries, at last ’phoned. “Lili,” she said, “my advice is--ask Gregory to come and pray.” I hesitated--I knew my husband’s distaste for anything touching the supernatural. But, when I saw how ill Titi was, I hesitated no longer. At any rate, no one could possibly condemn the prayers offered for a sick child. Rasputin promised to come at once, and he arrived in company with an old woman who was dressed as a nun. This quaint creature refused to enter the boy’s bedroom, and sat on the stairs, praying. “Don’t wake Titi,” I whispered, as we entered the nursery, for I was afraid that the sudden appearance of this strange peasant might frighten the child. Rasputin made no reply, but sat down by the bedside and looked long and intently at the sleeper. He then knelt and prayed. When he rose from his knees he bent over Titi. “Don’t wake him,” I repeated. “Silence--I _must_.” Rasputin placed a finger on either side of Titi’s nose. The child instantly awoke, looked at the stranger unafraid, and addressed him by the playful name which Russian children give to old people. Rasputin talked to him, and Titi told him that his head ached “ever so badly.”