Paradoxical though it may appear, the last months of 1917 and the winter
of 1918, spent in a hidden lodging in turbulent Petrograd, were more
peaceful than any period I had known since the Revolution began. I knew
that the city and the country were in the hands of fanatic Bolshevists
and that under their ruthless theory of government no human life was at
all secure. Food and fuel were scarce and dear, and there was no doubt
that things were destined to grow worse long before they could, in any
imaginable circumstances, grow better. The wreck of the army was
complete, and while the war still waged in western Europe we, who had
had so much to do with defiance of German militarism, were completely
out of the final struggle. The peace of my soul was partly born of
ignorance, I suppose, the ignorance of events shared by everyone not
immediately in contact with the world catastrophe. I was free, I lived
in a comfortable apartment, my dear father and mother came daily to see
me, and two of my faithful old servants lived with me and were ready to
protect me from all enemies.
Also, because the mind cannot fully realize the worst, I believed that
the Russian chaos was a temporary manifestation. I thought I saw signs
of a reaction in favor of the exiled Emperor. In this I was certainly
encouraged by two of the oldest and most prominent Revolutionists known
to the outside world, Bourtseff, a leader among the old Social
Revolutionaries, and the novelist Gorky. It was in December, 1917, if I
remember correctly, that I learned that Gorky was anxious to meet me,
and as I preferred to keep my small corner of safety as free from
visitors as possible, I made an appointment with the novelist in his own
home, a modest apartment on the Petrograd side of the Neva, not far from
the fortress. Gorky, whose gaunt features are familiar to all readers,
is said to be a sufferer from tuberculosis, but as he has lived many
years since the first rumors of this disease were circulated, there may
be some reason to doubt his affliction. That he is a sick man none can
doubt, for his high cheek bones seem almost to pierce his colorless skin
and his darkly luminous eyes are deeply sunken in his head. For two
hours of this first interview I sat in conversation with Gorky, strange
creature, who at times seems to be heart and soul a Bolshevist and at
other times openly expresses his loathing and disgust of their insane
and destructive policies. To me Gorky was gentle and sympathetic, and
what he said about the Emperor and Empress filled my heart with
encouragement and hope. They were, he declared, the poor scapegoats of
the Revolution, martyrs to the fanaticism of the time. He had examined
with care the private apartments of the palace and he saw clearly that
these unhappy ones were not even what are called aristocrats, but merely
a bourgeois family devoted to each other and to their children, as well
as to their ideals of righteous living. He expressed himself as bitterly
disappointed in the Revolution and in the character of the Russian
proletariat. Earnestly he advised me to live as quietly as possible,
never reminding the Bolshevist authorities or any strangers of my
existence. My duty, he told me, was to live and to devote myself to
writing the true story of the lives of the Emperor and Empress. “You owe
this to Russia,” he said, “for what you can write may help to bring
peace between the Emperor and the people.”
Twice afterwards I saw and talked with Gorky, showing him a few pages of
my reminiscences. He urged me to go on writing, suppressing nothing of
the truth, and he even offered to help me with my work. But writing in
Russia was at that time too dangerous a trade to be followed with any
degree of confidence, and it was not until I was safely beyond the
frontiers that I dared begin writing freely and at length. I wish to
say, however, that it was principally due to Gorky’s encouragement and
to the encouragement of an American literary friend, Rheta Childe Dorr,
that I ventured to attempt authorship, or rather that I undertook to
present to the world, as they really were, my Sovereigns and my best
beloved friends. My casual acquaintanceship with Gorky was naturally
seized upon by certain foreign journalists as evidence that I had gone
over to the Bolsheviki, and much abuse and scorn were hurled against me.
How little those writers knew of Gorky and his half-hearted support of
the Lenine policies! He held an important office under the Communists,
it is true, and his wife, a former actress, was in the commissariat of
theatricals and entertainments. But no man in Bolshevist Russia has ever
been permitted more freedom of thought and speech than Gorky. He has
done things which would have brought almost any other man to torture
and death. I know, for example, that he sheltered under his roof at
least one of the Romanoffs, and that the man was finally assisted by him
across the Finnish frontier. Gorky interested himself also in the fate
of several of the Grand Dukes, Nicholai Michailovitch, Paul and George,
who were arrested and later shot to death in Peter and Paul. Gorky did
everything in his power to save these men, in whom personally he had no
interest whatever. He simply believed their murder to be unjustified,
and it is said that he actually induced Lenine to sign an order for
their release and deportation, but the order was signed too late, and
the men were brutally executed.
At Christmas, 1917, I had a great happiness, nothing less than letters
and a parcel of food from the exiles in Tobolsk. There were two parcels
in fact, one containing flour, sugar, macaroni, and sausage, wonderful
luxuries, and the other a pair of stockings knit by the Empress’s own
hands, a warm scarf, and some pretty Christmas cards illuminated in her
well-remembered style. I made myself a tiny Christmas tree decorated
with bits of tinsel and holly berries and hung with these precious
tokens of affection and remembrance. Nor was this the only Christmas joy
vouchsafed me after a year of sorrow and suffering. Under the escort of
my good old servant Berchik I ventured to attend mass in the big church
near the Nicholai station, a church built to commemorate the three
hundredth anniversary of the Romanoff succession. After the service an
old monk approached me and invited me to accompany him into the
_réfectoire_ of his monastery. I followed him, a little unwillingly,
for one never knew what might happen. Entering I saw, to my
astonishment, about two hundred factory women who almost filled the bare
and lofty room. The old monk introduced me to the women, and to my
bewilderment their leader came forward bowing, and holding in her
outstretched hands a clean white towel on which reposed a silver ikon.
It was an image of Our Lady of Unexpected Joy, and the kind woman told
me that she and her fellow workers felt that after all that I had
unjustly suffered in the fortress I ought to have from those who
sympathized with me an expression of confidence and good-will. She added
that were I again in trouble I might feel myself free to take refuge in
the lodgings of any one of them. Overcome with emotion, I could utter
only a few stammering words of thanks. I kissed the good woman heartily,
and all who could approached and embraced me. Knowing that I longed for
more tangible expressions of gratitude, the good old monk pressed into
my hands a number of sacred pictures and these I gave away, as long as
they lasted, to my new friends. No words can tell how deeply I felt the
kindness of these working women who, out of their scanty wages, bought a
silver ikon to give to a woman of whom they knew nothing except that she
had, as they believed, been persecuted for others’ sake.
I needed the assurance that in the cruel world around me there were
those who wished me well, for in the first months of the new year came
one of the bitterest sorrows of my life, the death of my deeply loved
and revered father. He died very suddenly, and without any pain, on
January 25, 1918, leaving the world bereft of one of the kindest, most
gifted, and sympathetic men of his generation in Russia. I have
described my father as a musician and a composer, as well as a lifelong
friend and functionary of the Imperial Family. His years of service as
keeper of the privy purse might have made him a rich man, but so utterly
honest was he that he accepted nothing except his moderate salary and he
died leaving almost nothing, nothing but an unfading memory and the deep
affection of my friends, including scores of poor students whose musical
education and advancement he had furthered. At his funeral his own
compositions were sung by volunteer choirs of his musician friends, and
these followed his coffin in long procession the length of the Nevski
Prospekt to the cemetery of the Alexandra Nevskaia Lavra, a monastic
burial place where many of our greatest lie in everlasting repose. My
mother came to live with me in my obscure lodgings, and together we
faced our desolate future.
One thing alone lightened the darkness of those days. This was a
correspondence daringly undertaken with my beloved friends in Siberia.
Even now, and at this distance from Russia I cannot divulge the names of
those brave and devoted ones who smuggled the letters and parcels to and
from the house in Tobolsk, and got them to me and to the small group of
faithful men and women in Petrograd. The two chiefly concerned, a man
and a woman, of course lived in constant peril of discovery and death.
Yet they gladly risked their lives that their Sovereigns might have the
happiness of private communication with their friends. At this time
their Majesties were permitted to write and receive a few letters, but
every line was read by their jailers, and their list of correspondents
was rigidly censored. Even in the letters smuggled out from Tobolsk the
utmost precautions had to be observed, and the reader can see with what
veiled and discreet phrases the sentences are couched.
I give these letters exactly as they were written, suppressing only
certain messages of affection too intimate to make public. Most of the
letters were written by the Empress, but one at least came from the
Emperor, and a number are from the children. To me these letters are
infinitely precious, not only as personal messages, but as proofs of the
dauntless courage and deep religious faith of these martyrs of the
Russian Revolution. Their patriotism and their love of country never
faltered for a single moment, nor did they ever utter a complaint or a
reproach against those who had so heartlessly betrayed them. It seems to
me impossible that anyone, reading these letters, intended only for my
own eyes, can continue to misjudge the lives and the characters of
Nicholas II and the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. What they reveal is
their secret selves, unknown except to those who knew them best and
knowing them loved them as they deserved to be loved.
The first communication to reach me was a brief message from the
Empress, dated October 14, 1917, a short time after the news of my
liberation from the fortress reached her in Siberia.
My darling: We are thinking constantly of you and of all the
suffering you have had to endure. God help you in the future. How
are your weak heart and your poor legs? We hope to go to Communion
as usual if we are to be allowed. Lessons have begun again with
Mr. Gibbs also. So glad, at last. We are all well. It is
beautifully sunny. I sit behind this wall in the yard and work.
Greetings to the doctors, the priest, and the nurses in your
hospital. I kiss you and pray God to keep you.
A week later the Empress wrote me a long letter in which she ventures a
few details of life in Tobolsk.
October 21, 1917.
My darling: I was inexpressibly glad to get news of you, and I kiss
you fondly for all your loving thoughts of me. There are no real
barriers between souls who really understand each other, but still
it is natural for hearts to crave expressions of love. I wrote to
you on the 14th, and now will try to send this to the same address,
but I don’t know how long you will remain. I wonder if you got my
letter. I had hoped so much that you would see Zina and find
comfort in her friendship. The expression in the eyes in the
photograph which was brought me[7] has impressed me deeply, and I
wept freely as I looked at it. Ah, God! Still He is merciful and
will never forget His own. Great will be their reward in Heaven.
The more we suffer here the fairer it will be on that other shore
where so many dear ones await us. How are our Friend’s[8] dear
children, how well does the boy learn, and where do they live?
Dear little Owl, I kiss you tenderly. You are in all our hearts. We
pray for you and often talk of you. In God’s hands lie all things.
From this great distance it is a difficult thing to help and
comfort a loved one who is suffering. We hope tomorrow to go to
Holy Communion, but neither today nor yesterday were we allowed to
go to church. We have had services at home, last night prayers for
the dead, tonight confession and evening prayer. You are ever with
us, a kindred soul. How many things I long to say and to ask of
you. It is strange to be in this house and to sleep in the dark
bedroom.[9] I have heard nothing from Lili D. for some time. We are
all well. I have been suffering from neuralgia in the head but now
Dr. Kostritzky has come to treat me. We have spoken often of you.
They say that life in the Crimea is dreadful now. Still Olga A. is
happy with her little Tichon whom she is nursing herself. They have
no servants so she and N. A. look after everything. Dobiasgin, we
hear, has died of cancer. The needlework you sent me was the only
token we have received from any of our friends. Where is poor
Catherine? We suffer so for all, and we pray for all of you. That
is all we can do. The weather is bad these last few days, and I
never venture out because my heart is not behaving very well. I get
a great deal of consolation reading the Bible. I often read it to
the children, and I am sure that you also read it. Write soon
again. We all kiss and bless you. May God sustain and keep you. My
heart is full, but words are feeble things.
Yours, A.
The jacket warms and comforts me. I am surrounded by your dear
presents, the blue dressing gown, red slippers, silver tray and
spoon, the stick, etc. The ikon I wear. I do not remember the
people you are living with now. Did you see the regimental priest
from Peterhof? Ask the prayers of O. Hovari for us. God be with
you. Love to your parents. Madeleine and Anna are still in
Petrograd.
Card from Alexei, November 24, 1917.
I remember you often and am very sad. I remember your little house.
We cut wood in the daytime for our baths. The days pass very
quickly. Greetings to all.
On the same day the Empress wrote me a short letter in English.
Yesterday I received your letter dated November 6, and I thank you
for it from my heart. It was such a joy to hear from you and to
think how merciful is God to have given you this compensation. Your
life in town must be more than unpleasant, confined in stuffy
rooms, steep stairs to climb, no lovely walks possible, horrors all
around you. Poor child! You know that in heart and soul I am near
you, sharing all your pain and sorrow and praying for you
fervently. Every day I read in the book you gave me seven years
ago, “Day by Day,” and like it very much. There are lovely passages
in it.
The weather is very changeable, frost, sunshine, then darkness and
thawings. Desperately dull for those who enjoy long walks and are
deprived of them. Lessons continue as usual. Mother and daughters
work and knit a great deal, making Christmas presents. How time
flies! In two weeks more it will be eight months since I saw you
last. And you, my little one, so far away in loneliness and sorrow.
But you know where to seek consolation and strength, and you know
that God will never forsake you. His love is over all.
On the whole we are all well, since I do not count chills and
colds. Alexei’s knee and arm swell from time to time, but happily
without any pain. My heart has not been behaving very well. I read
much, and live in the past, which is so full of rich memories. I
have full trust in a brighter future. He will never forsake those
who love and trust in His infinite mercy, and when we least expect
it He will send help, and will save our unhappy country. Patience,
faith and truth.
How did you like the two little colored cards? I have not heard
from Lili Dehn for three months. It is hard to be cut off from all
one’s dear friends. I am so glad that your old servant and Nastia
are with you, but where are the maids, Zina and Mainia? So Father
Makari has left us. But he is really nearer than he was before.
Our thoughts will be very close together next month. You remember
our last journey and what followed. After this anniversary it seems
to me that God will show mercy. Kiss Praskovia and the children for
me. The maid Liza and the girls have not come yet. All of us send
tenderest love, blessings and kisses. God bless you, dearest
friend. Keep a brave heart.
* * * * *
P. S. I should like to send you a little food, some macaroni for
instance.
Up to this time, nearly the end of the year 1917, the Imperial Family in
exile were treated with a certain degree of consideration. They had
plenty of food and a limited freedom. In the next letter I received from
the Empress, dated December 8, she speaks with gratitude of the fact
that some of her favorite books were permitted to be retained by her, as
a little later she overflows with gratitude to one of the Bolshevist
Commissars who sent her a few familiar pictures and trinkets from the
old home in Tsarskoe Selo. Little by little, however, privileges were
taken from the family, and their status became that of criminal
prisoners. I leave this to be shown in the letters which follow. On
December 8, 1917, the Empress wrote me, in Russian, a letter which shows
how poignantly she and the Emperor felt the desperate situation in
Russia.
My darling: In thoughts and prayers we are always together. Still
it is hard not to see each other. My heart is so full, there is so
much I would like to know, so many thoughts I should like to share
with you. But we hope the time will come when we shall see each
other, and all the old friends who now are scattered in different
parts of the world.
I am sorry you have had a misunderstanding with one of your best
friends. That should never happen. This is no time to judge one’s
friends, every one of us being on such an unnatural strain.
We here live far from everybody and life is quiet, but we read of
all the horrors that are going on. But I shall not speak of them.
You live in their very center, and that is enough for you to bear.
Petty troubles surround us. The maids have been in Tobolsk four
days and yet they are not allowed to come to our house, although it
was promised that they should. How pitiful this everlasting
suspicion and fear. I suppose it will be the same with Isa.[10]
Nobody is now allowed to approach us, but I hope they will soon see
how stupid and brutal and unfair it is to keep them (the maids)
waiting.
It is very cold--24 degrees of frost. We shiver in the rooms, and
there is always a strong draught from the windows. Your pretty
jacket is so useful. We all have chilblains on our fingers. (You
remember how you suffered from them in your cold little house?) I
am writing this while resting before dinner. Little Jimmy lies near
me while his mistress plays the piano. On the 6th Alexei, Marie,
and Gilik (M. Gilliard) acted a little play for us. The others are
committing to memory scenes from French plays. Excellent
distraction, and good for the memory. The evenings we spend
together. He reads aloud to us, and I embroider. I am very busy all
day preparing Christmas presents; painting ribbons for book
markers, and cards as of old. I also have lessons with the
children, as the priest is no longer permitted to come. But I like
these lessons very much. So many things come back to my mind. I am
reading with pleasure the works of Archbishop Wissky. I did not
have them formerly. Lately also I have read Tichon Zadonsky. In
spite of everything I was able to bring some of my favorite books
with me. Do you read the Bible I gave you? Do you know that there
is now a much more complete edition? I have given one to the
children, and I have managed to get a large one for myself. There
are some beautiful passages in the Proverbs of Solomon. The Psalms
also give me peace. Dear, we understand each other. I thank you for
everything, and in memory I live over again our happy past.
One of our former wounded men, Pr. Eristoff, is in hospital again.
I don’t know the reason. If possible give hearty greetings to him
from us all. Give sincere thanks and greetings to Madame S. and her
husband. God bless and comfort him.
Where are Serge (Mme. Viroubova’s brother) and his wife? I received
a touching letter from Zina. I know the past is all done with, but
I thank God for all that we have received, and I live in the memory
that cannot be taken from me. Still I worry often for my dearly
loved, far distant, foolish little friend. I am glad that you have
resumed your maiden name. Give greetings to Emma F., the English
Red Cross nurse, and to your dear parents.
On the 6th we had service at home, not being allowed to go to
church on account of some kind of a disturbance. I have not been
out in the fresh air for four weeks. I can’t go out in such bitter
weather because of my heart. Nevertheless church draws me almost
irresistibly.
I showed your photographs to Valia and Gilik. I did not want to
show them to the ladies, your face is too dear and precious to me.
Nastinka is too distant. She is very sweet, but she does not seem
near to me. All my dear ones are far away. But I am surrounded by
their photographs and gifts--jackets, dressing gowns, slippers,
silver dish, spoons, and ikons. How I would like to send you
something, but I fear it would get lost. I kiss you tenderly, love,
and bless you. We all kiss you. He was touched by your letter of
congratulation. We pray for you, and we think of you, not always
without tears.
Yours.
The next day the Empress wrote again.
This is the feast day of the Virgin of Unexpected Joy. I always
read the day’s service, and I know that you, dear, do the same. It
is the anniversary of our last journey together, to Saratoff. Do
you remember how lovely it was? The old holy woman is dead now, but
I keep her ikon always near me.... Yesterday it was nine months
since we were taken into captivity, and more than four months since
we came here. Which of the English nurses was it who wrote to me? I
am surprised to hear that Nini Voyeikoff and her family did not
receive the ikons I sent them before leaving. Give kind regards to
your faithful old servant and Nastia. This year I cannot give them
anything for their Christmas tree. How sad. My dear, you are
splendid. Christ be with you. Give my thanks to Fathers John and
Dosifei for their remembrance. I am writing this morning in bed.
Jimmy is sleeping nearly under my nose and interfering with my
writing. Ortipo lies on my feet and keeps them warm.
Fancy that the kind Kommissar Makaroff sent me my pictures two
months ago, St. Simeon Nesterofts, the little Annunciation from the
bedroom, four small prints from my mauve room, five pastels of
Kaulbach, four enlarged snapshots from Livadia; Tatiania and me,
Alexei as sentry, Alexander III, Nicholas I, and also a small
carpet from my bedroom.
My wicker lounge chair too is standing in my bedroom now. Among the
other cushions is the one filled with rose leaves given me by the
Tartar women. It has been with me all the way. At the last moment
of the night at Tsarskoe I took it with me, slept on it on the
train and on the boat, and the lovely smell refreshed me. Have you
had any news of Gaham (Chief of the Karaim)? Write to him and give
him my regards. One of our former wounded, Sirobojarski, has
visited him. There are 22 degrees of frost today, but bright
sunshine. Do you remember the sister of mercy K. M. Bitner? She is
giving the children lessons. What luck! The days fly. It is
Saturday again, and we shall have evening service at nine. A corner
of the drawing room has been arranged with our ikons and lamps. It
is homelike--but not church. I got so used to going almost daily
for three years to the church of Znamenia before going on to the
hospitals at Tsarskoe.
I advise you to write to M. Gilliard. (Now I have refilled my
fountain pen.) Would you like some macaroni and coffee? I hope soon
to send you some. It is so difficult for me here to take the
vegetables out of the soup without eating any of it.[11] It is easy
for me to fast and to do without fresh air but I sleep badly. Yet I
hardly feel any of the ills of the flesh. My heart is better, as I
live such a quiet life, almost without exercise. I have been very
thin but it is less noticeable now, although my gowns are like
sacks. I am quite gray too.
The spirits of the whole family are good. God is very near us, we
feel His support, and are often amazed that we can endure events
and separations which once might have killed us. Although we suffer
horribly still there is peace in our souls. I suffer most for
Russia, and I suffer for you too, but I know that ultimately all
will be for the best. Only I don’t understand anything any longer.
Everyone seems to have gone mad. I think of you daily and love you
dearly. You are splendid and I know how wonderfully you have grown.
Do you remember the picture by Nesteroffs, Christ’s Bride? Does
the convent still attract you in spite of your new friend? God will
direct everything. I want to believe that I shall see your
buildings (my hospital) in the style of a convent. Where are the
sisters of mercy Mary and Tatiana? What has become of Princess
Chakoffskaia, and has she married her friend? Old Madame Orloff has
written me that her grandson John was killed in the War, and that
his fiancée killed herself from grief. Now they are buried beside
his father.
My regards to my dear Lancers, to Jakoleff, Father John, and
others. Pray for them all. I am sure that God will have mercy on
our Russia. Has she not atoned for her awful sins?
My love, burn my letters. It is better. I have kept nothing of the
dear past. We all kiss you tenderly and bless you. God is great and
will not forsake those encircled by His love. Dear child, I shall
be thinking of you especially during Christmas. I hope that we will
meet again, but where and how is in His hands. We must leave it all
to Him who knows all better than we.
During that December I had the happiness of receiving letters from the
Emperor, Alexei, and the Grand Duchesses Tatiana, Olga, and Anastasie.
The Emperor wrote acknowledging a note of mine written on his name day.
Tobolsk, 10 December, 1917.
Thank you so much for your kind wishes on my name day. Our thoughts
and prayers are _always_ with you, poor suffering creature. Her
Majesty reads to us all your lines. Horrid to think all you had to
go through. We are all right here. It is quite quiet. Pity you are
not with us. Kisses and blessings without end from your loving
friend, N.
Give my best love to your parents.
[Illustration: LETTER FROM NICHOLAS II TO MME. VEROUBOVA. TOBOLSK,
1917.]
[Illustration: LETTERS FROM ALEXEI, TATIANA, AND MARIE, SMUGGLED FROM
TOBOLSK IN 1917.]
The children’s letters were devoured because they gave so many details
of the family life in Tobolsk. On December 9 Tatiana wrote:
My darling: I often think and pray for you, and we are always
remembering and speaking of you. It is hard that we cannot see each
other, but God will surely help us, and we will meet again in
better times. We wear the frocks your kind friends sent us, and
your little gifts are always with us, reminding us of you. We live
quietly and peacefully. The days pass quickly. In the morning we
have lessons, walk from eleven to twelve before the house in a
place surrounded for us by a high board fence. We lunch together
downstairs, sometimes Mamma and Alexei with us, but generally they
lunch upstairs alone in Papa’s study. In the afternoon we go out
again for half an hour if it is not too cold. Tea upstairs, and
then we read or write. Sometimes Papa reads aloud, and so goes by
every day. On Saturdays we have evening service in the big hall at
nine o’clock. Until that hour the priest has to serve in the
church. On Sundays, when we are allowed, we go to a near-by church
at eight o’clock in the morning. We go on foot through a garden,
the soldiers who came here with us standing all around. They serve
mass for us separately, and then have a mass for everybody. On
holidays, alas, we have to have small service at home. We had to
have home service on the 6th (St. Nicholas’ day), and it was sad on
such a big holiday not to be in church, but one can’t have
everything one wants, can one? I hope you at least can go to
church. How are your heart and your poor legs? Do you see the
doctor of your hospital? You remember how we used to tease you.
Greetings to your old servants. Where are your brother and his
wife? Have they got a baby? God bless you, my darling beloved. All
our letters (permitted letters) go through the Kommissar. I am glad
that the parents of Eristoff are kind to you. Him I remember well,
but I never saw the parents. Isa has not come yet. Has she been to
see you? I kiss you tenderly and love you.
Your T.
My darling dear Annia, How happy I was to hear from you. Thank you
for the letter and the things. I wrote to you yesterday. It is so
strange to be staying in the house where you stayed. Remember that
we are sending this parcel secretly, so don’t mention it. It is the
only time probably that we can do it. Yesterday’s letter I sent
through the Kommissar. I am always thinking of you, my darling. We
speak much of you among ourselves and also to Gilik, Valia, Prince
Dolgorouky, and Mr. Gibbs. I wear your bracelet and never take it
off, the one you gave me on January 12, my name day. You remember
that cozy evening by the fireside? How nice it was. Did you ever
see Groten and Linevitch?[12] Well, good-bye, my darling Annia. I
kiss you tenderly and love you.
Your T.
From the Grand Duke Alexei, December 10, 1917.
My darling, I hope you got my postcard. Thank you very, very much
for the little mushroom. Your perfumes remind us so much of you.
Every day I pray God we shall live together again. God bless you.
RIGHT
Yours, A.
From the Grand Duchess Olga on the same date.
My darling, what joy it was to see your dear handwriting, and all
the little things. Thanks awfully for all. Your perfumes reminded
us so of you, your cabin on board, etc. It was very sad. I remember
you often, kiss and love you. We four live in the corner blue
room, arranged all quite cozily. Opposite to us in the little room
is Papa’s dressing room and Alexei’s, then comes his room with
Nagori. The brown room is Papa’s and Mamma’s bedroom. Then the
sitting room, big hall, and beyond Papa’s study. When there are big
frosts it is very cold, and draughts blow from all the windows. We
were today in church. Well, I wish you a peaceful and sunny
Christmas. God bless you, darling. I kiss you over and over again.
Ever your own Olga.
From the Grand Duchess Anastasie.
My darling and dear: Thank you tenderly for your little gift. It
was so nice to have it, reminding me especially of you. We remember
and speak of you often, and in our prayers we are always together.
The little dog you gave is always with us and is very nice. We have
arranged our rooms comfortably and all four live together. We often
sit in the windows looking at the people passing, and this gives us
distraction.... We have acted little plays for amusement. We walk
in the garden behind high planks.... God bless you.
AN.
From the Empress.
My own precious child: It seems strange writing in English after
nine weary months. We are doing a risky thing sending this parcel,
but we profit through ---- who is still on the outside. Only promise
to burn all we write as it could do you endless harm if they
discovered that you were still in contact with us. Therefore don’t
judge those who are afraid to visit you, just leave time for people
to quiet down. You cannot imagine the joy of getting your sweet
letters. I have read and reread them over and over to myself and to
the others. We all share the anguish, and the misery, and the joy
to know that you are free at last. I won’t speak of what you have
gone through. Forget it, with the old name you have thrown away.
Now live again.
One has so much to say that one ends by saying nothing. I am
unaccustomed to writing anything of consequence, just short letters
or cards, nothing of consequence. Your perfume quite overcame us.
It went the round of our tea table, and we all saw you quite
clearly before us. I have no “white rose” to send you, and could
only scent the shawl with vervaine. Thanks for your own mauve
bottle, the lovely blue silk jacket, and the excellent pastilles.
The children and Father were so touched with the things you sent,
which we remember so well, and packed up at Tsarskoe. We have none
of such things with us, so alas, we have nothing to send you. I
hope you got the food through ---- and Mme. ----. I have sent you at
least five painted cards, always to be recognized by my signature.
I have always to be imagining new things!
Yes, God is wonderful and has sent you (as always) in great sorrow,
a new friend. I bless him for all that he has done for you, and I
cannot refrain from sending him an image, as to all who are kind to
you. Excuse this bad writing, but my pen is bad, and my fingers are
stiff from cold. We had the blessing of going to church at eight
o’clock this morning. They don’t always allow us to go. The maids
are not yet let in as they have no papers, so the odious commandant
doesn’t admit them. The soldiers think we already have too many
people with us. Well, thanks to all this we can still write to you.
Something good always comes out of everything.
Many things are very hard ... our hearts are ready to burst at
times. Happily there is nothing in this place that reminds us of
you. This is better than it was at home where every corner was full
of you. Ah, child, I am proud of you. Hard lessons, hard school,
but you have passed your examinations so well. Thanks, child, for
all you have said for us, for standing up for us, and for having
borne all for our own and for Russia’s sake. God alone can
recompense you, for if He has let you see horrors He has permitted
you to gaze a little into yonder world. Our souls are nearer now
than before. I feel especially near you when I am reading the
Bible. The children also are always finding texts suiting you. I am
so contented with their souls. I hope God will bless my lessons
with Baby. The ground is rich, but is the seed ripe enough? I do
try my utmost, for all my life lies in this.
Dear, I carry you always with me. I never am separated from your
ring, but at night I wear it on my bracelet as it is so loose on my
finger. After we received our Friend’s cross we got also this cross
to bear. God knows it is painful being cut off from the lives of
those dear to us, after being accustomed for years to share every
thought. But my child has grown self-dependent with time. In your
love we are always together. I wish we were so in fact, but God
knows best. One learns to forget personal desires. God is merciful
and will never forsake His children who trust Him.
I do hope this letter and parcel will reach you safely, only you
had better write and tell ---- that you get everything safely.
Nobody here must dream that we evade them, otherwise it would
injure the kind commandant and they might remove him.
I keep myself occupied ceaselessly. Lessons begin at nine (in bed).
Up at noon for religious lessons with Tatiana, Marie, Anastasie,
and Alexei. I have a German lesson three times a week with Tatiana
and once with Marie, besides reading with Tatiana. Also I sew,
embroider, and paint, with spectacles on because my eyes have
become too weak to do without them. I read “good books” a great
deal, love the Bible, and from time to time read novels. I am so
sad because they are allowed no walks except before the house and
behind a high fence. But at least they have fresh air, and we are
grateful for anything. He is simply marvelous. Such meekness while
all the time suffering intensely for the country. A real marvel.
The others are all good and brave and uncomplaining, and Alexei is
an angel. He and I dine _à deux_ and generally lunch so, but
sometimes downstairs with the others.
They don’t allow the priest to come to us for lessons, and even
during services officers, commandant and Kommissar, stand near by
to prevent any conversation between us. Strangely enough Germogene
is Bishop here, but at present he is in Moscow. We have had no news
from my old home or from England. All are well, we hear, in the
Crimea, but the Empress Dowager has grown old and very sad and
tearful. As for me my heart is better as I lead such a quiet life.
I feel utter trust and faith that all will be well, that this is
the worst, and that soon the sun will be shining brightly. But oh,
the victims, and the innocent blood yet to be shed! We fear that
Baby’s other little friend from Mogiloff who was at M. has been
killed, as his name was included among cadets killed at Moscow. Oh,
God, save Russia! That is the cry of one’s soul, morning, noon and
night. Only not that shameless peace.[13]
I hope you got yesterday’s letter through Mme. ----’s son-in-law.
How nice that you have him in charge of your affairs. Today my mind
is full of Novgorod and the awful 17th.[14] Russia must suffer for
that murder too. Dear, I am glad you see me in your dreams. I have
seen you only twice, vaguely, but some day we shall be together
again. When? I do not ask. He alone knows. How can one ask more? We
simply give thanks for every day safely ended. I hope nobody will
ever see these letters, as the smallest thing makes them react upon
us with severity. That is to say we get no church services outside
or in. The suite and the maids may leave the house only if guarded
by soldiers, so of course they avoid going. Some of the soldiers
are kind, others horrid.
Forgive this mess, but I am in a hurry and the table is crowded
with painting materials. So glad you liked my old blue book. I have
not a line of yours--all the past is a dream. One keeps only tears
and grateful memories. One by one all earthly things slip away,
houses and possessions ruined, friends vanished. One lives from day
to day. But God is in all, and nature never changes. I can see all
around me churches (long to go to them), and hills, the lovely
world. Wolkoff wheels me in my chair to church across the street
from the public garden. Some of the people bow and bless us, but
others don’t dare. All our letters and parcels are examined, but
this one today is contraband. Father and Alexei are sad to think
they have nothing to send you, and I can only clasp my weary child
in my arms and hold her there as of old. I feel old, oh, so old,
but I am still the mother of this country, and I suffer its pains
as my own child’s pains, and I love it in spite of all its sins and
horrors. No one can tear a child from its mother’s heart, and
neither can you tear away one’s country, although Russia’s black
ingratitude to the Emperor breaks my heart. Not that it is the
_whole_ country, though. God have mercy and save Russia.
Little friend, Christmas without me--up in the sixth story! My
beloved child, long ago I took you to hold in my heart and never to
be separated. In my heart is love and forgiveness for everything,
though at times I am not as patient as I ought to be. I get angry
when people are dishonest, or when they unnecessarily hurt and
offend those I love. Father, on the other hand, bears everything.
He wrote to you of his own accord. I did not ask him. Please thank
everybody who wrote to us in English. But the less _they_ know we
correspond the better, otherwise they may stop all letters.
Ever your own, A.
The increasing poverty and hardships which surrounded the exiles, to say
nothing of the lonely desolation of their lives, could not be kept out
of the Empress’s letters, although she tried to write cheerfully. I
could read, in the growing discursiveness of her contraband letters, the
disturbed and abnormal condition of her usual keen and concise mind. On
December 15, 1917, she wrote:
Dearest little one: Again I am writing to you, and you must
thank ---- and reply carefully. My maids are not yet allowed to come
to me, although they have been here eleven days. I don’t know how
it will come out. Isa (Baroness Buxhoevden, lady in waiting) is ill
again. I hear that she will be allowed in when she arrives, as she
has a _permis_, but I doubt it. I understand your wounded feelings
when she did not go to see you, but does she know your address? She
is timid, and her conscience in regard to you is not quite clear.
She remembers perhaps my words to her last Autumn that there might
come a time when she too would be taken from me and not allowed to
return. She lives in the Gorochovaia with a niece. Zizi Narishkine
(a former lady in waiting) lives in the Sergievskja, 54.
I hope you will receive the things we sent for Christmas. Anna and
Wolkoff helped me to send the parcels, the others I sent
through ----, so I make use of the opportunity to write to you. Be
sure to write when you receive them. I make a note in my book
whenever I write. I have drawn some postcards. Did you receive
them? One of these days I shall send you some flour.
It is bright sunshine and everything glitters with hoar frost.
There are such moonlight nights, it must be ideal on the hills. But
my poor unfortunates can only pace up and down the narrow yard. How
I long to take Communion. We took it last on October 22, but now
it is so awkward, one has to ask permission before doing the least
thing. I am reading Solomon and the writings of St. Seraph, every
time finding something new. How glad I am that none of your things
got lost, the albums I left with mine in the trunk. It is dreary
without them, but still better so, for it would hurt to look at
them and remember. Some thoughts one is obliged to drive away, they
are too poignant, too fresh in one’s memory. All things for us are
in the past, and what the future holds I cannot guess, but God
knows, and I have given everything into His keeping. Pray for us
and for those we love, and especially for Russia when you are at
the shrine of the “All-Hearing Virgin.” I love her beautiful face.
I have asked Chemoduroff to take out a prayer (slip of paper with
names of you all) on Sunday.
Where is your poor old Grandmamma? I often think of her in her
loneliness, and of your stories after you had been to see her. Who
will wish you a happy Christmas on the telephone? Where is Serge
and his wife? Where is Alexander Pavlovitch? Did you know that
Linewitch had married, and Groten also, straight from the Fortress?
Have you seen Mania Rebinder? This Summer they were still at
Pavlovskoie, but since we left we have heard nothing of them. Where
are Bishops Isidor and Melchisedek? Is it true that Protopopoff has
creeping paralysis? Poor old man, I understand that he has not been
able to write anything yet, his experiences being too near. Strange
are our lives, are they not? One could write volumes.
Zinaida Tolstoaia and her husband have been in Odessa for some
time. They write frequently, dear people. Rita Hitrovo is staying
with them, but she scarcely writes at all. They are expecting Lili
Dehn soon, but I have heard nothing from her for four months. One
of our wounded, Sedloff, is also in Odessa. Do you know anything of
Malama?[15] Did Eristoff give you Tatiana’s letter? Baida Apraxin
and the whole family except the husband are in Yalta. He is in
Moscow at the church conference. Professor Serge Petrovitch is also
in Moscow. Petroff was, and Konrad is, in Tsarskoe. There too is
Marie Rudiger Belaieff. Constadious, our old general, is dead. I
try to give you news of all, though you probably know more than I
do.
The children wear the brooches that Mme. Soukhomlinoff sent them.
Mine I hung over a frame. Do you ever see old Mme. Orloff? Her
grandson John was killed, and her Alexei is far away. It is sad for
the poor old woman.
I am knitting stockings for the small one (Alexei). He asked for a
pair as all his are in holes. Mine are warm and thick like the ones
I gave the wounded, do you remember? I make everything now.
Father’s trousers are torn and darned, the girls’ under-linen in
rags. Dreadful, is it not? I have grown quite gray. Anastasie, to
her despair, is now very fat, as Marie was, round and fat to the
waist, with short legs. I do hope she will grow. Olga and Tatiana
are both thin, but their hair grows beautifully so that they can go
without scarfs. Fancy that the papers say that Prince Volodia
Troubetskoy has joined Kaledin with all his men. Splendid! I am
sure that N. D.[16] will take part also now that he is serving in
Odessa. I find myself writing in English, I don’t know why. Be sure
to burn all these letters as at any time your house may be searched
again.