The Empress was an early riser. She had six dressers, of whom the chief,
Madeleine Zanoty, was an Italian by birth, whose family had long been in
the service of the Hesses. Louise Toutelberg, known as “Toutel,” the
second in authority, came from the Baltic, and there were four others.
The dressers had three days’ service, but none of them ever saw the
Empress undressed or in her bath. She rose and went to her bath
unassisted, and slipped on a Japanese kimono of silk or printed cotton
over her undergarments when she was ready to have her hair arranged. The
Empress was extraordinarily modest in her disarray, and in this the
Victorian influence was again discernible, as her conception of the
bedroom was à-la-mode de Windsor and Buckingham Palace in 1840. She did
not countenance the filmy and theatrical, either in her lingerie or in
her sleeping apartment; her underwear was of the finest linen,
beautifully embroidered, but otherwise plain. Her red-gold hair was
never touched with curling irons, and it was usually very simply
dressed, except when great State functions called for a more elaborate
coiffure.
The bedroom of the Emperor and the Empress was a large room with two
tall windows opening on to the Park. It was on the ground floor, as,
owing to the Empress’s heart complaint, she found the exertion of
ascending any stairs very exhausting. A lift in the corridor
communicated with the nurseries, but during the Revolution the water
supply was cut off, and the lift stopped working. Nevertheless the
Empress insisted upon mounting the stairs to visit the invalid Grand
Duchesses, and I always accompanied her, going behind her, and propping
her up at each step. It brought tears to my eyes when I saw how ill she
was, but she was determined not to miss a single chance of seeing her
beloved children.
A large double bed made of lightish wood was near the windows, between
which stood the Empress’s dressing-table. At the right of the bed was a
little door in the wall, leading to a tiny dark chapel lighted by
hanging lamps, where the Empress was wont to pray. This chapel contained
a table, and a praying-stand on which were a Bible and an ikon of
Christ. This ikon was afterwards given to me by Her Majesty, in memory
of the days which we spent together at Tsarkoe Selo, and is one of my
most treasured possessions to-day.
The furniture in the Imperial bedroom was in flowered tapestry, and the
carpet was a plain coloured soft pile. The Emperor’s dressing-room was
separated from the bedroom by the corridor, and on the other side were
the Empress’s dressing-room and bathroom--but, alas! for her rumoured
extravagances and her “odd” fancies! The bathroom was no luxurious place
of silver and marble, but an old-fashioned bath set in a dark recess,
and the Empress, with her Victorian love of neatness, insisted that the
bath was hidden during the day under a loose cretonne cover. There was
a fireplace in the dressing-room, and the dressers waited in the next
room until the Empress required their services. The Empress’s gowns were
kept here, and another room full of large cupboards (half-way up the
staircase leading to the nurseries) was given over to the use of those
maids whose especial duty it was to iron and renovate Her Majesty’s
clothes.
The Empress favoured long, pointed footgear with very low heels: she
usually wore suède, bronze or white shoes, never satin. “I can’t bear
satin shoes, they worry me,” she would say. Her gowns, except those worn
by her on State occasions, were very simple; she liked blouses and
skirts, and she was greatly addicted to tea-gowns: her taste in dress
was as refined as that of Queen Mary of England; like her she
disapproved strongly of exaggerated fashions, and I shall not easily
forget her condemnation when I once came to see her wearing a “hobble”
skirt.
“Do you really like this skirt, Lili?” asked the Empress.
“Well ... Madame,” I said helplessly, “c’est la mode.”
“It is no use whatever as a skirt,” she answered. “Now, Lili, prove to
me that it is comfortable--run, Lili, run, and let me see how fast you
can cover the ground in it.”
Needless to say, I never wore a “hobble” skirt again.
The Empress has been accused of a mania for precious stones. I never saw
any signs of it: true, she had quantities of magnificent jewels, but
these possessions were consequent upon her position as Empress. She was
fond of rings and bracelets, and she always wore a certain ring set
with one immense pearl, and a jewelled cross. Some writers assert that
this cross was set with emeralds, but I do not agree. I am sure that the
stones were sapphires, and, as I saw it every day, I fancy I am correct.
The Empress had soft, well-shaped hands, but they were neither small nor
useless hands, and she never had her nails polished, as the Emperor
detested highly polished and super-manicured nails.
At nine o’clock the Empress breakfasted with the Emperor; it was a
simple meal à l’Anglaise, and after breakfast she went upstairs to see
the children. Then Anna Virouboff arrived, and, if certain interviews
were imperative, these were usually given during the morning, but, if
the Empress found herself “free,” she went to inspect her training
college for domestic nurses, which was arranged entirely on English
lines. She had great faith in the value of English-trained nurses for
children, and she put all her usual “thoroughness” into the working and
management of this institution.
Lunch was at one o’clock, and at twelve-thirty on Sundays; but when, as
it often happened, the Empress was indisposed, she either lunched in her
boudoir or alone with the Tsarevitch. After lunch the Empress walked, or
drove herself in a little open carriage. Tea was at five, but sometimes
receptions were held between lunch and tea. The Imperial Family all met
at tea, which was quite “en famille”; and dinner, which was at 8
o’clock, was often a movable feast in the literal sense of the word. The
Emperor disliked dining in one special room, so a table was carried to
whichever room he happened to fancy that evening. Dinner over (and it
was a very simple dinner) the Imperial Family spent the remainder of the
evening together, and the Grand Duchesses, who had a _flair_ for
puzzles, usually indulged in puzzle-making: sometimes the Emperor read
aloud whilst his daughters and their mother worked. It was the homely
life of a united family--but a life with which the great world was not
in sympathy; in fact a Russian writer did not hesitate to state openly
that “it would have been better for Russia’s felicity if the Empress had
succumbed to the many frailties which were attributed to Catherine II.”
It is ironical to dwell on such an opinion when one remembers how the
newspapers and the general public condemned her association with
Rasputin. But had she been Catherine II, it is possible that this
“frailty” might have been considered necessary for the “felicity” of
Russia!
The Empress’s boudoir, known as “Le Cabinet Mauve de l’Imperatrice,” was
a lovely room, in which the Empress’s partiality for all shades of mauve
was apparent. In spring-time and winter the air was fragrant with masses
of lilac and lilies of the valley, which were sent daily from the
Riviera. Lovely pictures adorned the walls--and one of the Annunciation,
and another of St. Cecilia, faced a portrait of the Empress’s mother,
the late Princess Alice of England, Grand Duchess of Hesse-Darmstadt.
The furniture was mauve and white, Heppelwaite in style, and there were
various “cosy corners.” On a large table stood many family photographs,
that of Queen Victoria occupying the place of honour.
The other private drawing-room was a large room, decorated and
upholstered in shades of green, and the Empress had arranged in one
corner a sort of tiny staircase and a balcony, which was always full of
violets in the spring. In this room were pictures of herself and the
Emperor, and some exquisite miniatures of the Grand Duchesses by
Kaulbach, that of Marie being especially beautiful.
Books were everywhere; the Empress was a prolific reader, but she was
chiefly addicted to serious literature, and she knew the Bible from
cover to cover. The library was next the green drawing-room, and here
all the newest books and magazines were placed on a round table, and
constantly changed for others in the order of their publication.
The Empress was a great letter-writer, and she wrote her letters
wherever she fancied. Her writing-table proper was in the room next her
bedroom, but I have often seen her writing letters on a pad in her lap,
and she invariably used a fountain-pen. Before the war she wrote daily
to a great friend in Germany, and she always read this lady’s letters to
me. Her stationery, like her lingerie, was plain, but stamped with her
cypher and the Imperial Crown.
Apropos of her fondness for lilac and lilies of the valley, I may
mention that the Empress loved all flowers, her especial favourites
being lilies, magnolias, wistaria, rhododendrons, freesias and violets.
A love of flowers is usually akin to a love of perfumes, and the Empress
was no exception to the rule. She generally used Atkinson’s White Rose;
it was, she said, “clean” as a perfume, and “infinitely sweet”--as an
eau-de-toilette, she favoured Verveine.
When I first knew the Empress, she did not smoke, but during the
Revolution she smoked cigarettes: I fancy they soothed her overwrought
nerves.
The Empress always kept a diary, but I shall presently relate how it
became my duty to burn her diaries, also those of Princess Sofia
Orbeliani and Anna Virouboff; and last, but not least in sentimental
interest, all the letters which the Emperor had sent her during their
engagement and married life.
Dr. Botkin, the devoted friend and physician to the family, was
introduced to me by Anna Virouboff, and I liked him exceedingly. He was
a clever, liberal-minded man, and, although his political views were
opposed to those of the Imperialists, he became so devoted to the
Emperor that his once cherished views mattered little to him.
I think, from my description, which possesses the merit of accuracy,
that it will be recognised what simplicity of life surrounded the rulers
of one of the greatest Empires the world has ever known. Simplicity
characterised all their doings, the simplicity which was to prove their
undoing. The Imperial pair wished to lead the lives of private
individuals; they imagined that it was possible. In Russia it has never
been popular or possible for a Tsar to be human; he was an emblem, a
representative of crystallised traditions; he united in himself the
rôles of the Father of his people and the splendid, all-conquering,
unapproachable Tsar. An Emperor or an Empress in mufti, so to speak,
never yet appealed to popular imagination, and, just as the English
cottager preserved and venerated the horrible “royal” oleographs of
Queen Victoria, so did the Russian peasant venerate similar oleographs
of the Emperor and his Consort. Neither cottager nor peasant would have
understood or cared to possess “family” photographs of their rulers.
Popular imagination has ever been appealed to by scarlet and ermine,
golden crowns, and kingly sceptres. It doesn’t understand or value
anything else.
In the March following the birth of Titi, the Empress wrote and told me
that she was anxious to see her godson, then nine months old. So I went
with him to Tsarkoe Selo, where the Grand Duchesses made much of him,
and used to take it in turns to bath him. We took up our quarters in
Anna’s house, where the Empress had personally superintended the
arrangement of the baby’s room, and she sent his cot, of which she
crocheted the hangings and coverlet herself. She spent hours with the
child, playing with him, “snapshotting” him, and, after our first visit,
I was constantly “commanded” to “come and bring the baby.” I remember
that, when I once missed the train, and arrived too late for lunch, the
Empress, who was waiting for me, noticed my fatigue, and ordered tea.
She took Titi on her lap, and saying, “Well ... Lili, you do look hungry
and tired,” she fed me with pieces of sandwiches, pressing them on me
much in the same way that a mother soothes a tired child. But she was
ever “plus mère que mère, plus Russe que Russe,” but her love of country
was only for Russia and England. She had, and I say it with absolute
conviction, no love for Germany as her “Motherland.” She liked
Darmstadt, because to her it represented home, but she manifested no
interest in any other part of Germany.
My friendship with the Empress increased as the months passed. That
autumn the Imperial Family went to Livadia, and I stayed with my uncle,
going constantly to and from the Palace. The first day I saw the Empress
in Livadia she gave me an entire layette for Titi which she had made
herself. I had wondered why she had telegraphed for his
measurements--now I knew! She would often call at my uncle’s and take
the baby with her for a drive. The little thing got to know her well,
and one day, looking at her photograph, he said “Baby”; so after this
the Empress of Russia was known to Titi by her own wish, _tout
simplement_, in English, as “Aunt Baby.” He always called her “Aunt
Baby,” and in many of her letters she alludes to herself by this pet
name, but, needless to say, the favour shown to me and my child by the
Imperial Family was the source of much comment at Court.
On one point my mind was made up. I determined never to allow any ideas
of preferment or material advantage to spoil what was to me a condition
of great happiness. My husband entirely agreed, and he declined to
consider any mention of the posts which were from time to time spoken of
in connection with him. As for myself, the Empress understood and
appreciated my outlook. “You can always be my _friend_ if matters remain
as they are,” she said. “I don’t want to lose my Lili in an official
personage.”
We were very happy in those days. The Grand Duchesses were fast leaving
childhood behind them and blossoming into charming girls; they did not
greatly resemble one another, each was a type apart, but all were
equally lovely in disposition. I cannot believe that any men so inhuman
existed as those who, it is said, shot and stabbed those defenceless
creatures in the house of death at Ekaterinburg. Apart from their
beauty, their sweetness should have pleaded for them, but, if it is true
that they have “passed,” then surely no better epitaph could be theirs
than the immortal words, “Lovely and pleasant were they in their lives,
and in their death they were not divided.”
The Grand Duchess Olga was the eldest of these four fair sisters. She
was a most amiable girl, and people loved her from the moment they set
eyes on her. As a child she was plain, at fifteen she was beautiful. She
was slightly above middle height, with a fresh complexion, deep blue
eyes, quantities of light chestnut hair, and pretty hands and feet. She
took life seriously, and she was a clever girl with a sweet disposition.
I think she possessed unusual strength of character, and at one time she
was mentioned as a possible bride for the Crown Prince of Roumania. But
the Grand Duchess did not like him, and, as the Crown Prince liked the
Grand Duchess Marie better than her sister, nothing came of the project.
The sisters loved each other, and united in a passionate adoration for
the Tsarevitch. In a recent book published in England, the Grand
Duchesses have been described as Cinderellas, who were entirely
subservient in family life owing to the attention paid the Tsarevitch.
This is untrue. It is a fact that the Empress ardently desired a son,
and that the birth of four daughters in succession was a disappointment
to her, but she loved her daughters, they were her inseparable
companions, and their plain and rather strict upbringing had nothing
whatever of the Cinderella element.
The Grand Duchess Tatiana was as charming as her sister Olga, but in a
different way. She has been described as proud, but I never knew anyone
less so. With her, as with her mother, shyness and reserve were
accounted as pride, but, once you knew her and had gained her affection,
this reserve disappeared, and the real Tatiana became apparent. She was
a poetical creature, always yearning for the ideal, and dreaming of
great friendships which might be hers. The Emperor loved her devotedly,
they had much in common, and the sisters used to laugh, and say that, if
a favour were required, “Tatiana must ask Papa to grant it.” She was
very tall, and excessively thin, with a cameo-like profile, deep blue
eyes, and dark chestnut hair ... a lovely “Rose” maiden, fragile and
pure as a flower.
All the Grand Duchesses were innocent children in their souls. Nothing
impure was ever allowed to come into their lives--the Empress was very
strict over the books which they read, which were mostly by English
authors. They had no idea of the ugly side of life, although, poor
girls, they were destined to see the worst side of it and to come in
contact with the most debased passions of humanity! And yet it has been
stated that the Empress, in her neurotic, religious exaltation, gave
each of her daughters to Rasputin. Knowing her, knowing the Emperor,
and knowing the daughters as I did, such an assertion savours of the
monstrous; it has even been circulated that Mlle. Tutcheff objected to
Rasputin being admitted to the Grand Duchesses’ bedchamber to give them
his nightly blessing after they had retired to bed, and that, as her
protest was disregarded, she sent in her resignation. Mlle. Tutcheff was
never governess to the Grand Duchesses, and she never witnessed
Rasputin’s nightly blessing, inasmuch as it never took place. The
Emperor would never have permitted such a thing, even had the Empress
wished it, and she certainly did not consider such a proceeding
necessary for her daughters’ salvation. Mlle. Tutcheff was the victim of
her own spite and jealousy. She was not a very pleasant person, and,
whenever the Imperial Family went to Livadia, she usually made herself
very disagreeable, as she thoroughly disliked the Crimea. Continual
grumbling wears away the patience of most people; the Empress was only
human, and Mlle. Tutcheff was first given a holiday and then dismissed
by the Grande Maîtresse de la Cour.
Mlle. Tutcheff did not hesitate to spread all kinds of vindictive
rumours to account for her dismissal. She was too small-minded to state
the real facts, and, as l’affaire Rasputin was generally spoken about,
she decided to vent her spite on the Empress through this medium. I
again assert that there is no truth in the legend of Rasputin’s nightly
blessing.
When I first knew the Grand Duchess Marie, she was quite a child, but
during the Revolution she became very devoted to me, and I to her, and
we spent most of our time together--she was a wonderful girl, possessed
of tremendous reserve force, and I never realised her unselfish nature
until those dreadful days. She too was exceeding fair, dowered with the
classic beauty of the Romanoffs; her eyes were dark blue, shaded by long
lashes, and she had masses of dark brown hair. Marie was plump, and the
Empress often teased her about this; she was not so lively as her
sisters, but she was much more decided in her outlook. The Grand Duchess
Marie knew at once what she wanted, and why she wanted it.
Anastasie, the youngest Grand Duchess, might have been composed of
quicksilver, instead of flesh and blood; she was most amusing, and she
was a very clever mimic. She saw the humorous side of everything, and
she was very fond of acting; indeed, Anastasie would have made an
excellent comedy actress. She was always in mischief, a regular tom-boy,
but she was not backward in her development, as M. Gilliard once stated.
Anastasie was only sixteen at the time of the Revolution--no great age
after all! She was pretty, but hers was more of a clever face, and her
eyes were wells of intelligence.
All the sisters were utterly devoid of pride, and, when they nursed the
wounded during the war, they were known as the Sisters Romanoff, and
thus answered to the numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4.
The Grand Duchesses occupied two bedrooms; Olga and Tatiana shared one,
Marie and Anastasie the other. These apartments were large and light,
decorated and furnished in green and white. The sisters slept on camp
beds--a custom dating back to the reign of Alexander I, who decreed
that the daughters of the Emperor were not to sleep on more comfortable
beds until they married. Ikons hung in the corners of the rooms, and
there were pretty dressing-tables, and couches with embroidered
cushions. The Grand Duchesses were fond of pictures and
photographs--there were endless snapshots taken by themselves, those
from their beloved Crimea being especially in evidence.
A large room, divided by a curtain, served as dressing-room and bathroom
for the Grand Duchesses. One half of the room was full of cupboards, and
in the other half stood the large bath of solid silver. The Grand
Duchesses had departed from their mother’s simple ideas, and, when they
bathed at night, the water was perfumed and softened with almond bran.
Like their mother, they were addicted to perfumes, and always used those
of Coty. Tatiana favoured “Jasmin de Corse”; Olga, “Rose Thé”; Marie
constantly changed her perfumes, but was more or less faithful to lilac,
and Anastasie never deviated from violette.
The Grand Duchesses’ attendants were a compromise between dressers,
maids and nurses. They were all girls of good family, the most favoured
being Mlle. Tegeleff, known as “Shoura”; the other two were “Elizabeth”
and “Neouta.” The Empress--once again Victorian--was very desirous for
these girls to wear caps, but they declined respectfully but firmly to
do so, and she did not press the matter. The Grand Duchesses liked their
attendants, and often used to help them tidy the rooms and make the
beds! Unlike their mother, but like most Russians, the four sisters
showed a predilection for dress, but the Empress had her own ideas on
the subject, and she chose and ordered all their clothes. As children,
the girls were dressed alike, but later the two eldest wore similar
gowns, and the next two were dressed, so to speak, “to match.” The only
frivolity which the Empress tolerated lay in her daughters’
dressing-gowns, which carried out the colours of the regiments of which
they were colonels, and the Grand Duchesses were very proud of their
dressing-gowns and their regiments. They were always present at parades,
when they wore the uniform of their regiments, and this excitement was
one of their chief pleasures.
The sisters led most ordinary, uneventful lives; their exalted station
never troubled them. With true courtesy they always made me pass out of
a room before them, there was no ceremony, no fuss--they were the
dearest, most affectionate girls, and I loved them all. The Grand
Duchesses rose early, and were soon occupied with their lessons. After
morning lessons they walked with the Emperor, and between lunch and tea
they again went out with him. They spoke Russian, English or a little
French, _never_ German, and, although they danced well, they had not
much chance to do so, unless the Imperial Family went to the Crimea,
then Princess Marie Bariatinsky always arranged a series of dances for
them.
The motive power in the lives of these charming children was family
love. They had no thought apart from their home. Their affection was
lavished on their father and mother, their brother and a few friends.
Their parents were their paramount consideration. With the “children,”
as we called them, it was always a question of “Would Papa like it?” “Do
you think this or that would please Mama?”--and they always alluded to
their father and mother by the simple Russian words of Mama and Papa.
The Tsarevitch, that Child of many Prayers, one of the most pathetic
figures in this tragedy of innocence, was born in 1904, and he was a
healthy baby weighing eleven pounds at the time of his birth; many of
the stories about his delicacy of constitution which have been given to
the world are very exaggerated, especially the one which insists that
the Nihilists mutilated the child when he was on the Imperial yacht. No
such mutilation ever took place. The Tsarevitch certainly suffered from
the hereditary trouble of thin blood-vessels, which first became
apparent after a fall in Spala, but he was otherwise a normally healthy
boy, and at the time of the Revolution he was really getting much
stronger and much freer from the complaint. I know he was ailing at
Tobolsk and Ekaterinburg, but that is hardly to be wondered at!
In appearance he resembled his sister Tatiana: he had the same fine
features, and her beautiful blue eyes; he loved his sisters, and they
adored him, and patiently submitted to his teasing. The Tsarevitch was a
lively, amusing boy, with a wonderful ear for music, and he played well
on the _balalika_: like Tatiana he was shy, but, once he knew and liked
anyone, this shyness vanished.
The Empress insisted upon her son being brought up, like his sisters, in
a perfectly natural way. There was no ceremonial in the daily life of
the Tsarevitch: he was merely a son, and a brother to his family,
although it was sometimes quaint to see him assume “grown up” airs. One
day, when he was indulging in a romp with the Grand Duchesses, he was
told that some officers of his regiment had arrived at the Palace and
begged permission to be received by him.
The Tsarevitch instantly ceased his game, and, calling his sisters, he
said very gravely: “Now, girls, run away. I am busy. Someone has just
called to see me on business.”
He adored his mother, and her passionate devotion to him is world-known,
although, like many other things, this devotion has been used as a
weapon against her. To the Empress, the Tsarevitch represented the
direct result of prayer, the Divine condescension of God, the crowning
joy of her marriage. Surely, if she manifested undue anxiety over him,
she only did what all mothers have done, and will do until the end of
time. There was certainly some subtle sympathy between mother and son:
she was all that was lovely and beloved to him, and I especially
remember one typical instance of this devotion:
My husband and I had been dining with the Imperial Family, and after
dinner the Emperor suggested that we should accompany them to the
Tsarevitch’s bedroom, as the Empress always went thither to bid him good
night and hear him say his prayers. It was a pretty sight to watch the
child and his mother, and listen to his simple prayers, but, when the
Empress rose to go, we suddenly found ourselves in complete
darkness--the Tsarevitch had switched off the electric light over his
bed!
“Why have you done this, Baby?” asked the Empress. “Oh,” answered the
child, “it’s only light for me, Mama, when you are here. It’s always
quite dark when you have gone.”
He loved his father, and the Emperor’s great wish in the “happy days”
was to undertake his son’s education himself: this, for many reasons,
was impossible, and Mr. Gibbs and M. Gilliard were his first tutors.
Later, under very different conditions, the Emperor was enabled to carry
out his wish. In the gloomy house at Tobolsk, he taught the Tsarevitch,
and in the squalor and misery of Ekaterinburg the lessons still
continued; but perhaps the greatest lesson learnt by the Tsarevitch and
the other members of the unfortunate family was that of Faith: for faith
sustained them, and strengthened them at a time when riches and friends
had fled and they found themselves betrayed by the very country which
had been all in all to them.
The Tsarevitch had various playmates--all sorts and conditions of boys
shared his games: there were the two sons of his sailor-servant, two
peasant boys with whom he was on friendly and affectionate terms, and my
“Titi,” who ran about with him, upsetting everything, and thoroughly
enjoying himself. The Heir to the Throne was as courteous as his
sisters. One day the Empress and I were sitting in the mauve boudoir,
when we heard the excited voices of the Tsarevitch and Titi in the next
room.
“I believe they’re quarrelling,” said the Empress, and she went to the
door and listened to what the children were saying. Then she turned to
me laughing. “Why they’re not quarrelling, Lili. Alexis is insisting
that Titi shall come into the mauve room first, and the good Titi won’t
hear of it!”
If the Tsarevitch had any peculiarities, I think the most striking was a
decided penchant for hoarding. Many descendants of the Coburgs have been
unusually thrifty, and perhaps the Tsarevitch inherited this trait.
While thrifty he was really a most generous child, although he hoarded
his things to such an extent that the Emperor often teased him
unmercifully. During the sugar shortage he saved his allowance of sugar,
which he gravely distributed among his friends. He was fond of animals,
and his spaniel, “Joy,” has happily found a home in England: his chief
pet at Tsarkoe was an ugly sandy and white kitten, which he once brought
from G.H.Q. This kitten he christened Zoubrovka, and bestowed a collar
and a bell on it as a signal mark of affection. “Zoubrovka” was no
respecter of palaces, and he used to wage war with the Grand Duchess
Tatiana’s bulldog “Artipo,” and light-heartedly overthrow all the family
photographs in the Tsaritsa’s boudoir. But “Zoubrovka” was a privileged
kitten, and I have often wondered what became of him when the Imperial
Family were taken to Tobolsk.
All the children were fond of animals. The Grand Duchess Tatiana’s pet
was a bulldog called “Artipo,” who slept in her bedroom, much to the
annoyance of the Grand Duchess Olga, who disliked its propensity for
snoring. The Grand Duchess Marie favoured a Siamese cat, and, the year
before the Revolution, Anna Virouboff gave a little Pekinese dog to the
Grand Duchess Anastasie.
This little creature had a tragic history. Curiously enough many people
said that “Jimmi” seemed an unlucky dog; but he was a sweet little
creature, whose tiny legs were so short that he could not walk up or
down stairs. The Grand Duchess Anastasie always carried him, and “Jimmi”
lavished a Pekinese devotion on her and her sisters.
“Jimmi” went with the family to Tobolsk, and he is now identified in
history with their fate. According to one account, his corpse was found,
preserved in ice, at the top of the disused mine shaft; another writer
has it that “Jimmi” defended his friends in the cellar at Ekaterinburg,
barking defiance at the murderers, and guarding Tatiana’s fainting body
until they were both killed. His skeleton is said to have been
discovered later in a clump of undergrowth, and subsequently identified
by its size and by a bullet hole in the skull.
He was a dear little dog, and probably, could he have spoken, he would
have desired no better fate than to perish with those in whose fortunes
and affections he had equally participated.
The Emperor greatly resembled King George V in appearance, but his eyes
were unforgettable; and those of his cousin, although fine, do not
possess the expression peculiar to the eyes of the Emperor. It was a
combination of melancholy, sweetness, resignation and tragedy: Nicholas
II seemed as if he saw into the tragic future, but he also seemed to see
the Heaven that lies beyond this earth. He was “God’s good man.” I can
give no higher praise, render him no more fitting homage.
He was essentially charming: when you were with him you forgot the
Emperor in the individual; he made formality impossible. He loved to
tease people, and I came in for my full share of this propensity. One
day when I was out walking at Livadia, several carriages passed me, but
I did not especially notice their occupants. The next evening when I was
dining at the Palace, the Emperor addressed me in grave tones:
“_Lili--ce n’est pas bien, vous comprenez, mais ne pas reconnaitre vos
amis_.”
“_Mais, Votre Majesté, qu’est que vous voulez dire?_”
“Well,” said the Emperor, “you _cut_ me yesterday.”
“Votre Majesté, it’s impossible!”
“Ah ... it’s quite possible, Lili. I drove past you, and bowed to you
many times, but you wouldn’t recognise me. Tell me in what I’ve offended
you.” And he continued to tease me until I felt ready to die with
confusion. He loved his wife: no one has ever dared dispute the quality
of the affection which existed between them; theirs was an ideal
love-marriage, and when their love was tried in the furnace of
affliction it was not found wanting.
Nicholas II had been reproached for his weakness of character, but this
weakness was not weakness in the literal sense. The Empress, who was
fully aware of what was said concerning the Emperor and herself, once
told me how utterly people misunderstood her husband. “He is accused of
weakness,” she said bitterly. “He is the strongest--not the weakest. I
assure you, Lili, that it cost the Emperor a tremendous effort to
subdue the attacks of rage to which the Romanoffs are subject. He has
learnt the hard lesson of self-control, only to be called weak; people
forget that the greatest conqueror is he who conquers himself.”
On another occasion she remarked that she knew that the Emperor and
herself were blamed for not surrounding themselves with genuine people.
“It’s an extraordinary thing, Lili,” she said, “we’ve tried to find
genuine advisers for the last twenty years, but we’ve never found them.
I wonder whether any exist!”
The Empress always resented the cruel slanders which were circulated
about the Emperor.
“I wonder they don’t accuse him of being too good: that, at least, would
be true!” she cried.
As for herself, she troubled little.
“Why do people want to discuss me,” she said. “Why _can’t_ they leave me
alone!” Again: “Why will people insist that I am pro-German? I have
spent twenty years in Germany, and twenty years in Russia. My interests,
and my son’s future lie in Russia: how, therefore, can I be anything but
Russian?”
The Empress has been censured for exerting undue influence over her
husband, and this “pernicious” influence has made her the scapegoat for
all the ills which have befallen Russia. But her “influence” was merely
that of a good woman over a man. If she influenced the Emperor in any
other way, it was done unconsciously. I will never believe otherwise,
although, in making this assertion, I shall perhaps be confronted with
all kinds of hostile criticism. It will be asked by what right I dare
defend a woman who has been tried and found guilty. But I dare to do so.
True, I am a person whose name is entirely unknown to the general
public, but it cannot be disputed by those who knew life at Tsarkoe Selo
and Petrograd that I was honoured by the Empress’s friendship and
confidence.
The Emperor shared his wife’s “thoroughness”; he never believed anything
until (were it possible) he had tried it for himself. During the war, a
new uniform was submitted for the Emperor’s approval; he determined to
test its qualities, and he walked for twenty miles wearing it, in order
to see what weight was possible to carry with it. The sentinels failed
to recognise the Emperor when he passed them wearing the sample
“Tommy’s” kit, a fact which greatly amused him; but, as a result of his
practical experiment, the uniform (with certain alterations suggested by
the Emperor) was “passed.”
The Empress put her husband first in everything--it was always “The
Emperor wishes it,” “The Emperor says so”; she was very tender towards
him, the maternal element was apparent in her love even for her husband:
she took care of him, but perhaps this arose chiefly from a feeling that
he suffered by reason of his love for her.
As husband and wife they were indeed one. They only asked happiness of
life. The Emperor’s tastes were of the simplest, the Empress was shy and
retiring--both their dispositions were similar--and this similarity of
tastes, ideal in the usual walks of life, was fatal to both of them as
rulers. By this I do not for one moment wish to infer that they shirked
their responsibilities: far from it, they were always ready to assume
them, but they forgot that the times were out of joint, that it was
their duty always to live in the fierce light that beats upon a throne.
I do not think that by so doing they could have saved Russia. The case
of Nicholas II and Alexandra of Russia is almost parallel with that of
Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. The Russian monarchs, like their French
prototypes, were called upon to reign over a country ripe for
Revolution, whose dragon’s teeth had been sown by the vicious hands of
their predecessors. France boasted as extravagant and exotic a society
as that of Russia: the writing was already to be seen on the walls of
Versailles and the Winter Palace, but the Sovereigns of Then and Now
heeded it not. Louis XVI wanted to be left alone in his workroom, to
make locks and to mend watches, and Marie Antoinette sighed for the
simple pleasures of the Trianon and the pastoral joys of a farmer’s
wife.
Nicholas II did not care to be a locksmith, he merely wished to live the
quiet life of a well-bred gentleman: chivalrous by nature, he (and here
an English writer is correct) came nearer the British public-school idea
than any other. The Empress did not require a Trianon, she wanted a
home; but, although she loved Russia, Russia was always antagonistic to
her. This she never realised, any more than she recognised the fact that
the peasant class never wanted her to try and understand them.
The Emperor was a clever man, and he possessed that wonderful memory for
faces peculiar to his uncle, King Edward VII. On one occasion when my
husband was presented to the Emperor after receiving some special
decoration, a colonel of a Siberian regiment also attended the Levée.
The Emperor stretched out his hand to the colonel. “Surely I’ve seen you
before?” he enquired. “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Well, but _where_?”
continued the Emperor, in puzzled tones; then brightening, “Ah, I know,”
he said, “I met you twelve years ago when I passed through Saratof.”
The chief pleasures of the Emperor were those appertaining to an outdoor
life. He was a good shot, fond of all kinds of sport, and his hands were
exceptionally powerful. Boating was a favourite amusement; he liked to
row in a small boat, or paddle a canoe, and the Emperor passed hours and
hours on the water when the Imperial Family were staying at Shker, in
Finland.
Both the Emperor and the Empress disliked the Kaiser. I say this with
perfect sincerity, and in all truth. They rarely mentioned his name
before the war, and I know that his love of theatrical displays appealed
to neither of them. In 1903 the Emperor William arrived in his yacht at
Reval to witness a military review. The “Standart” with the Emperor of
Russia aboard was also at Reval. After the Kaiser had paid a formal call
on the Emperor, signals passed between the two yachts.
“What’s all this?” asked the Emperor.
An officer enlightened him.
“Your Majesty,” said he, “the signal from the ‘Hohenzollern’ says: ‘The
Emperor of the Atlantic salutes the Emperor of the Pacific.’”
The Emperor looked cross.
“Oh, that’s it--well reply ‘Thank you’--that’s quite enough.”
The Kaiser did not shine as a visitor to the “Standart”; the first thing
he did was to shake hands indiscriminately, a proceeding which caused
much amusement and confusion, and everyone was heartily glad when the
“Emperor of the Atlantic” took his departure.
The Grand Duchesses disliked any mention of the Kaiser, but some of the
officers used to tease them about him. The usual question of any
privileged arrival at Tsarkoe Selo was: “Well, how is Uncle Willie
to-day?” And the invariable answer was: “No--no--he’s not our Uncle
Willie--we don’t want to hear his name.”
Russia has been described as a country of tears and misery during the
war, but this is incorrect. The peasants were never so rich as at this
time, and there was no discontent in the country districts; the wives
received big allowances, and they earned extra money for themselves
without any difficulty. Every boy indulged in high patent-leather boots,
every girl spent money on dress. There were certainly tears for the
fallen, but there was no material misery in Russia.
The Emperor had made great plans to help those disabled in the service
of their country. His idea was to give all wounded, disabled or
decorated soldiers gifts of Crown Lands at the end of the war. He
planned various land reforms, but the Revolutionaries incited the
landlords against him by telling them that the Emperor was going to be
generous at their expense, and not at his own!
It is impossible for an English public to realise the plots and
counter-plots which existed in Russia. The Empress, on many occasions,
barely escaped with her life; she was unpopular with all classes, but
she was unable, mercifully, to estimate the quality of the hatred meted
out to her. I do not think there is a single charge that has not been
laid at her door; she is credited with hysteria, religious mania,
pro-Germanism, the qualities of a Judas, the morals of a Messalina; she
has been described as the intriguing, strong-minded consort of a weak
man, a willing tool of an infamous sensualist, as well as being a
half-witch, and a half-mystic. The real Tsaritsa, firm in her
convictions, the devoted wife, mother and friend, is unknown. Her acts
of charity have been misconstrued, her religion has been made her shame,
the very nationality which she so willingly relinquished has become an
unmerited reproach. She knew and read all the reports concerning her,
but, although anonymous letters sought to vilify her, and journalism
bespattered her with filth, nothing touched her serenity of soul.
I have seen her grow pale, and I have watched her eyes slowly fill with
tears when something exceptionally vile came under her notice. But
Alexandra Feodrovna was able to see the stars shining far above the mud
of the streets.