CHAPTER VI

I have dealt with the subject of Rasputin before touching on that of the

War, but his name is also connected with the War, as he is supposed to

have been a German spy, and to have encouraged the alleged pro-German

leanings of the Empress. Although I shall always adhere to my original

belief that Rasputin was an unconscious agent of the Revolutionaries, I

cannot deny that he was against the War, and always desirous of peace,

but this attitude was due to his own wishes and convictions. I asked

Rasputin in 1915 when he thought the war would be over. “Not yet....

Don’t expect the war to be over yet,” he answered; and in 1916, when I

returned from Reval, I asked the Empress the same question. “Not yet,

Lili, not yet,” she said. Both these replies might serve to show how

little was the political influence either of the Empress or of Rasputin.

As an individual, doubtless the Empress desired peace: as a Russian, she

could not possibly have desired the victory of Germany.

There was great excitement in 1914 throughout Russia; everyone hoped

that England would come in, especially in naval circles, who were well

aware of the weakness of the Russian fleet.

The excitement increased when Russia became the ally of France. The

Imperial band played the hymns of the Allies daily; there was no

question of pro-Germanism at Court--Russia, as befitting her great

traditions, was fighting the good fight!

My husband was ordered to escort the Imperial Family to sea on the

“Standart,” and I knew that I must therefore spend my birthday without

him. One evening, when we were sitting in the Park making plans for a

belated celebration, my husband was accosted by one of the heads of his

Department. “Dehn ...” said he ... “go at once to the Commander of the

Port ... you’re wanted.”

Upon his return my husband was very excited. “Lili,” he cried, “I have

received orders to join Admiral Essen’s fleet. I must leave almost

immediately.” It was, indeed, “almost immediately,” for at 3 a.m. my

husband bade me good-bye.

The Empress sent me a note directly she knew that Charles had left. “I

hope everything will be all right,” she wrote. “Poor Lili, don’t

despair.”

I tried _not_ to despair, and, like most wives at this time, I kept a

smiling face, although I was perilously near tears. Every day the

Military Council was in consultation with the Emperor, and, on the

evening before the declaration of war, I knew that mobilization had been

decided upon.

The Emperor firmly believed that Russia was amply supplied with

munitions. He had been assured on this point by the Grand Duke Nicholas

and General Soukhomlinoff. Soukhomlinoff knew that the ammunition of the

Russian army was insufficient, but he still continued to reassure the

Emperor and the Allies. The Grand Duke Nicholas, who was far from

blameless ... instigated a Special Commission under the presidency of

the Grand Duke Serge, with the declared object of providing the army

with the requisite munitions. But three months passed, and nothing was

done. Even when certain supplies of munitions arrived at the Front,

these were useless, as they would not fit the guns and musketry which

required them! The Emperor was most unjustly blamed for these

calamities--but he was guiltless--the real offenders were the Grand Duke

Nicholas, General Soukhomlinoff and their agents.

On the day following my husband’s departure the Empress sent me a

message asking me to go with her to the church usually attended by the

Lancers (the Empress’s Own). The service was very impressive; I stood

behind the Empress, who was praying ardently, and, at the conclusion,

she turned to me: “Don’t look sad, Lili,” she whispered. “This war _had_

to be.”

Whenever the regiments of which the Empress was colonel left for the

front, she saw the officers and soldiers, and blessed them and spoke to

them. A great deal has been said and written about the Empress’s

unpopularity with the soldiers. I have hardly heard a good word on her

behalf, and yet I know how devotedly she was loved by many of the

officers and men. It will be my privilege to show how, during the

Revolution, she received many touching evidences of their affection, and

I am determined not to allow the Sisyphus weight of calumny to deter me

from telling what I know of the truth.

After the declaration of hostilities the Empress at once instituted her

own hospitals, and both she and her daughters went in for a medical

course to qualify as Sisters of Charity. Princess Gedroits, herself a

professor of surgery, instructed them, and the Imperial Family gave up

most of their time to lectures and demonstrations.

Directly they had passed the necessary examinations, the Empress and

“the four sisters Romanoff” started nursing, spending hours with the

wounded and almost invariably being present at operations.

Society at once began to criticise this procedure. It argued that it was

not the duty of an Empress of Russia to become a nurse. It failed to

remember that at this time the illustrated papers were full of pictures

of various crowned heads who were doing precisely the same thing for

which they condemned the Empress! But she wore her rue with a

difference. What was praiseworthy in others constituted a sin in her

case. Without being accused of bitterness, I think I may be allowed to

say that it makes me sad when I realise the persistent animosity

displayed towards the Empress by all classes, from the prince to the

peasant ... “the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft

interred with their bones.” In the case of the Empress, the good she

undoubtedly did during her life was not only interred with her but it

was never recognised during her life. Her innocent fault consisted (to

quote the words of an English writer) in not being able to understand

“that in the eyes of her subjects she must shine and be ornamental, but

not useful in the trivial acceptance of the word.” Perhaps the Empress

erred in her conception of the mentality of the Russian peasant. As an

impartial critic, I fear this was the case. When she wore the Red

Cross, the sign of a universal Brotherhood of Pity, the average soldier

only saw in the Red Cross an emblem of her lost dignity as Empress of

Russia. He was shocked and embarrassed when she attended to his wounds

and performed almost menial duties. His idea of an Empress was never as

a woman, but only as an imposing and resplendent Sovereign.

The pro-German tendencies of the Empress were mentioned after our

reverse at Brest, when the Emperor assumed command. Everyone was

suspicious of her, and, when she spoke English at the hospitals to her

daughters and her ladies-in-waiting, the soldiers declared she was

speaking German, and this report once started was magnified exceedingly.

The actual dawn of Revolution occurred before the death of Rasputin, but

during the war it was openly stated that the end of Tsardom was at hand.

All our defeats were attributed to the pro-German influence of the

Empress, who was spitefully alluded to as “The Colonel” in certain

salons.

Protopopoff, the Minister of the Interior, was always reporting plots

against the life of the Empress. One, it was said, had been disclosed in

an intercepted letter from a Society woman to a friend in Moscow. The

writer lamented that the murder of the Empress had not been a “fait

accompli,” and declared that, failing murder, the next best remedy was

incarceration in a madhouse. Princess Vasiltchikoff sent a letter to the

Empress, in the name of the women of Russia, telling her that all

classes were against her, and daring her to mix further in Russian

affairs.

It has been said that the Empress was equally furious at the contents of

the letter, and the fact that it was written on paper torn off a

letter-pad! But it was _not_ the question of the breach of etiquette

which writing to the Sovereign on a letter-pad implied, it was the

horrible accusations, the virulent animosity of the missive which at

first angered the Empress, and afterwards grieved her. She cried

bitterly when she told me. “Of what am I accused?” she said. “Gregory is

dead. Surely people might leave me alone!”

Princess Vasiltchikoff’s letter gave rise to much excitement; her

portrait was in all the newspapers, and public opinion was divided for

and against her.

Another letter was sent to the Empress, this time anonymously, but it

was equally reprehensible, and this letter and the preceding one caused

the greatest indignation in the hospitals, as the officers who knew the

Empress as she really was were very angry. Life in general was

excessively difficult and painful, so much so that, when my husband

arrived from Mourmansk, and asked Count Kapnist how things were going,

the Count replied: “You’ll soon see for yourself, and you’ll be

horrified. We have gone back to the days of Paul I. Ruin lies ahead of

us.”

The Empress saw a good many people at this time. Every Thursday there

were musical evenings, where I met various friends--officers in the

Artillery, the Emperor’s A.D.C., Linavitch, Count Rabindar and his wife

(who was a faulty likeness of the Empress), the officers of the

“Standart,” Prince Dolgouroki (who was afterwards murdered), Madame

Voeikoff, the wife of the Commandant du Palais, Colonel Grotten, and

many others.

A Roumanian orchestra, under the direction of the famous Goulesko,

played on these Thursdays, and the Empress derived great pleasure in

listening to the really exquisite music. A huge fire was always burning

in the salon; the Empress sat near it, and a little seat immediately

behind her was arranged for my exclusive use. If I happened to arrive

after the Empress was seated, she always indicated the vacant place with

a gesture and a sweet smile.

One evening, about a fortnight before the Revolution, when I was sitting

in my usual place, listening to the Roumanian orchestra, I noticed that

the Empress seemed unusually sad. So I ventured to bend forward and

whisper, anxiously, “Oh, Madame, why are you so sad to-night?” The

Empress turned and looked at me.... “Why am I sad, Lili?... I can’t

really say, but the music depresses me.... I think my heart is broken.”

The same evening, Anna childishly observed: “We all seem out of sorts.

What fun it would be to have some champagne!” The Empress was angry at

the suggestion. “No ...” she said, “the Emperor hates wine, he can’t

bear women to drink wine--but what matter his likes or his dislikes,

when people will have it that he’s a drunkard himself?” The Empress was

in very indifferent health; mental worry had increased her heart

trouble, but she endeavoured never to let her health interfere with her

public duties. At an official reception following the departure of the

Guards, the Empress told me that she hardly knew how to endure the

strain. “Veronal is keeping me up. I’m literally saturated with it,” she

said.

When my husband came home on a few days’ leave, the Emperor sent for

him, and listened attentively to all that he had to say, questioning him

very closely on certain subjects. We had never thought of or mentioned

the subject of his preferment; he had now spent two strenuous years in

the mine-fields, and the Emperor noticed how ill he looked.

“Dehn must have a rest,” remarked His Majesty. “I shall give him a post

near my person.”

But this kindly thought never matured. My husband was sent for by the

Minister of the Marine, and left for England at twenty-four hours’

notice, in company with General Meller-Zakomelsky, taking with them

decorations destined by the Emperor for certain English officers. The

news of the Revolution was not known by them or in England when they

arrived, so an elaborate official reception was given them. Almost

immediately afterwards the news was public property and it was

impossible to use the Emperor’s decorations. I often wonder what became

of them.

Before leaving for England, my husband asked me to join him there. I

could not promise. I loved him very dearly, but I felt that my duty lay

with the Empress.

“No, Charles,” I said, “I cannot promise anything at present, but, if

things become better, I’ll come.”

When he had gone, I felt utterly unhappy, but I did not regret any

sacrifice I was called upon to make for the Imperial Family. I loved

them all far too much.

At this time the Emperor had every intention of remaining with his

family, but, one morning, after having received General Gourko in

audience, he suddenly announced:

“I’m going to G.H.Q. to-morrow.”

The Empress was surprised.

“Cannot you possibly stay with us?” she enquired.

“No,” said the Emperor, “I must go.”

Almost immediately after the Emperor’s departure, the Tsarevitch fell

ill with measles, and I used to spend every evening with the Empress,

who was naturally much worried over her son’s illness. In these days,

our intimacy had increased so much that my time was mostly devoted to

the Empress, and I saw few of my friends and relations. But my aunt, the

Countess Kotzebue-Pilar, was a great Society leader, and I heard all

that transpired in her salon. One evening before dinner my aunt (who was

always furious at the rumours current about the Empress) ’phoned me to

come to her house at once. I found her in an excessively agitated

condition....

“It’s awful what people are saying, Lili,” she cried.... “And I must

tell you--you _must_ warn the Empress.”

In somewhat calmer tones my aunt continued: “Yesterday I was at the

Kotzebues’.... Many officers were present, and it was openly asserted

that His Majesty will never return from G.H.Q. What are you going to do?

You are constantly in the society of the Empress--you cannot allow her

to remain in ignorance of these reports.”

“She will not believe them,” I said.

“Nevertheless,” said my aunt, “it is your duty to warn her.”

I returned to the Palace feeling very unhappy. I hardly knew what to do

for the best. At last, after a struggle, I decided to tell the Empress.

As I had anticipated, she made light of the story.

“It’s all nonsense, Lili, I can’t believe such a thing--it’s nothing but

malicious gossip. However, as you seem so apprehensive, send for Grotten

(the Commandant du Palais) and tell him.”

“Don’t pay any attention to such a canard,” cried Grotten angrily, when

he heard my story. “It’s a lie which stamps itself as the worst kind of

lie.”

“Well, General,” I retorted, now thoroughly vexed with myself for having

apparently made a mountain out of a molehill, “if God ordains my aunt’s

report to be a lie, so much the better.”

“Don’t be cross.... I’ll most certainly get in touch with G.H.Q.,” said

Grotten reassuringly. THREE DAYS AFTER CAME THE REVOLUTION.

* * * * *

And now the funeral knell of Russia began to sound, at first muffled,

but always insistently. Disorders broke out in Petrograd. The strikes

began on February 21st (Old Style), and crowds clamoured for bread, of

which the supplies had suddenly stopped. No one could understand this,

as Protopopoff’s last words to the Emperor were: “There is plenty of

flour, I’ll pledge my word that we have enough flour to last us for a

month, and after that fresh supplies will be coming in.” The bread

shortage was in reality due to the action of the Duma--it was an

organised arrangement!!

Each day matters grew worse. Fighting took place in the streets,

drunkards indulged in indescribable orgies, the police were murdered

much in the same manner as they have been in Ireland. It was bitterly

cold--snow lay in deep drifts, and Petrograd was in the iron grip of a

black frost.

Protopopoff, the Minister of the Interior, was always

ultra-optimistic--I never liked or trusted him; he did not seem the man

to handle any great crisis. He was appreciated by the Duma until his

deplorable interview in Stockholm, when he discussed the war in a very

indiscreet manner; but, when the Emperor appointed Protopopoff Minister

of the Interior, he was universally hated, and everyone blamed the

Emperor for appointing a man so singularly devoid of merit. Protopopoff

promised everything, without considering whether his promises were

possible. It was the same with his statements: he disliked telling

unpleasant truths, so he took refuge in pleasant evasions. He was the

man who continually told the Imperial Family that nothing could possibly

happen. “Trust in me,” said Protopopoff, striking an attitude. And,

whenever someone meekly remarked that the working classes were

undoubtedly restive, Protopopoff struck another attitude which implied,

“Did I fancy I heard you say ‘_restive_’?” and, aloud, in pained but

hearty tones: “What? Are you actually troubling yourself about a little

unrest? We’ll soon crush them--Labour cannot stand up against _Me_.”

It may be asked: Why did the Imperial Family, and especially the

Empress, place so much reliance in M. Protopopoff’s statements, as,

since the Empress knew all that was written concerning her, she, at

least, could have possessed no illusions? The answer is simple: The

Empress knew that she was unpopular, but she never would believe that

this unpopularity lay with the people--she attributed the scandals and

calumnies to class-hatred, and to that craving for sensation without

which a certain section of the Press would be unable to exist. When,

made bold by my ever growing apprehensions, I ventured to tell the

Empress that in these days the “people” were not paragons of fidelity,

she bade me remember the afternoon, not long distant, when we drove out

to a little “Lett” village near Peterhof. I _did_ remember. The

automobile had stopped near the church, and, the moment the Empress

alighted, she was surrounded by a crowd of peasants, who knelt before

her, and, with tears in their eyes, prayed aloud for her happiness.

After this the Empress was offered bread and salt, and it was with great

difficulty that a passage was cleared to her waiting automobile. This

incident occurred two years before the Revolution. “And yet you tell me,

Lili, that these people wish me ill!”

“Madame, many things have happened during the last two years.”

“_Nothing_ has happened, Lili, to touch the real heart of Russia.”

I do not profess to have any knowledge of politics, and I never wished

to meddle in them, so it is impossible for me to attempt to discuss the

so-called political influence of the Empress. We hardly ever spoke of

politics, but I can truthfully state that I never once heard her utter

one sentiment that might be described as even faintly pro-German. Her

letters written after her arrest, which are reproduced for the first

time, ought to plead for her more strongly than any words of mine. When

the Empress wrote to me, neither she nor I had any idea that part of her

correspondence would be read by the English public. The letters might

never have reached _me_: they were smuggled out of the Palace and sent

from Tobolsk in circumstances of much difficulty and danger. But they

breathe sincerity of purpose in every line: they were written when the

shadow of death was falling on the Imperial Family.... There is no trace

of the hysterical, intriguing woman in any of them. The letter which

contains the passage relating to the fleet will perhaps serve to

vindicate the memory of the Empress more than anything else, at least so

far as her alleged pro-Germanism is affected. Even now, Justice, blind,

but nevertheless all-seeing, has decreed that Germany should acknowledge

having laid the mines which destroyed the “Hampshire”: Germany, brought

to book, would not have scrupled to lay the guilt to the charge of the

Empress, especially since she cannot defend herself. But Germany has not

availed herself of the universal detestation which surrounds the name of

Alexandra Feodorovna: so she has, at least, been spared _one_

degradation.

Part II--The Revolution

CHAPTER I

On Saturday, February 25th, 1917, the Empress told me that she wished me

to come to Tsarkoe Selo on the following Monday, and I was (let me

confess it) still in bed when the telephone rang at 10 a.m. I suppose my

delay in answering must have amused the Empress, for her first words

were: “I believe you have only just got out of bed, Lili. Listen, I want

you to come to Tsarkoe by the 10.45 train. It’s a lovely morning. We’ll

go for a run in the car, so I’ll meet you at the station. You can see

the girls and Anna, and return to Petrograd at 4 p.m. I’m certain you

won’t catch the train, but anyhow I’ll be at the station to meet it.”

I dressed at express speed, and, snatching up my gloves, a few rings,

and a bracelet, I ran into the street in search of a fiacre. I had quite

forgotten that there was a strike, and no conveyances were available! At

this moment I saw M. Sablin’s carriage: I hailed him, and begged for a

lift to the station. On the way I questioned him.

“What news, Monsieur ...?”

“There’s nothing fresh,” he replied, “but everything is quite all right,

although I must admit it is very strange about the bread shortage.”

The train for Tsarkoe was just moving out of the station when I arrived

on the platform, but I scrambled in, and found myself in the company of

Madame Tanieff, Anna’s mother, who was going to see her daughter, now

ill, like the Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, with the measles. Madame

Tanieff, like M. Sablin, knew nothing fresh; she was chiefly concerned

about Anna’s illness; but the first words of the Empress, who, true to

her promise, was awaiting me, were:

“Well, how is it in Petrograd? I hear things are very serious.”

We said that there was apparently nothing alarming, and the Empress told

Madame Tanieff to get into the car with us, and she would take her to

the Palace.

It was a glorious morning: I remembered the splendour of the day long

afterwards; the sky was an Italian blue, and snow lay everywhere. We

were not able to drive in the Park on account of the drifts! On the way

back, we met Captain Hvostchinsky, one of the Garde Equipage. The

Empress intimated her wish to speak to him, and the car stopped.

Captain Hvostchinsky smiled at the notion of danger. “There is no

danger, Your Majesty” he said; so, reassured, the Empress and I returned

to the Palace. I went at once to see the Grand Duchesses. They were

certainly very ill, suffering from bad pains in the ears; but they were

pleased to see me, and I sat between the two camp beds, talking to them.

After lunch I went up again, and presently the Empress joined us.

She beckoned me into the next room: I could see that she was agitated.

“Lili,” she said, breathlessly, “it is _very_ bad. I have just seen

Colonel Grotten, and General Resin, and they report that the Litovsky

Regiment has mutinied, murdered the officers, and left barracks: the

Volinsky Regiment has followed suit. I can’t understand it. I’ll never

believe in the possibility of Revolution--why, only yesterday, everyone

said it was impossible! The peasants love us ... they adore Alexis! I’m

sure that the trouble is confined to Petrograd alone. But I want you to

go and see Anna ... she may also have been told this, and you know how

easily she is frightened!”

I found Anna ill, and light-headed, and, as I entered her bedroom, I

thought what a contrast it presented to the cool, darkened room which I

had just left. Olga and Tatiana were so patient, they lay so still, and

were grateful for any attention. _This_ sick room resembled a “lever du

Roi” in the days of Louis XIV. Anna was surrounded by a crowd of

“sisters” and three doctors were in attendance. Madame Tanieff was

there, looking the picture of misery, and Anna’s sister, who was almost

hysterical, kept on exclaiming, “All is lost.” They had expected General

Tanieff to lunch, but he had not arrived ... there was no news of him.

What were they to do? General Tanieff entered in the midst of this

confusion, breathless, and scarlet in the face. “Petrograd is in the

hands of the mob,” he exclaimed, “they are stopping all cars ... they

commandeered mine, and I’ve had to walk every step of the way.”

At this intelligence, Allie Pistolkors (she had married the Grand Duke

Paul’s stepson) burst into tears and begged me to ask the Empress what

she had better do. I promised to see the Empress at once, and, as the

Grand Duchesses Anastasie and Marie had just come to fetch me, I

returned to the private apartments with them.

The winter afternoon was fast drawing in, and I found the Empress alone

in her boudoir. She could give me no message for Mme Pistolkors. “I

don’t _know_ what to advise,” she said, sadly. Then, turning to me,

“What are _you_ going to do, Lili? Titi is in Petrograd ... had you not

better return to him this evening?”

At the sight of the Empress, so tragically alone, so helpless in the

midst of the signs and splendour of temporal power, I could hardly

restrain my tears. Controlling myself with an effort, I tried to steady

my voice:

“Permit me to remain with _you_, Madame,” I entreated.

The Empress looked at me without speaking. Then she took me in her arms

and held me close, and kissed me many times, saying as she did so:

“I _cannot_ ask you to do this, Lili.”

“But I must, Madame,” I answered.... “Please, please let me stay. I

can’t go back to Petrograd and leave you here.”

The Empress told me that she had tried to ’phone the Emperor, and that

she had been unable to do so. “But I have wired him, asking him to

return immediately. He’ll be here on Wednesday morning.”

After this conversation we went to see the Grand Duchesses, and the

Empress lay down on a couch in their bedroom. I sat beside her, and we

conversed in low tones so as not to awaken the sleeping girls. The

Empress was still unable to believe in the reports, and she expressed a

wish to see the Grand Duke Paul. “How I wish he would come,” she said.

She then asked me to go over to Anna’s apartments, and say that she felt

too unwell to come herself.

Anna’s room still looked like a “lever du Roi”; Allie had taken her

departure, so Mme Tanieff told me, and had gone to the Palace of the

Grand Duke Paul. I lost no time in delivering the Empress’s message, and

quickly returned to her. The evening wore on.... News came that

Petrograd was in a state of upheaval, and that crowds of mutineers were

everywhere. The Empress begged me to ’phone Linavitch, the A.D.C. to the

Emperor, and ask him to tell us what was happening. Linavitch was in

command of a company of Horse Artillery at Pavlosk, two miles from

Tsarkoe Selo, so it was not difficult to “get” him. “Tell Her Majesty,”

he said, “that I am here with my company, and that all will be well.”

I spent the evening with the Empress in the mauve boudoir, and she told

me how glad she was to have me near her. “I know the Grand Duchesses

want you to be somewhere close to their room, so I’ve decided that the

red drawing-room will be the best place for you to sleep.[1] Come with

me. Anastasie is waiting for us,” she said.

The red drawing-room was a fine room; everything in it was upholstered

in scarlet, and scarlet and white chintz covered the easy chairs. A bed

had been arranged on one of the couches, and the two Grand Duchesses,

with tender solicitude, had seen to the minor details themselves.

Anastasie’s nightgown lay outside the coverlet, Marie had put a lamp and

an ikon on the table by the bed; and a snapshot of Titi, taken from

their collection of photographs, had been hastily framed, and occupied a

place next to the holy ikon. How dearly I loved them all ... how glad I

was that I was privileged to share their danger!

The Empress left me with Anastasie, as she wished to see Count

Benckendorff, so Anastasie and I sat down comfortably on the red carpet,

and amused ourselves with jig-saw puzzles until she returned.

The Empress came back from her interview with Count Benckendorff in a

state of painful agitation, and, directly Anastasie had gone to bed, she

told me that the reports were worse. “I don’t want the girls to know

anything until it is impossible to keep the truth from them ...” she

said, “but people are drinking to excess, and there is indiscriminate

shooting in the streets. Oh, Lili, what a blessing that we have here the

most devoted troops ... there is the Garde Equipage ... they are all our

personal friends, and I place implicit faith in the tirailleurs of

Tsarkoe.”

I think that this thought comforted her: she seemed happier when she

bade me good night.

I woke early on Tuesday morning.... Sleep

[Illustration: BACK ROW

left to right:

Grand Duchesses Marie, Olga, and Tatiana

CENTRE

left to right:

H.I.M. The Tsaritsa, Tsar Nicholas II. Grand Duchess Anastasia

FRONT

The Tsarevitch

THE IMPERIAL FAMILY]

had been almost impossible, but I had dropped into an uneasy slumber

soon after dawn. I dressed at once, hoping to be ready for the Empress,

but she was before me, and at half-past eight she entered the red

drawing-room. We went at once to the Grand Duchesses, and drank our

_café au lait_ in their room. The Empress told me that she had wired

repeatedly to the Tsar, but had received no reply. Later in the morning

she received Count Benckendorff and Colonel Grotten, who informed her

that matters were becoming more alarming and that the Garde Equipage had

better remain inside the Palace, as there was a report that the mob,

supported by the Duma, was even now marching on Tsarkoe.

The Empress immediately consented; she was really delighted at the

thought of having the Garde Equipage at the Palace, and the Grand

Duchesses were frankly overjoyed. “It’s just like being on the yacht

again,” they said. The Garde Equipage, which was now augmented by the

Mixed Guard, and by sentinels taken from the Cossack Convoi, took up its

quarters outside the Palace and in the vast souterrains. One part of the

Palace was arranged as an ambulance station. We were very busy, but the

Grand Duchesses made light of danger and showed none of our agitation.

The Empress was always awaiting a reply to her telegrams. None came.

Tuesday was a day of general unrest. It seemed as if the weather were in

sympathy with man’s savage mood. The blue sky of Monday had vanished, an

icy blizzard swept around the Palace, and a north wind drove the deep

snow into still deeper drifts. In the afternoon, on my way back from

seeing Anna, I encountered Baroness Ysa Büxhoevgen on one of the

corridors. She was almost running and she seemed very much disturbed. “I

must see the Empress,” she said. “I’ve just come from Tsarkoe Selo (the

town): everything is awful--they say there is mutiny and dissatisfaction

amongst the troops.” Ysa’s terror was general: panic seized the dwellers

in the Palace, but none of the servants left us. Mlle Schneider’s maids,

it is true, fled, but they came back again the next day.

The Empress was very anxious to see the Grand Duke Paul, but I believe

that at first there was some misunderstanding, as the Grand Duke thought

that etiquette demanded that the Empress should ask _him_, and he

declared that he would not come unless she did. I had received a hint of

this, so, when next I saw the Empress, I suggested that perhaps the

Grand Duke was waiting for her invitation.... This had not occurred to

the Empress; she told me to ’phone at once and ask the Grand Duke to

come and see her after dinner.

I was placed, unwillingly, in a very awkward predicament. I had no

official position at Court, but the Empress seemed to think that my duty

was to act as her mouthpiece, and to assume an authority which I was far

from desiring.

However, I ’phoned to the Palace of the Grand Duke, and, in the name of

the Empress, I asked him to come to Tsarkoe Selo. His son answered the

’phone, and rather brusquely demanded to know who on all the earth was

speaking.

“Lili Dehn,” I said.

His “_Oh!_” was more eloquent than words!

During the afternoon the Empress called me into her boudoir. “Lili,” she

said, “they say that a hostile crowd of 300,000 persons is marching on

the Palace. We shall not be, we _must_ not be afraid. Everything is in

the hands of God. To-morrow the Emperor is sure to come.... I _know_

that, when he does, all will be well.” She then asked me to ’phone to

Petrograd, and get in touch with my aunt, Countess Pilar, and other

friends. I ’phoned to several, but the news grew worse and worse. At

last I ’phoned to my flat. The Emperor’s A.D.C., Sablin, who lived in

the same building, answered my ring. I begged him to take care of Titi,

and, if it were possible, to join us at Tsarkoe, as the Imperial Family

needed protection; but he replied that a ring of flames practically

surrounded the building, which was well watched by hostile sailors. He

managed, however, to bring Titi to the ’phone--and my heart ached when I

heard my child’s anxious voice:

“Mamma, when are you coming back?”

“Darling, I’ll come very soon.”

“Oh, _please_ come; it’s so dreadful here.”

I felt torn between love and duty, but I had long since decided where my

duty lay.

I told the Empress what Sablin had reported; she listened in silence,

and then, by some tremendous effort of will, she regained her usual

composure. Her strength strengthened me. We had, indeed, every need for

courage. The poor “children” were lying desperately ill.... They looked

almost like corpses.... Anna was in high fever, the Palace was

terror-stricken, and outside brooded the dread spectre of Revolution!

All at once the Empress was seized with an idea to talk to the soldiers.

I begged to accompany her, in case of any unforeseen treachery, but she

refused. “Why, Lili,” she said, reproachfully, “they’re all friends!”

Marie and Anastasie went with her, and I watched them from a window. It

was quite dark, and the great courtyard was illuminated with what

appeared to be exceptionally powerful electric lights. The distant sound

of guns was audible ... the night was bitterly cold. From where I stood,

I could see the Empress, wrapped in furs, walking from one man to

another, utterly fearless of her safety. She was the calm, dignified

Tsaritsa--the typical consort of the Tsar of all the Russias. Here was

no hysterical religious maniac, no abandoned heroine of the novel! The

Empress moved in this tragic _mise en scène_, protected by her own

goodness; but, when the light fell on her fair, pale face, I trembled. I

knew her weak heart, her delicacy of physique--suppose she were to

faint?

When the Empress came back, she was apparently possessed by some inward

exaltation. She was radiant; her trust in the “people” was complete, she

was sustained by that, often, alas, broken reed of friendship. “They are

our friends,” she kept on repeating, “they are so devoted to us.” She

was, alas, presently to discover that the name of Judas is often

synonymous with that of a friend.

One thing troubled her fleeting happiness. “I haven’t seen a company in

the basement.... It is such a pity, but I didn’t feel well enough.

Perhaps I can manage it to-morrow.”

After her visit to the soldiers, the Empress received Count and Countess

Benckendorff, who asked to be permitted to remain at the Palace. Their

request was gladly granted, and rooms were arranged for them.

The Grand Duke Paul arrived later in the evening. He was a tall,

imposing man, who was considered to be very fascinating, and, what was

more to his credit, excessively kind at heart. He had a long

conversation with the Empress, and we could hear their agitated voices

in the next room. The Empress told me afterwards that almost her first

words had been:

“What of the Guards?”

And the Grand Duke had replied in tones of fatality:

“I can do nothing. Nearly all of them are at the Front.”

When we went to bid the Grand Duchesses good night, I was distressed to

find that the firing was distinctly to be heard from their room. Olga

and Tatiana did not appear to notice it, but, when their mother had

gone, Olga asked me what the noise signified. “Darling, I don’t

know--it’s nothing. The hard frost makes everything sound much more,” I

said lightly.

“But are you _sure_, Lili?” persisted the Grand Duchess. “Even Mamma

seems nervous, we’re so worried about her heart; she’s most certainly

overtiring herself--_do_ ask her to rest.”

The Empress decided that Marie should sleep with her. “You, Lili, will

sleep in the room with Anastasie, and have Marie’s bed. Don’t take off

your corsets ... one doesn’t know what may happen. The Emperor arrives

between 5 and 7 to-morrow morning, and we must be ready to meet him.

Come to my room early, and then I’ll tell you the train.”

Neither the Grand Duchess nor I could sleep, and we lay awake in the

darkness talking in low tones. Occasionally I was silent, but, when this

was so, Anastasie never failed to ask: “Lili, are you asleep?”

During the night we got up and looked out of the windows. A huge gun had

been placed in the courtyard. “How astonished Papa will be!” whispered

Anastasie. We stood for a few minutes watching the weird scene. It was

so bitterly cold that the sentinels were dancing round the gun in order

to keep warm. Their figures were sharply defined against the

arc-lights--it seemed like some new Carmagnole; in the distance we heard

shouts of drunken voices and occasional shots--and so the night passed.

At 5 a.m. on Wednesday morning we went downstairs to the Empress’s

bedroom. She was awake, and as she opened the door she whispered: “Hush

... Marie is asleep: the train is late.... Most probably the Emperor

won’t come until ten.” The Empress was fully dressed, and she looked so

sad that I could not help saying impulsively: “Oh, Madame, _why_ is the

train late?”

She smiled wanly, but did not reply. As we went back to our bedroom,

Anastasie said in agitated tones: “Lili, the train is _never_ late. Oh,

if Papa would only come quickly.... I’m beginning to feel ill. What

shall I do if I get ill? I can’t be useful to Mamma.... Oh, Lili, say

I’m not going to be ill.”

I tried to calm her, and I persuaded her to lie down on her bed and

sleep; but the poor child was actually sickening for the measles.

Anastasie was the sweetest-natured girl: she adored her mother, and

delighted in running hither and thither on her errands. The Empress

always alluded to Anastasie as “my legs!”

When the Empress joined me in Olga’s room a little before nine, she

still hoped for the 10 o’clock train. “Perhaps the blizzard detains

him,” she said. She lay down on the couch, and I sat on the floor beside

her; we spoke in undertones; but her chief anxiety was concerning my

want of sleep.

“Sit on a chair, Lili, and put your feet up on the couch,” she said.

“No--no--Madame,” I replied, “it is not to be thought of.” But, at her

request, I compromised matters by resting the tips of my shoes on the

end of the couch.

Ten o’clock came, but we still heard nothing. It was the first of March,

a month fatal to the Romanoffs--well might they “beware the Ides of

March!” The Emperor Paul was suffocated on the first of March, and,

thirty-six years previously, on this date, the Emperor’s grandfather,

Alexander II, was killed by a bomb. The March of 1917 is destined to be

associated with the downfall of the dynasty.

We were living in a state of continual and unrelieved anxiety. Dr.

Botkin and Dr. Direvenko were in constant attendance on the three Grand

Duchesses, but the Tsarevitch was, fortunately, much better. Poor

Anastasie could not reconcile herself to the idea of being ill: she

cried and cried, and kept on repeating, “Please don’t keep me in bed.”

Service in the Palace was quite normal, but the water supply which

worked the private lift used by the Empress had been cut off, and in

consequence she was now obliged to walk upstairs. This sounds a trivial

incident, but it entailed a great deal of suffering on the Empress, who

was already overtired and overstrung. Her heart, always affected, now

became much worse, owing to her having to go up and down stairs so

often, but she insisted upon seeing her children, and she used to go up

the staircase at times almost on the verge of fainting. I supported

her--walking behind her and holding her underneath the arms.

We could not understand what had become of the Emperor: the Empress

thought that the delay arose owing to the confusion on the railways,

which were now in the hands of the Revolutionaries.

The dreary afternoon of March 1st was signalised by an unhappy

occurrence. The Empress and I were standing at the window overlooking

the courtyard, when we noticed that many of the soldiers had bound white

handkerchiefs on their wrists. An enquiry as to the reason elicited the

reply that the white handkerchiefs signified that upon the

representation of a Member (who had come to Tsarkoe Selo) the troops had

consented to act in unison with the Duma.

The Empress turned to me. “Well ... so everything is in the hands of the

Duma,” she said, with a certain degree of bitterness. “Let us hope that

it will bestir itself, and do something to remedy the disaffection.”

<p>[Illustration: SHOOTING PARTY IN FINLAND, AUTUMN, 1910

Center&mdash;the Emperor: Right&mdash;Lieut.-Com. Dehn]</>p

<p>[Illustration: THE TSAREVITCH AT G.H.Q.]</>p

<p>[Illustration: THE TSAREVITCH AND HIS SPANIEL ‘JOY’]</p>

She moved away from the window. I could see she was hurt and

disappointed ... but this was not destined to be the last of her many

disillusions!

Count Appraxin, Secretary to the Empress, arrived later in the day: he

had experienced the greatest difficulty in reaching Tsarkoe--and his

news was not reassuring. We sat up late that evening--dinner had been a

mere farce--our minds were too anxious and too preoccupied to think of

food. The children were dangerously ill, the whereabouts of the Emperor

were unknown, and the Revolution was at our gates. When at last I bade

the Empress good night, she told me not to undress. “I’m not going to do

so,” she said, and her quiet tones were significant that she anticipated

the worst!

CHAPTER II

Early on the morning of March 2nd the Empress came into the Grand

Duchesses’ bedroom. She was deathly pale--she seemed hardly alive. As I

ran towards her I heard her agitated whisper: “Lili--the troops have

deserted!”

I found no words with which to answer. I was stupefied. At last I

managed to stammer:

“Why, Madame? In the name of God, why?”

“Their Commander-in-Chief, the Grand Duke Cyril, has sent for them.”

Then, unable to contain herself, the Empress said brokenly, “My

sailors--my _own_ sailors--I can’t believe it.”

But it was too true. The Garde Equipage had left the Palace at 1 a.m.

and 5 a.m.--the “faithful friends,” the “devoted subjects,” were with us

no longer. The officers of the Garde were received by the Empress in the

mauve boudoir during the morning: I was present, and I heard from one of

my husband’s friends that the duty of taking the Garde to Petrograd had

been carried out by a “temporary gentleman,” Lieutenant Kouzmine. The

officers were furious, especially their commandant, Miasocdoff-Ivanof, a

big, burly sailor, whose kind eyes were full of tears.... One and all

begged to be allowed to remain with the Empress, who, almost overcome by

emotion, thanked them, saying: “Yes--yes--I beg you to remain: this has

been a terrible blow, what _will_ the Emperor say when he hears about

it!” She then sent for General Resin, the Commander of the Mixed Guard,

and instructed him to make room for the loyal officers in his regiment.

General Resin told me long afterwards that he was relieved when he knew

that the cowardly Garde had actually left the Palace, as orders had been

given for a detachment to go on one of the church towers which commanded

a view of the courtyard, and if, by a certain time, the troops had not

joined the Duma, to train two enormous field-guns on to the Palace!

There was still no news of the Emperor, although the Empress constantly

telegraphed. It was reported that his train was returning to G.H.Q., and

at the time many people thought that if it reached there the troops

would have followed the Emperor. We ’phoned to the hospitals for news,

and the Empress received a good many people. To all these she was her

usual calm, dignified self. When I marvelled at her fortitude, she

replied: “Lili, I must _not_ give way. I keep on saying, ‘_I must

not_’--it helps me.”

In the late afternoon, Rita Hitrowo (one of the younger

ladies-in-waiting, and a friend of the Grand Duchesses) arrived from

Petrograd with the worst possible tidings, and, after the Empress had

spoken to Rita, she received two officers of the Mixed Guard, who

proposed to try and get a letter from her through to the Emperor: it was

arranged that they should leave Tsarkoe the next evening. The Empress

was always willing to hope. But the night passed, and still never a word

came from the Emperor.

On March 3rd I took my _café au lait_ with Marie, and we were joined by

the Empress. It was a day of agony. The Grand Duchesses grew worse:

their ears were badly inflamed, it seemed as if they might not recover.

The Empress tried to snatch a little rest by occasionally lying on a

couch: her feet had now become very painful, and her heart affection

was, at times, alarming. Meals were silent and horrible affairs: I felt

as though each morsel would choke me. But, as I had now grown desperate

with anxiety, I conceived the notion of communicating with the Emperor

by aeroplane. Might not his whereabouts be discovered in this way? The

Empress welcomed the idea, and she sent for General Resin, and asked for

an aeroplane to be despatched at once. He agreed, but even the weather

was against us.... A blizzard set in; the dark sky was blotted out with

scudding snow, and the wind howled dismally round the Palace.

The Grand Duke Paul arrived about 7 o’clock in the evening. The Empress

was engaged in writing letters for the officers to convey to the

Emperor, but she received the Grand Duke without a moment’s delay.

The interview took place in the red drawing-room. Marie and I were in

the adjoining study, and from time to time we heard the loud voice of

the Grand Duke and the agitated replies of the Empress. Marie began to

get apprehensive.

“Why is he shouting at Mamma?” she asked. “Don’t you think I had better

see what’s the matter, Lili?”

“No, no,” I said, “we had better remain here quietly.”

“_You_ can remain, but I’ll go to my room,” she answered. “I can’t bear

to think Mamma is worried.”

Hardly had the Grand Duchess left the study when the door opened and the

Empress appeared. Her face was distorted with agony, her eyes were full

of tears. She tottered rather than walked, and I rushed forward and

supported her until she reached the writing-table between the windows.

She leant heavily against it, and, taking my hands in hers, she said

brokenly:

“_Abdiqué!_”

I could not believe my ears. I waited for her next words. They were

hardly audible. At last: “_Le pauvre ... tout seul là bas ... et passé

... oh, mon Dieu, par quoi il a passé! Et je ne puis pas être près de

lui pour le consoler._”

“_Madame, très chère Madame, il faut avoir du courage._”

She paid no attention to me, and kept on repeating, “_Mon Dieu, que

c’est pénible.... Tout seul là bas!_” I put my arms around her and we

walked slowly up and down the long room. At last, fearing for her

reason, I cried: “_Mais Madame--au nom de Dieu--il vit!!_”

“Yes, Lili,” she replied, as if new hope inspired her. “Yes, he lives.”

“I entreat you, Madame, don’t lose your courage, don’t give way: think

of your children and of the Emperor.”

The Empress considered me with almost painful scrutiny.

“And you, Lili, what of you?”

“Madame, I love you more than anything in this world.”

“I know it--I see it, Lili.”

“Well, Madame, _write_ to him. Think how pleased he will be.” I drew the

Empress towards the writing-table, and she sank on a chair.... “Write,

dear Madame, write,” I repeated.

She obeyed almost like a child, murmuring, “Yes, Lili ... how glad he’ll

be.”

Feeling that I might venture to leave the Empress for a few minutes, I

went in search of Dr. Botkin, who gave me a composing draught for

her.... But the Empress did not wish to take it, and it was only when I

said: “For _his_ sake, Madame,” that she complied.

The sound of bitter weeping now attracted my attention. In one corner of

the room crouched the Grand Duchess Marie. She was as pale as her

mother. She _knew_ all! At this moment Volkoff, that faithful servant,

entered, and in trembling tones announced that dinner was served. The

Empress rose and endeavoured to regain her composure.... I followed her

into the next room. She looked round. “Where is Marie?” she said.

I went back to the red drawing-room. Marie was still crouching in the

corner. She was so young, so helpless, so hurt, that I felt I must

comfort her as one comforts a child. I knelt beside her, her head rested

on my shoulder. I kissed her tear-stained face.

“Darling,” I said, “don’t cry.... You will make Mamma so unhappy. Think

of _her_.”

At the words, “Think of _her_,” the Grand Duchess remembered the

unswerving devotion of the children towards their parents. Every thing

was always subservient to Mamma and Papa.

“Ah ... I’d forgotten, Lili. Yes, I must think of Mamma,” she answered.

Little by little her sobs ceased, her composure returned, and she went

with me to her mother.

That night the Empress and I sat up very late: she had paid her usual

visit to the Grand Duchesses, when she had tried outwardly to appear

calm. But alone with me it was a different matter. The Empress told me

that the Emperor had abdicated in favour of the Tsarevitch. “Now _he’ll_

be taken from me,” she cried. “The people are to assume the Regency.

What shall I do?” She started at every footfall; she trembled at the

mere sound of a voice.... One idea obsessed her--someone might come at

any moment to take away her son!

“But, Madame, nothing can be done until the Emperor returns.”

“No, surely they will not dare; and he’ll be with us very soon,” she

said. Then, with her usual unselfishness, the Empress insisted upon

seeing Count Benckendorff. “I must console him and strengthen him. I can

imagine his state of mind.”

It was an affecting interview.... I do not know what actually

transpired, but, when the Empress returned, she was crying. “_Le pauvre

vieux_,” she murmured, as if to herself.

I did not allow the Empress to see how apprehensive I was, how utterly

despairing. I did not share her optimism.... The position was most

precarious, and the desperate condition of the Grand Duchesses augmented

the general unhappiness. Our only hope lay in the Emperor’s return--at

any rate, his presence would afford us some moral protection! That night

Marie and I slept in the red drawing-room. We lay awake for hours

talking about the new developments. But one thought consoled us. The

Emperor was still alive!

When the Empress paid her usual visit to the Grand Duchesses, she told

us that her first idea was to see all those in the Palace, and console

them as much as possible. Countess Gendrinkoff, her devoted

lady-in-waiting, who was away visiting a sick relative, returned to

Tsarkoe directly she heard of the Emperor’s abdication, and her meeting

with the Empress was most touching. At first neither of them spoke; and

then the Countess, usually a most self-contained individual, broke into

bitter weeping.

It was a tragic morning. Towards noon the Empress sent for me. “Lili,”

she said, “the Duma is losing no time. M. Rodziansko[2] has intimated

that we must make our preparations for departure. He says we are to meet

the Emperor somewhere _en route_. But we can’t possibly go; how can we

move the children? I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they say it would be

fatal! I’ve told Rodziansko this, and he is returning later to acquaint

me with the decision of the Duma.”

Rodziansko and his colleagues returned at the time appointed. They were

at once taken to the Empress.

“The decision of the Duma is unalterable,” said Rodziansko curtly.

“But my children--my daughters ...” pleaded the Empress.

“When a house is on fire, it is best to leave it,” answered Rodziansko,

with a sardonic smile.

There was apparently nothing to be done. We were at the mercy of

Tiberius, and we commenced our preparations for departure. The Empress

asked me if I would like to accompany them. I begged to be permitted to

do so. “I _cannot_ leave you, Madame,” I said.

We endeavoured to ’phone to certain friends, but it was impossible. At

last the operator, in frightened tones, whispered, “I can’t give you the

number; the telephone is not in our hands. I beg you, don’t talk--I’ll

ring you up directly it is safe.”

In the course of the afternoon a servant informed us that an officer of

one of the Tartar regiments begged the Empress to receive him. The

Empress asked me to interview him, as she felt too ill to do so, and

accordingly I went over to the fourth wing of the Palace, where the

officer was waiting. As I traversed the long corridors, I heard the

sound of rough voices. I stopped, terrified, at the entrance of one of

the salons--the Mixed Guards were just about to change the guard; but

“changing the guard” was no longer the decorous proceeding of

yester-year! When the fresh detachment entered the salon, they threw

themselves literally into the arms of the other soldiers, shouting,

“New-born citizens of freedom, we congratulate you.”

I passed the “new-born citizens of freedom,” and I found Lieutenant

Markoff, to whom I explained the reason of my “deputising.” The poor boy

had been wounded, he could scarcely stand; but his spirit was

unconquerable. “Madame,” he said, “I’ve fought my way through the mob

in order to see the Empress, and assure her of my devotion. The

assassins wanted to tear off my epaulettes with HER cypher. I told them

that the Empress had given them to me, and that it was her right alone

to deprive me of them. I’ve arrived here at last.... I entreat you to

ask the Empress to allow me to remain somewhere near her.... I don’t

care if I wash up the dirty plates. I’ll do anything--only let me stay!”

I promised Markoff to deliver his message, and on my way back I heard

the soldiers laughing and singing. Sick at heart, and utterly disgusted

at their behaviour, I reported it to the Empress. “_Les malheureux_,”

she said, “_ce n’est pas leur faute, c’est la faute à ceux qui les

trompent_.” She granted poor young Markoff’s request, and told me to see

General Resin, and arrange for Markoff to be included in his detachment.

I suppose the first idea of most people in the position of the Empress,

faced with hurried flight, would have been to save their jewels. But

jewels were a secondary consideration with the Empress; her chief

treasures were those of sentiment, and, as I watched her collecting her

favourite books and photographs, I thought that in this instance, as in

all others, she was more of the woman than the Empress. And the idea of

leaving the scene of many of her happiest associations must have been

heart-rending to her. She had transformed the Palace into a home; here

she had watched the beautiful growth of her four fair daughters and her

adored son. And here she was destined to drink the uttermost dregs of

the Cup of Sorrow.

Whilst she was gathering together her personal treasures, the Empress,

recalled in imagination to Petrograd, by the sight of a photograph,

asked me to telephone to Prince Ratief, the Commandant of the Winter

Palace, and tell him that her thoughts were with them all. Fortunately I

was enabled to do so; the Prince himself answered my call. “I thank Her

Majesty from my heart. We are still alive, but crowds surround the

Palace,” he said.

After dinner, we went to see the Grand Duchesses, and then to the mauve

boudoir--there was no news from the Emperor; all sorts of rumours were

current, the most insistent being that he had returned to G.H.Q.

Sunday, the 5th of March, was for us another hopeless dawn. The Empress

gave orders for a Te Deum to be sung, and the miraculous ikon from

Znaminie[3] brought to the Palace and taken to the sick-rooms. The

procession bearing the ikon passed through the Palace; the Empress

walked in it, and, as I looked at the lovely representation of the

Virgin and Child, the expression of the eyes seemed the same which I had

often seen in those of the Empress--a combination of Faith, Hope and

Tragedy!

It was a strange sight to witness the solemn little procession as it

traversed the almost deserted splendours of the Palace. Incense wafted

wreaths of perfume towards Heaven, the solemn chant rose and fell, the

gold and blues of the Virgin’s draperies glowed when the ikon passed one

of the windows, the sacred symbol of the Cross raised its head above

the tumult of Revolution. It seemed to me as if this were some last

appeal to God, Who, we are told, is a God of Love and Pity.

The Empress was anxious that the ikon should be taken to Anna’s room, so

the procession wended its way thither. There, as usual, were the fuss

and overcrowding which seemed inseparable from Anna’s attack of measles;

doctors, nurses and sisters took up all the available space, so, whilst

the Empress was praying by the bedside, I stood by the door. One of the

doctors from Anna’s hospital was near, and, recognising me, he

whispered: “I say, Madame Dehn, I think I shall say good-bye to the

Palace. Things are getting too hot for _my_ comfort.” But, if he

expected an answer, he received _none_. I simply stared at him.

The Empress was still kneeling by Anna’s bed, and Anna, now thoroughly

hysterical and _exaltée_ by reason of much incense and many prayers, was

crying and kissing the Empress’s folded hands. It is quite impossible

for English readers to imagine such a scene, but these religious

processions in the case of illness were of common occurrence with us.

I went back to see Anna later in the evening, and, when I entered the

bedroom, I was surprised to see the matron of Anna’s hospital, who was

praying--a taper in her hand. Directly she saw me, her prayers took unto

themselves wings; we had always disliked each other, so our conversation

was short and to the point.

“What, are _you_ still here?” she exclaimed, meaningly.

“Yes ... I’m _here_,” I replied, with equal emphasis.

Anna said nothing; she looked more childish than ever, and very ill at

ease. The impression which I received was a bad one, and, when I related

to the Empress what I had seen, she wrote to the doctor at the hospital,

and asked him to send for the matron, as her presence was not required.

Soon after this she resigned, and, like many others of her kind, she

left Tsarkoe for an unknown destination.

On Monday, March 6th, all was in readiness for our departure. But one

thing yet remained for us to do, and this was, in my eyes, of the utmost

importance. During one of my restless nights, I suddenly remembered that

the Empress had always kept a diary and that she possessed the diaries

of her friend, Princess Orbelliany, which had been bequeathed to her by

the Princess.

These contained most intimate accounts of various people, and events

connected with the Court. I likewise remembered the Empress’s

sentimental habit of preserving correspondence with associations, and I

dreaded the possibility of either letters or diaries falling into the

hands of the Revolutionaries. I knew that the worst construction would

be placed by the “Sons of Freedom” on anything unusual which these

papers might contain. Even the Empress’s habit of calling people by pet

names might be construed as sensualism or treason!

I hardly dared suggest the wisdom of destroying this personal property,

but my devotion triumphed over my nervousness. To my intense surprise,

the Empress at once agreed to do as I proposed.

It may be argued that I was guilty of the worst Vandalism in persuading

the Empress to destroy her diaries and correspondence. I may have been,

in an historical and artistic sense--but I was right on the score of

friendship. We had already experienced the misconstruction which had

been put on _one_ sentence in a letter: What might not be the fate of

the contents of the Imperial diaries if they fell into the hands of

censorious and “pure-minded” Revolutionaries?

Princess Orbelliany’s diaries were burned first. They consisted of nine

leather-bound volumes, and we experienced much difficulty in destroying

them. This _auto-da-fé_ of sentiment took place in the red drawing-room,

but we did not attempt to finish burning the diaries and correspondence

in one day. It was at best a melancholy task, and we decided to spread

it over a week--especially as the Grand Duchesses were very ill, and we

had to be with them constantly. Olga was now suffering with inflammation

in the head, and Anastasie made little or no progress.

After lunch, when the Empress and I were sitting in the mauve boudoir,

we were startled by the sudden entrance of Volkoff. He was very

agitated, his face was pale, he trembled in every limb. Without waiting

to be addressed by the Empress, and utterly oblivious of etiquette, he

cried: “The Emperor is on the ’phone!”

The Empress looked at Volkoff as if he had taken leave of his senses;

then, as she realised the full import of his words, she jumped up with

the alacrity of a girl of sixteen, and rushed out of the room.

I waited anxiously. I kept on praying that a little happiness might yet

be hers ... perhaps, for all we knew, the danger had passed.

When the Empress returned, her face was like an April day--all smiles

and tears!

“Lili,” she exclaimed, “imagine what were his first words ... he said:

‘I thought that I might have come back to you, but they keep me here.

However, I’ll be with you all very soon.’” The Emperor added that the

Dowager Empress was coming from Kieff to be with him, and that he had

only received the Empress’s wires _after_ the abdication. “The poor

one!” said the Empress. “How much he has suffered! how pleased he’ll be

to see his mother!”

Thus the day which had begun so sadly ended happily ... we went at once

to tell the glad news to the Grand Duchesses and the Tsarevitch, who was

much better, and greatly excited at the prospect of his father’s return.

M. Gilliard, a charming Swiss, who taught the children French, was with

him, but Mr. Gibbs, his English tutor, was in Petrograd. I always

remember Mr. Gibbs and his kindness to me. On one occasion upon going to

Petrograd he put himself to great inconvenience to get news of Titi, and

procure clothes for myself. Notwithstanding innumerable difficulties, he

returned with reassuring tidings of Titi, and a clean nurse’s uniform

and lingerie for myself.[4]

CHAPTER III

After our usual visit to the children (March 7th) the Empress and I went

into the red drawing-room, where a fierce fire was burning in the huge

grate, and we recommenced our work of destruction.

A large oaken coffer had been placed on the table; this coffer contained

all the letters written to the Empress by the Emperor during her

engagement and married life. I dared not look at her as she sat gazing

at the letters which meant so much. I think she re-read some of them,

for at intervals I heard stifled sobs, and those sighs which have their

origin in the heart’s bitterness. Many of the letters had been written

before she was a wife and a mother. They were the love-letters of a man

who had loved her wholly and devotedly, who still loved her with the

affection of that bygone Springtime. Little dreamt either the lover or

the beloved that these letters were afterwards destined to be wet with

tears.

The Empress rose from her chair, and, still weeping, laid her

love-letters one by one on the heart of the fire. The writing glowed for

an instant, as if desirous of burning itself into her very soul, then it

faded, and the paper became a little heap of white ash.... Alas for

Youth! Alas for Love!

When the Empress had destroyed her correspondence, she handed me her

diaries to burn. Some of the earlier volumes were gay little books bound

in white satin; others were bound in leather. She smiled bravely as I

took them, and an immense disgust seized me when I thought that the

country of my birth was responsible for her misery and the injustice

meted out to her. “I can’t bear Russia,” I cried. “I hate it.”

“Don’t dare say such things, Lili,” said the Empress. “You hurt me....

If you love me, don’t ever say you hate Russia. The people are not to

blame; they don’t understand what they are doing.”

A coloured post-card of South Russia fell out of one of the diaries. I

picked it up. It was a pretty picture of young girls standing in a

flower-starred meadow ... and it brought Revovka back to me. “That’s

_home_,” I murmured. But the Empress heard my words.

“What did you say? Repeat it, Lili. You said, ‘That’s _home_.’ Now you

must never say you hate Russia.”

At this time, I am proud to say, the Empress relied on me as woman to

woman. To her, I was always “Lili,” or “My brave girl.” I was her friend

in trouble. The fact that I possessed no official position mattered

nothing to her; every moment I was writing letters, taking messages, and

seeing people on her behalf. I obeyed her absolutely, and her gentle

influence gave me fresh strength to hope and to endure.

The burning of the diaries extended over Wednesday and Thursday ... but

on Thursday one of the Empress’s dressers came to the red drawing-room

and begged us to discontinue. “Your Majesty,” said she, “the sweepers

are searching for the half-charred pieces of paper, some of which have

been carried up the chimney. I beg of you to cease.... These men are

talking among themselves.... They are utterly disloyal.” But our task

was completed--at any rate we had checkmated the curiosity of the

Revolutionaries!

At 7 o’clock the Empress asked me to telephone again to the Winter

Palace. As on the previous occasion, Prince Retief answered me.

“How are things with you?” I enquired.

“The mob is even now at the gates of the Palace,” he replied with

absolute unconcern. “I beg you, Madame, to present my assurances of

fidelity and devotion to the Empress.... I may not be able to do so

again.... Ah!... I thought as much. Madame, it distresses me to appear

discourteous, but I fear I am about to be killed.... The doors of this

room are being forced!” His voice ceased--there was a terrible crash....

I could bear no more, and the receiver slipped from my nerveless hands.

We remained in the mauve boudoir until quite late, but, just as we were

about to go to bed, Volkoff entered in a state of painful agitation. He

managed to tell us that M. Goutchkoff had arrived, and insisted upon

seeing the Empress. It was then 11 o’clock.

“But, at this hour--it’s impossible,” said the Empress.

“Your Majesty, he _insists_,” stammered Volkoff. The Empress turned to

me--terror and pathos in her eyes. “He has come to arrest me, Lili,”

she exclaimed. “Telephone to the Grand Duke Paul, and ask him to come at

once.” Regaining her composure, the Empress rearranged the Red Cross

head-dress which she had taken off, and stood waiting in silence for the

Grand Duke. Neither Marie nor myself dared speak. At length, after what

seemed an interminable agony of suspense, the Grand Duke entered, and

the Empress told him in a few words about her ominous summons. The next

moment, loud voices in the corridor, and the banging of a door,

announced Goutchkoff’s arrival in the adjoining room.

Goutchkoff, the Minister of War during the Revolution, was an openly

avowed personal enemy of the Emperor, whom he had never forgiven for not

having accepted him at his own valuation as the uncrowned king of

Moscow. He had compelled the Emperor to abdicate through revenge;

spiteful curiosity now urged him to gloat over the sufferings of a

defenceless woman! He was a hideous creature, who wore big spectacles

with yellow glasses, which partially disguised the fact that he was

unable to look anyone straight in the face.

Marie and I clung desperately to the Empress; we were certain that all

was now finished. She kissed us both tenderly, and passed out with the

Grand Duke Paul, an infinitely tragic figure, recalling to my mind a

vision of Marie Antoinette, whose troubles possessed so many

similarities with those of the Empress. Volkoff, that loyal servant,

true to the traditions of Imperial regime, informed us that Goutchkoff

had brought two A.D.C.’s with him, and that one of these men had

accosted him with the words: “Ha, ha! Here we are. You didn’t expect us

to-night, eh? But _we_ are masters of the Palace _now_!”

Marie and I sat side by side on the sofa, the young girl shook with

fear, but her terror was not for herself--Marie, like all the children,

thought only of her beloved mother.

In this crisis of their fortunes, the Imperial Family manifested no

sorrow at the loss of their rank and prestige. The only anxiety shown by

them was the fear of parting one from the other. Theirs might have been

the words inscribed upon the wall of a certain old prison in Italy:

“Better death than life without you.” And, if the report of their death

be true, they most mercifully never knew the pain of separation.

At last footsteps sounded in the corridor--the door of the boudoir

opened--and, to our unspeakable relief, we saw the Empress!

Marie ran towards her mother, half crying, and half laughing, and the

Empress quickly reassured us.

“I am not to be arrested this time,” she said. “But, oh! the humiliation

of the interview! Goutchkoff was impossible--I could _not_ give him my

hand. He told me that he merely wanted to see how I was supporting my

trials, and whether or no I was frightened.” Her pale cheeks were

rose-flushed, her eyes sparkled--at this moment the Empress was terrible

in her anger. But she soon regained her calm dignity, and we bade her

good night, thankful that she was spared to us.

Wednesday, March 8th, is a day momentous in the annals of new-born

Russia, inasmuch as it witnessed the arrest of a woman and five sick

children, and of those adherents who knew the meaning of the words

Friendship and Duty.

In the morning Count Benckendorff came to inform us that the Emperor

would arrive at Tsarkoe on the 9th, and that the Revolutionary

authorities had decided to arrest everyone in the Palace by noon. The

Count asked the Empress to give him a list of those of her suite who

would be willing to remain, and the Empress at once addressed me: “Lili

... do you understand what this order means? After it is enforced,

nobody will be allowed to leave the Palace, all news from outside will

be stopped. What do you wish to do? Think of Titi ... Can you bear to be

without tidings of him?”

I did not hesitate. “My greatest wish is to remain with you, Madame,” I

replied.

“I knew it!” exclaimed the Empress. “But ... it will, I fear, be a

terrible experience for you.”

“Don’t worry on my account, Madame,” I answered. “We will share the

danger together.”

At noon, General Korniloff made his appearance at the Palace with the

order for the arrest of the Imperial Family. The Empress received him

wearing her Red Cross uniform, and she was genuinely pleased to see him,

since she laboured under the mistaken idea that he was well disposed

towards herself and the family. She was entirely mistaken, as Korniloff,

thinking that the Empress disliked him, never lost an opportunity of

spreading the most malicious reports concerning her.

Korniloff told the Empress that the Palace troops were to be replaced

with those of the Revolution; there was no use for the Mixed Guard and

the Cossack Convoi; the Palace was now thronged with Revolutionaries,

who were walking about everywhere. When the officers of the Mixed Guard

bade farewell to the Empress, many of them broke down and sobbed. She

afterwards told me that it was also for her a most painful moment. The

officers asked the Empress for a handkerchief, as a souvenir of her and

the Grand Duchesses.... This handkerchief they proposed to tear in

pieces, and divide between them; and later, to their great joy, we sent

them some “initial” handkerchiefs.

It was a day of good-byes; many officers came in from Petrograd to bid

farewell to the Imperial Family; the Tanieffs left, as the Empress had

insisted upon them returning to the Palace of the Grand Duke Michael,

where they might reasonably hope to be in safety.

At last the Empress decided to tell the Grand Duchesses about the

abdication ... she could not bear this painful task to devolve upon her

husband. She therefore made her way to their apartments, and was with

them alone for a long time. Anantasie seemed to sense what had happened

... and after her mother had left them she looked at me, and said, very

quietly, “Mamma has told us everything, Lili; but, as Papa is coming,

nothing else matters. However, you have known what was going on ... how

could you keep it from us? Why, you’re usually so nervous ... how is it

you are so calm?”

I kissed her, and said that I owed all my fortitude to her mother. She

had set such an example of courage that it was impossible for me not to

follow it.

When the Empress broke the news to the Tsarevitch, the following

conversation took place:

“Shall I never go to G.H.Q. again with Papa?” asked the child.

“No, my darling--never again,” replied his mother.

“Shan’t I see my regiments and my soldiers?” he said anxiously.

“No ... I fear not.”

“Oh dear! And the yacht, and all my friends on board--shall we never go

yachting any more?” He was almost on the verge of tears.

“No ... we shall never see the ‘Standart.’ ... It doesn’t belong to us

now.”

The Empress and I took tea together, and she told me how glad she felt

that the Garde Equipage had left their colours in the Palace. “I should

be so sorry to think that the colours were in the possession of the

Duma,” she remarked. At that moment we heard the sound of voices, and a

noise of singing and shouting. The Empress sprang off the couch on which

she was lying, and rushed across to the window. “Oh, Madame, don’t look,

I implore you,” I said, fearing the worst. But she did not hear me. Then

I saw her grow pale, and she fell back half fainting on the couch. The

sailors were leaving the Palace with the colours!

The Grand Duchess Marie was seized with measles late that evening. Like

her sister, Anastasie, she dreaded being ill. “Oh, I did so want to be

up when Papa comes,” she kept on repeating, until high fever set in, and

she lost consciousness ... her last comprehensible words being, “Lili,

can’t you sleep with Mamma to-night?”

“Yes, darling,” I told her. “I won’t leave Mamma alone--I’ll be

somewhere near her, even if I have to sleep in the bath.”

I went to the Empress. “Madame,” I said, “will you permit me to remain

near you to-night?”

“No, Lili, certainly not. If anything should happen, why should you be

obliged to witness a tragedy?” she replied.

I returned to Olga and Tatiana, who, like Marie, were very anxious about

their mother. “Lili, you _must_ not leave Mamma alone. One of us has

always slept with her[5]--she’s not strong. Promise, promise us that you

won’t leave her alone;” and, when the Empress came to pay her last visit

to the sick-room, the Grand Duchesses reiterated their request.

The Empress at first demurred ... but, when she realised how much the

Grand Duchesses dreaded her being left alone, she consented. “Well,

Lili,” she said reluctantly, “you see that the children must have their

own way. But I will not allow anyone to think I am frightened. Undress

upstairs, and, when my maids have left me, slip down the private

staircase, bring your

[Illustration: HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY AND THE TSAREVITCH, 1913]

[Illustration: THE EMPRESS

(End of 1915)]

sheets and blankets, and you can make up a bed on the couch in my

boudoir.”

It was a bright moonlight night. Outside, the snow lay like a pall on

the frost-bound Park. The cold was intense. The silence of the great

Palace was occasionally broken by snatches of drunken songs and the

coarse laughter of the soldiers. The intermittent firing of guns was

audible. It was a night of beauty, defiled by the base passions of men.

I went quietly downstairs to the mauve boudoir. The Empress was waiting

for me, and as she stood there I thought how girlish she looked. Her

long hair fell in a heavy plait down her back, and she wore a loose silk

dressing-gown over her night clothes. She was very pale, very ethereal,

but unutterably pathetic.

As I stumbled into the boudoir with my draperies of sheets and blankets

she smiled--a little affectionate, mocking smile, which deepened as she

watched me trying to arrange my bed on the couch. She came forward,

still smiling. “Oh, Lili ... you Russian ladies don’t know how to be

useful. When I was a girl, my grandmother, Queen Victoria, showed me how

to make a bed. I’ll teach _you_.” And she deftly arranged the bedding,

saying, as she did so: “Take care not to lie on this broken spring. I

always had an idea _something_ was amiss with this couch.”

The bed-making “à la mode de Windsor” was soon finished, and the Empress

kissed me affectionately and bade me good night. “I’ll leave my bedroom

door open,” she said; “then you won’t feel lonely.”

Sleep for me was impossible. I lay on the mauve couch--_her_

couch--unable to realise that this strange happening was a part of

ordinary life. Surely I must be dreaming; surely I should suddenly awake

in my own bed at Petrograd, and find that the Revolution and its

attendant horrors were only a nightmare! But the sound of coughing in

the Empress’s bedroom told me that, alas! it was no dream.... She was

moving about, unable, like myself, to sleep. The light above the sacred

ikon made a luminous pathway between the bedroom and the boudoir, and

presently the Empress came back to me, carrying an eiderdown. “It’s

bitterly cold,” she said. “I want you to be comfortable, Lili, so I’ve

brought you another quilt.” She tucked the quilt well round my

shoulders, regardless of my protestations, and again bade me good night.

The mauve boudoir was flooded with moonlight, which fell directly on the

portrait of the Empress’s mother, and on the picture of the

Annunciation. Both seemed alive.... The sad eyes of the dead woman

watched the gradually unfolding tragedy of her daughter’s life, whilst

the radiant Virgin, overcome with divine condescension, welcomed the

angel who hailed her as blessed among women.

Masses of lilac were arranged in front of the tall windows. It was

customary for a fresh supply of lilac for the mauve boudoir to be sent

daily to Tsarkoe Selo from the south of France; but, owing to the

troublous times, no flowers had reached the Palace for a couple of days.

Just before dawn, the dying lilac seemed to expire in a last breath of

perfume ... the boudoir was suddenly redolent of the perfume of Spring

... tears filled my eyes. The poignant sweetness hurt me--winter was

around us, and within our hearts. Should we ever know the joys of blue

skies, and the glory of a world new-born?

All was silent, save for the footsteps of the “Red” sentry as he passed

and repassed up and down the corridor. At first the Revolutionaries had

celebrated their sojourn in a Palace by singing seditious and obscene

songs, but little by little these had ceased ... the soldiers slept. My

mind reverted constantly to the sick girls and to their brother, who,

happily, unlike them, did not share their apprehensions. What a contrast

this night presented to the quiet, happy nights of long ago! I confess

it was difficult to see the hand of God in this--to me--unnecessary

suffering, and to accept all in the spirit of humility which the Empress

manifested.

At seven o’clock the Empress told me I had better return to the red

drawing-room, so I gathered my bedclothes together and slipped

unperceived and unheard up the staircase.[6]

CHAPTER IV

On the morning of Thursday, March 9th, the Empress came into the Grand

Duchesses’ bedroom; she was agitated and anxious, as she had been

informed that the Emperor would arrive at the Palace between eleven and

twelve. I went with her to see the Tsarevitch, and we sat by his bed

talking to him. The little boy was very excited, and he kept on looking

at his watch, and counting the seconds which must pass before his

father’s arrival.

Presently we heard the sound of an automobile, and Volkoff entered. The

faithful servant had refused to accept the fact of the Emperor’s

abdication, and, in a manner worthy of Imperial traditions, he

announced:

“His Majesty The Emperor!”

The Empress sprang from her chair, and ran out of the room. I, too,

rose. The meeting between the reunited family must not, surely, be

witnessed by any outsider! But the Tsarevitch seized my hand. “No, no,

Lili, you’re not to leave me,” he insisted, so I sat down by him for

five minutes, and eventually I managed to slip away and take refuge in

Anna’s room--where I remained until after lunch, when I was summoned to

the Imperial presence.

Following my instructions, I went into the Grand Duchesses’ room; the

Empress was not there. Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps. I knew

to whom they belonged--but they were no longer the footsteps of a

confident and happy man. They sounded as if the person who was advancing

was very, very tired.

I trembled from head to foot--I dared not at first raise my eyes. When I

did so, I encountered the tragic, weary eyes of the Emperor.

He advanced to where I was standing, and took my hands in his, saying,

very simply:

“Thank you, Lili, for all you have done for us ... and I?... what have I

done for you? Absolutely nothing! Why, I have not even kept Dehn near

you.”

“Your Majesty,” I answered, now unable to speak without crying ... “it

is for me to thank you for the privilege of being allowed to remain with

you.”

As we went into the red salon, and the light fell on the Emperor’s face,

I started. In the darkened bedroom I could not see clearly, but I now

realised how greatly he had altered. The Emperor was deathly pale, his

face was covered with innumerable wrinkles, his hair was quite grey at

the temples, and blue shadows encircled his eyes. He looked like an old

man; the Emperor smiled sadly when he saw my horrified expression, and

he was about to speak, when the Empress joined us; he then tried to

appear the light-hearted husband and father of the happy years; he sat

with us and chatted on trivial matters, but I could see that he was

inwardly ill at ease, and at last the effort was too much for him. “I

think I’ll go for a walk--walking always does me good,” he said.

We passed through the corridors to Anna’s apartments, where the Emperor

left us, and went downstairs. The Empress and I entered the bedroom, and

stood by one of the windows which looked out over the Park. Anna was

very excited; she kept talking and crying, but we had eyes only for the

Emperor, who by this time was outside the Palace. He walked briskly

towards the Grande Allée, but suddenly a sentinel appeared from nowhere,

so to speak, and intimated to the Emperor that he was not allowed to go

in that direction. The Emperor made a nervous movement with his hand,

but he obeyed, and retraced his steps; but the same thing

occurred--another sentinel barred his passage, and an officer told the

Emperor that, as he was now to all intents and purposes a prisoner, his

exercise must be of the prison-yard description!... We watched the

beloved figure turn the corner ... his steps flagged, his head was bent,

his whole aspect was significant of utter dejection; his spirit seemed

completely broken. I do not think that until this moment we had realised

the crushing grip of the Revolution, nor what it signified. But it was

brought home to us most forcibly when we saw the passage of the Lord of

All the Russias, the Emperor whose domains extended over millions of

miles, now restricted to a few yards in his own Park.

The Empress said nothing, but I felt her hand grasp mine; it was, for

her, an agonizing experience. After an interval, she spoke.... “We’ll go

back to the children, Lili; at any rate we can be together there.”

The Grand Duchesses were delighted to know that their father had

returned, and I think the knowledge of his safety acted on them like a

tonic. Poor Marie, who had so longed to be the first to welcome the

Emperor, was now delirious, with intervals of consciousness. When I

entered her room, she recognised me. “Well, Lili, where have you been?”

she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Papa is really

_here_, isn’t he?” The next moment she was back in the fantastic and

terrible kingdom of fever. “Crowds of people ... dreadful people ...

they’re coming to kill Mamma!! Why are they doing these things?” Alas,

poor child, others have since asked the same question.

That day the Emperor and the Empress dined and spent the evening

together. The Empress told me afterwards that the Emperor lost his

self-control when he was alone with her in the mauve boudoir; he wept

bitterly. It was excessively difficult for her to console him, and to

assure him that the husband and father was of more value in her eyes

than the Emperor whose throne she had shared.

* * * * *

I cannot say that the Revolutionaries treated us with excessive

discourtesy, but some of their methods were reprehensible. For instance,

when certain complications ensued with Marie, it became necessary to

have another medical opinion. This request was at first refused, but

afterwards the authorities agreed, on condition that an officer and two

soldiers were present at the medical examination! Colonel Kotzebue, the

first Revolutionary commandant, had formerly been an officer in the

Lancers, and, as he was a distant cousin of mine, I could hardly believe

my eyes when I saw him in this official capacity, and I asked him to

come and talk to me in Anna’s room, as I considered he owed our family

some explanation of his conduct.

“I can’t imagine why I was nominated for the post,” said Kotzebue. “All

I can tell you, Lili, is that I was awakened in the middle of the night,

and told to report myself at Tsarkoe Selo. Will you assure Their

Majesties that there is nothing I will not try and do for them. This is

really the happiest moment of my life, since it enables me to be of

service to them.”

When the Empress sent for me on the morning of March 10th, I found her

lying on the couch in her boudoir. The Emperor was with her; she

motioned me to come and sit beside her, and the Emperor talked to us.[7]

He first described an incident which had impressed him most strongly

that very morning.

“When I got up,” he said, “I put on my dressing-gown and looked through

the window which gives on the courtyard.[8] I noticed that the sentinel

who was usually stationed there was now sitting on the steps--his rifle

had slipped out of his hand--he was dozing! I called my valet, and

showed him the unusual sight, and I couldn’t help laughing--it was

really absurd. At the sound of my laughter the soldier awoke, but he

did not attempt to move--he scowled at us, and we withdrew. But what a

conclusive proof of the general demoralisation! All must indeed be at an

end for Russia, as without law, obedience and respect no empire can

exist.”

The Empress then questioned the Emperor about certain doings at G.H.Q.

“Some occurrences were exceptionally painful,” replied the Emperor. “My

mother drove with me through the town, which was profusely decorated

with red flags and a profusion of bunting. My poor mother couldn’t bear

to look at the flags ... but the sight of them did not affect me; it

seemed such a stupid and useless display! The behaviour of the crowd was

in curious contrast to this exhibition of Revolutionary power, as they

all knelt, as of yore, when our automobile passed.”

“I could not bear to say good-bye to Voeikoff, Niloff and Fredericks.

They didn’t want to leave me. I had to insist at last. The

Revolutionaries promised most faithfully not to harm them.”[9]

“One thing especially touched me,” continued the Emperor. “When I got

into the train, I noticed five or six schoolgirls who were standing on

the platform trying to attract my attention. I went to the window, and,

when they saw me, they began to cry, and made signs for me to write

something for them. So I signed my name on a piece of paper, and sent it

to the children. But they still lingered on the platform, and, as it

was bitterly cold, I tried to make them understand that they had better

go home. However, when my train left, two hours later, they were still

there. They blessed me, poor children,” said the Emperor, greatly moved

by the recollection. “I hope their pure blessing will bring us

happiness.”

The Emperor told us that he had received countless telegrams after the

news of his abdication was generally known. Many were abusive, but

others breathed the concentrated spirit of loyalty. Count Keller sent a

telegram informing the Emperor that he declined to recognise the

existence of the Revolution.[10] The Count afterwards refused to sign

the documents of allegiance, and he broke his sword and threw the pieces

down.

“General Rousky was the first to broach the subject of my abdication,”

said the Emperor. “He boarded the train _en route_, and came into my

saloon unannounced.

“‘Goutchkoff and Shoulgine are also coming to talk to you,’ he informed

me. These gentlemen made their appearance at the next station, and they

were excessively impertinent. Rousky told them that he had already

discussed matters with me. But I refused to be ignored. I struck the

table with my fist. ‘I’m going to speak, I _will_ speak,’ I cried.

“‘You must abdicate in favour of the Tsarevitch, and the people will

nominate a Regent,’ said Goutchkoff and Shoulgine.

“‘But,’ I replied, ‘are you sure--can you promise that my abdication

will benefit Russia?’

“‘Your Majesty, it is the only thing to save Russia at the present

crisis,’ they replied.

“‘But I must think it over.... I’ll give you my answer in a couple of

hours.’”

“The delegates consented. I knew,” continued the Emperor, looking with

affection at his wife, “that their first idea was to separate Alexis

from the Empress, so I spoke to Dr. Fedoroff, who was in the train, and

I asked him whether he considered it advisable to allow the Tsarevitch

to be taken from her.

“‘It will shorten the Tsarevitch’s life,’ said Fedoroff bluntly.

“When Goutchkoff and Shoulgine returned, I intimated plainly that I

would not part with my son. ‘I am ready to abdicate,’ I said, ‘but not

in favour of my son, only of my brother.’

“My decision appeared to trouble them: they asked me to think better of

it, but I was firm. Afterwards I signed the Act of Abdication. The train

was then sent back to G.H.Q.”

Such is the bare narrative of the abdication, related as nearly as

possible in the Emperor’s own words. Baron Stackelberg, a cousin of my

husband’s, who was travelling with the Emperor, afterwards told me that

he and M. Voeikoff, the Commandant du Palais, met Rousky on the platform

of the station where he joined the train. The two gentlemen were about

to send some telegrams from the Emperor to Rodziansko, in which the

Emperor replied to the former’s request to give Russia a constitutional

government. In the opinion of the Emperor, the moment had not arrived.

“Whose telegrams are these?” said Rousky.

“His Majesty’s,” answered Baron Stackelberg coldly.

Rousky snatched the telegrams from Baron Stackelberg, and put them in

his pocket, remarking as he did so, “Useless!” So Rodziansko never

received the Emperor’s telegrams, and Baron Stackelberg, who is now in

Finland, can confirm the truth of the story. M. Voeikoff and the Baron

looked at each other, neither spoke, but each read in the other’s eyes

the unspoken thought--to kill Rousky then and there, and so avenge the

insult to the Emperor. But Rousky had disappeared--the moment for

righteous murder had passed!

* * * * *

Life at first went on much as usual after the Emperor’s return: he

always insisted upon reading the daily papers, but the filth of the

gutter press sickened and pained him. One evening I happened to come

into the library where the Emperor was reading a newspaper: his

expression showed that something had seriously displeased him. “Just

look here, Lili,” he said, showing me the portraits of the new Cabinet.

“Look at these men.... Their faces are the real criminal type. And yet I

was asked to approve of this Cabinet, and to agree to the Constitution,”

he added with a touch of bitterness.

My time was now fully occupied. The Grand Duchess Marie was seriously

ill, and I relieved the Empress in nursing her.... I had taken upon

myself the task, formerly performed by the Empress, of sponging poor

Marie’s body, and, when the child was conscious, she liked me to brush

and comb her lovely hair, which became sadly tangled as she tossed to

and fro in her delirium. Marie was the first unmarried Grand Duchess to

sleep on a “real” bed of her own, but, as she was so ill, we moved her

from the narrow camp-bed to a more comfortable resting-place.

The Empress was a skilful nurse; she was especially expert in changing

sheets and night-clothes in a few minutes without disturbing the

patients. When I showed my surprise, she said quite simply: “I learnt to

do useful things in England.... I’ve never forgotten what I owe to my

English upbringing.”

One day my cousin, Kotzebue, told me that an English gentleman, Mr. A.

Stopford,[11] a friend of the Grand Duchess Marie Paul, was desirous of

being of use to the Empress. He had, it appeared, a cult for the

Imperial Family, and, as he was about to return to England, he asked

Kotzebue whether the Empress would not like to send some letters by him

to her relations. I told the Empress at once. It seemed such a wonderful

chance.... Her first cousin, King George V, and his devoted consort,

would surely welcome news from the Imperial Family!

The Empress was deeply touched by Mr. Stopford’s offer. “I’ll think

about it, Lili,” she said. But the next day she told me that she had

decided not to communicate with King George and the Queen. “I _can’t_

write. What can I say? I’m too hurt and wounded by my country’s

behaviour.... But even with this I can’t speak against Russia....

Besides, the Emperor is more worried than ever; he is so fearful that

his abdication, and the unrest, may spoil the Great Offensive.... No ...

we can’t communicate with our cousins.”

Both the Emperor and the Empress constantly referred to England. The

first idea of the Duma had been to induce the Imperial Family to go to

England, but certain powers there were antagonistic to the proposition,

as it was considered likely to be unfavourably received by the Labour

Party. But those who were fearful of sheltering a defenceless family,

whose only crime consisted in being defenceless, need have had no

apprehensions.

The Emperor and the Empress did not wish to leave Russia. “I’d rather go

to the uttermost ends of Siberia,” said the Emperor. Neither he nor the

Empress could face the prospect of wandering about the Continent, and

living at Swiss hotels as ex-Royalties, snapshotted and paragraphed by

representatives of the picture papers, and interviewed by amazing

American journalists. Their retiring spirits shrank from cheap

publicity; they considered that it was the duty of every Russian to

stand by Russia, and face the common danger together.

Apart from their personal disinclination to go to England, the Soviets

were opposed to the suggestion, and it was stated that, if any train

left Tsarkoe with the Imperial fugitives, it would be stopped, and

everyone murdered, as the Emperor knew too much to be allowed to leave

Russia.

The Emperor brought me the newspaper which contained this statement. He

was in a terrible rage.... He could scarcely contain himself, and he

almost threw the paper at me.

“Read this, Lili,” he exclaimed, his face white with passion.

“_Beasts!_ How dare they say such things.... They judge others by

themselves.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” I answered, greatly troubled, “please don’t read

these horrible papers.”

“I must, I must, Lili. I feel that I must know all,” said the Emperor.

Occasionally he was in better spirits, and more like his old cheerful

self. The Emperor was generally able to see the humour of any situation,

and he would sometimes laugh at the idea of being, what he called, “an

Ex.” Everything was then “Ex.” “Don’t call me an Empress any more--I’m

only an Ex,” laughed the Empress; and one day, when some especially

unpalatable ham was served at lunch, the Emperor remarked, “Well, this

may have once been ham, but now it’s nothing but an ‘ex-ham.’” He was

always amused by the likeness between him and his cousin, King George.

One day he showed me a photograph of the latter, saying, “Have you seen

my last photograph, Lili? Doesn’t it flatter me?”

He had a great admiration for his cousin, and the Empress often spoke of

Queen Alexandra, ... her beauty, her sympathetic nature, and her

boundless charity. “I would so much like to see my married sister in

England,” she invariably added, whenever she discussed her family.

“Darmstadt is only a little spot in the garden of my memories,” she

would say, “but my mother died there, so I can’t really be blamed for

liking Darmstadt.... Isn’t ‘Home sweet Home’ typically English?