A CHARACTER SKETCH OF NICHOLAS II.
When the present Tsar of All the Russias ascended the Throne he was
absolutely unknown to the public. Unfortunately, he is almost as unknown
at the present day, although nearly twenty years have elapsed since he
succeeded his father. Nicholas II. is one of those timid, weak natures
who nevertheless like to assert themselves at certain moments in matters
utterly without importance, but which, to their eyes, appear to be vital
ones. His mind is as small as his person; he sees the biggest events go
by without being touched, or being even aware of their great or tragic
sides.
His education had been neglected, and he was brought up as befitted an
officer in the Guards, not as the heir to a mighty Empire. For a number
of years after he had emerged from his teens he was treated as a little
boy, and not allowed the least atom of independence. The Empress had
studiously kept her children in the background, and her sons hardly ever
went out of the schoolroom. When Nicholas was about fifteen he was given
a tutor in the person of General Danilovitch, a most respectable man,
but a nonentity, and not even a personage belonging to the upper ten, or
possessed of manners or education in the social sense of the word. He
was of that class of people who eat with the knife, and though he did
not communicate this peculiarity to his Imperial pupil, yet he did not
teach him those small conventions which
[Illustration: NICHOLAS II., TSAR OF RUSSIA
_Photo: Boissonnas & Eggler, St. Petersburg_]
distinguish gentlemen born from gentlemen by reason of their official
position, which latter are but too often found in Russia.
The instruction which the young Grand Duke received differed in no way
from that given to cadets in military schools; he was taught obedience
and submission to the will of his parents, but he was not prepared for
the high position in which he found himself placed quite unexpectedly.
Such a contingency had never been catered for by those responsible for
his training.
The comparatively early age at which the Emperor Alexander III. died had
excluded, during his lifetime, any thought of the possibility of his
succession becoming open for years to come. The instruction of his
children had been conducted slowly, and instead of fostering the
development of their minds, it had been kept back as much as possible by
their teachers. The Tsarevitch lived in two small rooms--those which he
was later on to inhabit for the first months that followed upon his
marriage--in the Anitchkov Palace, and he stood always in considerable
awe of his parents, perhaps more of his mother than of his father. He
had no companions, no friends; he had no love of reading, no artistic
tastes, no interest in anything--not even in military matters.
When he was eighteen years old he entered the regiment of the Hussars of
the Guard quartered at Tsarskoye Selo, and that was his first step
towards independence. But he was not given as attendants people able to
lead him into a path such as that which usually opens before the heir to
a crown. He made some friends for himself among the youngest officers of
his regiment, and it must be owned these friends were for the most part
nonentities, with no ideas beyond that of eating and drinking and
making merry; not one of them could either advise him or be of any use
to him.
The first time he was called upon to assert himself was during his
journey round the world, after his majority. He then began to realise
the advantages of his position, though I doubt very much whether he
understood the duties which it entailed. His companions were his brother
the Grand Duke George, who, however, had to give up the journey on
account of his bad health; his cousin Prince George of Greece, and a few
officers from some crack regiments of the Guards, such as Prince
Kotchoubey, a certain Captain Volkoff, and people of the same kind, with
no recommendation except that of being nice fellows.
With all his great qualities, Alexander III. did not possess that of
knowing how to direct the education of his children, and the Empress was
similarly without this knowledge. She had been brought up in the
simplest way possible, and could not understand that the rearing of her
own sons and daughters ought to be conducted upon different lines from
those under which she had been trained. It was said at one time that
when a person of her near entourage asked her whether the time had not
come when a governess ought to be chosen for the Grand Duchess Xenia,
she replied: “But why? We had no governess when we were children.”
The result was that though masters in plenty came to instruct the
Tsarevitch and his brothers and sisters, they were nevertheless allowed
to remain without that domestic training which alone gives to future
Sovereigns, and people in high stations, the knowledge to fill their
duties in the proper way, and to meet with dignity the responsibilities
of their arduous position.
Again, lessons, though they teach something, yet do not instruct those
who receive them if they are not accompanied by an intelligent training,
and of this the Imperial children had none. They were given elementary
notions of languages and arts, but I doubt very much whether to the
present day any of them, the Sovereign not excluded, could write a
letter in French without mistakes. The love for learning was not
inculcated; reading serious books was never encouraged; the discoveries
of science were only explained as things which existed, but not as
things capable of further development. In a word, the Tsarevitch
received quite a middle-class training, and though he was afterwards
sent on a long voyage for the purpose of improving his mind and
acquainting him with the world, it is more than doubtful whether he
derived any real benefit from it.
As Grand Duke he was always timid, almost painfully so, and when by a
strong effort of will he conquered that timidity, he came out with what
he wanted to say in an almost brutal manner, which made him many
enemies, often quite unjustly. He never had any opinions of his own,
except in purely personal matters, and he has none to this day. His want
of mind makes him always endorse the judgments of the last person he
speaks to. Like every spoilt child he has no heart, not because his is a
bad nature, but because he is unable to feel any woes except his own, or
to understand any wants when he himself has none. He is jealous of his
authority, simply because he is selfish; he tries to uphold it in a
brutal manner, as in his famous speech after his accession to the
Throne, when he warned his people not to indulge in senseless dreams.
Nevertheless, he does nothing to make that authority respected, either
at home or abroad. On the contrary, when a fit of bad temper seizes upon
him he is the first one to attack the principles it should be his duty
to defend. This was manifested recently when he deprived his brother the
Grand Duke Michael of his rights. He is utterly incapable of grasping
the consequences of his own actions, does everything through impulse,
and thinks that the best argument is to knock down one’s adversaries.
The only strength he recognises is the strength of the fist, and
unfortunately this is not a strength which one respects in a century
when machinery has taken the place of the hand.
The Emperor is an exceedingly rancorous man. Instead of practising the
principle which made Louis XII. of France so famous: that of not
remembering as King the injuries he had received as Duke of Orleans, he
thinks it his duty to chastise when he can every slight to which he
considers he has been subjected either as Sovereign or as Heir to the
Throne. He likes to be feared, but unfortunately he cannot even inspire
respect, much less awe. He feels this, and not knowing how to fight
against the lack of consideration for his person, he becomes savage in
his wrath, and, though in appearance a quiet, inoffensive little man, is
capable of the utmost cruelty and hardness. He has no generous impulses,
none of that enthusiasm of youth which induces one to do generous
actions, even when they are not quite in accordance with prudence. He
lives a mechanical life, devoid of interest and indifferent to
everything that does not concern his immediate person.
People have asked themselves whether the indifference he has shown in
grave moments of his life has been affected or real. When the news was
brought to him of that terrible disaster of Tsushima, which cost Russia
her whole fleet and the loss of so many precious lives, the Emperor was
playing tennis in the park of Tsarskoye Selo. He read the telegram that
sounded the knell of so many hopes, and then quietly resumed his game,
not a muscle of his face moving. Was it stoicism, indifference, or a
strength of mind almost supernatural? The world tried to guess, but was
afraid to think that it arose from inability to understand the greatness
of the catastrophe. It is certain that no one has practised with greater
success than he has done the famous maxim of La Rochefoucauld, that “we
bear with the greatest composure the misfortunes that do not concern
us.” Nicholas II. probably thought that the misfortune which had
befallen Russia on the day of Tsushima did not concern him personally,
just as he did not realise that the catastrophe of Khodinska, which made
his Coronation so memorable, and cost the lives of nearly two thousand
people, concerned him too. On this last occasion he danced the whole of
the night following it; on the first one he went on playing tennis. The
only difference between the two lay in the kind of amusement he indulged
in.
When he found himself confronted with Revolution it never once occurred
to him that if he put his own person forward he might avert it. On that
dreadful day in January which ended in such bloodshed, he never for one
moment remembered the proud attitude of his ancestor, that other
Nicholas who, on an almost similar occasion, came out of his palace and
confronted the angry crowd, forcing the multitude, by the courage of his
attitude, to fall down upon their knees and submit. The only thought of
Nicholas II. was to flee from danger and to leave to others the task of
drowning in blood these first symptoms of rebellion.
And when, later on, he called together the representatives of the
different classes of his Empire, and inaugurated that first short-lived
Duma, he realised neither the solemnity of the act he had decided upon
nor the importance it would have in history.
I can see him, still, on that memorable day, reading his first speech in
the White Hall of the Winter Palace. One could not help remembering
Louis XVI., and thinking of that May morning when the _Etats-généraux_
assembled for the first time at Versailles. The same pomp characterised
both: ladies in Court trains and with diamond diadems; high officials in
braided uniforms, gold lace, and plumes in their cocked hats; and, in
their black coats, the deputies of the lower classes, those whose
efforts bring about the great crises that shake the life of nations.
Did he think of this, that mighty Tsar who, in a monotonous voice, read
his message to his people? Did he examine the faces of these men
standing before him, and try to guess whether a Mirabeau or a Vergniaud
was among them? Did the phantom of a Robespierre arise before his mind?
When the ceremony was over he remarked that some of the caftans worn by
the deputies from the rural classes were not new. It was all that had
attracted his attention.
When travelling outside Russia I have often been asked why it was that
both Nicholas II. and his Consort had made themselves so very unpopular
in Russia. I must own I have found it very difficult to reply. That they
_are_ unpopular is unquestionable, but to explain the reason adequately
would take volumes and still not initiate the outsider into the details
of this difficult question. When the present Tsar ascended the throne he
was surrounded by universal sympathy. People who had never seen him, nor
would ever see him, were kindly disposed towards him. Great things were
expected of him, and it was hoped he would govern wisely, after the
example which his father had given to him.
Very soon, however, these hopes were dashed to the ground. The Emperor
appeared as he really was--personal in everything, shallow-minded, weak,
well-intentioned, but only in so far as it did not interfere with his
own comfort, indifferent to all the necessities of his country, and
governed entirely by his sympathies or antipathies without considering
anything else. His was a nature which would have won for him in private
life the denomination of being a “good little fellow”; but that is not
enough for a Sovereign: it brings ridicule, the last thing that ought to
dog the footsteps of a monarch.
Whilst Alexander III. was living people knew that they could rely upon
his word, that he had opinions of his own, and that, whether these were
right or wrong, they were still opinions with whom others had to count.
After he had reigned a few months everyone who came into contact with
Nicholas II. realised that he was the echo of everyone else’s opinion
except his own.
The flexibility of his mind equalled its emptiness. It was very soon
found out that he changed his ideas as often and with as many people as
he discussed them. Though he fully thought he knew what constituted his
duties as a Sovereign, yet it can be questioned whether he could have
told what they were.
The vacillation of Nicholas II. is something quite surprising, and his
ingratitude for services rendered to him sometimes astounding. When M.
Stolypin, struck by an assassin’s shot, expired after a few days of the
most horrible sufferings, the Emperor was in Kieff. Common decency would
have required him to be present at the obsequies of the Minister who had
laid down his life for him. People expected it, public feeling required
from him this manifestation of his sorrow; but the Tsar coolly left
Kieff for the Crimea, not thinking it worth while to change anything in
his plans in order to follow to his grave the statesman who, whatever
may have been his faults, still had crushed the Revolution which at one
time threatened to overturn the Throne of the Romanoff Dynasty.
After Stolypin’s death, M. Kokovtsov was appointed head of the Ministry,
and when he arrived at Livadia to discuss with his Sovereign the line of
action which he intended to take, he found Nicholas II. arranging some
prints upon the walls and watching the effect of his work. When he saw
the Prime Minister the first words that he said to him were: “Oh, I am
glad that you have arrived. You can tell me whether this picture hangs
well or not.” And during the three days which M. Kokovtsov spent in
Livadia he was unable to secure a serious conversation with his
Sovereign, the latter always putting him off and at last telling him
plainly that “he had come to Livadia to enjoy a holiday, and did not
want to be bothered with business matters, which could be put off until
he was back at Tsarskoye Selo.”
Since the day when he fled from St. Petersburg for fear of the mob who,
led by the too famous Gapon, had wanted to present a petition to him,
Nicholas II. has not inhabited the capital. He has confined himself in
his Imperial castle of Tsarskoye Selo, where his Ministers come to him
with their reports, and where he leads the life of a country gentleman
with a limited circle of friends. He often goes to dine at the mess of
the regiments quartered there, and remains with the officers late at
night, drinking champagne and indulging in the smallest of small talk.
The rest of the time he signs papers, the contents of which he mostly
does not understand; he shoots in his park; and he worships his son, and
has him brought up in the most detestable way possible, never allowing
the child to be contradicted, and insisting upon all his caprices being
satisfied at once, whatever their nature may be.
During the long winter evenings the Emperor likes to turn tables, and in
general is fond of arranging spiritualist séances with all the famous
mediums that visit St. Petersburg. At one time a particular medium was
supposed to enjoy his entire confidence, and to advise him, by means of
table-turning, in the most complicated matters of State.
The relations of Nicholas II. with the different members of his family
are like everything else that he does--subject to many and various
changes. When he ascended the Throne his mother was supposed to wield a
considerable influence over him, and though that influence is no longer
as strong as it was, yet it is certain that he would not go against the
Dowager Empress in anything she wanted to do.
At one time he very much liked his uncle, the Grand Duke Vladimir, but
after the marriage of the latter’s son, the Grand Duke Cyril, with his
cousin, the divorced Grand Duchess of Hesse, their relations underwent a
change and quarrels took place.
At present the Grand Duke Nicholas is _persona grata_ with the
Sovereign, perhaps on account of the brutality for which he is famous.
He is also supposed to like his sisters, but these are of too little
importance to be reckoned with as serious factors in the general
situation.
No monarch has ever led such a secluded existence as the present Tsar.
Life at Court, which used to be so bright and cheerful, is now sad and
dull. Festivities there are none, except one reception on New Year’s
Day, at which the young Empress never appears, and even that did not
take place in 1913. Balls are no longer given, and foreign princes, when
they arrive upon a visit to the Russian Court, are received at one or
other of the country residences of the Sovereign. The Winter Palace,
once so animated, has taken the appearance of a lumber room, and
presents to the visitor an unkempt, forlorn, dirty, neglected sight.
No reign in Russia from the time of Peter the Great has been so
unfortunate as the present one. Calamities have followed its course from
the very beginning. The prestige of the country, which was so great when
Alexander III. died, has been seriously impaired by the failure of the
Japanese campaign and the Revolution that followed upon it. Discontent
is rife and becoming stronger every day; and though the financial
prosperity of the country has certainly increased and reached hitherto
unknown proportions, yet it has not done away with dissatisfaction.
The most curious feature of this situation is the total lack of respect
and consideration the public feels for the person of Nicholas II. and
for his family. Formerly, Grand Dukes were considered as something quite
apart from the rest of mankind, and as for the Emperor--one stood in awe
of him, whether one loved him or not. Now, no one thinks about them at
all; they simply do not exist either in the public or the social sense.
Respect has gone, and familiarity has not arrived. The presence of a
member of the Imperial Family at a ball or party is no longer considered
as an honour, and is not looked upon as a pleasure.
No misfortune has been spared to Nicholas II., and had he only
understood their importance, he would have been the most unhappy man in
the whole of his vast Empire. War has humiliated his country, revolution
has enfeebled it, bad and tainted politics have dishonoured it, the
blood of thousands of people who perished quite uselessly cries out for
revenge, the tears of other thousands of unhappy creatures who languish
in prisons or in hopeless exile appeal to Heaven for the chastisement of
those in authority who sent them to a living death. Danger surrounds
him, treason dogs his footsteps; his nation dislikes and distrusts him;
his family is hostile to him; his only brother is banished, his mother
is estranged from him, the wife of his bosom is the victim of a strange
and mysterious malady; his only son, and the successor to his Throne and
Crown, is smitten with an incurable illness. He has no friends, no
disinterested advisers, no Ministers whose popularity in the country
could add something to his own. And amid these ruins he stands alone, a
solitary figure, the more pathetic because he does not realise the
tragedy of his own fate.