Nicholas and Alexandra

CHAPTER TEN

The Tsar’s Village

THE secret of Alexis’s disease was hidden and carefully guarded within the inner world of Tsarskoe Selo, “the Tsar’s village.” “Tsarskoe Selo was a world apart, an enchanted fairyland to which only a small number of people had the right of entry,” wrote Gleb Botkin, the son of Nicholas II’s court physician. “It became a legendary place. To the loyal monarchists, it was a sort of terrestrial paradise, the abode of the earthly gods. To the revolutionaries, it was a sinister place where blood-thirsty tyrants were hatching their terrible plots against the innocent population.”

Tsarskoe Selo was a magnificent symbol, a supreme gesture, of the Russian autocracy. At the edge of the great St. Petersburg plain, fifteen miles south of the capital, a succession of Russian tsars and empresses had created an isolated, miniature world, as artificial and fantastic as a precisely ordered mechanical toy. Around the high iron fence of the Imperial Park, bearded Cossack horsemen in scarlet tunics, black fur caps, boots and shining sabers rode night and day, on ceaseless patrol. Inside the park, monuments, obelisks and triumphal arches studded eight hundred acres of velvet green lawn. An artificial lake, big enough for small sailboats, could be emptied and filled like a bathtub. At one end of the lake stood a pink Turkish bath; not far off, a dazzling red-and-gold Chinese pagoda crowned an artificial hillock. Winding paths led through groves of ancient trees, their massive branches latticed for safety with cables and iron bars. A pony track curved through gardens planted with exotic flowers. Scattered in clumps throughout the park were lilacs planted by a dozen empresses. Over the years, the shrubs had grown into lush and fragrant jungles. When the spring rain fell, the sweet smell of wet lilacs drenched the air.

Tsarskoe Selo sprang up when Catherine I, the lusty wife of Peter the Great, wanted a country retreat from the granite city her husband was building on the Neva marshes. Peter’s daughter, Elizabeth, displayed her parents’ instinct for grand construction. At a cost of ten million roubles, she built the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg and then turned her attention to Tsarskoe Selo. Disliking the joggling carriages which bore her in and out of the city, she began constructing a canal so that she could make the journey entirely by water. Elizabeth died before the canal was finished, but the completed sections provided excellent bathing for the inhabitants of Tsarskoe Selo.

The two palaces standing five hundred yards apart in the Imperial Park during the reign of Nicholas II had been built by Empress Elizabeth and by Catherine the Great. In 1752, Elizabeth ordered the famous architect Rastrelli to build a palace at Tsarskoe Selo which would outshine Versailles. Rastrelli erected the big blue-and-white palace now called the Catherine Palace, an ornate structure with more than two hundred rooms. It pleased Elizabeth so much that she made Rastrelli a Russian count. Mingling taste with exquisite diplomacy, the French ambassador at Elizabeth’s court told the Empress that her beautiful palace lacked only one thing—a cover of glass to protect so breathtaking a masterpiece. In 1729, Catherine the Great commissioned another Italian, Quarenghi, to build a second, smaller palace at Tsarskoe Selo for her beloved grandson, the boy who was to become Alexander I. Quarenghi’s building, the Alexander Palace, was as simple as the Catherine Palace was ornate. It was here, to the Alexander Palace, that Nicholas II brought his bride to live in the spring of 1895. It remained their home for twenty-two years.

In describing palaces, simplicity becomes a relative term. The Alexander Palace had over one hundred rooms. From the tall windows of the Catherine Palace, the Tsar and his wife gazed down on terraces, pavilions, statues, gardens and ornate carriages drawn by magnificent horses. Inside the palace were long, polished halls and tall, shaded rooms furnished in marble, mahogany, gold, crystal, velvet and silk. Beneath huge chandeliers, rich Oriental rugs were spread on gleaming parquet floors. In winter, sapphire-and-silver brocade curtains helped to shut out the murky chills of Russian twilight. Large multicolored porcelain stoves warmed the cold rooms, mingling the smell of burning wood with the fragrant scent provided by smoking pots of incense carried by footmen from room to room. In every season, Empress Alexandra filled the palace with flowers. When autumn frosts ended the growing in the gardens and greenhouses at Tsarskoe Selo, flowers were brought by train from the Crimea. Every room had its swirl of odors; the sweetness of lilies in tall Chinese vases, the delicate fragrance of violets and lilies of the valley bunched in silver bowls, the perfume of hyacinths in rare lacquered pots.

To guard this paradise, to tend its lawns and pick its flowers, to groom its horses, polish its motorcars, clean its floors, make its beds, polish its crystal, serve its banquets and bathe and dress its Imperial children took thousands of human hands. Besides the Cossacks, a permanent garrison of five thousand infantrymen carefully chosen from all the regiments of the Imperial Guard provided guard detachments at the palace gates and foot patrols in the Imperial Park. Thirty sentries were always stationed inside the palace, in vestibules, corridors, staircases, kitchens and even in the cellars. The guardsmen were supplemented by plainclothes police who inspected the servants, tradesmen and workmen and kept notebook records of all who came and went. In bad weather, the Tsar could look from any window and see a tall soldier in a long greatcoat, cap and boots pacing his round. Not far away, there was usually a forlorn policeman with galoshes and umbrella.

Inside, an army of servants in gorgeous livery moved through the polished halls and silken chambers. Equerries in red capes bordered with Imperial eagles, and hats waving long red, yellow and black ostrich plumes, stepped noiselessly on the soft soles of their patent-leather shoes. “Resplendent in snow white garters, the footmen ran before us up the carpeted staircases,” wrote one visitor to the Imperial palace. “We passed through drawing rooms, ante-rooms, banqueting rooms, passing from carpets to glittering parquet, then back to carpets.… At every door stood lackeys petrified in pairs in most varied costumes, according to the room to which they were attached; now the traditional black frock coats, now Polish surcoats, with red shoes and white stockings and gaiters. At one of the doors [stood] two handsome lackeys with … crimson scarves on their heads, caught up with tinsel clasps.”

Nothing had changed, neither the trappings nor the rhythm of palace life, since the days of Catherine the Great. Court protocol, handed down from a forgotten era, remained as obstinately rigid as a block of granite. In the palace, courtiers backed away from the presence of the sovereigns. No one ever contradicted a member of the Imperial family. It was improper to speak to a member of the family without being spoken to, and when walking with the sovereigns, friends did not greet each other or even notice each other’s existence unless an Imperial personage did so first.

Frequently, court protocol almost seemed to conduct itself, taking its own course, making its own decisions, running on its own vast internal energies of tradition, exclusive of all human management. One day Dr. Botkin, the court physician, was surprised to receive the award of the Grand Cordon of the Order of St. Anna. According to protocol, he asked for a formal audience with the Tsar to thank him for the decoration. As he saw Botkin daily in his capacity as physician, Nicholas was surprised by the request. “Has anything happened that you want to see me officially?” he asked. “No, Sire,” said Botkin, “I came only to thank Your Majesty for this.” He pointed to the star pinned on his chest. “Congratulations,” said Nicholas, smiling. “I had no idea I had given it to you.”

Everything at Tsarskoe Selo centered on the Tsar. Outside the palace gates, Tsarskoe Selo was an elegant provincial town dominated by the life and gossip of the court. The mansions of the aristocracy, lining the wide tree-shaded boulevard which led from the railway station to the gates of the Imperial Park, pulsed with the rhythm that emanated from the Imperial household. A week of excited conversation could follow a nod, a smile or a word sent by the sovereign in an unusual direction. Severe crises arose over matters of promotion, decorations and clashing appointments for tea. Invitations to the palace were hoarded like diamonds. No greater delight offered itself than to have the telephone ring and hear one of the deep male voices of the palace telephone operators announce, “You are called from the apartments of Her Imperial Majesty” or, if the caller was one of Her Majesty’s daughters, “You are called from the apartments of Their Imperial Highnesses.”

The master of court life, the impresario of all court ceremonies, the bestower of all stars and ribbons, the arbitrator of all court disputes, was a Finnish nobleman advanced in years, Count Vladimir Fredericks. In 1897, at the age of sixty, Fredericks became chief minister of the Imperial court; he held the post until 1917, when it ceased to exist. Nicholas and Alexandra were devoted to “the Old Man,” as they referred to Fredericks. He, in turn, treated them as his own children and in private addressed them as “mes enfants.”

Fredericks, according to Paléologue, the French Ambassador, was “the very personification of court life. Of all the subjects of the Tsar, none has received more honors and titles. He is Minister of the Imperial court and household, aide-de-camp to the Tsar, cavalry general, member of the Council of Empire.… He has passed the whole of his long life in palaces and ceremonies, in carriages and processions, under gold lace and decorations.… He knows all the secrets of the Imperial family. In the Tsar’s name he dispenses all the favors and gifts, all the reproofs and punishments. The grand dukes and grand duchesses overwhelm him with attention for he it is who controls their households, hushes up their scandals and pays their debts. For all the difficulties of his task he is not known to have an enemy, such is the charm of his manner and his tact. He is also one of the handsomest men of his generation, one of the finest horsemen, and his successes with women were past counting. He has kept his lithe figure, his fine drooping mustache, and his charming manners … he is the ideal type for his office, the supreme arbitrator of the rites and precedences, conventions and traditions, manners and etiquette.”

As old age crept over him, Fredericks became ill and his energies sagged. He dozed off in the middle of conferences. He became forgetful. During the war, Prince Bariatinsky arrived at the palace to present the Tsar with the military order of the Cross of St. George. “Fredericks went to announce the Prince to His Majesty,” wrote Botkin, “but on his way from one room to the other, forgot what he was supposed to do, and wandered off, leaving the Emperor to wait for the Prince in one room and the Prince to wait for the Emperor in an adjoining room, both bewildered and angry at the delay.” Another time, Fredericks approached the Tsar and said, “I say, did His Majesty invite you for dinner tonight?” When Nicholas looked at him in utter bewilderment, Fredericks said, “Oh, I thought you were somebody else.”

After Fredericks, Nicholas’s favorite among the inhabitants of his court was Prince Vladimir Orlov, Chief of the Tsar’s Private Secretariat. A highly cultivated, sarcastic man and a descendant of one of the lovers of Catherine the Great, the Prince was known as “Fat Orlov” because he was so obese that, when sitting, he was unable to see his own knees. Orlov had been a cavalry officer, but in middle age he no longer was able to mount a horse. At parades when the Tsar and the Imperial suite rode by on horseback, Orlov was seen in the middle of the cavalcade, marching along on foot.

Naturally, these courtiers were fervent monarchists, “plus royaliste que le roi.” The Russia that men like Orlov preferred to see was a land of meek, sentimental, devoutly religious moujiks, overwhelmingly loyal to the Tsar. Russia’s enemies, they believed, were those who degraded the autocracy—the politicians and parliamentarians as well as the revolutionaries. This view, sounded in Nicholas’s ear whenever he would listen, survived defeats in war, revolutionary upheavals, the rise and fall of ministers and Imperial Dumas. Year after year slipped away, wrote Botkin, and “the enchanted little fairyland of Tsarskoe Selo slumbered peacefully on the brink of an abyss, lulled by the sweet songs of bewhiskered sirens who gently hummed ‘God Save the Tsar,’ attended church with great regularity … and from time to time asked discreetly when they were going to receive their next grand cordon or advance in rank or raise in salary.”

A graceful two-story building in simple classical style, the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo was made up of a center and two wings. In the central building were clustered the state apartments and formal chambers. The ministers of court and ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting had apartments in one of the two wings. In the other wing, Nicholas and Alexandra established a world and led a carefully scheduled and domestic existence.

The Empress Alexandra’s first command as a bride was that the rooms of this wing be redecorated. Curtains, rugs, upholstering and pillows were done in bright English chintzes and in mauve, her favorite color. On the second floor, the rooms selected as nurseries were cleared of heavy furniture, and simple beds and dressers of lemon-wood were installed, with covers of cheerful English cretonne. Under her direction, the general appearance of the private wing became that of a comfortable English country house.

Mounting guard over the frontier between this private world and the rest of the palace was a gaudily fantastic quartet of bodyguards. Four gigantic Negroes dressed in scarlet trousers, gold-embroidered jackets, curved shoes and white turbans stood guard outside the study where the Tsar was at work, or the boudoir where the Empress was resting. “They were not soldiers,” wrote Alexandra’s friend Anna Vyrubova, “and had no function except to open and close doors and to signal by a sudden noiseless entrance into a room that one of Their Majesties was about to appear.” Although all of these men were referred to at court as Ethiopians, one was an American Negro named Jim Hercules. Originally a servant of Alexander III, Hercules was an employee, bound to the family only by loyalty. He took his vacations in America and brought back jars of guava jelly as presents for the children.

Behind the heavy doors guarded by this flamboyant quartet, the Imperial family lived a punctual existence. In the winter, Tsarskoe Selo lay under a heavy blanket of snow and the sun did not come until nine o’clock. Nicholas rose at seven, dressed by lamplight, had breakfast with his daughters and disappeared into his study to work. Alexandra rarely left her room before noon. Her mornings were spent propped up on pillows in bed or on a chaise-longue, reading and writing long emotional letters to her friends. Unlike Nicholas, who wrote painstakingly and sometimes took hours to compose a letter, Alexandra wrote voluminously, dashing off lengthy sentences across page after page, punctuating only with dots and dashes and exclamation points. At her feet, while she wrote, lay a small shaggy Scotch terrier named Eira. Most people considered Eira disagreeable; he liked to dart from under tables and nip at heels. Alexandra doted on him and carried him from room to room—even to the dinner table.

Unlike many a royal couple, Nicholas and Alexandra shared the same bed. The bedroom was a large chamber with tall windows opening onto the park. A large double bed made of light-colored wood stood between two windows. Chairs and couches covered in flowered tapestry were scattered about on a thick carpet of mauve pile. To the right of the bed, a door led to a small chapel used by the Empress for her private prayers. Dimly lit by hanging lamps, the room contained only an icon on one wall and a table holding a Bible. Another door led from the bedroom to Alexandra’s private bathroom, where a collection of old-fashioned fixtures were set in a dark recess. Primly Victorian, Alexandra insisted that both bath and toilet be covered during the day by cloths.

The most famous room in the palace—for a time the most famous room in Russia—was the Empress’s mauve boudoir. Everything in it was mauve: curtains, carpet, pillows; even the furniture was mauve-and-white Hepplewhite. Masses of fresh white and purple lilacs, vases of roses and orchids and bowls of violets perfumed the air. Tables and shelves were cluttered with books, papers and porcelain and enamel knicknacks.^* In this room, Alexandra surrounded herself with mementoes of her family and her religion. The walls were covered with icons. Over her chaise-longue hung a picture of the Virgin Mary. A portrait of her mother, Princess Alice, looked down from another wall. On a table in a place of honor stood a large photograph of Queen Victoria. The only portrait in the room other than religious and family pictures was a portrait of Marie Antoinette.

In this cluttered, cozy room, surrounded by her treasured objects, Alexandra felt secure. Here, in the morning, she talked to her daughters, helping them choose their dresses and plan their schedules. It was to this room that Nicholas hurried to sit with his wife, sip tea, read the papers and discuss their children and their empire. They talked to each other in English, although Nicholas and all the children spoke Russian to each other. To Alexandra, Nicholas was always “Nicky.” To him, she was “Alix” or “Sunshine” or “Sunny.” Sometimes through the rooms of this private wing, a clear, musical whistle like the warbling song of a bird would sound. This was Nicholas’s way of summoning his wife. Early in her marriage, Alexandra, hearing the call, would blush red and drop whatever she was doing to hurry to him. Later, as his children grew up, Nicholas used it to call them, and the birdlike whistle became a familiar and regular sound in the Alexander Palace.

Next to the mauve boudoir was the Empress’s dressing room, an array of closets for her gowns, shelves for her hats and trays for her jewels. Alexandra had six wardrobe maids, but her modesty severely limited their duties. No one ever saw the Empress Alexandra undressed or in her bath. She bathed herself, and when she was ready to have her hair arranged, she appeared in a Japanese kimono. Often it was Grand Duchess Tatiana who came to comb her mother’s hair and pile the long red-gold strands on top of her head. After the Empress was almost dressed, her maids were summoned to fasten buttons and clasp on jewelry. “Only rubies today,” the Empress would say, or “Pearls and sapphires with this gown.” She preferred pearls to all other jewels, and several ropes of pearls usually cascaded from her neck to her waist.

For daytime, Alexandra wore loose, flowing clothes trimmed at the throat and waist with lace. She considered the famous “hobble skirts” of the Edwardian era a nuisance. “Do you really like this skirt?” she asked Lili Dehn, whose husband was an officer on the Imperial yacht. “Well, Madame, c’est la mode,” replied the lady. “It’s no use whatever as a skirt,” said the Empress. “Now, Lili, prove to me that it is comfortable—run, Lili, run, and let me see how fast you can cover ground in it.”

The Empress’s gowns were designed by St. Petersburg’s reigning fashion dictator of the day, a Mme. Brissac, who made a fortune as a couturière and lived in a mansion in the capital. Her clients, including the Empress, all complained about her prices. To the Empress, Mme. Brissac confided, “I beg Your Majesty not to mention it to anyone, but I always cut my prices for Your Majesty.” Subsequently, Alexandra discovered that Mme. Brissac had met similar complaints from her sister-in-law Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna with the whispered plea, “I beg Your Imperial Highness not to mention these things at Tsarskoe Selo, but I always cut my prices for you.”

In the evening, Alexandra wore white or cream silk gowns embroidered in silver and blue and worn with diamonds in her hair and pearls at her throat. She disliked filmy lingerie; her undergarments and her sleeping gowns were made of fine, embroidered linen. Her shoes were low-heeled and pointed, usually bronze or white suede. Outdoors she carried a parasol against the sun, even when wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

Lili Dehn, recalling her presentation to the Empress in the garden at Tsarskoe Selo in 1907, gives a vivid first impression of the Empress Alexandra: “Advancing through the masses of greenery came a tall and slender figure.… The Empress was dressed entirely in white with a thin white veil draped around her hat. Her complexion was delicately fair … her hair was reddish gold, her eyes … were dark blue and her figure was supple as a willow wand. I remember that her pearls were magnificent and that diamond earrings flashed colored fires whenever she moved her head.… I noticed that she spoke Russian with a strong English accent.”

For the children of the Imperial family, winter was a time of interminable lessons. Beginning at nine in the morning, tutors drilled them in arithmetic, geography, history, Russian, French and English. Before beginning their classwork, they submitted themselves every morning to the examination of Dr. Eugene Botkin, the court physician, who came daily to look at throats and rashes. Botkin was not solely responsible for the children; a specialist, Dr. Ostrogorsky, came from St. Petersburg to render his services. Later, young Dr. Vladimir Derevenko was especially assigned to care for the Tsarevich’s hemophilia. But Botkin always remained the children’s favorite. A tall, stout man who wore blue suits with a gold watch chain across his stomach, he exuded a strong perfume imported from Paris. When they were free, the young Grand Duchesses liked to track him from room to room, following his trail by sniffing his scent.

At eleven every morning, the Tsar and his children stopped work and went outdoors for an hour. Sometimes Nicholas took his gun and shot crows in the park. He had a kennel of eleven magnificent English collies and he enjoyed walking with the dogs frisking and racing about him. In winter, he joined the children and their tutors in building “ice mountains,” big mounds of snow covered with water which froze and made a handsome run for sleds and small toboggans.

Dinner at midday was the ceremonial meal at Tsarskoe Selo. Although the Empress was usually absent, Nicholas dined with his daughters and members of his suite. The meal began, according to the Russian custom, with a priest rising from the table to face an icon and intone his blessing. At the Imperial table this role was filled by Father Vassiliev, the confessor to the Imperial family. Of peasant origin, Vassiliev had never graduated from the Theological Academy, but what he lacked in schooling he made up in fervor. As he shouted his prayers in a cracked voice, Alexandra was convinced that he represented the simple, essential Orthodoxy of the Russian people. As a confessor, Vassiliev was comforting. No matter what sin was confessed to him, he smiled beatifically and said, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. The Devil does none of these things. He neither smokes nor drinks nor engages in revelry, and yet he is The Devil.” At the Imperial table, among the gold-braided uniforms of the court officials, Vassiliev cut a starkly dramatic figure. Wearing a long, black robe with wide sleeves, a black beard that stretched to his waist, a five-inch silver cross that dangled from his neck, he gave the impression that a great black raven had settled down at the table of the Tsar.

Another presence, not always visible, graced the Imperial table. It was that of Cubat, the palace chef. At Tsarskoe Selo, Cubat labored under a heavy burden. Neither Nicholas nor Alexandra cared for the rich, complicated dishes which the great French chefs had brought from their homeland to spread across the princely tables of Russia. Nicholas especially enjoyed slices of suckling pig with horseradish, taken with a glass of port. Fresh caviar had once given him severe indigestion and he rarely ate this supreme Russian delicacy. Most of all, he relished the simple cooking of the Russian peasant—cabbage soup or borshch or kasha (buckwheat) with boiled fish and fruit. Alexandra cared nothing for food and merely pecked at anything set before her. Nevertheless, Cubat, one of the greatest French chefs of his day, struggled on, happily anticipating the time when the Tsar’s guests would include a renowned gourmet. Sometimes when an especially elegant dish was being served, Cubat would stand hopefully in the doorway, immaculate in his white chef’s apron and hat, waiting to receive the compliments of master and guests.

In the afternoon, while her children continued their lessons, Alexandra often went for a drive. The order “Prepare Her Majesty’s carriage for two o’clock” stimulated a burst of activity at the stables. The carriage, an open, polished black rig of English design, was rolled out; the horses were harnessed into place and two footmen, in tall hats and blue coats, mounted the steps in the rear. Not until all else was ready did the coachman appear. He was a tall, heavy man amplified to greater size by an immense padded coat which he wore covered with medals. Two grooms placed themselves behind him and, at his grunt of command, boosted him into place. Taking the reins, he crossed himself, gave the reins a flick and, with a mounted Cossack officer trotting behind, the carriage moved under an arch toward the palace to wait for the Empress.

Not only the stables but also the vast and cumbersome apparatus of police surveillance was alerted when Alexandra asked for her carriage. Squads of detectives were hastily dispatched, and when the Empress drove out the gate an hour later, every tree and bush along her route concealed a crouching policeman. If she stopped to speak to someone along the way, no sooner had she driven on than an agent of the police stepped forward, notebook in hand, to ask, “What is your name and what reason had you for conversation with Her Imperial Majesty?”

Nicholas rarely accompanied his wife on these excursions by carriage. He preferred instead to ride out on horseback accompanied by Count Fredericks or by a friend, the Commander of Her Majesty’s Uhlans, General Alexander Orlov. Usually they went through the countryside in the direction of Krasnoe Selo, passing through villages along the way. Often, during these outings, the Tsar stopped to talk informally to peasants, asking them about themselves, their village problems and the success of the harvest. Sometimes, knowing that the Tsar frequently rode that way, peasants from other districts waited by the road to hand him petitions or make special requests. In almost every case, Nicholas saw to it that these requests were granted.^*

At four, the family gathered for tea. Teas at Tsarskoe Selo were always the same. Year after year, the same small, white-draped tables were set with the same glasses in silver holders, the same plates of hot bread, the same English biscuits. Cakes and sweetmeats never appeared. To her friend Anna Vyrubova, Alexandra complained that “other people had much more interesting teas.” Although she was Empress of Russia, wrote Vyrubova, she “seemed unable to change a single detail of the routine of the Russian court. The same plates of hot bread and butter had been on the same tea tables … [since the days of] Catherine the Great.”

As with everything else at Tsarskoe Selo, there was a rigid routine for tea. “Every day at the same moment,” Anna Vyrubova recalled, “the door opened, the Emperor came in, sat down at the tea table, buttered a piece of bread and began to sip his tea. He drank two glasses every day, never more, never less, and as he drank, he glanced over his telegrams and newspapers. The children found teatime exciting. They dressed for it in fresh white frocks and colored sashes, and spent most of the hour playing on the floor with toys. As they grew older, needlework and embroidery were substituted. The Empress did not like to see her daughters sitting with idle hands.”

After tea, Nicholas returned to his study. Between five and eight p.m. he received a stream of callers. Those having business with him were brought by train from St. Petersburg, arriving at Tsarskoe Selo just as dusk was falling. They were escorted through the palace to a waiting room where they could sit and leaf through books and magazines until the Tsar was ready to see them.

“Although my audience was a private one,” wrote the French Ambassador, Paléologue, “I had put on my full dress uniform, as is fitting for a meeting with the Tsar, Autocrat of all the Russias. The Director of Ceremonies, Evreinov, went with me. He also was a symphony of gold braid.… My escort consisted only of Evreinov, a household officer in undress uniform and a footman in his picturesque (Tsaritsa Elizabeth) dress with the hat adorned with long red, black and yellow plumes. I was taken through the audience rooms, then the Empress’s private drawing room, down a long corridor leading to the private apartments of the sovereigns in which I passed a servant in very plain livery who was carrying a tea tray. Further on was the foot of a little private staircase leading to the rooms of the Imperial children. A ladies’ maid flitted away from the landing above. The last room at the end of the corridor was occupied by … [the Tsar’s] personal aide-de-camp. I waited there barely a minute. The gaily and weirdly bedecked Ethiopian who mounted guard outside His Majesty’s study opened the door almost at once.

“The Emperor received me with that gracious and somewhat shy kindness which is all his own. The room in which he received me is small and has only one window. The furniture is plain and comfortable. There are plain leather chairs, a sofa covered with a Persian rug, a bureau and shelves arranged with meticulous care, a table spread with maps and a low book case with photographs, busts and family souvenirs.”

Nicholas received most visitors informally. Standing in front of his desk, he gestured them into an armchair, asked if they would like to smoke and lighted a cigarette. He was a careful listener, and although he often grasped the conclusion before his visitor had reached it, he never interrupted.

Precisely at eight, all official interviews ended so that the Tsar could go to supper. Nicholas always terminated an audience by rising and walking to a window. There was no mistaking this signal, and newcomers were sternly briefed to withdraw, no matter how pleasant or regretful His Majesty might seem. “I’m afraid I’ve wearied you,” said Nicholas, politely breaking off his conversation.

Family suppers were informal, although the Empress invariably appeared at the table in an evening gown and jewels. Afterward, Alexandra went to the nursery to hear the Tsarevich say his prayers. In the evening after supper, Nicholas often sat in the family drawing room reading aloud while his wife and daughters sewed or embroidered. His choice, said Anna Vyrubova, who spent many of these cozy evenings with the Imperial family, might be Tolstoy, Turgenev or his own favorite, Gogol. On the other hand, to please the ladies, it might be a fashionable English novel. Nicholas read equally well in Russian, English and French and he could manage in German and Danish. His voice, said Anna, was “pleasant and [he had] remarkably clear enunciation.” Books were supplied by his private librarian, whose job it was to provide the Tsar each month with twenty of the best books from all countries. This collection was laid out on a table and Nicholas arranged them in order of preference; thereafter the Tsar’s valets saw to it that no one disarranged them until the end of the month.

Sometimes, instead of reading, the family spent evenings pasting snapshots taken by the court photographers or by themselves into green leather albums stamped in gold with the Imperial monograph. Nicholas enjoyed supervising the placement and pasting of the photographs and insisted that the work be done with painstaking neatness. “He could not endure the sight of the least drop of glue on the table,” wrote Vyrubova.

The end of these pleasant, monotonous days arrived at eleven with the serving of evening tea. Before retiring, Nicholas wrote in his diary and soaked himself in his large, white-tiled bathtub. Once in bed, he usually went right to sleep. The exceptions were those occasions when his wife kept him awake, still reading and crunching English biscuits on the other side of the bed.

^* Along with religious crosses, icons and images of every description, Alexandra was fascinated by the symbol of the swastika. Its origins buried deep in the past, the swastika has been for thousands of years the symbol of the sun, of continuing re-creation and of infinity. Swastikas have been found on relics unearthed at the site of Troy, woven into Inca textiles and scrawled in the catacombs of Rome. Only to the generation that grew up after Alexandra’s death has the meaning of the swastika been perverted and the symbol transformed into a despised emblem of violence, intolerance and terror.

^* There is a story told by General Spiridovich which has all the quality of a fairy tale except that Spiridovich, a sternly practical and conscientious policeman, filled his book with nothing but precise and exhaustive descriptions of fact. The story is this:

Late one night in the room of the Peterhof palace set aside for the receiving of petitions, General Orlov heard a strange sound coming from the anteroom. He found a girl hiding there, sobbing. Throwing herself on the floor before him, she explained that her fiancé had been condemned to death and that he would be executed the next morning. He was a student, she said, who had tuberculosis and who had gotten mixed up in revolutionary activities. Just before his arrest, he had tried to extricate himself from the movement, but had forcibly been prevented from doing so. He would die anyway in a short time from his disease. Clutching Orlov about the knees, her eyes brimming with tears, she begged him to ask the Tsar for a pardon.

Moved by her plea, Orlov decided to act despite the lateness of the hour. He ordered a troika and dashed to the Alexandra Villa, where the Tsar was staying. Bursting through the door, he was stopped by a valet who told him that the Tsar already had retired. Nevertheless, Orlov insisted. A few minutes later, Nicholas appeared in his pajamas and asked quietly, “What is happening?” Orlov told him the story.

“I thank you very much for acting the way you did,” said Nicholas. “One must never hesitate when one has the chance to save the life of a man. Thank God that neither your conscience nor mine will have anything to reproach themselves for.” Quickly, he wrote a telegram to the Minister of Justice: “Defer the execution of S. Await orders.” He handed the paper to a court messenger and added, “Run!”

Orlov returned to the girl and told her what had happened. She fainted and Orlov had to revive her. When she could speak, her first words were, “Whatever happens to us, we are ready to give our lives for the Emperor.” Later, when Orlov saw Nicholas and told him her words, the Tsar smiled and said, “You see, you have made two people, her and me, very happy.”