Rasputin's Daughter

CHAPTER 7

Oddly, as I sat there crouched in revulsion, I was flooded with memories of better times. Just last winter a great honor had been bestowed upon me: I had been invited to join Papa for tea at the palace. Dunya, overwhelmed with pride and joy, had spent an entire day shopping for a new frock for me, finally selecting a blue dress with a white collar, tied neatly at the waist. The morning of the tea, Dunya spent nearly two hours reviewing my curtsy and how I held a teacup, explaining how I should address the Empress and coaching me on interesting points of conversation. Toward one o’clock, Papa came out of his room wearing black velvet pants, boots that were freshly polished, and a lilac silk kosovorotka with a sash embroidered by the Empress herself. When it finally came time to go, it seemed the entire building came to see Papa and me off. We even took a horse cab to the Tsarskoye Selo train station, though it was only a few blocks away, just to keep my dress clean.

But of course before tea there was playtime with the children. Once I had curtsied to the Empress and been allowed to kiss her hand, and once the Empress, the ever-present Madame Vyrubova, and Papa retired to the Maple Room for conversation, an equerry in a red cape and a hat feathered with ostrich plumes led me to the rear door. My young hosts, it seemed, were waiting for me outside, and no sooner had I stepped into the cold than I was pelted by a handful of powdery snowballs.

“Surprise!” shouted Anastasiya Nikolaevna, the youngest of the grand duchesses, who was so covered in snow she looked as if she’d been rolled in confectioners’ sugar.

For the briefest of moments I wanted to burst into tears-I had never been dressed in finer clothes. But then, of course, my young sensibilities took hold, and I dashed into the fray, joining the younger sisters-Anastasiya Nikolaevna and Maria Nikolaevna, who was my age-and their young brother, the heir, Aleksei Nikolaevich, in a brawl of winter fun that was just like those back home. The only difference was that the snowballs were formed and handed to me.

“Here, my child,” said Nagorny, the dyadka-bodyguard-to the Heir Tsarevich, as he handed me a feather-light ball of snow, “you may throw only those that I give to you.”

I didn’t understand until much later, but of course I did exactly as I was told. And after a half hour of merriment in what had to be the softest snow, we were led inside. As the daughters dressed in fresh white frocks with blue sashes and the Heir Tsarevich in a sailor suit, a maid took me into a private room and combed my hair and straightened my clothing. Finally, I was led to a large set of doors guarded by a pair of huge Ethiopians, the blackest men I’d ever seen, dressed in gold jackets, scarlet trousers, and white turbans. Entering the Maple Room, I found the Empress, Madame Vyrubova, and Papa.

“I see it all, understand it all,” said my father, his voice booming and his eyes wide. “Papa must give the order as I see it: Whole trains must be given up to food.”

The imperial children-all five of them, including the older pair, Olga Nikolaevna and Tatyana Nikolaevna-joined us minutes later. As the Heir Tsarevich, Anastasiya, and Maria settled on the floor with great picture books, the likes of which I had never seen, the older daughters, fashioning themselves as young women, sat down in chairs and picked up embroidery. As for myself, having neither book nor needle, I listened to my father rant on.

“Each wagon of the train must be filled with flour and butter and sugar. All the passenger trains should be halted for three days-three days!-and this food should be allowed to pass to the capital! It’s even more important than ammunition or meat! People must have bread! People will grow angry without bread!”

“But what about all the passengers?” asked Madame Vyrubova. “Don’t you think people will scream?”

“Let them scream! I saw all this in the night like a vision! Mama, you must tell Papa. I beg you, you must tell him! You must write to him at once of this.”

“Yes, of course. I see your point quite clearly,” said Aleksandra Fyodorovna, nodding pensively as she gently twiddled with her long necklace of large pearls.

“Three days-no other trains except those carrying flour, butter, and sugar,” my father repeated. “Otherwise there will be great unhappiness. And into this unhappiness will rush a flood of problems. It’s quite necessary!”

“Yes, essential.” The Empress nodded. “I will tell my husband, and he will make it so. It is his will, and he is master.”

Papa puffed out his lower lip and bobbed his head in agreement and approval.

Vyrubova spoke up. “Now, what of the new minister? The position of Minister of Internal Affairs is quite-”

“I know, I know!” Papa rubbed his hands together. “Now…well, the Old Chap came to see me, this Boris Stürmer, but I had an interesting vision of this other fellow, Protopopov!”

“Really?” said the Tsaritsa in amazement.

“Yes, a vision from on high!”

Precisely at four, right on cue, the doors opened and the Empress and her small cabinet of advisers ceased conversation. As we watched, a bevy of liveried footmen with snow-white garters swept in and spread a tablecloth over two small tables, then set out glasses in silver holders and plates of hot bread and English biscuits. Had the Tsar not been at the front, where he had taken personal command of the troops, he would certainly have joined us.

“We shall continue these discussions later,” commanded the Empress, rising from her chair. “First let us refresh ourselves.”

Aleksandra Fyodorovna paid Papa and me a great honor by pouring our tea with her own hand. Accepting my glass, I carefully eyed the bread and biscuits.

With a wry smile, the Empress said warmly, “I’m sure, my child, you’ve been to many more interesting teas than this one. Others, I know, serve different cakes and sweetmeats, but, alas, I am unable to change the menu here at the Palace. All runs on tradition and is the same since our great Catherine.”

But it was an interesting tea. Amazingly so, I thought, as I carefully took a biscuit and found my seat. Just imagine, my father giving so much help and advice, so many of his visions, to Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna, who would pass it all on to the Tsar. Just imagine Papa emerging from the depths of Siberia and coming to the aid of the Motherland. Incredible, I thought, beaming with pride at my father, as he slurped his tea and munched on a biscuit and the crumbs flew.