The Romanov Bride

Chapter 21 ELLA

Without a doubt, all went from bad to worse in the months ahead, the mess was all around. Our post and electricity were stopped over and over, and one could not make oneself any illusions of better times for months to come. We were in the Revolution. What turn all would take, nobody knew, as the government was so weak, or sooner to say-did not seem to exist. Nonetheless, I felt physically very well and had good nerves. Of course if the nightmare came about, I knew I could always have the children safely sent off, but nothing would have made me leave that place, as I was determined to live or die there. Somehow I seemed to have grown into Russia, and did not fear whatever might come my way. And in the months soon after Sergei’s passing I became quite calm and happy-yes, happy to know that my darling was at peace near God, and, too, that he was spared that awful time. In the depths of my suffering it became all so beautifully clear to me: we must at any time be ready-as far as our weak souls can be-to go to our real home.

So there I was, stunned by the path that that violent explosion had opened before me…

Upon my return to my boudoir, I sank into a chair, from which I did not move for a great length of time. I cannot recall what was in my head or what lay before my eyes, but I sat there so cold, my hands white except for one thing, the blackish red blood dried now beneath my fine nails. My servants and my ladies of my court nervously shuffled in and out of my room and all about the Palace, none of them knowing what must be done, nor, for that matter, to whom to turn for direction, for it was from Sergei that we had all received command. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was quite alone now, and alone actually for the first time in my entire life, and it was up to me and me alone to act, for with the flash of a bomb I had become complete mistress of both my own life and this house and all the people therein. Yes, it became perfectly clear that I had gone from beneath the protective roof of my father directly to the heavy, sheltering wing of my husband-my husband who for more than twenty years had not only issued every household order but also directed nearly my every movement and thought. And now he was quite gone from this world. As if awakening from all those years and from the day’s tragedy, I rose to my feet, flooded with a frenzy of energy such as I had never before experienced.

Calling to Varya, my young lady’s maid, I ordered in a loud voice that no one had ever heard of me, “Fetch me my black mourning frock! And someone tell me, does our Coachman Rudinkin still live? Someone go find this out-at once!”

My maids changed me, gladly so, from my bloodied blue dress into a frock of black, and immediately I entered my cabinet. There I sat down at my desk and, by my own hand, began the task of drafting telegrams. At first I took quill and inkpot, but then pushed them aside, for to write with these tools was too tedious and slow. Instead, taking a pencil, I began the first, which was of course to the Emperor, and in French I quickly wrote:

Son Majesté Imperial, l’Imperator Nicholas Alexandrovich,

Zarskoe Zelo

Oh, I thought, momentarily buckling beneath my grief, I wanted Nicky here, and I wanted my sister, my Alix, by my side, so that I could sob on her shoulder and find solace in the family of my youth. Yes, absolutely. But I couldn’t fall apart, and, no, they mustn’t and they couldn’t come. For Nicky the trip was too dangerous; who knew what else the revolutionaries had planned. For Alix it was too arduous; she had the young Heir Tsarevich to nurse. And so I composed a telegram, informing them of the horrible events that had befallen, that I was unharmed and could see to myself, and that they must not under any circumstance come the distance to Moscow to attend the funeral. Wasting not a moment, I drafted the next and the next, for I had telegrams aplenty to draft to my relatives abroad-to my sister, Princess Victoria of Battenberg, to Sergei’s sister, the Duchess of Edinburgh, and to my own dear sweet brother, Grand Duke Ernest of Hesse und bei Rhein. After these I rose to my feet and nervously paced about, momentarily overwhelmed by all that needed to be done, and then I sat down once again and composed many more wires.

As the wintry Moscow sky turned grayer to black, word came back to me that our faithful Coachman Rudinkin lay terribly wounded and on the edge of death. I knew what must be done.

Calling to a footman who cowered in the hallway, I brusquely ordered, “Bring my sleigh round front at once-I must go to the hospital immediately!” And spinning the other way to the maid Varya, I demanded, “Help me off with this frock! If Coachman Rudinkin sees me dressed in black, he’ll know the worst. I must change back into my blue dress.” When she screwed up her eyes, I said loudly, “The doctors will not want my visit to distress him-so I don’t care how soiled it is, just fetch me my dress!”

The girl made a frantic curtsey and darted off for the dress that was streaked with Sergei’s dried blood. I was changed and out of the Palace within minutes.

Oh, our poor, poor Rudinkin-so jolly, so full of life and devotion. Never had there been a more dear servant of man or God. What harm had he ever done another soul? Why could he not have been spared?

I arrived at the hospital toward six and found him drifting in and out of consciousness. The poor fellow, quite a substantial man with big beard and big stomach, too, had been ripped wide, not to mention pierced by countless splinters of wood. As I approached his bed, the sister of mercy quietly told me he had suffered more than a hundred wounds to his back and that gangrene had set in.

Bending over him and gently taking his weak hand in mine, I quietly said, “Oh, my dear man.”

Opening his eyes, he stared up at me in vague recognition, clutched my fingers, and with no great ease, asked, “How is… how… how is my master, the Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich?”

It would have been far too easy to finally unleash a torrent of tears. It would have been far too simple both to confess Sergei ’s death and to express at last my piteous grief. But what good would that kind of answer done him? How would that have helped his soul, let alone his damaged body, in these, his final hours?

“All is well with him,” I said with the gentlest of smiles. “Why, it is he who sent me to see you.”

Relieved of worry, the man ever so slightly smiled through his pain, and said, “Slava bogu.” Thank God.

His eyes closed again, and I remained there for quite some time, holding his hand. And it was good, for I sensed it, his soul focusing on what was soon to come: his earthly end. Yes, dear Rudinkin died later that night. In short, in the days to come I walked behind his coffin as well, and from my own purse I of course saw to his funeral and made accommodation for his widow and also arrangements that his eldest son, Aleksandr, should attend the Imperial Trade School.

Returning that eve to the Nikolaevski, I found that the Palace continued to run like clockwork, as if nothing at all had happened, for my personnel, like all servants, feared the variation of routine. Quite on regular time, dinner had been announced and served, and the only thing that was remarkable was that the children were eating alone. Still wearing the blue dress, I entered the dining room and took my seat, but I could neither face food nor make conversation. The children stared upon me but spoke not and ate little, as if ashamed.

Soon thereafter I once again donned black, and afterward I knelt down in prayer with the children. I saw young Dmitri to bed, but as for returning alone to my own apartments I could not, so I accompanied Maria to her room.

“May I, child, sleep up here?” I humbly asked.

Although Maria could not hide her surprise at my pathetic need for the very tenderness that I myself had denied her, she acquiesced. We laid down side by side, and, with my eyes fixed on the ceiling, I began to speak of my darling, of how much he loved Maria and her brother, and, too, I confessed to Maria how I had suffered at Sergei’s so total devotion to her and her brother, and begged forgiveness for my brusqueness. The girl listened and held my hand, and I talked on and on. Completely forgetting the physical attention that Sergei had so crudely denied me, I felt immeasurable sadness for the tormented life he had been forced to live. And then I rambled on of everything that was truly sweet between us-of our happy days at Ilyinskoye, of the books Sergei loved to read to me, of the music he loved to hear, of our walks, the dinners, the balls, the operas. And somewhere in the midst of all this, something broke within me and one tear finally came and then all the rest, and I wept well into the hours until I thought I, too, would die.