by Theo Aronson
And so, as the royal train steamed through Spandau station, the King, peeping through the curtains of his saloon, was diverted by the spectacle of the beautiful Princess Daisy of Pless, swathed in furs from head to foot, standing alone and disconsolate on the dark and snow-strewn platform.
Politically, the royal visit to Berlin was of no consequence whatsoever. 'I derived the impression,' says Ponsonby, 'that [the Germans] hated us. The Germans never forgave the King for having, as they imagined, isolated them from the rest of Europe. They attributed to him the fact that Germany practically stood alone in the councils of Europe. The Emperor for his part seemed to do all he could to make the visit a success, but he was never at his ease with the King. There were always forced jokes, and the whole atmosphere when the two were together seemed charged with dangerous electricity.'
But, of course, this hostility between King and Kaiser was not the cause of the hostility between their two countries. It merely happened to epitomize the rivalry between Britain and Germany. King Edward's dislike of his nephew was no more a cause of the First World War than his love of Paris had been responsible for the entente cordiale. By now, both King and Kaiser were anachronisms; much more important than their personal relationship was the fact that the countries in which they happened to reign were rival power-blocs.
One of the main reasons for the First World War was that Europe had developed into a series of just such competing power-blocs, all striving to be larger, stronger, more magnificent than each other. Each wanted a bigger navy, a stronger army, a greater empire, a more extensive market than the others; each was anxious to score diplomatic victories over its neighbours. Germany's misfortune was that her diplomats had isolated her in a hostile world and that, like her Kaiser, she had become too self-confident, too boastful and too militant.
Against such forces, the quality of the relationship between King and Kaiser mattered very little. That the blood of Queen Victoria ran in the veins of both mattered even less.
3
'The monarchy,' King Edward VII once said in a disgruntled moment, 'will not last much longer. I believe my son will stay on the throne, as the people are fond of him, but certainly not my grandson.'
This uncharacteristic pessimism on the part of the King was due to several factors. He was feeling old and ill; he was worried about such things as the maintenance of peace in Europe, the stirrings of change in the Empire and the possibility of social upheaval at home. Especially disturbing was the conflict which was developing between the House of Commons and the House of Lords; a conflict which directly involved the sovereign. With the Liberal government determined to curtail the powers of the House of Lords and the Lords just as determined to reject any such legislation, the King was being forced into a difficult position. There was a strong possibility that he would have to use his Royal Prerogative to create new peers to ensure the passing of the projected legislation. King Edward was extremely loath to do any such thing. He tried hard to find a compromise solution. He even talked, in moments of despair, of abdicating. In fact, the dilemma was not to be resolved until after his death.
As far as the durability of the monarchy was concerned, he need have had no cause for apprehension. Certainly the succession had seldom been more assured than it was in 1910. Things had been much shakier a generation before when, on the death of the lethargic Prince Eddy, the sickly and unmarried Prince George had been the heir presumptive. Prince George was now a robust forty-five-year-old, married to a woman of great strength of character and the father of no fewer than four sons and a daughter, with ages ranging from sixteen to eight.
King Edward was correct, of course, in prophesying that his eldest grandson, Edward (known as David) would not stay on the throne; for, as King Edward VIII, David abdicated to marry Mrs Wallis Simpson in 1936. But the monarchy, although shaken, did not fall, and the crown passed to David's more dependable brother, Bertie, who became King George VI.
Many of the thrones occupied by Queen Victoria's descendants were to topple but her own was to remain secure.
King Edward VII's nature was such, however, that his moods of dejection never lasted long. Although in his late sixties by the year 1909, and far from well, he remained as restless, as impatient and as energetic as he had ever been. His appetite for enjoyment was as enormous as ever. He still paid his little visits to Paris, he still spent March at Biarritz and April cruising the Mediterranean. The visits to various country houses continued. So too, did the nights at the theatre and the suppers with Mrs Keppel. To her children he was 'Kingy', an indulgent and warm-hearted old gentleman who allowed them to race slices of toast, buttered side down, along his immaculately tailored trousers. He shot, he skated, he urged his chauffeurs to drive his gleaming, maroon-coloured cars faster and faster. At Epsom, in May 1909, his horse 'Minoru' won the Derby. The victory brought forth an almost hysterical reaction from the crowd. As the portly and pleasure-loving monarch led in his horse, the acclaim was deafening. It was one of the happiest moments of his life.
But not all the activity in the world could hide the fact that his health was failing rapidly. His bronchial attacks became more frequent, his movements were slower, his moods of depression lasted longer. The problem of the House of Lords pressed upon him more and more heavily. No sooner had the King arrived at Biarritz in the spring of 1910 for his annual holiday than he collapsed. Although he refused to remain in bed, he was obliged to keep to his rooms. Queen Alexandra, who was about to embark on a Mediterranean cruise, begged him to leave what she called 'that horrid Biarritz' and join her. He refused. With the constitutional crisis still simmering, he had to be ready to return home at any moment. This proved unnecessary and it was not until 27 April that the King arrived back at Buckingham Palace.
During the following nine days, despite increasing tiredness, he insisted on carrying on as usual. He granted audiences, he worked at his papers, he attended the theatre, he supervised alterations at Sandringham, he played bridge, he dined with friends. His doctor, by now, was seriously alarmed and the Queen was urged to return home as soon as possible. She arrived on the evening of 5 May. No sooner had the King greeted her than he sent for his secretary, Frederick Ponsonby. He had work to do.
'I found the King sitting at his writing table with a rug round his legs, and I was rather shocked with his appearance,' writes Ponsonby. 'His colour was grey and he appeared unable to sit upright and to be shrunken.' Never the less, the King attended to such business as Ponsonby handed him and afterwards discussed a meeting which had been held that afternoon. As Ponsonby, with forced cheerfulness, wished him a speedy recovery, the King replied, 'I feel wretchedly ill. I can't sleep. I can't eat. They really must do something for me.'
There was nothing that they could do. Although, the following morning, he rejected the informal clothes which his valet had laid out for him and insisted on wearing a frock-coat, he spent most of the day in an armchair, fighting for breath. In the afternoon, he suffered a series of heart attacks. He was clearly dying. Among the people whom Queen Alexandra allowed in to take leave of him was Mrs Keppel. Finally, just before midnight on 6 May 1910, King Edward died. He was in his sixty-ninth year.
His funeral was every bit as impressive as he would have wished it to be. For three days his body lay in state in Westminster Hall; on 20 May it was borne in procession through the streets of London on its way for burial at Windsor. Of the many cavalcades which had marked King Edward VII's reign, this final one was the most spectacular. The weather was superb; the crowds were enormous. Because of the King's dislike of black, the funeral route was draped in purple. Amidst a sea of brilliantly uniformed troops, on a gun-carriage draped in purple, red and white, the coffin passed slowly through the streets. Whenever the military bands paused in their solemn thumping, one could hear the tramp of feet and the scrunching of wheels. Behind the coffin was led the King's horse, with empty saddle and boots reversed in the stirrups, and then – a more poignant sight still – came his wire-haired te
rrier, Caesar.
But the most impressive sight by far was the parade of royalties that followed after. Three by three, in tunics of red and blue and green and purple and white, rode the kings, the heirs apparent, the imperial and royal highnesses. On and on they came, plumes fluttering, orders flashing, gold braid glinting, top-boots gleaming, the jingling of harness enlivening the steady clip-clop of their horses' hooves. There were nine kings in the procession and each of them was related to King Edward. The new King of England, George V, was his son; Kaiser Wilhelm II was his nephew; King Frederick VIII of Denmark and King George I of the Hellenes were his brothers-in-law; King Haakon VII of Norway was his son-in-law; King Alfonso XIII of Spain was his niece's husband; King Manuel II of Portugal, King Ferdinand I of Bulgaria and King Albert I of the Belgians were all Coburg cousins, at various removes.
There were relations too, among the forty-five princes that came after; and among the seven queens and countless princesses – their faces smudgy behind their mourning veils – that followed in twelve gleaming coaches.
Never again was the world to see quite so immense a cavalcade of inter-related royalties. For, unsuspected by the majority of overawed observers, this swaggering parade marked, not a royal high noon, but a royal sunset.
CHAPTER TWENTY
'Our Friend'
1
In the autumn of 1912 the Russian imperial family spent several weeks in their hunting lodge at Spala, in Poland. This unpretentious house, set in the middle of a vast forest, was to be the scene of a drama whose effect, on the highly-strung Empress Alexandra, was to be catastrophic.
Things started happily enough. At Spala, far from critical St Petersburg, the Tsaritsa could lead the simple, secluded life she preferred. While the Tsar spent his days hunting, she devoted herself to her children. Her four daughters, whose ages now ranged from eleven to sixteen, were all pretty, unaffected girls who gave their parents very little trouble. Constant vigilance, however, was needed for the eight-year-old, haemophilic Alexis. The Tsaritsa seldom let him out of her sight. Yet not even the most devoted care could protect the high-spirited boy from every bump or fall.
One such tumble had occurred a week or two before the family's arrival at Spala. The boy had bruised his thigh. After spending a few days in bed he seemed to have recovered. But at Spala, during the course of a jolting carriage drive, Alexis complained of pains in his leg and abdomen. He was rushed home and put to bed. Soon, he was in agony. Unchecked, the blood was flowing into his groin to cause an enormous swelling. He had never experienced a more violent attack. Every few minutes he was racked by the most excruciating pain. His screams filled the house. Specialists and doctors, summoned by telegram, came hurrying to Spala. There was nothing that they could do. That the remorseless flow of blood would cease was doubtful. The child could obviously not survive many days of this torture. Death could come at any moment.
Throughout the nightmarish days that followed, Alicky hardly ever left her son's bedside. Sometimes she would fall into a short, exhausted sleep on a sofa beside his bed; for the greater part of the time she sat comforting him. 'Mama, help me. Won't you help me?' the little boy would cry, and she, torn by his suffering and certain that he was dying, could only pray.
Yet, such was the artificiality of the atmosphere in which the family lived, the Empress was obliged to play her official role as though nothing were wrong. The exact nature, even the seriousness, of the heir's illness, must be kept from the public. The members of the household (some with their ears plugged to shut out the horrifying sound of the boy's screams) carried on with their duties; the house was full of guests. Alicky, beautifully dressed, would briefly act the hostess, 'smiling and talking gaily to her neighbours'. Pierre Gilliard, the boy's tutor, once came across her running down a corridor to her son's sickroom, her long, cumbersome train clutched in her hands, a 'distracted and terror-stricken look' on her face. Yet within a few minutes she was back with her guests, behaving as though nothing was happening.
But the secret could not be kept forever. Expecting death at any time, the doctors began issuing bulletins. Still no mention was made, however, of the cause of the illness. By 10 October it was agreed that the end was near. The last sacrament was administered to the pale, wasted figure on the bed and a bulletin, so worded that the following one would announce the Tsarevich's death, was sent out.
That night, the Empress telegraphed Rasputin for help.
He answered immediately. 'God has seen your tears and heard your prayers. Do not grieve. The Little One will not die. Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much.'
From the moment that she received the telegram, Alicky ceased to worry. Although the doctors could see no improvement in Alexis's condition, she felt completely reassured. As far as she was concerned, the danger was over. Alexis would live. Serene and smiling, she came down from the sickroom to assure the company that all would be well.
She was right. A day later the haemorrhage finally stopped and the boy began to improve. Within a month, he was able to be moved back to Tsarskoe Selo.
How had this come about? There are several possible explanations. The bleeding might have stopped, as sometimes happens, of its own accord. Then Rasputin's advice, that the doctors should cease to bother the patient, was extremely valuable. What Alexis needed to help stop the bleeding was an atmosphere of calm. This could hardly have been provided by a group of anxious and bewildered doctors. Nor could it have emanated from the desperately worried Empress. But once she had been reassured by Rasputin's message, she may, in some fashion, have transmitted her newly-found feeling of tranquillity and confidence to her son. This suddenly relaxed and optimistic atmosphere, coinciding with a natural easing of the flow of blood, may well have saved Alexis's life.
That a miracle had occurred, the Tsaritsa had no doubt. More than ever she was convinced that Rasputin had been sent by God to ensure that her son would live to be Tsar. From now on the staret's word, as far as Alicky was concerned, was law. Her faith in him was unshakable. To survive, to become stronger, to reach the heights of glory, the dynasty must be guided by this simple Man of God.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that, from the time of Spala, Rasputin – through the fervent Empress and her weak-willed husband – controlled the destinies of Russia.
2
As Rasputin's influence over the Empress Alexandra waxed, so did his reputation in St Petersburg wane. Success, by now, was going to Rasputin's head. No longer did he act the humble moujik, a raggedly dressed, disinterested, a-political starets, ill at ease among an artificially-mannered society. He clothed himself in rich fabrics, he moved with confidence in the highest circles, he concerned himself with affairs of state. His conversation was more outspoken, his manners more outrageous, his drinking heavier. Seemingly irresistible to women (there was still enough earthiness about his looks and manner to attract jaded society ladies, and his eyes were no less hypnotic) he became more sexually ambitious than ever. His method of seduction had always been successful. Redemption from sin, he would explain huskily to some fluttering young matron, could not come about unless one had sinned first; therefore by committing adultery with him – so patently a man of God – one could achieve sin and redemption at, so to speak, the same stroke.
But not quite every aristocratic lady was prepared to follow this facile line of reasoning and subject herself to Rasputin's rough caresses. As his behaviour became more openly lascivious, his former patrons began to bar him from their homes.
It was inevitable, with Rasputin's well-founded reputation for licentiousness, that there should be speculation on the nature of his association with the Tsaritsa. Many believed that they were lovers. A series of letters, said to have been written by Alicky to the starets, passed from hand to hand. Their fulsome phrases ('I only wish one thing: to fall asleep, to fall asleep, for ever on your shoulders and in your arms . . . Come quickly, I am waiting for you and I am tormenting myself for you') gave strength to the rumours
. Scurrilous pamphlets were secretly printed and circulated. Obscenities were scrawled on walls. Smutty rhymes were repeated. Outrageous stories were told. It was claimed that Rasputin, after ordering the Tsar to pull off his boots, would push him out of the room and climb into bed with the Tsaritsa. The starets had raped all four of the young grand duchesses with the result that the girls, in a fever of sexual desire, now fought for his attentions.
Nor was disapproval of Rasputin's behaviour confined to talk or surreptitious scribblings. Newspapers openly attacked the favourite on his debauchery. The Church, beginning to have second thoughts on the saintliness of this Holy Man, formally investigated his activities. Peter Stolypin, an energetic Prime Minister of the period, presented the Tsar with a frank report on Rasputin's behaviour. He even commanded the starets to leave St Petersburg for a time. Rasputin's growing influence in the country's affairs was hinted at and then openly discussed in the Duma. The President of the Duma drew up another report on the subject. Yet another Prime Minister, Stolypin's successor, Vladimir Kokovtsov, spoke openly to the Tsar.
It was all to no purpose. The Empress would not hear a word against Rasputin. When told of his debauchery, she explained that saints were always calumniated. The apostles, she explained, had greeted everyone with kisses; so why should this latter-day apostle not do the same? When the Grand Duchess Militsa, who had been responsible for introducing the starets to the Tsaritsa, admitted that she had been deceived by this Man of God, Alicky refused to listen. Even the revelations of the Empress's sister Ella, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, on Rasputin's true nature, made no impression.