The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Eliminated?” A vise closed about my chest.

  She shrugged. “Contrary to her belief, he’s not touched by God. He’s as mortal as any other. It’s a matter of survival. Should Nicky allow her to oversee the government and she keeps Rasputin at her side, how long will it be before we have another revolution on our hands?”

  “We cannot.” I was aghast. “We are Romanovs. We do not condone murder.”

  She chuckled. “Since when? Romanovs have been eliminating opponents for centuries, including our own flesh and blood. Do you think Peter or Catherine the Great would have abided an uncouth peasant telling them what to do? He’d be dead already.”

  I lunged for her hand so abruptly that I knocked her cup aside. “No,” I whispered. “You mustn’t contemplate such a horror.”

  She looked down at my tea-spattered hand gripping hers. “I’m not the one you need be concerned about. Will you speak to Nicky?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll return to St. Petersburg for the review. I’ll do whatever I can to keep him from assuming military command, but you must never suggest this again. To harm Rasputin would be a catastrophe for us. You have no idea of what she might do. He made a prophecy to her that should any of us seek to harm him, the entire dynasty would fall. She told Nicky. She believes it utterly.”

  “Naturally. It’s a very convenient way to safeguard him.” Miechen poured herself more tea. “As I said, he’s only a man. And with thousands of men dying, what’s one more?”

  * * *

  RED WAS NO longer the color of Russia. Black was our new color, the hue of war, of festering entrails spilled across Europe. In St. Petersburg, I saw mourning armbands on everyone walking the streets; black crepe slung across doorways, balconies, and storefronts; black streamers twined about lampposts; and black like a film of oil darkening the river, as the city, muted by loss, shrank into itself like a maimed animal. Yet to my disbelief I also saw officers in uniform on leave, in the cafés and strolling down the avenues with their sweethearts—men who should have been fighting at the front yet for some unfathomable reason had obtained passes to return to the city, as if nothing were amiss.

  At the Winter Palace, my son Nicky reviewed the procession of our new troops—the latest recruits, destined to fight in the Carpathians. In his blue uniform with its gold-fringed epaulettes, he mounted his horse and rode before the lines of men, with Alexei beside him in a matching uniform, on a specially trained pony. Nicky maintained a stern demeanor, offering no encouragement. He was the emperor and they were his subjects, who must obey their Little Father. It was a somber moment as, together with his son, he confronted the flesh he was willing to sacrifice, his countenance emotionless.

  I held a luncheon for him at my Anichkov. It had been months since I’d seen him, and I hoped he’d come alone as in the past, although Alexandra and their daughters were here from Tsarskoe Selo to lend their support. I had the meal served outside on my terrace and waited until the girls and Alexei went for a walk, overseen by their dyadkas, before I broached the subject.

  “I’m told you are considering relieving Nikolasha of his command.”

  Nicky didn’t respond, smoking his cigarette and gazing moodily outward, but I saw Alexandra’s expression tighten. She did not look well. Her service in her ward at the Catherine Palace was commendable, but as always she’d taken it to such an extreme that she’d suffered one of her lumbago attacks, confined to bed for weeks. I was shocked by how much weight she’d put on. She appeared almost bloated.

  “Are you?” I said, waving my servants into the house and leaving the used plates and cutlery on the table, not wanting anything to interrupt our confrontation. For I already knew that a confrontation it would be. The grim line of Alexandra’s jaw confirmed it.

  “He’s not won a single battle so far,” she suddenly said. “He let Poland fall. Would you have him drag us into perdition? He may be a Romanov, but he’s no commander in chief. We need someone else at the helm if we’re to turn the tide.”

  “That someone being Nicky, I suppose?” I said.

  My son still hadn’t spoken, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray and lighting another. In the cruel sunlight, the edges of his eyes were seamed with lines and his bearded mouth thinned to a sullen crevice. He too had aged, only in contrast to her, he had lost too much weight, so that his uniform hung on him as if his shoulders were pegs.

  “Who else?” Alexandra lifted her chin. “An emperor must lead by example.”

  Miechen had warned me, but to hear it directly from my daughter-in-law was altogether different. I had to remain poised. I mustn’t show how much my hatred toward her surged, how I longed to lambast her for being blind as ever when it came to Russia.

  “If we are in so precarious a position, the last thing he should do is assume command of our military,” I said. “He’ll be blamed for everything that goes wrong. It would be wiser to have Nikolasha continue to assume the responsibility and assign other generals to advise him, as despite his lack of accomplishments, our troops still respect him.”

  At this, Nicky reacted. His bruised eyes met mine. “And am I to be the coward who stays behind while my soldiers die for his cause?”

  “Our cause,” I said. “Russia’s cause. You did not start this war. You did not—”

  “Enough.” His voice was low. “Nikolasha will lose us half the empire.”

  “If you remove him, you might lose it all.”

  Alexandra gripped her cane, starting to rise. “It’s late. We must return to—”

  “You will stay.” Though I did not raise my voice, she went still, staring at me as if I’d barked at her. “You obviously have an opinion, and I’m prepared to listen. To reason, not fantasy. To informed remarks, not the ravings of that mystic you keep about you, against my advice. Rasputin,” I said, causing her to glower, “is not anyone to me.”

  “Do you see?” She turned to Nicky. “How she speaks to me? How she disdains me?”

  “Not you,” I said, preempting him. “I never disdain you. But you’ve let this situation careen past any logical explanation. Miechen knows,” I added, seeing her flinch. “She told me. How long before the others find out?” When she lowered herself back into her chair, stiff with anger, I went on: “The news that our tsarevich is ill will not serve us now. It might have in the beginning, but with this horrendous war at our doorstep, it will be interpreted as another sign of our inability to rule. The people could turn against us.”

  “I will not hear this.” Alexandra was rigid. “You’ve wanted him exiled from the moment you heard about him, but you know nothing. Nothing. Alexei had a nosebleed last month when we went to Nicky’s base camp at Mogilev to visit. It started on the train; by the time we arrived, he was faint. We couldn’t stop it—” Her voice caught, those ready tears of hers moistening her eyes. “We thought he would die. But our friend came when I summoned him, and the bleeding ceased. Would you still condemn him when you know what we suffer? Will you deny us the only solace we have left in this wretched world?”

  I lowered my gaze. I mustn’t let her draw me in. It was her inevitable tactic, to fling at me another episode of near death that I’d been unaware of, to force me to admit she was right, Rasputin was our only hope, because we were helpless victims of fate.

  “I am very sorry to hear it,” I said at length. “But he meddles in state affairs. He gives you advice, to the Duma’s outrage, though I cannot for the life of me comprehend how a Siberian peasant knows the first thing about governing this empire.”

  Her ringed fingers twisted about the tip of her cane. “He does not seek any power. He merely tells us God’s truth. He counseled us against this war and believes the tsar alone can bring us back to peace, by assuming supreme command. Nicky believes it, too.”

  She flung these words at me across the table, returning my stare to my son. “Is this true? Would you
heed a man reviled throughout Russia?”

  Nicky stood, brushing cigarette ash from his cuff. “Mama, we should continue this conversation in private. The children could return at any moment.” Before Alexandra could protest, he lifted his hand. “Sunny, please wait for them. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Her face turned icy as he went into the palace. As I pushed back my chair to follow him inside, she hissed, “You’ve always smothered him, made him think he’s useless, that he cannot make a decision without you. But he is our tsar. He must prove himself now.”

  I gave her a taut look before I turned away. I would not dignify her outburst with a response. She’d trespassed beyond any shred of sympathy I had retained for her.

  As soon as I entered my drawing room, Nicky said, “There will be no discussion. I will assume military command. Nikolasha has proven unworthy of his charge.”

  “You cannot.” I stood immobile in the doorway. Hearing the flat tone in his voice, I knew he’d made his decision before he’d come to St. Petersburg. Had I not brought it up, he wouldn’t have informed me. Somehow, in the chaos, I had forsaken his trust. “It would be a terrible mistake, Nicky. We are losing the war. You’ll bear the blame for it.” I made myself take a step toward him. “Consult with the Duma first. Let them advise you.”

  His gaze did not falter. “I’ve had enough of their counsel. I’m suspending the Duma; they’ve done nothing but whittle away at my rights, pushing me into a corner so they can have their say over me. With Russia in peril, my duty is to lead. I’ll not shirk it anymore.”

  “You are not shirking it by allowing experienced men to guide you!” I exclaimed, trying in vain to subdue my panic. “Your cousin George in England, even the kaiser himself—they rely on able counselors, not their wives or friends. It’s what a ruler must do.”

  He drew on his cigarette, blowing out the smoke. “I must act as my conscience dictates. Sunny has no part in it. Mama, please do not persist. It is already done.”

  “Done? What do you mean, it is already done?”

  “Nikolasha has been relieved. I will assume command at Mogilev next week.”

  He didn’t explain, didn’t make an attempt to help me understand. He faced me with such an undiscernible expression, I felt as though I stood before a stranger.

  “And Alexandra?” I managed to say. “Will she continue to keep her mystic in her counsel, dismissing whomever she pleases without oversight?”

  “She has our best interests at heart. You give her too little credit. You always have.”

  I regarded him, incredulous. Before I could curb my temper, I said, “You are indeed a fool if you believe that. The only interest she has at heart is her own. That man Rasputin—he’ll bring us to ruin because of her. You want to be seen as the tsar? Behave like one. Exile the mystic and bridle your wife. Otherwise, you’ll indeed be pushed into a corner.”

  He remained impassive, but I saw the flare in his eyes, the compression of his lean frame under his uniform. “You mustn’t say such things to me. It is beneath us both.”

  “No,” I said. “What is beneath us is to continue as we have. Too long have I shielded you from the truth. You must hear it now. To declare yourself commander in chief is the worst error you can commit. You know nothing of managing a war.”

  “Neither did Nikolasha. Unlike him, I can learn.” He looked past me toward the terrace, where the children’s laughter could be heard as they approached.

  Anastasia burst into the room, her face bright with color. She came to a halt, sensing the tension between us before she said, “Alexei fell into Amama’s pond.”

  Nicky bolted past me; as I turned after him, Anastasia said sheepishly, “He only got his trousers wet. The pond isn’t deep.”

  “No.” I forced out a smile. “It’s not deep at all.”

  Outside, Alexandra was fussing over Alexei, who appeared embarrassed. Olga, Tatiana, and Maria anxiously clutched their parasols, for as she daubed Alexei’s pants with a napkin Alexandra scolded, “You’re supposed to be watching him at all times. Where was Derevenko? How can you have let such a mishap occur?”

  “It was Joy.” Alexei pointed at his spaniel. “His leash caught around my legs. I only stepped into the pond. I’m not bruised at all. See?” He tried to yank up his soaked trouser leg, but Alexandra was already gesturing to her daughters and the contrite dyadkas.

  “Fetch our belongings,” she said. “He’ll catch cold. We must get him to the Winter Palace at once.”

  “I have extra towels and a robe here,” I said. “He can take a warm bath in my tub.”

  She ignored me, her smile razor-thin as she marshaled the girls. Within moments they were walking out of my gates with their dogs and guards to the waiting motorcars, a novelty Nicky had brought to Russia and I thought very unsafe.

  He kissed me goodbye. I didn’t have a moment to beseech him, and he didn’t allow it. As they drove away toward the Winter Palace, I had to restrain my wail of anguish, my sudden realization that Alexandra was right: We were helpless victims of fate.

  Her fate. A fate she was determined to thrust upon all of us.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I closed up Anichkov, leaving a small staff to oversee its upkeep, and went back to Kiev. Olga needed me, and I needed something to occupy my time. The capital might bustle in the evenings with concerts and theater engagements, society still dining and dancing as if the war were an inconvenience, but I had no heart for any of it. I sent Miechen a brief missive, advising her of my departure. I couldn’t look her in the eye and admit that I’d failed, that my son no longer solicited or heeded my advice.

  In Kiev, I busied myself with the ward and refugee center, having brought blankets, clothes, and other necessities from my palace. Miechen sent me a letter: Nicky’s proroguing of the Duma, followed by the public announcement that he’d assumed supreme command of our forces, had finally shaken society out of its ignorant whirlwind.

  Gigogne rules entirely. When informed of the Duma’s suspension, a senior member spoke out in full session against her and R., blaming them for our setbacks. Ella herself left her convent to plead with G. She was shown the door. G. will hear nothing against R.

  I burned the letter. If Alexandra’s own sister, a true acolyte of God, couldn’t convince her to rid herself of Rasputin, there was indeed nothing any of us could do.

  The war continued on its nightmarish course, consuming lives and upending the world. November 1916 marked my sixth-ninth birthday and the fiftieth anniversary of my arrival in Russia; I wasn’t of any mind to celebrate the occasion, but the family gathered in Kiev at the behest of Nicky, who came with Alexei to present me with a medal of honor, depicting the number 50 etched in diamonds. Miechen gave me a precious icon, inscribed by all the grand dukes and duchesses. We attended a concert together, then held a luncheon the next day, during which Nicky, though visibly careworn, took time to converse with everyone present. Misha had come, as well; having my two sons at my side that day, without Alexandra to spoil our reunion, was joyous for me. But the mood soon soured when Misha petitioned Nicky for a transfer to an administrative post in Mogilev. After serving valiantly with his corps, he’d fallen ill with diphtheria. He had recovered but now had an ulcer, aggravated by the poor diet at his base camp. Natalia had begged him not to risk his life further; now stationed in Kiev with our Imperial Air Force, my son-in-law Sandro added his voice in appeal for Misha.

  Nicky frowned, to my disbelief. I knew Alexandra had not forgiven Misha for his morganatic marriage or proximity to the throne; to her, he remained a threat. But I was stricken by Misha’s downcast expression when Nicky, with habitual evasion, replied that he’d “consider a transfer at a later date.” Not one to curb her tongue anymore, Miechen erupted in anger, declaring, “Would you sacrifice your own brother to please that madwoman you married?” nearly causing an open rift as Nicky glared at her.<
br />
  Before Nicky left, I again implored him. “Please transfer Misha to Mogilev. He can support you better there, as he’s been ill. And return full command to Nikolasha. Do it now, for the sake of the country.”

  “I cannot,” he said curtly, and he boarded his train with his son. At the last moment, Alexei ran back to hug me. Now twelve, he’d grown tall, very slim like his father; though his leg often pained him, requiring the odious brace, he did not let it deter him. “Don’t worry, Grandmère,” he said. “I’ll ask Papa to transfer Uncle Misha.”

  He did not succeed, but perhaps in remorse, Nicky unexpectedly approved Olga’s long-contested divorce, though officially it was called an annulment, as Olga claimed her marriage had never been consummated. Finally freed of her husband, my daughter wed her colonel in a quiet ceremony in Kiev. I fretted over whether to attend, fearing my presence would be interpreted as my sanctioning of yet another morganatic union among my children. When Misha arrived from his camp to give Olga away at the altar, he said, “She’s your daughter. How can you not be there?”

  I agreed but insisted on a strictly private affair. I needn’t have worried; as the war continued to devour lives, few paid any notice to Olga’s new matrimony.

  The winter snows were less harsh in Kiev, but the cold was not. By Christmas, we lacked sufficient fuel for the stoves, relying on smoky kerosene lamps and charcoal braziers in the infirmary. But soldiers still died under our care, our supplies so depleted that Olga resorted to tearing up her own sheets for dressings.

  “We must return to Gatchina,” I told her when she came to see me, her nursing uniform bloodstained, her entire person limp with exhaustion. “My estate is better equipped. At least we’ll not freeze to death there.”