6: The Queen Is Dead, Long Live the King!
THE Queen is dead, long live the King! The unpopular South African war is over. The Coronation of Edward VII is to take place on June 26, 1902.
That winter we went to Russia for the great Court functions which then ushered in the Orthodox New Year. Two years later Russia was at war with Japan and these functions never regained their former splendor. My husband, who had a weakness for pageants, wished to play a fitting part in festivities renowned for their magnificence. No preparation appeared too elaborate to insure the elegance of our appearance. Every detail had to be subjected to his exacting scrutiny. Court uniforms had to be refurbished, and in Paris I bought some lovely dresses. A diamond and turquoise dog collar was ordered as a special parure to be worn with a blue satin gown. We had heard much about the fabulous furs of Russian nobles; it is true my sable coat was fine but I had only one. To ensure an added prestige we invited the beautiful young Duchess of Sutherland to accompany us, as well as Count Albert Mensdorff, then attached to the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in London, and also Mr. Henry Milner, a friend, who had expressed the wish to join us. The usual number of valets and maids and a private detective to safeguard our jewels made an imposing retinue.
As we traveled through Russia, the strange eeriness of her white plains as seen under the pale light of the moon depressed me. In St. Petersburg, then Russia's capital, at the Hôtel de l'Europe a suite fit for foreign potentates had been reserved. The enormous high-ceilinged rooms were somewhat gaudily furnished with stiff chairs and gilded tables. A strange and stuffy smell caused me to fly to the window but the manager explained that with the coming of winter they were sealed tight, a system of hot air providing the only ventilation. I felt imprisoned. The hotel could not compare with those of Paris and my first view of the city when driving through its streets revealed little of the Oriental splendor I had anticipated. The wide windswept avenues were lined with modem buildings in doubtful architectural taste; only here and there a vast palace presented a façade of some distinction. The orthodox churches with their domes and spires, the grim fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, were however distinctly Russian.
We were introduced to Russian society at parties in the British and Austrian embassies. I remember the British Embassy, a fine house on the quay from which one overlooked the frozen river Neva. The Ambassador and Lady Scott received us with the genial kindliness they were noted for and seemed pleased to welcome English visitors of whom there were far too few.
The Austrian Ambassador, Freiherr Alois Lexa von Aehrenthal, a typical suave and polished diplomat, also gave a dinner in our honor at which he greeted the English duchesses by expressing his thanks for the compliment we were paying his country in wearing the Austrian national colors. It was only then that we observed that the Duchess of Sutherland's black satin and my yellow velvet did in fact represent the Austrian colors, and I realized that diplomats sometimes read more than is meant into a fortuitous circumstance. In this diplomatic world, so sensitive to social reactions, the undercurrents of the secret diplomacy then prevalent were inspired by Count Lamsdorff, Minister for Foreign Affairs in the Czar's government. He struck me as a smooth and sinister personage, an Oriental at heart. I was told that he never spoke to women, so I was flattered when he spent the evening with me.
It was not until we went to a supper party at Countess Shouvaloff's in her great palace, with its private theater and endless reception rooms, and were entertained by the Orloffs and Belosolskys that we penetrated into Russian homes. However, these families were, in fact, cosmopolitan rather than Slav. There were evenings when we drove in open sleighs to the islands on the frozen Neva and supped and danced to tzigane music. Russian days were short but their nights were endless and we rarely went to bed before the early hours of morning. At the opera the ballets were Tchaikovsky's; Diaghileff had not yet revolutionized the classic dance. The danseuse-en-tête had been the Czar's mistress, according to tradition, and others had been assigned to the grand dukes as part of their amorous education. As the intrigues and scandals of society became familiar to us we felt as if we had plunged into an eighteenth-century atmosphere, so different was it to the rigid Victorian morality of England.
We were privileged to attend three glorious Court functions. For the first, a great ball of three thousand guests which was given at the Winter Palace, Milly Sutherland and I donned our finest dresses. Mine of white satin was draped in lines of classic simplicity and had a tulle train held by a belt of real diamonds. A tiara of the same stones lightened the dark waves of my hair and cascades of pearls fell from my neck. I looked very young and slight in that shimmering whiteness and my maid delightedly exclaimed, "Comme Madame la Duchesse est belle." Thus encouraged I felt ready to face the more critical scrutiny of my husband who wore the Privy Councillor's uniform with white knee breeches and a blue coat embellished with gold lace, the feathered hat under his arm. He smiled and said, "At least we look distinguished," which from him was indeed a compliment.
At the Winter Palace the stairs were adorned by a magnificent display of gold plate fixed to the walls. There were hundreds of footmen in scarlet liveries and Cossack guards in flowing robes, who gave an impression of barbaric splendor. In the great ballroom innumerable chandeliers threw a glittering radiance on the handsome men and graceful women assembled there. On my return to England I was asked by Lady Dudley whether the Russian women were beautiful, and when I answered, "Not as beautiful as your compatriots," I was amused by her dry retort, "You must have been relieved!"
With the entrance of the Imperial family to the inspiring air of the Russian anthem—the procession of grand dukes in splendid uniforms, the grand duchesses, lovely and bejeweled, the beautiful, remote Czarina and the Czar—the ball took on the aspect of a fairy tale. With the first strains of a mazurka, the Grand Duke Michael, the Czar's younger brother and the Czarevitch, since an heir had not yet been born to the sovereigns, invited me to dance. It was a very different affair from the mazurkas I had learned at Mr. Dodsworth's class. "Never mind," he said, when I demurred, "I'll do the steps," and he proceeded to cavort around me until I was reminded of the courtship of birds. But he was young and gay and, carried away by the increasing tempo I found myself treading the Russian measure with the best. He was killed by the Bolsheviks in 1918.
At the more select Bal des Palmiers, so named because of the palms around which the supper tables were built, I had a chance to talk with the Czar. Count Mensdorff, who had been told that I was to be the Emperor's supper companion, bade me wear my prettiest dress and seemed satisfied when I appeared in blue satin with the turquoise dog collar to match. As one entertainment had succeeded another Milly Sutherland and I were somewhat chagrined to notice that Russian women had a parure of jewels to match each dress, so it was with some satisfaction that I could produce the blue necklace. The Bal des Palmiers was much smaller and seemed gayer and more intimate than the first court ball. Flirting mildly with my cavaliers I awaited the moment of my meeting with the man in whose hands lay the fate of millions. Supper was served to the Imperial family and the ambassadors on the dais. The general company was seated at small tables of eight. At my right was a vacant seat which, so my escort whispered, was destined for the Czar who, with his staff, was making a tour of the rooms. In a moment he was there and unobtrusively took his place. My first reaction was to notice the extraordinary likeness that he bore to his cousin, the Prince of Wales, later George V. He had the same kindly smile, half hidden by a beard, the same gentle blue eyes and a great simplicity of speech and manner. I was also struck by his youthful appearance, for he was only thirty-Uvo, having come to the throne at the age of twenty-six. As he talked I began to realize the enormous difficulties he had to face. There was at that time a constant and increasing agitation for reforms that he contended could not be granted without danger. When I asked him why he hesitated to give Russia the democratic government that was so successful in England, he answered gravely, "There is
nothing I would like better, but Russia is not ready for democratic government. We are two hundred years behind Europe in the development of our national political institutions. Russia is still more Asiatic than European and must therefore be governed by an autocratic government." He went on to explain that his power was absolute, but that he saw his ministers every day in separate audiences. I gathered that even a Cabinet did not exist. He seemed fearful of any one minister's becoming too powerful—the fear that haunts autocrats the world over. He also seemed to fear the great millions that were Russia—their ignorance, their superstition, their fatalism. As he sat there at my side he struck me as pitiful; he, the Emperor of all the Russias, the Little Father, anxious and afraid—a good man, but a weak one. He was dominated by the Empress whose fears for the health of her son later induced in her a state of religious exaltation and brought her under the influence of Rasputin whose mystic powers often helped to cure the sufferings of the Czarevitch, a hemophiliac.
Supper was a lengthy affair with almost as many courses as a dinner. There were soups, caviar and monster sturgeons, meats and game, 'pites and frimeurs, ices and fruits, all mounted on gold and silver plate fashioned by Germain—chased and beautiful in shape and color.
The Emperor had been talking simply and seriously like a man face to face with grave issues when with what seemed to me childish pleasure he remarked, "I know everything you have done since your stay in Russia, for my secret police send me a dossier on the movements of foreigners; but will you tell me why the Duchess of Sutherland goes to see Maxim Gorky when she knows he is in temporary exile?" I found it difficult to explain that in England people have a right to their own opinions even if those opinions are not shared by the Ruler of the State. When he left me to return to the Empress he asked for my photograph and promised me his which I duly received. I never saw him again, but I am firmly convinced that he was fundamentally good; that it was his desire to make his people happy, and that if he failed it was because he was weak and Russia was not ready for democratic government. Surely Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin and their ilk have proved the truth of what he told me.
The Czar and Czarina lived quiet domestic lives. The Emperor's uncle, the Grand Duke Vladimir, with his German-born wife, a Princess of Mecklenburg, were the leaders of Russian society and the head of a cabal which, like the Orleans' group at the French Court, sought to wield political power. We were invited to dine with them, and during the evening I had occasion to note the shrewd questions with which the Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna sought our impressions of her adopted country. She had a majestic personality, but could be both gracious and charming. All through the evening we were deafened by the Grand Duke's stentorian shouts; he seemed unable to carry on a conversation in ordinary tones. To me he appeared the typical Russian, autocratic and overbearing; it needed only the knout in his hand for the perfect illustration.
After dinner the Grand Duchess showed me her jewels set out in glass cases in her dressing room. There were endless -parures of diamonds, emeralds, rubies and pearls, to say nothing of semiprecious stones such as turquoises, tourmalines, cat's-eyes and aquamarines. It was on the proceeds from these that she lived after her flight abroad during the Revolution, having first handed them over to an English friend, Albert Stopford, who was able to smuggle them out of the country.
The Dowager Empress received Milly Sutherland and me in her palace and talked of her sister Queen Alexandra with great affection. The Czar's mother was not beautiful, but she had the same innate dignity and kindness that made her sister so beloved. Her courtesy to us was favorably compared in Court circles with the Czarina's failure to give us an audience, and we realized how unpopular the latter's unsocial nature was making her.
Bad weather prevented a visit to Tsarkoe Selo but there was an unforgettable supper in the picture galleries of the Hermitage. It was indeed a beautiful scene, looked down upon by Titians and Van Dycks of the Imperial collection. The evening had opened with a ballet in the Hermitage theater built for the Empress Catherine. In its small and intimate circle were gathered the Imperial family with the great nobles of Russia, the Chevalier Guards, the Corys des Pages—Cossack officers in their picturesque uniforms and lovely women, a brilliant company. We found the places allotted to us and the curtain rose. I cannot remember the ballet, but whether by mischievous command or fortuitous chance the air "Malhrouk sen va-t-en Guerre"* [* This air was sung by French nurses and children and is found in collections of such songs. It refers to the first Duke of Marlborough's departure for war against the French King Louis XIV] suddenly floated out and the Emperor and the audience smilingly turned to us. It was as if we were being taken into the small world which this Court represented—a world so self-sufficient, so sure of its destiny, and yet alas so blind to the evils without, that even in that moment of flattered elation a premonition of tragedy came to me and I thought of how Beaumarchais's Figaro had been acted at Marie Antoinette's command at Versailles shortly before her undoing. Such moments of psychic foreboding sometimes assail me and on this occasion the feeling was enhanced by my ability to visualize the other side of the picture, for that other side was only too visible in the long cordons of hungry housewives in the decimated markets, in the beggars freezing in the streets, in the persistent clamor for representative government.
We had a more democratically staged evening when we dined with the Minister of Finance, Count Witte. He struck me as a European rather than a Slav, and amused me by saying that what Russia needed was some enterprising American magnates to open the country and its resources, "for," he added, "we have no business acumen." In illustration he mentioned that the government had at one time received an extremely favorable prospectus from certain mines and had been so impressed that a railway leading to the mines was built at great expense, also a village to house the miners; but when the mines were further exploited they were found to be so poor that the venture turned out a colossal loss. I thought at the time that he merely wanted to say something agreeable to me, knowing that I was American by birth and the great granddaughter of what he described as a magnate. The Russo-Japanese war soon disclosed the general inefficiency of those in power.
For our visit to Moscow we required visas. To Europeans accustomed to travel untrammeled by passports, this necessity struck a sinister note suggestive of secret police and surveillance. We realized that not all strangers were welcome when we heard of what had happened to the Ephrussis, who had left Paris with us. Madame Ephrussi was a daughter of Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, the French head of that great banking family. She was a beautiful creature with a small head which, like a bird, she tilted slightly to one side, looking up with soft mischievous eyes framed in delicately penciled brows. Her finely chiseled features, her lovely coloring and prematurely gray hair gave her the alluring look of an eighteenth-century pastel. While in Paris we had been told of the fortune she was spending on jewels and gowns for her anticipated conquest of the Russian Court, and we were surprised that during our fortnight in St. Petersburg we never set eyes on her. Years later the Czar's chamberlain, who-like so many White Russians found refuge from the Revolution on the French Riviera, disclosed that he had had the disagreeable task of informing Madame Ephrussi that she could not be received at Court since her husband was a Russian Jew, a fact that had been withheld from the Ambassador in Paris and unearthed only on the arrival of the Ephrussis in the Russian capital. "I never had a more disagreeable task," Count X added feelingly, "and I thought she was going to die of hysterics."
When we arrived in Moscow Russia enveloped us. Left behind was the cosmopolitan society of St. Petersburg which spent its winters gambling at Monte Carlo, its springs racing in Paris, its summers at "cures," impressing the whole world with its air of fabulous opulence. Moscow was Asiatic rather than European. The Kremlin behind its immense walls was Oriental. It had color and grandeur—spires which like minarets pierced the sky— and churches which, with their gilded domes, looked like mosques.
In St. Pete
rsburg French art and Italian architecture had inspired the rather baroque palaces built for the rich. Like Catherine the Great, her nobles had acquired pictures and furniture from abroad, and the works of famous French painters, sculptors and cabinetmakers were to be found in the best collections. But to me these palatial interiors, in which the icon with its flame and the steaming samovar were the only distinctly Russian features, lacked the perfect taste one finds in France. One could not imagine oneself in a French house any more than one could mistake a Fabergé jewel for one set by Cartier. It was evident that the Russian genius had found expression in music and literature rather than in the plastic arts; just as the rivers of France recall a Sisley, her villages a Pissaro, Russian scenes evoked description by Turgeneff or the echoes of a well-known folk song.
The few days we spent in Moscow were busy with sightseeing. We dined with the Grand Duke Serge and his beautiful wife, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, sister of the Czarina. As Governor of Moscow, the Grand Duke lived in the Kremlin. One of the handsomest men I have seen, he was well over six feet tall, and in his uniform a most imposing person. He had, however, a cruel and arrogant air, and in spite of his undoubted charm, he suggested something evil. As he was doing the honors I thought what a magnificent Mephistopheles he would make, and the self-satisfied gleam I caught in his eye made me realize that he sensed my thought. He was bitterly hated in Russia; assassins dogged his steps and had it not been for the constant attendance of the Grand Duchess, who was greatly loved for her charity and goodness, the fatal bomb would have found him years before it finally did.
The Glitter and the Gold Page 16