Alexandra

by Carolly Erickson

  Alix had not slept for five nights. She began to nap, briefly, from sheer exhaustion, but she could not allow herself to sleep for any length of time lest she be needed. She barely kept herself groomed, napping in her day-clothes, washing hastily, sitting while her maid dressed her hair simply and rapidly. Her hair had grown dull and lustreless. Grey streaks appeared within its dark gold mass, signs of her anxious state. Weakened and confused from lack of sleep, she could hardly take in Dr Fedorov’s pronouncements and cautions, but she realized that Alexei might well die. In his worst moments he cried out for death, begging for the pain to stop, asking to be buried, as he said, ‘in the light’, out of doors with the sky over his head, not in a dark damp mausoleum with his Romanov ancestors.

  With infinite weariness Alix forced herself to preside at the dinner table, to keep up a pretence of lightheartedness in front of her guests. She heard them talking about the latest invention of sensation-seeking journalists in Petersburg. The Russian newspapers were full of stories about political extremists who managed to get aboard the imperial yacht and attack Alexei. The supposed attack was said to have been made during the summer, leaving the boy alive but weak. The reports caused a stir, and though there were no journalists at Spala – thankfully – questions were once again being raised about the succession.

  Alix listened to it all, letting the talk wash over her in her weariness, glad that her sister Irene was there to help her do all that was expected of her. She often had to get up from the table, or leave the sitting room, to go to Alexei’s bedside, and Irene, with her pleasant, relaxed manner, took over as hostess. Irene delivered her sister’s messages and instructions to the staff, dealt with the papers that were brought from Petersburg, helped to keep order and stability in the household.

  Alexei continued to cling to life, but his heartbeat was feeble when Dr Fedorov listened to it, and his fever had risen to a dangerously high 105 degrees. He could not live much longer, his heart was giving out.

  Now the crisis had become a matter of state. The heir to the throne was about to expire, and protocol had to be followed. Lest the tsar’s subjects be taken by surprise by the inevitable sorrowful news to come, they had to be warned. On the night of October 21, a medical bulletin was issued. Now the vigil beside Alexei’s bed became a death-watch.

  The guests dispersed. In the outdoor chapel, the servants said their prayers and villagers from the district began to gather out of reverence, knowing that the tsarevich’s life was ebbing. A package was delivered from Petersburg, containing herbs to be infused and given to the patient to reduce fever and calm the stomach. They were sent by the Tibetan healer Bachmanov, whose skill Alix trusted. Whether or not she tried to administer the infusions is unknown, but on the following day, October 22, the tsarevich lay very still, and Alix was convinced that he could not last more than a few hours. The priest came, another medical bulletin was prepared. Irene asked that, out of respect, the members of the household would retire to their rooms to await further news.

  There was nothing to do now but wait, and pray.

  Why Alix waited until her son was dying to send word to Father Gregory in Siberia can only be guessed. Perhaps she assumed that he was unreachable. Perhaps, despite her staunch defence of him to Minnie, she was concerned that any contact she had with him would cause renewed scandal. Or perhaps, as she often said, she trusted that the starets would sense, without being told, that she needed him, and felt that no message was necessary. Whatever the reason, she at last sent a telegram, asking for his help.

  Hour by hour, the vigil around the boy’s bed went on, lasting throughout the night. There was no change in his condition. Morning came, then afternoon. Still no change. That he had survived this long surprised the doctors, who had said that hope was futile.

  Father Gregory’s telegram was brought to Alix that evening. ‘Fear nothing,’ it read. ‘The malady is not so dangerous as it seems to be. Do not let the doctors bother him too much.’6

  To the utter amazement of the family, the doctors, the entire staff, Alexei began to improve within hours of the receipt of Father Gregory’s reassuring message. His heartbeat was stronger, his pain and swelling beginning to subside. He still had a high fever, but it was dropping, and when Dr Fedorov and Dr Raukhfus came in to examine him, he actually let them touch him for the first time.

  Word of the seemingly miraculous change in the tsarevich’s condition spread quickly, and a service of thanksgiving in the chapel drew a large crowd. A positive medical bulletin was prepared, to be sent out to the court and to the country at large.

  Alix had the gratifying experience of responding to telegrams of sympathy with the good news of her son’s recovery. Father Gregory had cured him, from far-off Siberia. He had brought him back from the very brink of death.

  It was nearly a month before the patient was recovered sufficiently to make the journey to Petersburg. He put on weight, colour returned to his cheeks and he was able to go out riding in the pony cart, although the groom who led the cart had to be careful to avoid bumps in the road. His left leg was still bent, and he still had some pain in his right knee which made walking difficult. But he was his cheerful self again.

  All Petersburg knew that the tsarevich had recovered and, for a few weeks, all Petersburg rejoiced. The dynasty, the long line of Romanovs that stretched back into the early seventeenth century, would go on, no matter how disappointing the current occupant of the throne might be. No matter that the succession had been disturbed and altered yet again by the recent marriage of the tsar’s brother Michael to his commoner mistress – an act of rebellion, indeed of betrayal, in the tsar’s view. What mattered was that historical tradition be maintained, that the house of Romanov survive.

  The three hundred years of Romanov rule were much on the minds of citizens of the capital as the new year 1913 began. It was the tercentenary year, and the shops were full of commemorative objects – scarves with the images of Nicholas and the first Romanov, Tsar Michael, miniature crowns and sceptres, candies in the shape of medallions, with the tsar’s face stamped on them, mugs and plates with the imperial profiles. New commemorative postage stamps were put into circulation. Special flags flew from public buildings, special gifts from the imperial bounty were provided to the poor, who lined up at hospitals and shelters to receive their bundles of food and trinkets. Beggars were given a hot meal and a new suit of clothes.

  In preparation for the ceremonies to be held early in March, choirs met to rehearse their litanies; workmen in thick gloves and warm hats and coats painted and repaired the fronts of mansions and churches. Both banks of the Neva were decorated with gigantic letters painted in red and purple and gold, spelling out ‘God Save the Tsar’, and on the Nicholas Bridge, crimson and violet lights cast eerie reflections on the river ice at night. A huge scrim hung down from the roof of the Academy of Sciences, bearing the painted form of Peter the Great, dressed as a workman in peasant blouse and trousers, a hammer in his outsize hand.

  The full majesty of Russia’s past, or, at least, a simulacrum of it, was made to loom up over the pygmy present, lending an ennobling glow to the city. Strollers along Nevsky Prospekt, socialites on their way to balls and parties, even the jaded habitués of night clubs and brothels could not help but be caught up in the gaudy glamour of the lights, the colour and the flashy tinsel, the party-like atmosphere. Throughout the holiday season and on into the deep cold of February, a superficial air of gaiety prevailed, underscored, as always, with some sour notes of gossip and ongoing scandal.7

  Alix’s pleasure at her son’s recovery, though profound, was to be brief, for his health continued to be fragile and his recovery slow. She discovered that her candour in revealing the true nature of his illness to trusted family members had been a terrible miscalculation. Far from eliciting sympathy and understanding, it led to deeper hostility towards her. She was now blamed for having, as one of the grand duchesses said, ‘contaminated the Romanovs with the diseases of her own race’.8 Ni
cky was pitied for having a crippled son, and a wife who had caused his disability.

  ‘A sense of endless despair filled the tsarina’s soul,’ the children’s Swiss tutor Pierre Gilliard wrote. ‘The last hope had failed.’ She felt, Gilliard thought, as if ‘the whole world were deserting her’. The hostility of her in-laws had deepened, her few friendships were dwindling. Even her new wardrobe mistress, Madame Naryshkin, reserved, respectable, and judgmental, conveyed her disapproval and the two women often clashed; Madame Naryshkin was Minnie’s close friend and, through her, Minnie’s attitudes were brought into the palace and, as it were, installed there.9

  Stana, the Montenegrin grand duchess, did not share the general view in the family that Alix was blameworthy. But Alix sent Stana away, telling her ‘it was useless to be empress of Russia if one could not do what one liked, and that all she craved was the privilege to be left alone and allowed to enjoy, unrestrained, her taste for solitude’.

  Many days, solitude was what she claimed. She stayed alone in her boudoir, her head throbbing, worrying over Alexei and no doubt dreading the forthcoming festivities, where she would be required to appear. Her teeth ached, she suffered from neuralgia in her face and from the usual intermittent chest pains.

  She had once referred to herself as the Pechvogel, the bird of ill omen, which brought bad luck and catastrophe. Now nearly everyone saw her that way, as the carrier of misfortune into the Romanov family. She shrank from the caustic tongues of Aunt Miechen and the others, from her mother-in-law’s criticism and advice and her wardrobe mistress’s disapproving glances. Alone with her thoughts, often in pain, she rested, prayed and brooded, dreading the days to come.

  23

  Alix stood, her husband beside her, in the gold-curtained imperial box in the Mariinsky Theatre, listening to the orchestra play ‘God Save the Tsar’. Everyone in the vast theatre was standing, singing along with the musicians, their attention on the tsar and tsarina. Her face was expressionless; her eyes, grave and thoughtful, gave nothing away, though the tribute of the crowd was moving and the singing robust and thrilling. She was pale, her hands, clutching her fan of white eagle’s feathers, trembled and her cheeks, which had been pale, began to flush. She tried to master her mounting discomfort, to mentally remove herself from the crowded theatre and from the people who stared at her while they sang. But her breath became shallow, and the bodice of her white velvet gown began to rise and fall rapidly, the diamonds sprinkled across its surface twinkling and flashing.

  At last the anthem was over. The crowd applauded and cheered and the empress nodded her head briefly before sitting in her gold-upholstered armchair. The tribute was ended, but the stares and whispers of those in the audience went on. Alix knew what they were saying, how they were judging her and blaming her, holding her accountable for her son’s illness, accusing her of controlling her husband and forcing him to govern according to her views, influencing him to favour Germany and all things German because she did. She knew what they were saying about how she had contaminated the Romanov succession, and about her unholy relationship with Father Gregory. She knew that they condemned her and sneered at her behind her back.

  She bit her lip and clutched her fan more tightly, her hand trembling convulsively, her chest heaving. She was feeling faint. She couldn’t stand the stares, the whispers any longer. She leaned over and said a few words to her husband, then got up and went to the rear of the box, where she could not be seen by the audience.

  Her move was noticed. ‘A little wave of resentment rippled over the theatre,’ Meriel Buchanan, daughter of the British ambassador, recalled. ‘Women glanced at each other and raised their shoulders expressively, men muttered despairingly below their breath.’ They told each other that, after all, the empress hated the capital, had always rejected and scorned it. Even on this important day she could not manage to take her proper place beside her husband, to put her feelings aside and do her duty for his sake. She created a ‘disagreeable impression’, as usual. But her panic was real, as Meriel, who was in the adjacent box, could clearly see. She was in a torment of distress and anguish.

  It was the same on the night of the ball given by the nobility for the tsar and tsarina. Alix made her entrance on her husband’s arm, and danced the opening polonaise with him, but her face was grave and taut with strain, the expression of her mouth ‘most tragic’. The splendour of her white and silver satin gown, the magnificent diamond necklace at her throat that had once been worn by Catherine the Great, the flashing diamond tiara all gave the appearance of regal serenity. But however splendid her garb, her fatigue and discomfort were evident and she looked, Martha Mouchanow thought, like a ‘middle-aged, haggard woman, racked with cares and anxieties’.1

  The noise, the crowd, the icy politeness and hostile stares directed towards her assaulted her nerves and made her long for escape. Her breathing became shallow, and she felt so ill, she confided afterwards to Sophie Buxhoeveden, that she could ‘scarcely keep her feet’. Afraid she might faint, she soldiered on, suffering ‘tortures’ from dizziness. Had she fainted, there would have been no end of fuss and talk. She had to stay alert. Finally she managed to catch her husband’s eye and he came over to her, ‘just in time to lead her away and prevent her from fainting in public’.2 She left the ball early.

  One cause of Alix’s apprehension was her bright-eyed, eager daughter Olga, who with her sister Tatiana had been allowed to attend the ball and who was happily dancing every dance. Olga was seventeen, fresh and attractive in her simple pale pink chiffon dancing gown, and her cousins were eager to dance with her – sometimes three of them asking for the same dance. Alix disapproved, wanting no inconvenient infatuation to arise between Olga and any of her more knowing cousins, whom she considered to be ‘unwholesomely precocious’; like her sisters, Olga had always been sheltered and, apart from innocent crushes on Guards officers and Standart crew members, she had never had a romance. A change was bound to come, indeed many at court were saying that it was time Olga was engaged. But her mother, who knew from her own experience how strong and enduring youthful attachments could be, was made uneasy at the thought of Olga’s forming a romantic bond with any young man, and Olga’s delighted participation in the dancing was yet one more source of strain for Alix. She dreaded that her girls might leave the high-minded path she had tried to keep them on, and give in to frivolity and even to sensuality. Like her other fears, this fear ate away at her and clouded her perception of Olga and her carefree evening.

  The elaborate tercentenary celebrations were dampened, literally, by constant rain. The expensive pageantry, the ceremonies, receptions and banquets passed in a blur of downpours, and even the triumphal imperial tour of historic sites associated with the first Romanov was marred by a constant freezing wind that curtailed the tsar’s itinerary and disappointed the waiting crowds.

  It was a flawed observance, the cheering throngs sparse at times, drawn more, one observer thought, by ‘shallow curiosity’ than devotion to the ruling house. There was no question but that the name of Romanov had been tarnished and, while some of the tsar’s subjects fell on their knees and kissed his shadow as he passed, many others simply took the festivities in their stride, sceptical of all government and, though outwardly deferential, were inwardly indifferent to the official goings-on in Petersburg and Moscow.3 The attention of the public was drawn elsewhere in that spring of 1913, to the orgies at the Villa Black Swan, the palace of an erotomanic millionaire, the craze for bridge-playing and cocaine, the escalating numbers of suicides and the details of a series of sensational criminal trials.

  One thing the Russian public was not indifferent to: the threat of war. Self-regarding celebrations by the Romanov ruling house might be considered of little consequence, but the bellicose talk and the build-up of weaponry in neighbouring Germany was a continual threat, to be taken seriously. Emperor William, with his swaggering, bullying oratory, his pompous vanity and evident craving for domination, was an alarming figure
on the European stage, his wild eccentricities exaggerated by the sensationalizing press. With his secretary of state for naval affairs, Admiral von Tirpitz, the emperor had expanded the German navy by building a number of immense swift battleships – dreadnoughts – equipped with heavy long-range guns, in competition with British battleships of equal size and firepower. Clearly the German aim was pre-eminence at sea; as for pre-eminence on land, though the Russian armies were much larger than the German, they were ill equipped, and guided by an inexperienced, woolly-headed War Minister, General Sukhomlinov. In any test of arms, the German forces were bound to prevail.

  But the tsar’s private opinion was that there would be no test of arms. Willy, though a ‘bore and an exhibitionist’, was not likely to start a war, Nicky thought. He had had several opportunities, when Germany’s ally Austria clashed with Russian interests in the Balkans. Had he truly wanted war, he could have backed Austria in aggression against Russia’s Slavic allies. But he had chosen to take no action. In recent months, in fact, the German Emperor had actually cut back his ship-building programme, causing cautious relief in Britain, and had met with General Sukhomlinov, a successful meeting that left the emperor with a favourable impression of the general as ‘very nice and interesting.’

  Willy’s personal messages to Nicky were warmly familial. ‘I sincerely hope and believe that 1913 will flow peacefully as you telegraphed me on New Year’s day,’ he wrote in early January. ‘I think that we can both look on the future quietly.’4 To encourage the peaceful flow of events, Willy invited many of his relatives, including Nicky and George V, to Berlin to celebrate the wedding of his daughter Victoria Louise, known in the family as Sissy.