She relayed their Friend’s advice to the Emperor without demur, and understood much of it herself. But as she looked more deeply into things, her mind expanded—she had spontaneous ideas of her own, and slipped them into her letters. She was, for instance, very worried about separate Latvian regiments—this was a force which could be difficult to control, and she thought it would be safer to disband them and disperse the men among other regiments. She saw the need for a special militia, to be kept in reserve for use if there were disorders in Petrograd: the police were not trained to deal with such things, and were not even armed. She suggested sending members of the Emperor’s personal staff to factories to watch developments and to make people feel that the Tsar, and not just Guchkov’s bullyboys, had eyes everywhere. But the Tsar’s suite had grown fat and lazy, and not one of them traveled anywhere. She realized that they had handled the State Council badly. They had appointed to it the very people they wanted to be rid of: the throne was helping to undermine itself. (The President of the Council must be replaced.) They could further reinforce their support by raising the salaries of poorly paid officials all over the country. She asked the Emperor to see to it that all the alleged incidents during the evacuation of the Jews were cleared up without unnecessary scandal. One should always distinguish between good and bad Jews, and not treat them all with the same severity. The Tsar might have been inclined to make hasty concessions to Poland when that country was surrendered to Germany had she not stayed his hand; he must not make promises and gifts which would cause difficulties for Baby later on. Whenever the question of German prisoners of war in Russia arose, the Empress was embarrassed and hurt by the widespread suspicion that she sympathized with the enemy, when all she wanted was that they should be kept in humane conditions so that Russia could be seen to be superior to Germany in this respect, and after the war people would speak approvingly of her treatment of prisoners. She asked the Emperor—shyly, almost whispering in his ear—to send a commission of inquiry to POW camps for Germans in Siberia, and to allow the prisoners to celebrate Wilhelm’s birthday. In Russia some people called her “the German woman,” but she was now hated in Germany too. Everyone, of course, has affectionate ties with his or her birthplace and blood relatives, and every scrap of news from Germany, whether through her Swedish or English relatives, or in an unexpected letter from Darmstadt passed on by German nurses, disturbed her, flooded her being with poetic memories of her youth. When she heard that the Germans had suffered heavy losses, she, of course, thought of her brother and his troops and her heart sank. But her blood boiled when people in Germany gloated over Russian losses. Her grief over this bloody war knew no bounds. How Christ must suffer, to see all this bloodshed! The world was growing more and more depraved. Humanity had perished, replaced by Sodom and Gomorrah. This war was the beginning of a universal, an enormous, an immeasurable catastrophe, heartbreaking for her too. No, it was not out of sympathy for Germany that the Empress pleaded with the Emperor to rein in Novoye Vremya (which did all it could to inflame hatred of the enemy) or to forbid ruthless persecution of the Baltic barons—it was because such absurdities harmed Russia itself, weakened the throne and the army. “We” brought the German “takeover” on ourselves: it’s because of our indolent Slav nature that we failed to keep the banks in our own hands—nobody noticed in time. Our people are talented, gifted—but lazy and incapable of showing initiative. Aleksandra sincerely loved this country which had become her own, and it grieved her to see huge Russia dependent on others, while its disorganization gladdened German hearts. In Russia people rarely carried out their duties properly unless they were watched. Order was lacking in our poor country, because it was alien to the Slav character.
Aleksandra could never do things by halves. She took everything too much to heart. God had given her such a big heart that it consumed her whole being. As things now were, she could no longer ignore even purely military problems, could not help sharing her husband’s fortunes in the field. It had begun with her anxiety about Alekseev and whether or not he would suit the Emperor: he seemed to have little energy, he was jittery, he lacked soul and sensitivity, he was a thing of paper. Add to that his secret ties with Guchkov … if he was also inclined to oppose their Friend he certainly would not do his job well. Alekseev openly disregarded Stürmer and made sure that other ministers realized it. That was a grotesque state of affairs. The Empress was well aware that Alekseev disliked her personally. She had also started inquiring into the performance of the navy, and Grigorovich, the Navy Minister, sent her operational reports, which she read avidly and then returned under seal. But once she began paying close attention to military matters, her heart could not accept the futile bloodletting which was the only name for Russia’s many unsuccessful offensives, and she implored the Emperor to halt them. Why go on knocking your head against a wall, why sacrifice men like flies? This is a second Verdun! Our generals are sacrificing lives without counting, out of sheer obstinacy, with no faith in victory, they have grown callous because they are so accustomed to losses. Spare our fighting men, stop it now! We must await a more favorable moment, not press on blindly, everybody feels that, but no one can bring himself to tell you. I should be wearing the trousers at GHQ too, instead of those idiots!
She had started looking closely at the generals. Devil take them! Why are they so feeble and useless? Be strict with them! Look—in wartime you have to select generals for their competence, not by age and seniority! Kaledin, for instance—can he really be the right man in the right place, when things are so difficult? She racked her brains: how could Nicky learn the whole truth about his armed forces? And she had an idea: let him summon regimental commanders to GHQ for a two-week spell of duty! They would be able to tell the Emperor many truths unknown even to the generals, the Emperor would have a live connection with the army, and the generals would be afraid of what the regimental commanders might say about them. But for some reason nothing was done about it.
The Empress saw many soldiers in hospitals, and those from regiments of which she was colonel in chief were always presented to her after their recovery. As a result, she had been able to put forward many regimental commanders for promotion herself. She had once even recommended a naval captain of her acquaintance for the post of Chief of Staff of the Black Sea Fleet. When the General Staff Academy wanted to take over the building which housed a certain hospital, she had asked the Emperor if the request could be denied: were Academy-trained officers really so much needed in time of war?
Four days ago she had received at his own request General Bonch-Bruyevich, former Chief of Staff of the Northern Army Group, who had been removed, through no fault of his own, in favor of “Black” Danilov, an unscrupulous person, a desk soldier and undoubtedly an enemy. The Empress was glad to receive the courteous Bonch-Bruyevich and listened to him carefully. Afterward, she described the profound and pleasant impression he had made on her for the benefit of the Tsar, and told him what needed to be put right on the Northern Front, without letting Alekseev know where this information had come from. Old Ruzsky was unwell, a cocaine addict, and reluctant to act, but he could stay where he was, provided he had an energetic chief of staff. At present, however, good people were being removed. As a result, on the Northern Front there wasn’t even any reconnaissance in depth of enemy positions. Better still, the Emperor ought to see Bonch-Bruyevich himself: he was very clever, he was honest, and he had a lot of information to give. He wanted nothing for himself, he was acting only for the common good.
Against the background of all these failed generals the Empress saw more and more vividly as time went on the cruel injustice which she and the Emperor had allowed to befall the unfortunate Sukhomlinov. She had so thoughtlessly permitted them to dismiss him and to strip him of his aiguillettes last year, and now she regretted it. Especially when she remembered who had demanded it. Her enemies! And how they had exulted afterward! It was his young wife—a vulgar creature, divorcée, adventuress, and bribe taker—wh
o had spoiled everything for Sukhomlinov, it was she who had wrecked his reputation. But since then there had been a yearlong investigation—and no real crime had been discovered, no one had proved anything, he was not only not a spy but had never harbored any criminal intent. He spent too little on the army? That was because Kokovtsov had not provided the money. And we’ve had the unhappy Sukhomlinov locked up for six months now—he’s old, he’s a broken man, those months of imprisonment are punishment enough. True, the Emperor had let him go with a heavy heart, and written him a kindly letter of dismissal, and Sukhomlinov had dishonorably shown it around, and even allowed copies to be made, to make his fall less painful, not stopping to think how the Emperor’s enemies might exploit this. But the Empress had forgiven him this weakness, she had intervened on his behalf as soon as the investigation began, asking for the replacement of a senator who was prejudiced against him (he had been punished by Sukhomlinov for surrendering Peremyshl), and she had seen to it that the Emperor himself was the first to read Sukhomlinov’s diary and his letters to his wife, before the investigation, so that he could decide for himself whether the general was guilty or not. The senator, bent on revenge, had consigned Sukhomlinov to the Peter–Paul Fortress, although the investigation did not require that. Now she felt more and more sorry for him: he’ll die in a dungeon, he’ll lose his mind, and we will never forgive ourselves. And he was in jail partly to cover up the bribes taken by Ksheshinskaya and her lover, Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich (Inspector General of Artillery)—which was the reason why an open trial was too risky. But one should never be afraid to release a prisoner, to help the sinner to be born again and to lead thereafter an upright life: as their Friend said, prisoners, because of their suffering, stand higher than we do in the eyes of God. Their Friend was very eager to see Sukhomlinov released on bail. It could be done without a lot of publicity, almost secretly.
The night dragged on, interminably, excruciatingly. Two o’clock, three, four, and still the Empress could not sleep. Thoughts, anxieties, passed through her mind in an endlessly tedious procession. It was suddenly obvious to her that they could not delay with Sukhomlinov any longer. The Emperor had either said nothing all this time or delayed answering petitions for his release. Difficulty in making up his mind was part of Nicky’s character. But their Friend was insistent, and the Empress resolved to write to her husband the next day demanding that he telegraph Stürmer immediately to say that, having acquainted himself with the materials of the investigation, the Emperor saw no grounds for the charges against him, and his instructions were to terminate the proceedings. This would forestall the obscene statements which could be expected from Guchkov and the Duma crowd. Once convinced that he was not guilty, it was unthinkable to keep a man in jail just because you were faintheartedly afraid of the outcry your enemies might make.
There was one other prisoner whose cause their Friend insistently pleaded. This was Rubinstein, a rich businessman. He had contributed to charities and had been raised to the rank of State Counselor. He had some shady financial deals to his name, but after all he wasn’t the only one. He had been arrested by General Batyushin’s counterespionage commission, which was directly subordinate to Alekseev, and it was impossible not to suspect that Guchkov had put the military up to it in the hope of finding evidence against their Friend (since he and Rubinstein were so close). Batyushin’s commission had previously come under Bonch-Bruyevich, and in those days had been a good thing, but since it had been transferred to Alekseev’s jurisdiction it had escaped sensible control, had operated clumsily and unfairly, and had interfered in matters which were not its concern. It was time to put a stop to all that. She felt sorry for Rubinstein. His health was poor, and he might not be able to stand imprisonment. Their Friend and Anya were both pleading for clemency. The important thing was to transfer him at once from the front-line prison at Pskov to Petrograd, to the jurisdiction of the Ministry of the Interior—the Emperor must telegraph the order himself, or through Alekseev, without delay, and once he was in Petrograd, Protopopov could release him immediately, or if doing it so openly could cause embarrassment, send him, say, to Siberia and discreetly release him there.
Both things must be done immediately. Their Friend’s instructions could not be flouted. The Man of God would guide the Emperor’s bark safely between the reefs—and old “Sunny,” staunch and unwavering, was ever ready to fight loyally and doughtily for her loved ones and for their, and her, country.
It was only when she had made up her mind to perform these two acts of clemency as a matter of urgency that the Empress gradually grew calmer and, toward morning, finally fell asleep.
Had she managed two hours’ sleep this time? She woke exhausted and, as usual, her gradual return to life took several hours. In the meantime, she lay on her side hastily writing to the Emperor, telling him all that her sleepless night had yielded. Her eyes sometimes failed her in that position, and she could not always see clearly what she was writing.
But she could not stay in bed too long: as on every previous day, appointments had been made for her—to make arrangements for the wounded, to discuss supply trains, a number of ladies had to be received, and a minister—and suddenly she was told that Protopopov had telephoned urgently begging for audience to discuss a very important matter.
Oh God! They had reached complete agreement only yesterday—what could have happened since? She would have to receive Protopopov before doing anything else, but even before that she would have to go for a drive in a car, just for half an hour or so, to clear her head.
The weather was quite as dismal, as depressing, as unrelievedly gloomy as yesterday. And there were occasional bursts of rain.
The first frost had come early that year, on 2 October, and there was even snow. The leaves were falling, and the Empress could now see the church of the Great Palace from her windows.
She went for her drive, but her head was just as heavy when she returned.
Protopopov came in looking dreadful. His eyes were unsteady, wild even, his mustache quivered—it was strange to see such a bewildered expression on a face always so self-assured and triumphant.
What did it mean? What could possibly have happened?
His beautiful voice trembled with emotion, his words as always poured out in a swift stream. It seemed that the banks were reluctant, that there was no support anywhere, that all the ministers were perturbed when they heard that Protopopov was assuming responsibility for the food supply. This was a very sensitive subject for the Duma, and if Protopopov’s appointment were made public tomorrow it would cause a storm in the Duma of unforeseeable magnitude.
The Empress heard him out quite coolly. Her manner seemed to say, “Very well, then, we are prepared for a fight, however savage, in fact that’s the way we want it!”
“No, no,” Protopopov protested, squirming in agony, he wasn’t the least bit afraid, only the outcry might take on such proportions that Stürmer would have to dissolve the Duma immediately, on the very first day in fact, and that would be most awkward.
What, then, should they do?
Delay. Delay announcing his new responsibility just for a little while. Two weeks, say. Give the Duma a chance to calm down. It could be more conveniently dissolved later on. Protopopov was making this request not just on his own behalf, he was ready to fight on to victory (although he knew very well how destructive raging storms in the Duma could be), the request came from a majority of the ministers, it was in the interests of the cabinet as a whole!
If the Empress’s state of mind had been painful before, her perplexity now made it doubly so. She could see no sense in going back on a decision taken so enthusiastically only yesterday. Why be frightened of uproar in the Duma? That would happen anyway, on one excuse or another.
But the light of absolute certainty shone in Protopopov’s soulful face, a face for the brush of an artist, so strikingly expressive with those bushy brows, those shining eyes, those thick lips under that heavy dark mustache
—every feature expressed a conviction still more profound than that of yesterday.
Perhaps she had not understood him properly.
But to begin with, it was their Friend’s desire that Protopopov should take sole responsibility for the food supply. And second, even if they changed their minds yet again, the Emperor would just have received yesterday’s letter and would be signing the order, which would arrive by tomorrow morning. (Though in such an emergency—and the tension this month was as great as it had been last summer—the Empress could of course take it on herself to countermand the order. Her endlessly indulgent spouse would forgive her.)
“Telegraph the Emperor!” Protopopov’s entreaty came from the depths of his being.
But how could she possibly entrust such a delicate matter to a telegram? Dozens of people would read it, and these tergiversations would become common property immediately.
“Send it in code!” Protopopov croaked.
But even messages in official cipher passed through several pairs of strange hands. Oh dear, oh dear! The Empress had completely forgotten until now that she and her husband had agonized over the need to have some means of discreetly communicating important news to each other, and done nothing about it for far too long, but had finally ordered a cipher to be designed for their use. And still had never once used it.
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