And yet … And yet deep down the Emperor was resentfully aware that it was not he who had decided on Protopopov. As in the unfortunate case of Khvostov (the nephew), whom he had opposed to begin with, but in the end unsuccessfully. It had been the same with Shuvaev, Volzhin, and many others, who, once chosen, had been removed with some difficulty. How many times had Nikolai told Alix, “I can’t change my mind every two months, that’s simply intolerable!”
Looked at another way, whoever had the task of choosing would not be infallible. Those accursed shortages—fuel, ore, food—were a perpetual source of worry. There came a time when you no longer knew what to believe, and the stuff you heard from this or that minister made your head spin. It wasn’t easy if you had never been in business yourself: prices kept rising, and the country had to be supplied somehow.
His anxieties had been aggravated in Kiev by Mama. She had told him sternly that he should not listen to his wife so much. The public at large was dangerously incensed. Why must he always defy public opinion, why exacerbate the conflict?
That he was always ready to heed his wife’s advice was true enough. But her advice was more often than not remarkably sound. She was nearly always right!
He loved her for it. But at times he found it irksome that she, and not he, was always right, and that she made up her mind more quickly and more positively than he did.
But for all her assurance she too could not be infallible. The two feelings lived side by side in his breast, feeding on each other. When he left Tsarskoye for GHQ, or saw her off from GHQ on her way home, he suffered the torment of parting, and simultaneously the relief of a soldier returning to his free and easy masculine world. After which he would immediately begin inviting her back and hurrying her up, and as the day of her arrival drew nearer, so his impatience for her dear presence, her approval, her sweet caresses grew. With her arrival, his agitation gave way to a profound calm, and he was ready to dismiss all cares and vexations from his mind. But she herself was the first to remind him of them—and decisions were more easily taken when they were together. Afterward, though, it made Nikolai uncomfortable to think that major decisions were always taken in that way, and he would feel tempted again to assert his soldierly and masculine independence, and to make further decisions unaided. (That was how he had come to appoint Samarin last year—after which he had stayed on at GHQ for an extra two weeks, waiting for his wife’s anger to cool.) New informants, new ministerial reports helped him to see things from a new angle, often differently from Alix. But sometimes the Emperor made his own decision and it turned out to be the wrong one, his courage failed him, and he could not wait to see her again.
Alix’s advice often bore the distinctive stamp of Grigori’s approval, and might indeed have originated with him. To Nikolai it seemed only right—this desire to listen to the sober voice of the people, to a man of the people. And it was an endearing trait, Alix’s eagerness, which he understood and treasured, to get below the specious surface of things, to peer into their occult significance and explore the workings of hidden forces. This was, perhaps, the right way for human beings to achieve understanding. But Alix’s longing for esoteric knowledge had become so passionate that Nikolai had begun to feel uncomfortable and uneasy about it. Grigori would send the Emperor a bouquet with fervent greetings, or perhaps a single flower, or wine from his own birthday party, to be taken as medicine, and Alix always asked the Emperor to thank him. (And to telegraph Easter greetings to him at Pokrovskoye.) Grigori had begun by presenting him with an icon of St. Nikolai, then given him other icons and images (to be held in his hands at crucial moments), and even an icon for Alekseev (presenting it to him for no particular reason was horribly embarrassing, but Alix had insisted), and to cap it all, a comb, with which he was to comb his hair before every difficult conversation and decision. Perhaps such a comb really did have some mysterious power. (At least it was more credible than the claim made for an icon presented by M. Philippe: a little bell attached to it was supposed to ring whenever a nasty visitor arrived.) Alix had gone further, and insisted that before every journey he made, and before leaving for GHQ, Nikolai should be blessed by Grigori himself, in his capacity as a sacred personage, and that after a long absence he should make a special visit to Tsarskoye for the renewal of the blessing: contact with Grigori’s breast would lighten his woes and instill in him wisdom from on high. Nikolai experienced nothing of the sort, and was unable to believe in it. “You are, after all, just a man!” Alix reminded him. She insisted that when he referred to Grigori in correspondence he must begin the words “he” and “Friend” with capital letters. She exhorted him to “think about Grigori more often,” and at all difficult moments to beg him to intercede with God. We must, she said, heed his advice, it is never given without deep thought, God reveals all to him, God had some good reason for sending him to us. His prayers are needed by Baby and by us, for the sake of our reign and for Russia. Alix often reproached Nikolai with inattention to his words and reluctance to follow his advice. She prayed that the Emperor would come to feel more deeply: but for Grigori, anything might happen. She was very insistent that the Emperor should invite Grigori to GHQ—which would bring immediate and decisive success to Russia’s armies. Again, Nikolai did not believe that his presence would have this effect, and was too nervous about what people would think, and about his generals and officers, ever to invite Grigori, but could not forbid him to send telegrams direct to GHQ, sometimes addressed to the Empress during her visits, sometimes to Vyrubova or Voeykov, sometimes to “GHQ: Deliver to Chief.”
These original telegrams contained a mixture of popular speech in all its crudity and enigmatic pieties. The meaning of the whole was sometimes unfathomable. These sentences sometimes had a pungent, folksy flavor like that of rye bread or fermenting apples. There was always something in them, but it wasn’t always easy to understand: “Your victory and your ship.” “All fears nothing time of firmness will of man must be stone.” (This for the edification of the Tsar in particular.) “You said no one shall offend my people but why all this.” “I love you retain mine even on Gorokhovaya Street.” “What is for your profit give like wolves sheep oh, no need the fortress is God.” “Write to them all that they should speak more often give power to one alone so that he can work with reason.” (This last referred to the ministers, and was well said.)
Embarrassment was a state of mind to which Nikolai had become more and more accustomed: he felt acutely every awkward situation that arose. But he was always so paralyzed by his embarrassment that he could not break out of it. He could see that his relationship with Rasputin was becoming too close for comfort, and that it did not always look good (though it was at times very good), but by now it was impossible to withdraw. Natural tact, and concern for his wife’s feelings, prevented him from speaking to her frankly. What troubled him was not that his spouse saw Grigori as the supreme authority, herself second to him, and the Emperor only in third place. No, what perturbed him was that Grigori’s authority continually manifested itself in behests which quite often went beyond the limit of the permissible. His prayers, visions, intuitions, even sometimes his dreams, might suddenly indicate that an offensive must be launched in the vicinity of Riga without delay, or that they should not climb the Carpathians, or alternatively that they should climb them before winter came, and all were prophetic revelations because, as Alix wrote, “God has given him more insight and more sense than all the military put together.” Grigori always knew better than anyone the point at which an attack should be made (he had scolded them for beginning the big winter offensive without seeking his consent) and who should be appointed to which office. He might draft and forward to the Emperor a paper “on five urgently important questions of policy” or submit a telegram drafted in his own idiom, to be sent to the King of Serbia. At one moment he would be asking the Emperor to be firmer with ministers. At the next, opposing the Emperor’s departure for GHQ, or reproaching him with his long absence from Tsars
koye Selo, and saying that he must return if only for two days for a consultation. Overseeing his every move with affectionate concern, Grigori had complained that when the Tsar was last at Tsarskoye he had found so little time to talk, and had not disclosed what changes he would be making and what subjects he meant to raise with ministers. On one occasion (while Stolypin was still alive) he had insisted that the Tsar must receive him openly, so as to quash all the malicious gossip about him. (The Emperor had, however, never granted him an audience in this way.) Alix continually urged him to make it a rule that whoever was against their Friend was against the Tsar. She demanded that the Emperor should not just serve and love him privately, but should show ministers and others of importance in the state that he did not look down on Grigori so that they too would listen to him. Whenever Grigori’s predictions remained unfulfilled (when, for instance, the war did not end as and when he had prophesied) Alix promptly forgot them, and to spare her acute distress the Emperor refrained from reminding her. Grigori’s less fortunate testimonials she could always explain away: Khvostov (the nephew), for instance, had, she said, been a good choice, but had subsequently changed, and their Friend could not be held responsible for that.
Grigori also sent on, or put in the Tsar’s hands when they met, a great number of petitions—people asking favors or appealing against punishment, more often than not expecting the Tsar to circumvent the law, which he could not do. Even more irksome than these petitions were Grigori’s requests, passed on by the Empress, to be allowed to send a new icon to reach him on the day when an offensive was to be launched, or to say a particularly fervent prayer on the day itself—which meant that he needed to know the date in advance. The Emperor, a soldier first and foremost, knew that he could not possibly disclose his strategic intentions, with dates and locations. But he was afraid that his skepticism might upset his wife’s psychological equilibrium, and anyway it was sheer fantasy to suppose that a semi-literate Siberian peasant, who genuinely wished the royal couple well, might misuse this information for the benefit of the enemy. He undoubtedly did wish to pray—and prayer might help! And Nikolai, grudgingly, against his own better judgment, sometimes gave Alix such information in his letters: the date when a lull in the fighting would end, when a diversion would be carried out around Pinsk, when the Guards would be thrown in. Or revealed the decision to cancel completely a planned northern offensive in order to conserve their forces. But as a rule he implored Alix to keep such things to herself, not to let another soul, not even their Friend, know about them. Even so, the thought that he had let a secret leak out left him irritable and uneasy.
This perpetual self-doubt—this uncertainty that relations were what they should be, and his feeling that there was nothing to be done about it—was what had perturbed Mama so often in the past, and again when they last spoke.
No sooner had the Emperor returned to GHQ, and endured the exasperating confusion over Protopopov’s appointment, than his uncle Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich, who had been seeking an invitation for some time, suddenly appeared. The Emperor received him on Tuesday evening.
The imperial family had grown inordinately. Besides various uncles still in the land of the living, the Emperor had numerous first and second cousins, and although he was younger than many of them, because of his position, and the failings of many grand dukes, he had long considered himself burdened with responsibility for the dynasty as a whole.
As for Nikolai Mikhailovich, the Emperor was unable to think highly of him. His salient features were an almost feminine inclination to fuss and an irascible vanity. He had set out more than once on the path of state service, but always unsuccessfully. For the past year he had been dinning into the Emperor the need for a commission to work out the peace terms which Russia would dictate to Germany (should Germany be partitioned, or only Austria?) with himself presiding over it. Finding no outlet for his talents in the service of the state, Uncle Nikolai had confidently declared himself to be an outstanding historian. The Emperor, however, could not see it. He had a great love of Russia’s history himself, and indeed there was nothing he so enjoyed reading and thinking about, but he could not find in it so much to fuss about and to criticize as Uncle Nikolai did. Add to this that Nikolai Mikhailovich was jealous of his cousin Nikolai Nikolaevich’s martial fame, and always spoke ill of him to the Emperor. All in all, the Emperor was inclined to treat Nikolai Mikhailovich as something of a joke.
There he was wrong. The visit on 14 November proved to be a bitter pill. Nikolai Mikhailovich, completely bald, short-necked, head squashed on shoulders, mustache and beard sculpted with extraordinary precision, had turned up at dinner looking grim and self-important, and afterward, when they were alone, his trembling hands had shown that he was under a strain. Before the relaxed atmosphere that was usual between relatives could be established he launched into a lofty harangue.
Was his nephew confident that he could discharge his historic task and bring the war to a victorious conclusion? Was he aware of the real situation in the empire? Did people give him truthful reports? And did he know where the root of the trouble was? No, everybody was deceiving him.
His manner and his tone signified that he, Nikolai Mikhailovich, did know the real situation in the empire, did know the whole truth, did know the root of all the trouble.
They both lit up to steady their nerves. Nikolai Mikhailovich smoked a Russian cigarette, while the Emperor used his pipe-shaped meerschaum holder.
The Emperor’s heart sank in anticipation of another blow from Nikolai Mikhailovich on the spot still sore from Mama’s pressure. Just as he had expected. His uncle even mentioned that he was speaking at the instigation and with the support of Mama and of the Emperor’s two sisters. (His sisters too? What business of theirs?) He had the temerity to speak directly of the Empress and of Rasputin. They, as he saw it, were the root of the trouble. In fact, the root of the trouble was that the public had gotten to know the procedure, previously hidden from them, for appointing ministers—namely, that it was done through Rasputin. To become a minister in Russia you had to find favor with the peasant Rasputin.
Nikolai Mikhailovich was so ill at ease that his cigarette kept going out. He had mislaid his matches and while he fumbled the Emperor moved closer to oblige with his cigarette lighter. Outwardly the Emperor betrayed no feelings. But feeling there was—the intense hurt caused by pressure on a sore spot. Putting aside all the exaggerations which Nikolai Mikhailovich heaped up so unsparingly, there was no getting away from the embarrassing and humiliating fact that there was much truth in what he said.
The Emperor’s impeccable upbringing had, however, taught him not to show his feelings (one of the rules of the royal trade) and he remained disarmingly courteous.
While Nikolai Mikhailovich used such expressions as “the systematic insinuations of your dear spouse” and “what comes from her mouth is the result of skillful juggling of the facts.” But what good would it do if the Emperor protested? Given his uncle’s prejudices and his insensitivity in his dealings with others, it would be pointless. Order him to be silent? Hardly the way to win an argument with an older relative. And, anyway, he would feel awkward trying to assert his authority.
So the Emperor listened to it all without protest, tendering the cigarette lighter when necessary.
“You always used to say that all those around you deceive you. What makes you think that you are not deceived by your wife, who is deceived in turn by her entourage? The immediate decisions you make independently and on impulse are always remarkably sound” (this was diplomatic flattery, not what the Grand Duke really thought), “but as soon as other influences make themselves felt you begin to vacillate, and your decisions are not so good. If you could only put an end to the intrusion of these dark forces, Russia’s renaissance would begin at once.”
That was something which the Emperor took leave to doubt. When it came to dark, anti-Russian forces he saw more of them on the side of the Duma and the Unions.
By “Russia’s renaissance” Nikolai Mikhailovich, it seemed, meant no more than making ministers responsible to the Duma.
Meeting no opposition, he pressed harder and in strange language.
“Hear this! You are on the eve of an era of new disturbances! I will go further: on the eve of a new era of assassination attempts!”
Where had he picked this up? From whom had he heard it? How did he know?
Uncle went on with rising excitement: “You have your Cossacks here, and plenty of room in the garden. You can order them to kill me and bury my body. No one would ever know. But it was my duty to tell you all this.”
He had evidently rehearsed his harangue in advance. But he suddenly realized that these solemn tones were out of place in polite conversation. He took another pull at his cigarette, sighed, and still hearing no protest from the Emperor, reproached him for his silence.
“You are a great charmer, you know. You remind me of Aleksandr I.” He found a great deal more to say in the same reproachful vein, and still meeting with only the vaguest response. Nikolai Mikhailovich left behind a letter written in advance. It contained all that he had just said, but he had wanted to deliver it in person.
It was not until he said goodbye and was seeing Uncle to the door that the Emperor began to feel sick at heart.
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