But as month followed month of dreadful war, and enemies multiplied on all sides, Anya remained in spite of everything a loyal and trusted soul, unreservedly devoted as no one else was. She shared the imperial couple’s veneration of their Friend and was a party to all their dealings with him, which were concealed from the rest of the world. It was only in Anya’s little house that they could meet their Friend unobserved, only through her could they remain in communication with him. As soon as she could get around on crutches she started going to see him in his third-story apartment on Gorokhovaya Street. She shared his tribulations, and received anonymous threatening letters, telling her which dates she should fear. Even her medical attendant received threats that he would die a violent death, and for a time she was protected by the palace guard. Their Friend invariably praised her, calling her the “heavenly adolescent,” would have no other intermediary, and bade the Empress take her along on her visits to GHQ. Moreover, her aggressiveness diminished, and she was once again a nice girl, a good-natured and loyal helper.
We are so few. Together we shall have more peace, more strength.
So few of us and so far apart. My poor, suffering darling, my sunny, big-eyed dear! You are doing a great and wise thing, but when will you be freed from alarums and excursions, when will they honestly carry out your orders, serving you for your own sake? How I wish I could help you. How I wish I could help you to carry your cumbersome, clumsy cross! It is terrible, having to let you do all the heavy work alone! How can I soothe your weary head? A woman can sometimes help, if men will only listen to her. You are always so busy you may forget that I am your notebook. I am sending this scrap of paper to remind you—keep it before you when you receive a minister, why, oh, why are we not together to discuss it all! My pen flies over the paper like a mad thing, unable to keep up with my thoughts, but I cannot write about all the things I would like to write about. It would be good to install a direct line—so long as it was not tapped.
With her sense of duty, her love, her compassion for her harassed husband, the Empress had found in herself a manly strength of will and manly understanding—much needed in the last few years when it seemed that the men had all started wearing skirts. Once she no longer had small children on her hands, she formed definite opinions on matters of policy, and her opinions were invariably correct. And of course she was so close to the center of power that she could not permit herself not to intervene! At first, she had come to the aid of her imperial spouse hesitantly, her advice had been tentative, apologetic—she hoped he would not mind her offering some ideas of her own. She prayed to God daily that she might be a true helpmeet and a sound adviser.
I feel that I am being cruel, tormenting you like this, my gentle, patient angel. My letters must often irritate you. But if I have ever given you pain it was not deliberately. You know that never in our lives has there been any friction between us, or so much as an angry word. But I have always been your alarm bell, and warned you against bad people. I know that I may cause you pain and grief, but you, Baby, and Russia are too dear to me. If only because of your love for me and for Baby, do not let what anyone says or writes to you discourage you. It makes me furious sometimes to know that people deceive you and recommend the worst possible things. Do not take any big step without warning me and discussing the whole thing calmly. I would obviously not write like this if I did not know how likely you are to waver and to change your mind—and what it costs to make you cling to your own opinion. I am so afraid for your kind and gentle nature, always so ready to give in to others. I feel that it is cruel of me to be writing this, but I suffer for you as if you were a gentle, softhearted child who listens to evil counselors and needs guidance. To be apart at a time like this is unbearable, and enough to drive anyone mad. How much easier it would be if we could share everything! (Would you like me to come for one day to give you courage and firmness?) It is our duty to pass on to Baby a strong state, and for his sake we dare not be weak, otherwise his reign will be still more difficult, since he will have to correct our mistakes and pull hard on the reins which you have held so loosely. We have been raised to the throne by God, and must safeguard it with a firm hand and pass it on inviolate to our son. It is my duty, as the mother of Russia, to say this to you.
At first the Empress had felt that the ministers disliked her (as did the whole of Petersburg high society and the Tsar’s relatives), but as time went on she grew more and more confident in her efforts to be of help. The time came when Nicky was grateful that she had found something worthwhile to do—to discuss things with the ministers and try to preserve harmony among them. No longer ill at ease, she conversed with them in torrential Russian and they were too polite to laugh at her mistakes. The ministers could see that the Empress was energetic, and that she passed on to the Emperor all that she saw or heard, everything that was happening—that she was the Emperor’s eyes and ears and a stout wall behind him. Bobrinsky told her that “the leftist clique hates you, Your Majesty, because it feels that you stand up for Russia and for the throne!”
Yes! And she was more Russian than some others in that country, and would never be indifferent to the dirty tricks of the left!
It is more difficult for me to make you show firmness than to endure the hatred of others, which leaves me cold. Oh, how I wish that I could infuse my willpower into your veins! Do not listen to people who are not from God, but are cowards. You have spoiled them with your kindness and your readiness to forgive everything, they do not know the meaning of the word obedience. Do not bow to them! Let them feel the power of your hand and your spirit! If they know that you can always be forced to make concessions we will never have any peace.
The lord and master himself always wore a shy smile. But Aleksandra understood the immense significance of the present reign and all the dangers that beset it. Nicky lacked the ability to size up people quickly, but Aleksandra found that she possessed this skill. He suffered many difficult moments, not knowing who was speaking the truth and who had an ax to grind. The Emperor’s weakness was that if anyone put excessive pressure on him he always gave way in the end, and supposed that it would be for the best. But that was just what he should not do: every concession inevitably led to further demands. If ministers were changed to suit every whim of the Duma, the Duma would start imagining that it was dismissing them itself. His advisers and his entourage misled him, and sometimes forced him to behave unfairly. He was always slow to make up his mind, and had to be spurred on by his little wife. Oh, those vacillations of his! That inexhaustible gentleness! Such gentleness, such meekness was sublime—but its place was in heaven, not on this earth! Such gentleness was, of course, a Christian ideal, but out of place on the throne! On the throne, a tight rein was needed, and an iron will.
What torment she had endured because of his unpardonable mildness! To instill in him courage, resolve, and energy was his wife’s main aim. How I wish that I could make you believe in yourself! There are no words for your patience and your forgiveness. Speak to me freely, weep if you wish—you will feel physical relief. Perhaps I am not clever enough, but I have strong feelings, I listen to my soul, and I only wish that you could listen too, my little bird. My spirit is bold, and I am ready for anything that you may need. I have energy enough, even when I feel ill. I want to look into everything, so that I can wake people up, impose order, and unite all forces. Let all work shoulder to shoulder for the one great cause, and not for personal advantage. Trivial people often spoil a great cause. Such people find me troublesome. Am I wearying you by talking like this? I hate being a pest. How I long for a time when I can write you nothing but sweet, funny little letters about our love, our affection for each other, our caresses. If only we could go to the south for a few days! But business won’t go away, it is a strict taskmaster and you must be strict too! Let them feel your might! Silence those who contradict you—you are their sovereign! Whoever makes mistakes—punish him. And when you punish do not immediately forgive, as you are incline
d to, do not immediately give good new posts to those you have just dismissed. You are not sufficiently feared. Be firm and inspire fear, you are a man! Be like iron. Let them feel your will and your resolve! Bang the table! Be master! The Tsar rules, not the Duma! Be Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible, Emperor Paul, and crush them under your weight! Be a lion against that small bunch of rascally republicans! We are at war, and at such a time internal strife is treason. Why can’t you see it that way? (When the war ends, our enemies must be called to account. Why should those who planned to dethrone their Emperor remain at liberty? Or Samarin, who has given us so much trouble?)
Why do they hate me so? Because I am your rock and your support, and this is something they cannot endure. The unrighteous and the evil hate our Friend’s, and my, influence on you—but that alone is beneficial. I rely completely on our Friend. Thanks to His guidance we shall weather these difficult times. Our Friend’s prayers give you the strength of which you’re so much in need. If we did not have him all would have been over long ago.
The atmosphere at home was wholesome, and there Nicky saw things as they were. But when he was at GHQ the Empress lived in fear of sinister machinations. She had visited GHQ several times in recent months, taking all her daughters with her on her private train and proceeding from the station to the governor’s residence by car. After lunch, they changed their clothes and went out for a walk, after which they changed again for tea, then returned to their train. The Emperor and the Heir would come to dine with them. Wonderful, unforgettable visits, and a real meeting of minds, though it was not quite the same as at home. For some days past the Empress had been living for her next visit to GHQ, already arranged and due shortly.
But even the few days remaining were hard to bear: there was danger in the air, more menacing from day to day, just as in the summer of 1915. If they were not careful they might find themselves sliding into revolution. What a life Aleksandra now led! She hardly slept, just two hours or so night after night, her soul was on fire, her head was weary, she felt exhausted from early morning on—only her courage never flagged, her will to fight for the Emperor’s throne and for Baby. And then there were two weeks of heavy, damp days under an impenetrable canopy of cloud, with never a ray of sunshine. It was in such weather that the malevolent Duma had opened.
But next day, Wednesday—oh joy! Bright, unbelievably bright sunshine! Such delight, such a hopeful omen: God will help us out of even this situation! Perhaps this change of weather is a sign that everything will change for the better? And there was another reason for rejoicing, another omen: they had finally installed a direct line to GHQ, and Baby had come to the phone at the other end, only the connection was so poor and his voice seemed so far away and so faint that it was impossible to make anything out.
The whole world was sunlit, and the bad news from the Duma on Tuesday—some sort of vile speech from Milyukov—somehow melted away and looked quite unimportant.
Stürmer, however, was greatly disturbed by that sitting. The Duma simply wouldn’t hear of legislative activity, and was intent only on its struggle with the government. It wouldn’t even point out what it thought was wrong. It was simply “us or them,” bring down the government and replace it with people of our own! In the middle of a war like this! Madmen! If they’re allowed to appoint and remove ministers it will destroy Russia. They’re all obsessed with it, but we mustn’t let it happen!
Stürmer was also depressed because he himself had gotten it in the neck, poor fellow: Milyukov had called him a bribe taker and a traitor, citing Buchanan as his authority, and Buchanan had remained silent! What a shabby way for the ambassador of an Allied country to behave. He was not such a blabbermouth, nor such an idiot as the French ambassador, but he wasn’t very clever either, and worst of all he was arrogant: he had started speaking insolently to the Emperor and trying to dictate to him.
So then, because they could not get at the throne they had attacked a defenseless old man—and it was agony to Stürmer to think that he had brought all these troubles upon the Emperor. He had hoped for a collective protest from the government, but the ministers had declined—let the old man disentangle himself as best he can. Stürmer thought that Rodzyanko should be deprived of his status as a court chamberlain, for not stopping speakers when they began making insinuations. He had instructed Frederiks, as Minister of the Court, to reprimand Rodzyanko, but Frederiks was so very old that he understood nothing and had written something useless. An impossible situation had, then, arisen: the Prime Minister was left defenseless against a slanderer. He could only sue the offender, like any private citizen.
True, Shuvaev and Grigorovich had spoken on behalf of the government, but they had blurred the issue, sounded the wrong note: it was as if they were distancing themselves from the rest of the government and ingratiating themselves with the Duma. Shuvaev had, in fact, behaved much worse: he had shaken Milyukov’s hand in the lobby, shortly after his attack on us.
No, Shuvaev is spineless, of no use at all. We desperately need a new Minister of War—that real gentleman Belyaev!
So there we are! The left are furious because everything is slipping away from them: they see that a firm government is being formed at last, and that when it is they will get nowhere. They can shout as much as they like, we will show them that we are not afraid, that we are firm. The Duma crowd are revolting, with their attitude toward Russia: they do her so much harm, they couldn’t care less about her.
It is sad to have to realize that the ill-intentioned are often braver and quicker off the mark, and so more successful, than we are.
But we must look ahead, not just sleep, as people usually do in Russia. In reality, things generally are getting better. Slowly, yes, but surely, things are improving.
An unfortunate situation had also been created by Protopopov’s change of mind over the food supply problem. Stürmer’s belief that Protopopov was too inclined to fuss had been reinforced by this recent abrupt reversal. But it was not Protopopov who fussed too much, it was Stürmer who dillydallied. He was too slow in answering his enemies, and could not keep a firm hand on his ministers. No, Protopopov was cool and collected, and above all devoted, he was honorable in his support of us and he reveres our Friend.
But this rapid and muddled change in the management of food supplies did, of course, greatly trouble the Empress too. The Emperor himself was dismayed by it, and far from home as he was, alone and vulnerable, he ought not to have to endure such wavering. But don’t upset yourself—she had written at once—the first decision was the correct one, and it will shortly be implemented.
In this tense situation the Empress found her meetings with their Friend—often two in one week—particularly uplifting. That Wednesday evening their Friend arrived at Anya’s little house with a bishop. His manner was most dignified, majestic, and he had spoken serenely. He was, though, distressed by the news that Nikolasha was to visit GHQ—for the first time since his replacement. Nikolasha was an evil spirit. Their Friend was also annoyed with Protopopov, and said flatly that he had backed down out of cowardice, delaying the decision on the food supply for two weeks was sheer stupidity, there was no sense in it at all. As far as the Duma was concerned, their Friend was not excessively perturbed: it always made a noise, whatever happened and whatever you did. We’re releasing Sukhomlinov—and that’s good. But what about Rubinstein? The Emperor still hasn’t sent a telegram ordering his release. Has he fallen prey to doubt again? Has he been told some other story at GHQ? Why is he being so slow? (Appeals on behalf of Rubinstein had reached the Empress from many quarters.)
Stürmer himself was partly to blame for all that had happened: he had taken fright, gone a whole month without seeing their Friend, and so lost his balance. Their Friend had been right when he said that the premiership was enough for Stürmer, and that he should not take over the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as well—that was when the worst of the sniping at the government had begun. Their Friend’s view now was that Stürmer
should give up Foreign Affairs. He should plead sickness for a couple of weeks until the Duma yelled itself hoarse, take a brief leave of absence, but certainly not think of retiring—he was a devoted, honorable, loyal man, and could resume quietly as soon as the Duma went into recess. In the meantime, the senior minister, Trepov, would deputize for him, as the law prescribed. (And Stürmer would instruct him to take good care of their Friend.)
If the Empress had not been protected by their Friend’s wisdom anything might have happened, he was a rock of faith and of succor.
She could not, of course, feel toward Trepov as she did toward Goremykin or Stürmer. They were people of the older, better sort, they loved the Empress, and came to her with every worrying problem. Whereas Trepov was a hard man, did not love her, and did not believe in their Friend. Working with him would be difficult.
But it was only for a little while! Both Stürmer and Protopopov would, of course, remain in their posts. There were so few honest people that if you did find someone who was devoted to you, you had to cling to him with all your might. They’re trying to take the devoted and conscientious people away from us, and to replace them with dubious characters from the Duma who are no good for anything. It’s not a matter of individual dismissals and appointments—what’s in question is the prestige of the monarchy. They would not stop at one individual—they’d force them all out one by one, followed by the imperial couple themselves!
Only a few days remained before the Empress’s next visit to GHQ, but they were turbulent days, and—such was the pressure from the Duma—the Empress was very much afraid that in those few days the Emperor might be led astray and induced to yield. Every day she wrote letters several pages long, each more ingenious and more forceful than the last, helping her spouse to steel himself and shielding him from fresh dangers.
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