Robert Alexander: The Romanov Bride

It must have been that Friday that someone gave us a hectograph copy of an amazing idea-that we were all to go to the Tsar! Of course Shura, as the daughter of a priest, could read very nicely, and with a strong voice she recited:

Workers, Wives, Children!

We will gather together and all go to Batushka, the Dear Father Tsar, and bow before Him and tell Him how we, His children, hurt. We will tell Him how we toil and suffer and live in starvation. We will tell Him how the master foremen and bureaucrats at the factories fleece us. True, it is true, Batushka does not know how we need His help. But once He does our lives will become easier. For the sake of Mother Russia, let us gather! Let us march to Batushka and bow and kneel before Him so that He can bathe us with His love!

This was how we learned of the great demonstration, and the instant we learned about it, why, Shura and I were seized with excitement. Immediately we set off for Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall where we had drunk tea and which, by the time we got there, was already packed, so packed that people were fainting from lack of oxygen. When the kerosene lights even started going out because of the bad air, why, that was when I grabbed a copy of the petition and rushed my pregnant Shura from the hall. But it was a beautiful idea, so beautiful in its simplicity: We would all march peacefully to the Winter Palace, where Father Gapon would hand our Tsar-Batushka a petition telling him of our needs. It was even promised that the Sovereign himself would be there to receive us and hear of our sufferings.

“Oh, Pavel, we must go!” exclaimed my Shura, her face radiant with a smile, her breath steaming in the winter air.

“You just want to see the Tsar!” I laughed knowingly.

“Yes, you’re right. I want to see him because once he sees all of us kneeling before him, once he sees our love for him, he will understand how much we suffer. And then he will make everything right, our Tsar-Batushka will ease our pain and make our lives good. Just listen to the words on this paper.” And with a trembling hand she lifted up this paper, this plea to our Tsar, and read: “ ‘Sovereign! We, workers and inhabitants of the city of Sankt Peterburg, members of various classes, our wives, children, and poor old parents, call upon Thee, Sovereign, to seek justice and protection. We are poor and downtrodden, buried beneath work, and insulted. We are treated not like humans but slaves…’ ”

Shurochka read on and on, and I must tell you, it thrilled both of us, these words, calling for such unheard-of things as freedom of speech, equality for all before the law, compulsory and free education, and even an eight-hour workday. These things delighted me because in them I saw not just simple hope but a real future for my young family. Yes, with promises like these we could stay in the city, we could build a real life.

We could even prosper.

Like all women of my time, I was carefully taught in the arts of needlework, piano, and painting. It was the latter of these that I found most appealing. Often in the mornings I could be found at my desk, if not writing a letter, then drawing a design-a flower or forest scene-on an envelope or on the edge of a piece of blank stationery, which I would later write on and send.

One day soon after New Year’s as we were slowly but surely settling into our apartments in the Nikolaevski Palace of the Kremlin, I was doing just that, painting an envelope there in my cabinet. Hearing a quiet knock at my open doorway, I raised my head and saw standing there not only one of my footmen dressed in his fine white uniform but also my dear little dog, Petasha. Immediately I smiled, for in my eager companion’s mouth was a piece of paper.

“Come, my little postman!” I called.

With that, Petasha, a fox terrier of great personality, burst forward. The entire Palace, from servant to prince, took great joy in this pup and the way she delighted in bringing me my mail, and I lifted an envelope from her mouth as carefully as if I were taking a letter from a silver platter.

“Thank you, dorogaya maya.” My dear.

Good Petasha was gone as quickly as she had come, leaving me with a smile upon my face and a letter in hand. My good humor quickly vanished, however, when I recognized the handwriting of my sister, Alicky. Oh, dear. These days I had nothing but worry for her and Nicky.

Quickly opening the letter, I read:

My Own Darling,

Surely you have heard what worrisome times we are passing through here in the capital, and yet I write to tell you we are holding up well. Reports come daily that the strikes in the city have been terrible, and we hear of a socialist priest who is at the head of some dark movement. Apparently he plans to lead a great march upon the Winter Palace, hoping to deliver some paper-saying what we do not know-to Nicky. It’s all very concerning, of course, but we are told everything is under control and my dear, dear Nicky seems not too concerned.

Yes, it’s difficult these days, and I am generally very tired. The children, though, are well, and Baby is a continual bright spot in these…

My eyes flew over the last sentences, and then I clutched the letter and let my hands fall to my lap. Dear Lord, what was happening? What troubles lay ahead? I worried so for Alicky and Nicky, and I worried so for my new country and how it seemed to be coming apart. Nicky, I feared, was not being tough enough, for he was far too sweet to wield a strong hand like his father. Where were the ministers he needed? Where was the proper advice? I supposed it was a good thing that Alicky and he had their main residence outside the capital in Tsarskoye Selo-the countryside and the air were so good there-but I feared our royal couple was becoming too distant not simply from society but from events in general.

Oh, poor, poor Alicky, I thought, glancing out the window at the snowy courtyards of the Kremlin. For ages the entire Empire had been waiting and praying for a miracle, which was finally delivered upon us this past year: Alicky had given birth to a beautiful boy, Aleksei.

And yet…

I shook my head with grief. Yes, Russia had her heir to the 300-year-old House of Romanov, and, yes, the treasured boy was a wonderful, handsome child. But I knew the horrible truth, I knew what only a small handful did, that the dear, sweet baby was a bleeder. Only three or four of us in the immediate family knew this sad story, while to the rest of the Ruling House, the Empire, and the entire world, this fact was guarded as nothing less than a state secret. And so my poor sister suffered alone and in silence, forever fearful that her precious baby, her Alyosha, would befall the same fate as our own brother Frittie: he would simply bump himself and bleed to death. In the past year poor Alicky had aged ten.

Hopeful that my husband might know more, I wiped my eyes and rose from my desk. Stopping in front of a mirror, I checked myself, for Sergei expected nothing less than perfection from me. I primped at my fair hair, pinched at my cheeks, and made sure that the pale-pink satin dress I wore-which was decorated with a delicate pattern of acacia and was of my own design-was flattering. Although I had a weakness for jewels, Sergei was even more fond of them, and he was forever showering me with precious gifts. He often informed me which jewels he wanted to see on a specific day, and today he had told me to wear the large freshwater pearl earrings and long pearl necklace, all so perfectly matched in color and size. Yes, they were beautiful, I thought, straightening them. Then, as confidently as I could, I headed out, making my way toward the large front staircase and down to Sergei’s office on the ground level.

My husband was loath to be interrupted during his workday, but nevertheless the large, uniformed guard opened the double door for me. Entering Sergei’s cabinet, I found him in undress uniform at his large walnut desk, which was covered with photographs in Fabergé frames, jeweled mementos, and other bric-a -brac. After a moment or two of my standing there, he raised his head.