The Tsar's Doctor

by Mary McGrigor

  20th. As soon as His Majesty passed away, even before that, some persons checked his effects and within a short time the papers were sealed; we exchanged our remarks about the envy and sadness for the one who had departed from us.

  22nd. Autopsy and embalming, which confirms everything I foretold. Oh, if only I had had his consent, if he had been compliant and obedient, that surgery would not have taken place here.

  23rd. The complaints by physicians about those in charge of logistics were very justified.

  According to one visitor of 1890 the room in which Alexander died was converted into a private chapel. ‘Under the altar, in the basement, there is a monument made of rough stone . . . There is a bronze plaque embedded in the monument, which depicts Alexander’s death . . . The story goes that Alexander’s intestines are buried under that monument.’87

  The first Robert Lee, at Odessa, knew of what had happened was on the morning of 20 November when Count Vorontsov summoned him into his library. Entering the room he was told by the count that there was bad news from Taganrog – that the emperor was dangerously ill –and that he must hastily pack his bags and set out with him in two hours, to give what assistance he could to the other overwrought physicians who were trying to save his life.

  Setting off at noon, the count’s carriage rumbled its way across the deep sands by the seashore. The count told Lee that he believed all hope for the emperor was lost. Reaching Nikolaev at midnight, they found Admiral Greig, who, also ignorant of the extent of the emperor’s illness, begged Lee to write to him from Taganrog to tell him what was happening there.

  Travelling on they found the country so devastated by locusts that the peasants were actually hauling straw from the roofs of their houses to feed cattle that would otherwise starve. Next day, reaching Breslau, they crossed the Dnieper on a raft which had replaced the floating bridge. It was only on the following day, on reaching Taganrog in the evening and being taken by the governor of the town to the house of a merchant, that they learned the sad news. Alexander had died the day before Count Vorontsov had received the letter reporting his illness.

  Count Vorontsov, greatly distressed and hardly able to believe that the man whom he had entertained at his house on that memorable evening less than a month before, had died so suddenly, sent his own doctor to Wylie to find out what had occurred.

  Sir James read Doctor Lee the whole of his report from the diary so neatly written in his small meticulous hand. His reports had been signed by the other doctors, Stoffregen and the empress’s surgeon among them, to whom Wylie, in desperation, had turned to for advice.

  In his journal, Lee testifies that, as far as he knew, there was no cause for misgiving concerning Alexander’s death.

  During the six weeks I remained in Taganrog after the Emperor’s death, I never heard that anyone entertained a doubt, or expressed a suspicion, that His Majesty’s death was attributable to any other than a natural cause. The physicians who had the care of His Majesty were accused by some, without the slightest ground, of mismanaging the case; and I heard the question repeatedly put: ‘Why did they not compel His Majesty to submit to their plan of treatment?’ Or, in other words, as Sir James Wylie expressed it, why did they not commit the crime of lèse Majesté – a proceeding which no circumstances could ever justify.

  I enjoyed the best opportunities in the Crimea of observing the devoted attachment of Sir James Wylie to the Emperor Alexander, whom he had accompanied in all his campaigns; and I conscientiously believe that on this trying occasion Sir James Wylie discharged his arduous professional duty in a manner worthy of his high reputation.

  Wylie’s own diary continues to describe the details of Alexander’s lying in state: of how he himself placed his body in a coffin, and of his great sadness in being forbidden to accompany the cortège on the long trip from Taganrog back to St Petersburg for burial.

  December 3rd. All the documents with the case history sent off today to Dr Klinle for the Dowager Empress by express mail and four days before the departure of Prince Gagarin.

  11th. The body taken to the cathedral of the Greek monastery where I was present.

  12th. Grand service at the monastery which I attended with sadness.

  13th. The prince hinted today that I could leave. However, I need an order from Baron Dibitsch [sic] to accomplish it. Read arrives from Petersburg.

  14th. I visited Her Majesty the Empress several times. The birthday [Tsar Alexander’s]88 the day before yesterday, which I spent in her presence, was the most moving and sorrowful day for me. The Tsarina deserves to be pitied for thousands and thousands of times; no other wish but to die.

  17th. I came to have a meal and to see the Volkonsky princesses and the three adjutants. I wrote today to Doctor Klinle sending him the last instructions on preservation.

  18th. Within a few days the winter settled in and the sea froze so much as to enable crossing on sledges.

  25th. I was busy the whole evening from 7 till 10.30 packing His Majesty’s body. Good God, what a coffin, suitable for nothing; they started to make a new coffin in the cathedral again. I am afraid that the lead may crush the head; everything is made hugger-mugger. But the four adjutants, the generals, Sazonov, the prince and princesses have made sure everything is safe so far.

  28th. Today I am going to the Empress to receive her last orders.

  29th. I saw my adored sovereign for the last time on earth. Due to the hatred for me, I am deprived of the permission to accompany him all the way through.

  The question is, was Alexander really in that coffin – described by Wylie as both makeshift and barely long enough for his height – that was buried eventually in St Petersburg?

  The fact that when it was opened on two later occasions, it was found to be empty, gave rise to the legend that Alexander had colluded with Wylie to sign a false declaration (as he had done in the case of his father’s death) and, having substituted a body, allowed him to escape to the freedom of anonymity for which he yearned.

  The author of an article in a Cologne newspaper in 1933 claimed that Wylie’s ‘Memoirs’, lately found among the Imperial Secret Archives, provided documentary evidence of Alexander’s survival. They showed, he wrote, that the body of a courier, killed in an accident a few days earlier, was embalmed, while the tsar, by arrangement with Wylie, boarded an English ship at Taganrog on the night of 18/19 November 1825. In 1841, the article continues, Nicholas asked Wylie, sworn to secrecy, to write a single copy of his ‘Memoirs’ of the happenings. Each tsar, as was clear from the notes and signatures on the manuscript, undertook to reveal the true course of events to his successor when he came of age. The signatures, according to the writer of this article, were those of Tsar Nicholas II and his brother, Grand Duke Michael.89

  The author of the article does not reveal how he came about the sources of his claims. However, doubtful as these may be, it does seem certain that Alexander’s face was soon unrecognizable even to those who knew him well. The embalmers at Taganrog were amateurs at their trade. His body began to decompose before it even left the town. Elizabeth ordered that his face be covered as he lay for three weeks within the room where he had died. The head was exposed, however, when the body was eventually moved to the church of the Greek Monastery in the town, but by that time the face was black and so disfigured that people shrank back at the sight. Doctor Lee records in his memoirs:

  11th December, 1825, Friday. This morning at nine o’clock the body of the Emperor Alexander was conveyed from the house in which he resided to the church called St Alexander Nevsky, which has been fitted up for its reception. The streets were lined with troops. At half past nine the procession set out. A small party of gendarmes commanded by the Master of Police, under his direction, led the way. Then followed the valets, cook, and others employed about His Majesty. Next, the persons employed about the quarantine and others of the town. Then came a number of priests with flags, torches, and crosses, usually carried by funeral processions. Then came a band
of singers. After these a number of generals bearing the orders, crosses, etc, of His Majesty. The car was drawn by six horses covered with black cloth. The coffin was exposed at the head. The feet covered with the same yellow gold cloth which I noticed in the chamber of his house. Over the coffin was a canopy of yellow silk. Attached to the car were a number of cords, which were held by some of the most distinguished officers of His Majesty. After these followed a body of Cossacks with their pikes reversed. The day was bitterly cold . . . The Empress’s coach followed the hearse . . . Guns were fired at short intervals from the time the procession set out.

  12th. I went to the church of St Alexander Nevsky this morning where the Emperor’s body was lying in state. There were two Cossacks with drawn swords at each door of the church. A number of slaves or peasants were looking in but not permitted to enter. There was a platform in the middle of the church covered with black. On this was a small elevation covered in red. Over this was placed the coffin surmounted by a canopy. At the feet, on cushions raised on stools covered with red velvet, were the different orders of His Majesty. This was all that remained of the mighty sovereign who had reigned over forty millions of slaves, and whose empire had extended from China to the Baltic Sea, and from the confines of Persia and Turkey to the Arctic Ocean.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Shadow of Confusion

  Alexander’s body lay in the church at Taganrog for a full three weeks. Nothing could be done until instructions arrived regarding his funeral from the new tsar. On Alexander’s death it had been automatically assumed that in accordance with the rule of primogeniture, his brother the Grand Duke Constantine, second eldest of their father’s four sons, would succeed to the Russian throne.

  At Taganrog, at last, an order came from St Petersburg commanding the authorities and soldiers in the little town to swear allegiance to the new Emperor of all the Russias, Constantine I. This order was complied with on 22 December. But still there was no message regarding the funeral of his brother, lying in state within the Alexander Nevsky Church.

  Then two days later, on Thursday, 24 December, a printed document reached the little town on the Sea of Azov. From it came the extraordinary news that three years earlier, in 1822, the Grand Duke Constantine had written a letter to his brother Alexander, ‘stating his desire to waive his title to the succession in case of the Emperor’s decease, and requesting that the next in line after him should take his place’.90

  These written instructions, shown first to the Dowager Empress, Maria Feodorovna, and to Alexander himself, had then been put in a sealed envelope together with a statement from Alexander, declaring Nicholas to be his successor, and given to the Council of the Empire to be opened in case of his decease. It was to be the first act of the Council after Alexander’s death.

  On this being done, however, the Grand Duke Nicholas and the Council, wishing to give Constantine a chance of revoking this agreement, had caused all the troops and authorities in St Petersburg to swear allegiance to him, and had sent off a messenger to Warsaw to invite Constantine to St Petersburg.

  Constantine, whose marriage to Princess Anna of Saxe-Coburg had been annulled in 1819, had then defied the Orthodox Church by making a morganatic marriage with his long-term mistress, the Polish Countess Joanna Grudzinska. Technically this did not affect his claim to the succession, but he did not wish to rule the empire, hence his letter to Alexander formally renouncing his right to succeed him in the event of his death. Now, in response to the message from his younger brother Nicholas, Constantine replied that his decision remained unchanged.

  By this time, however, on Alexander’s death, the royal guards had already sworn allegiance to Constantine, presuming him to be the heir. When it became known that he had forsworn his inheritance in favour of his brother Nicholas, a group of officers based at St Petersburg, led by Nikita Muraviev, Prince Troubetzkoy and Prince Eugene Obolensky, had formed what they called the Northern Society. They aimed to establish a constitutional monarchy with limited franchise, the abolition of serfdom and equality before the law, and they persuaded some of the regimental leaders not to swear allegiance to Nicholas.

  Accordingly, on 14 December, a group of officers commanding about 3,000 men assembled in Senate Square. Abjuring the new emperor, they proclaimed loyalty to Constantine and the constitution. The revolt misfired. First Prince Troubetzkoy lost his nerve and failed to appear. Then, although the rebels quickly appointed Prince Obolensky in his place, other regiments, stationed in or near St Petersburg, failed to join the insurgents for fear of what punishment might ensue.

  A period of stalemate ensued until, as Nicholas himself appeared, Count Mikhail Miloradovich, a military hero much beloved of the men, was sent to talk to the rebels. He was still trying to reason with them when a shot rang out, fired by one of the officers, and Miloradovich fell dead.

  Furious, Nicholas ordered a cavalry charge. But the horses slipped on the icy cobbles, rendering the charge ineffective. Darkness was descending and the new tsar, in desperation, ordered three cannons, loaded with grapeshot, to open fire. The effect was devastating. The rebels fled. Many tried to reassemble on the frozen water of the Neva where, as the ice broke under gunfire, great numbers of them were drowned.

  Nicholas was praised for the prompt action with which he had defeated the insurgents. It was, however, a bad portent for the start of his forthcoming reign.

  It was not until 10 January 1826, six weeks after Alexander had died, that the funeral procession finally left Taganrog, to begin the journey of 1,200 miles north to St Petersburg. The weather was now very severe. In Taganrog itself the cold was so intense that dead bodies were being brought from the surrounding steppes for burial in the town. The long funeral procession wound its way slowly over the frozen plains. Everywhere crowds gathered to watch, standing in sad and respectful silence as the great funeral coach, drawn by eight grey horses draped in black with the imperial insignia woven into the cloth, was dragged over the country roads through villages and towns. On 15 February, five weeks after it had begun, the procession at last reached St Petersburg. From there it proceeded to Tsarskoe Selo, where the dead tsar’s mother insisted on seeing his corpse.

  When warned of its decomposition, she refused to be deterred. ‘That is my dear Alexander. Oh, how he has wasted away’, was all that she said after a cursory glance. The body, badly mummified, was by then obviously almost unrecognizable to anyone who had known Alexander in life. Nonetheless the words of the dowager empress were remembered, and later construed to signify that she herself was uncertain that the body in the coffin was that of her son.

  The funeral took place on 25 March 1826. The coffin was placed beside that of Alexander’s father, the murdered Paul I, in the small cathedral in the fortress of St Peter and St Paul. The Duke of Wellington, who was present, representing King George IV, described it as ‘a terrible ceremony’. He voiced the opinion of many who, like himself, had known and respected Alexander, both for his personal charisma and for his enlightened, if confused, ideals.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Legend

  Alexander’s wedding ring, which he had worn for thirty-two years, was placed on an icon beside his grave, supposedly to prove his identity. He was dead. He was buried. But the story did not end there. Many people then believed, and some still think to this day, that the corpse in the coffin was a substitute, smuggled in by Wylie at Taganrog in obedience to the orders of Alexander himself.

  The Russian love of mystery certainly enhanced this claim. Also the fact that it was now widely believed that Wylie had falsified the death certificate of Tsar Paul (by claiming he had died of apoplexy when strangulation was the cause) strengthened the speculation that he had done the same in the case of his son. The court gossips were to some extent silenced when Alexander’s brother Nicholas, now the tsar, made public demonstration of his faith in the Scottish doctor by appointing him personal physician, the post he had held with Alexand
er for no fewer than twenty-five years.

  The theory that Alexander survived and that another, unidentified, body was put in his coffin in his place rests on the fact that in 1836, eleven years after he died, a holy man – or starets, as Russian visionaries were called – appeared in the Siberian town of Krasnou-fimsk claiming to be the late tsar.

  The man, who was guessed to be in his early sixties (Alexander was forty-eight when he died) was tall and slightly bent, as the late emperor had been before his death His facial features were hard to distinguish, being largely concealed by a thick white beard. He wore the black tunic and trousers of a peasant, but for a man of apparently low social standing, he rode a handsome, obviously well-bred white horse.

  It was the horse that first attracted attention when it needed to be shod. The blacksmith, intrigued by its strange and rather sinister-looking rider, asked him where he had come from, as he hammered the iron shoes into shape.

  The man made an evasive answer but by this time a few local people had gathered, drawn by curiosity as to the identity of this stranger who rode such a noticeable horse. Some pestered him with questions and, on his refusal to answer, bundled him off to the police station, hoping, it would seem, for a reward.

  The police were slightly more successful. The man told them that his name was Feodor Kuzmich, that he owned the horse, and admitted that he had no fixed address. The laws against vagrancy being prohibitive, the police then stripped him and reputedly beat him with a rod made of birch branches. He bore the pain silently, and eventually, frustrated by his silence, but highly suspicious as to who he really was, they banished him still farther into Siberia, to the isolated town of Tomsk.