Over the weekend, Alexandra had paid less attention than usual to events in Petrograd. From Protopopov and others, she had heard that there had been disturbances and that in places the police had had difficulty in calming and dispersing the crowds. Soothingly, Protopopov had assured her that matters were under control. In any case, the Empress had little time to worry about street disorders. At the palace, she faced an urgent family crisis.
Three of her children had come down with the measles. A week before, a group of young military cadets had come to the palace to play with the Tsarevich. One of these boys arrived with a flushed face and spent the afternoon coughing. The following day, the Empress learned that he had measles. Then, on Thursday, March 8, just after the Tsar’s train had departed for Mogilev, both Olga and Alexis had developed a rash and high fever.
The disease spread quickly. Olga and Alexis were followed to bed by Tatiana and Anna Vyrubova. The Empress, in her white Red Cross uniform, nursed the invalids herself. “She spent all the succeeding days between her children’s rooms and mine,” wrote Anna Vyrubova. “Half-conscious, I felt gratefully her capable hands arranging my pillows, smoothing my burning forehead, and holding to my lips medicines and cooling drinks.” Despite her efforts, the patients grew worse. On the night of March 12, Olga had a temperature of 103 degrees, Tatiana 102 and both Anna and Alexis 104.
It was during Lili Dehn’s visit that the Empress learned that the Petrograd soldiery had joined the mob. Lili was upstairs, sitting in a darkened room with the ill Grand Duchesses; Alexandra had gone to talk to two officers of the palace guard. When the Empress returned, she beckoned Lili into another room: “Lili,” she said, breathlessly, “it is very bad.… The Litovsky Regiment has mutinied, murdered the officers and left barracks; the Volinsky Regiment has followed suit. I can’t understand it. I’ll never believe in the possibility of revolution.… I’m sure that the trouble is confined to Petrograd alone.”
Nevertheless, as the day wore on, the news got worse. The Empress tried to telephone the Tsar and was unable to get through. “But I have wired him, asking him to return immediately. He’ll be here on Wednesday morning [the 14th],” she said. Alexander Taneyev, Anna Vyrubova’s father, arrived puffing and footsore, his face crimson with excitement and anger. “Petrograd is in the hands of the mob,” he declared. “They are stopping all cars. They commandeered mine, and I’ve had to walk every step of the way.”
That night, rather than attempt to return to the capital under these conditions, Lili decided to remain at the palace. So that she could stay in the private family wing where there were no extra bedrooms, a couch was arranged for her in the red drawing room. There, while the Empress talked with Count Benckendorff, the elderly Grand Marshal of the Court and senior court official at the palace, Lili and Anastasia sat on the red carpet and assembled jigsaw puzzles. When the Empress returned from her conference with Benckendorff, she sent her daughter to bed and said to Lili, “I don’t want the girls to know anything until it is impossible to keep the truth from them, but people are drinking to excess, and there is indiscriminate shooting in the streets. Oh, Lili, what a blessing that we have here the most devoted troops. There is the Garde Equipage; they are all our personal friends.”
That night, a message arrived from Rodzianko, now the chairman of the Temporary Committee of the Duma, warning that the Empress and her children were in danger and should leave Tsarskoe Selo as soon as possible. On his own initiative, Benckendorff withheld this message from the Empress and instead communicated it to Mogilev, asking the Tsar for instructions. Nicholas telegraphed that a train should be made ready for his family, but that his wife should not be told until the following morning. Meanwhile, he himself was leaving Mogilev and would arrive in Tsarskoe Selo early on the morning of the 14th.
On Tuesday, March 13, a fresh blizzard swept down from a gray sky, and an icy wind howled dismally outside the palace windows. The Empress was up early, taking café au lait in the sickroom with Olga and Tatiana. From Petrograd, the news was grim: the mob had swept all before it, and General Khabalov with his 1,500 men holding the Winter Palace constituted the only tsarist island in the entire city. Benckendorff informed the Empress of his previous night’s conversations: Rodzianko’s warning and appeal, and the Tsar’s command that a train be prepared for her. The train itself was already only a hope; on telephoning the Petrograd yards, the palace staff had learned that it was doubtful that workers would roll out a train for any member of the Imperial family.
As it happened, this obstructionism became irrelevant. Alexandra refused to go. To Rodzianko and the Duma committee, as Benckendorff transmitted her message, she declared that she would never leave by herself and, “owing to the state of her children’s health, especially that of the Heir Apparent, departure with them was completely out of the question.” Rodzianko, more alarmed than ever at the rising pitch of revolutionary fever all around him, argued with Benckendorff, saying “when a house is burning the invalids are the first to be taken out,” but Alexandra’s mind was made up. At 11:30 that morning, Benckendorff was informed by railway officials that within two hours all railway lines would be cut, and that if there was any idea of leaving Tsarskoe Selo they should do so at once. Knowing the Empress’s mind, the Count did not even bother to give her this message. At four in the afternoon, Dr. Derevenko returned to the palace from visiting hospitals in Tsarskoe Selo village. He brought with him the news that the entire network of railways around Petrograd was in the hands of the revolutionaries. “We could not leave,” wrote Gilliard, “and it was highly improbable that the Tsar would be able to reach us.”
Even before that day was over, it seemed that Alexandra’s decision would lead to calamity. From Petrograd, on a sudden inspiration, a crowd of mutinous soldiers set off by truck for Tsarskoe Selo. Their plan, shouted gleefully from truck to truck, was to seize “the German woman” and her son and bring them back to the capital. Arriving in the village of Tsarskoe Selo, they became distracted and began smashing into wine shops, looting and drinking. At the Alexander Palace, where the sounds of shooting and cheering were plainly heard, the size of the crowd was magnified by rumor. “Lili,” the Empress said, “they say that a hostile crowd of three hundred thousand is marching on the palace. We shall not be, must not be afraid. Everything is in the hands of God. Tomorrow the Emperor is sure to come. I know that when he does, all will be well.”
The Alexander Palace was not completely defenseless. That morning, before the arrival of the mutineers, Count Benckendorff had ordered a battalion of the Garde Equipage, two battalions of the picked Composite Regiment of the Imperial Guard, two squadrons of Cossacks of the Emperor’s Escort, a company of the Railway Regiment and a battery of field artillery—in all, about 1,500 men—to take up defensive positions around the palace. By nightfall, their soup kitchens and warming fires were established in the palace courtyard. The Empress was reassured, and her younger daughters, seeing the familiar faces of the marines, declared happily, “It’s just like being on the yacht again.”
The night was spent awaiting an attack. At nine p.m. a telephone call advised that the rebels were on their way. A moment later, a sentry was shot less than five hundred yards from the palace. Through the trees of the park, the sound of firing grew steadily closer. From a palace window, the Empress looked down on General Ressine, commander of the defense forces, standing in the courtyard before his men. On impulse, she decided to go out to speak to the soldiers. Throwing a black fur cloak over her white nurse’s uniform, accompanied by seventeen-year-old Grand Duchess Marie and Count Benckendorff, she walked out into the frigid night.
“The scene was unforgettable,” wrote Baroness Buxhoeveden, who watched from above. “It was dark, except for a faint light thrown up from the snow and reflected on the polished barrels of the rifles. The troops were lined up in battle order … the first line kneeling in the snow, the others standing behind, their rifles in readiness for a sudden attack. The figures of the Empress and her
daughter passed from line to line, the white palace looming a ghostly mass in the background.” Walking from man to man, she told them that she trusted them completely, and that the life of the Heir was in their hands. Count Benckendorff, a rigid old soldier, thought that some of the men answered in surly fashion, but the Empress, according to Lili Dehn, returned to the palace “apparently possessed by some inward exaltation. She was radiant; her trust in the ‘people’ was complete.… ‘They are all our friends,’ she kept on repeating. ‘They are so devoted to us.’ ” She asked that the men, many of whom were stiff with cold, be brought into the palace to warm themselves and be given cups of scalding tea.
During the night, Alexandra lay down, but did not undress. From time to time, she arose: first to bring extra blankets to Countess Benckendorff and Baroness Buxhoeveden, who were camping on sofas in the drawing room; later, appearing in her stockinged feet, she offered them fruit and biscuits from the table beside her bed.
Outside, the night was filled with confusion and occasional skirmishing. Mutinous soldiers had pressed as close as the Chinese Pagoda near the great Catherine Palace. There, hearing rumors that the Alexander Palace was defended by immense forces and that the roof was studded with many machine guns, they lost their nerve and withdrew.
Although the palace was not assaulted, the sound of shooting carried clearly into the children’s rooms. The sick children, still feverish, were told that the shots came from manuevers; Lili and Anastasia, sleeping together in the same room, went to the window. In the courtyard, a big field gun was emplaced, with sentries and gunners stamping their feet around it to keep warm. “How astonished Papa will be,” said Anastasia, staring at the huge gun.
The following morning—Wednesday, March 14—the Empress was up at five a.m., expecting the Tsar to arrive at six. She was told that he had been delayed. “Perhaps the blizzard detains him,” she said and lay back on her couch to wait. Anastasia was instantly alarmed. “Lili, the train is never late. Oh, if only Papa would come quickly.” At eight, Alexandra learned that Nicholas’s train had been stopped at Malaya Vishera. She rose and sent a telegram. There was no reply. Other telegrams followed in an anxious stream. Over the next several days, all were returned marked in blue pencil: “Address of person mentioned unknown.”
During the day, the loyalty of the troops guarding the Alexander Palace began to deteriorate. Standing at the window, the Empress noticed that many of the soldiers in the courtyard had bound white handkerchiefs to their wrists. The handkerchiefs were symbols of a truce worked out between the palace guards and the revolutionary troops in the village: if the Alexander Palace was not attacked, the loyal troops would not intervene against the mutineers in the village. The truce had been arranged by a member of the Duma. Learning this, the Empress said bitterly, “Well, so everything is in the hands of the Duma.”
On the following morning, Thursday, March 15, the Empress had a far heavier blow. Very early that morning, deathly pale, she came up to Lili and said in an anguished whisper, “Lili, the troops have deserted!”
“Why, Madame? In the name of God, why?”
“Their commander—the Grand Duke Cyril—has sent for them.” Then, unable to contain herself, the Empress said brokenly, “My sailors—my own sailors—I can’t believe it.”
In Pskov, on the 15th, the Tsar on his train was amending and signing the instrument of abdication. At Tsarskoe Selo, unaware even of her husband’s whereabouts, Alexandra was coping with new difficulties. Alexis was better, but Anastasia and Marie were beginning to display unmistakable signs of oncoming measles. Both electricity and water had been cut off. Water was supplied only by breaking the ice on the pond. The Empress’s small elevator, running between her rooms and the nurseries upstairs, stopped running. To reach her children, she had to climb slowly up the stairs, supported under the arms and gasping for breath. The lights were out. To visit Anna Vyrubova, whose room was in another wing of the palace, Alexandra was wheeled through the vast, darkened halls, now empty of all servants. Yet, knowing that others were watching for any sign of panic, she said to Lili, “I must not give way. I keep on saying, ‘I must not’—it helps me.”
Friday, March 16, another blizzard roared in, rattling the windows and piling the snowdrifts deeper in the park. Through the storm, more unsettling reports and rumors began to seep into the palace. At 3:30 a.m., a member of the Duma committee had telephoned Dr. Botkin, asking for news of the Tsarevich’s health. During the afternoon, household servants making their way back from Petrograd on foot said that leaflets announcing the Tsar’s abdication were being distributed in the capital. The Empress refused to believe them. At five p.m., the printed sheets announcing Nicholas’s abdication, the renunciation of the throne by Grand Duke Michael and the establishment of a Provisional Government reached the palace. Officers of the Guard and members of the suite read them with tears in their eyes. At seven, Grand Duke Paul, the Tsar’s uncle, arrived and went straight to the Empress. Grand Duchess Marie and Lili Dehn, waiting in the next room, heard agitated voices.
Then, wrote Lili, “the door opened and the Empress appeared. Her face was distorted with agony, her eyes were full of tears. She tottered rather than walked, and I rushed forward and supported her until she reached the writing table between the windows. She leaned heavily against it and taking my hands in hers, she said brokenly: ‘Abdiqué!’ I could not believe my ears. I waited for her next words. They were hardly audible. ‘The poor dear … all alone down there … what he has gone through, oh my God, what he has gone through … And I was not there to console him.…’ ”
That night, wrote Gilliard, “I saw her in Alexis Nicolaievich’s room.… Her face was terrible to see, but with a strength of will which was almost superhuman, she had forced herself to come to the children’s rooms as usual so that the young invalids … should suspect nothing.”
The same evening, Count Benckendorff, Baroness Buxhoeveden and others went to see the Empress to assure her of their personal loyalty. “She was deadly pale,” wrote Baroness Buxhoeveden. “… When the Empress kissed me, I could only cling to her and murmur some broken words of affection. Count Benckendorff held her hand, tears running down his usually immobile face.… ‘It’s for the best,’ she said. ‘It is the will of God. God gives this to save Russia. That is the only thing that matters.’ Before we shut the door, we could see her sinking into her chair by the table, sobbing bitterly, covering her face with her hands.”
Painful as it was, the Tsar’s abdication improved the immediate situation at Tsarskoe Selo. The virtual state of siege surrounding the palace ended as officers and men of the palace guard, absolved by the abdication from their oath to the Tsar, swore allegiance to the Provisional Government. Communication between the deposed sovereigns, no longer a danger to the revolution, was restored. On March 17, upon his arrival at Headquarters, Nicholas was allowed to telephone his wife. Word of the call was brought by an aged servant, trembling with excitement. Oblivious of etiquette, he stammered: “The Emperor is on the phone!” Alexandra stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses; then, realizing what he was saying, jumped up like a girl of sixteen and rushed to the telephone. Knowing that other people were listening in at both ends of the line, Nicholas said only “You know?” Alexandra answered nothing more than “Yes,” before they went on to discuss the health of their children.
After ten o’clock at night on March 18, Count Benckendorff was startled to hear that Guchkov, now Minister of War in the Provisional Government, and General Kornilov, a regular soldier who had come from the front to take command of the Petrograd garrison, were on their way to Tsarskoe Selo to see the Empress. Guchkov was an avowed enemy—a former President of the Duma, an early antagonist of Rasputin, just back from overseeing the Tsar’s abdication at Pskov. His coming, plus the lateness of the hour, seemed to indicate imminent arrest. Benckendorff informed Alexandra, who sent for Grand Duke Paul. The Grand Duke got out of bed and hurried from his house in Tsarskoe Selo. At e
leven, Guchkov and Kornilov arrived, accompanied by twenty members of the new revolutionary council of the village of Tsarskoe Selo. While the Empress and the Grand Duke received the two envoys, these men, mostly workers and soldiers, wandered through the palace, abusing the servants and addressing the suite as “bloodsuckers.”
As it happened, Guchkov and Kornilov had come only to investigate the state of affairs at the palace and to offer the protection of the Provisional Government to the Empress and her children. Guchkov respectfully asked whether the Empress had what she needed, especially medicines. Alexandra, relieved and grateful, replied that their own supplies were adequate, but she asked Guchkov to look into the supplies for the numerous hospitals around Tsarskoe Selo. In addition, she asked, for the children’s sake, that order be maintained around the palace. Guchkov promised to arrange both of these matters. The first interview between the Empress and her captors had gone well. Returning home after the interview, Grand Duke Paul told his wife that he had never seen Alexandra more “beautiful, tranquil and dignified.”
Nevertheless, the future still seemed precarious. During the days which preceded the Tsar’s return, the Empress began burning her diaries, bound either in white satin or leather, and much of her private correspondence. All of her letters from Queen Victoria and her own letters to the Queen, which had been returned from Windsor after her grandmother’s death, were destroyed. “A fierce fire was burning in the huge grate in the red drawing room,” wrote Lili Dehn. “… She reread some of them.… I heard stifled sobs and … sighs.… Still weeping, [she] laid her letters one by one on the heart of the fire. The writing glowed for an instant … then it faded and the paper became a little heap of white ash.” There were some letters which Alexandra did not burn. With rumors flying that one or both of them would be placed on trial, she carefully saved all of her letters to Nicholas and his to her to use as evidence of their patriotism.
Nicholas and Alexandra: The Classic Account of the Fall of the Romanov Dynasty Page 55
