Aunt Olga, who understood me perfectly, gave me an easel and a new set of watercolors. She knew that more than almost anything else, I loved to paint. I decorated the pages of my photograph album with flowers and leaves.
Later that day the two of us set out by the water, wearing big straw hats to protect us from the sun. “Someday when I’m older, I’m going to become an artist, like you,” I confided as we walked along, looking for a scene to paint. “Marie is welcome to have twenty children. I can’t imagine that Papa and Mama will allow her to marry a soldier, but maybe by the time it’s the third daughter’s turn, they won’t insist that she marry a prince. I don’t care if I marry or not. I want to be an artist, maybe even a famous one.”
“Better just to focus on painting, and not on being famous,” she advised.
We paused several times and gazed out at the sea toward Kronstadt, where the Standart was anchored, until we found a place to have the servants set up our easels and parasols. We arranged our paints and brushes, and Aunt Olga showed me how to make a rectangle with my fingers, framing the scene. We worked for an hour or two, not saying much, and when it was time to pack up and go back to the dacha, Aunt Olga had a lovely picture of a sailing ship, and I had a blotchy mess that had started out as a flowering bush and gone completely wrong, but it didn’t matter. It was still a wonderful day.
At the end of June, before we left for our summer cruise on the Baltic, we visited Grandmère Marie at the Cottage Palace, her favorite palace at Peterhof, for one big birthday party that she gave for Tatiana, Marie, and me. Inside a box tied with a huge pink bow, cradled in a nest of tissue paper, was the most beautiful gift imaginable: a silver music box with a ballerina posed en pointe in a graceful arabesque. She turned slowly when I wound the mechanism to play “The Waltz of the Flowers” by Tchaikovsky.
“Don’t forget, ma chère,” Grandmère whispered to me as we were leaving. “We’ll visit Paris when you’re sixteen.”
Three more years! It might as well be a lifetime, I thought, holding the music box on my lap on the train back to Tsarskoe Selo and entertaining my favorite daydream: When Grandmère Marie and I come back to Russia from Paris, I’ll concentrate on becoming a very, very good painter. Maybe then I’ll also become famous.
• • •
We left for our summer cruise from Peterhof, making the short trip to Kronstadt on the Alexandria, where Pavel Voronov now served. It must have been hard for Olga to see him. She had not mentioned him, or her meeting with Crown Prince Carol, but a few words in the notebook said it all.
I saw him today, thanks be to God! It has been so long, and it still breaks my heart. We didn’t speak, only smiled and nodded. I tried not to let it show how much I care.
After that awful meeting in Constanta, I told Mother and Father there was absolutely no possibility of a match with C.P. Carol. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider,” Father said, “when you’re both older and he’s more mature.”
Perhaps NEVER, I thought, but didn’t say.
Four enormous British battle cruisers steamed into Kronstadt to pay us a visit. They dropped anchor and invited us to luncheon on the flagship Lion. It was OTMA’s unanimous opinion that Admiral Beatty of the British Royal Navy was the handsomest admiral we had ever seen anywhere, and the midshipmen who were our escorts on the Lion were so charming and funny that even sour old Olga was laughing and smiling. It had been a long time since I’d seen her enjoy herself as we did that day.
Later, as we were going up the gangway to the Standart at anchor nearby, Alexei somehow hurt his ankle. He had been doing so well that we’d all hoped he was better, or that he’d learned to be more careful. But boys in general aren’t careful, and Mama was upset that Nagorny and Derevenko hadn’t seen to it that he made it safely. Alexei was in a lot of pain. Gilliard tried to take his mind off it by reading to him.
Even worse, news arrived that a crazy woman had attacked Father Grigory with a knife while he was visiting his village. He was so badly wounded that it was feared he might die. Anya was nearly hysterical. “Who could wish harm to such a good man?” she wailed. “Who could do such a terrible thing to a man of God?”
Mama, too, was very upset, but she was much quieter about it.
But the most important event that summer, though I didn’t realize it immediately, happened far, far away from where we were cruising along the coast of Finland. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, son of Emperor Franz Josef of Austria-Hungary, had been assassinated. The archduke had gone on an official visit to Sarajevo, in Serbia. As he and his wife were being driven in an open motorcar through the crowded streets, a revolutionary fired a gun at them and killed them both. Papa got the news of the murders over the wireless, and the possibility that this would lead to war was all anyone talked about all evening. Papa ordered our cruise on the Standart cut short. The Alexandria took us back to Peterhof, giving Olga another glimpse of Voronov that must have been like a knife twisting in her heart. War, war, war—it’s all we heard.
There were so many agreements and treaties among countries that an incident like this could certainly get everyone involved on one side or the other. Pyotr Petrov tried to explain the alliances to my sisters and me. Russia was on Serbia’s side, Austria and Germany were on the other side, and some countries were neutral. It was hard to keep them straight. The Austrians believed the Serbian government was really responsible for the murders, not just some crazed revolutionary, and Emperor Franz Josef sent an ultimatum to Sarajevo. But he didn’t wait for a response. Austria declared war on Serbia. Papa sent orders to his generals, ordering Russian troops to help the Serbians if Austria attacked them.
Adding to all the tension, the president of France, Monsieur Poincaré, arrived by ship for an official visit that must have been planned much earlier. For four days Papa and Mama went through the motions of the usual ceremonies, speeches, and dinners for all those gloomy Frenchmen with long faces. Probably all they talked about was which country was going to war against which other country. Except for an appearance at a reception, Marie and I were not involved in any of the events, but Olga and Tatiana were forced to sit through a long, tedious dinner. Mama looked very beautiful in a low brocade gown and a diamond tiara, but Olga told us afterward that she was afraid Mama was going to faint before it ended. When the French delegation finally bid adieu and sailed away, Mama was exhausted and relieved and Papa looked tired and worried, with huge bags under his eyes.
A week later, on a Sunday, the thing that Papa had been most worried about actually happened. After early evening prayers in our chapel, Papa went upstairs to his study to read the telegraph messages that had come for him while we were gone. We waited in the dining room for him to come down. We waited and waited, but still he didn’t come. Mama was about to send Tatiana to find out what was delaying him when Papa appeared, his face as white as chalk. “Germany has declared war on us,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Mama let out a little cry. “What? Germany, against us? It can’t be true!” She laid her head on the table and began to sob.
My sisters and I looked at each other. Had Cousin Willy actually done this? He wasn’t joking when he marched around in his dreadful spiked helmet. He and Papa might actually be fighting each other.
Seeing our mother so upset, we began to cry, tears running down our faces and falling onto our napkins. The servants peered in, ready to serve dinner. Papa told them to go ahead. I was the only one with any appetite—no one else seemed able to swallow even a mouthful.
By late that evening, important people had begun arriving by launch and by motorcar from St. Petersburg. I recognized Sergei Sazonov, the minister of foreign affairs who had been so keen to match Olga up with Crown Prince Carol. Next, the English ambassador stepped out of a sleek limousine. Voices were low, somber. There was no laughing, hardly any smiling.
Mama was calmer now and sent us to bed, promising, “There is nothing to worry about, girlies, all will be well.” We desperately wanted to believe that. “But we
must be up early tomorrow to go to St. Petersburg with Papa. He will make an announcement to the Russian people that our beloved country is at war.”
The door closed and only a nightlight was left burning. Marie and I lay talking quietly as we usually did before we fell asleep. “What do you think it will be like, Nastya, being at war?”
“I don’t know. Probably awful. But it does mean there will be a lot of soldiers around. Maybe you’ll meet the one you want to marry and have twenty children with,” I said brightly, trying to cheer her.
It had the opposite effect. “And then he’ll be killed!” she choked between sobs. “That’s what happens in war, Nastya. People get killed. Especially soldiers.”
I was sorry for saying something to upset her, but Marie was like that. Madame Becker must have been paying her a visit. She was always glum and weepy during that time of the month.
We were silent for a while and I thought Marie was asleep, until she whispered, “Nastya? Are you awake?”
“Umm.”
“I’ve been thinking about Mama,” she said. She was sitting straight up in bed. “She must feel terrible. Her mother was English, but her father was German! She was born in Germany! Her brother, Uncle Ernie, lives in Germany. She might still be there if she hadn’t fallen in love with Papa and come to Russia to marry him. She had to learn to speak Russian, and she even gave up her religion for ours. Mama is as Russian as anybody, and she must hate it that Cousin Willy is doing this wicked, awful thing.”
I’d been so sad for Papa that I had forgotten how bad Mama must have also been feeling. I crawled out of my bed and went to sit next to Marie, my arm around her, and the two of us cried and cried.
• • •
Shura woke us very early, before sunrise. “Your papa wants both of you to go with him for morning prayers. Quick, quick now, my girls!”
Papa looked as though he hadn’t slept at all. He took the two of us by the hand, as if we were still small children, and led us to the chapel. “Pray hard, my darlings,” he said. “Harder than you ever have in your life.” And we did.
My sisters and I were going with Papa and Mama to St. Petersburg. Mama dressed in white and chose white outfits for all of us, and we wore big picture hats to protect our faces from the sun. Papa was wearing a plain khaki uniform and his colonel’s insignia. “Because of the solemnity of the occasion,” he said.
Alexei had to stay in Peterhof, because he could not walk and our parents didn’t want the tsarevich to be seen on this day, of all days, as an invalid. Nagorny and Derevenko promised him all sorts of amusements, but nothing cheered him.
“Be a brave soldier,” Papa told him. “We’ll be back soon, and Grandmère Marie is coming in a few days to celebrate your birthday.”
Alexei, nodded, weeping, too upset to speak. I ran back and kissed him again. “I’ll tell you everything that happens,” I promised, and then hurried to board the launch for the trip to the capital.
CHAPTER 11
War Fever
ST. PETERSBURG, SUMMER 1914
Everyone was bursting with pride to be Russian.
Huge crowds had gathered for hours along the Neva River. Our launch maneuvered through hordes of boats of every size filled with people cheering and waving flags. We stepped off the launch onto the quay and into our carriages and inched toward the Winter Palace while police guards struggled to hold back the throngs.
“Batiushka!” they cried. “Little Father, lead us to victory!”
The feverish enthusiasm, more intense than at the tercentennial celebration, did not die down. I’d been to many celebrations, attended many ceremonies, and the attention paid to my father was to be expected. But this was different. The fervor of the people sent a shiver of excitement down my spine. I could tell by my sisters’ faces that they, too, felt it.
We worked our way slowly through the crowd inside the palace. People fell to their knees, tears streaming down their faces, and reached out to kiss Papa’s hand, and Mama’s, too. An altar had been set up in the huge hall. Papa signed a paper declaring Russia’s war on Germany and Austria, and after a choir sang the Te Deum he recited an oath, swearing in a firm voice never to make peace so long as a single enemy remained on Russian soil.
Thousands of people in the great hall were weeping and smiling at the same time. Suddenly they began to sing “Save us, O Lord.” I carried a linen handkerchief in my left hand—we had been taught by our governesses to do this whenever we were out in public—and I was glad I had mine when the tears began.
“The people want another chance to see their Batiushka and Matushka,” Papa said, and led Mama out on the balcony to greet the enormous crowds that packed the square. We were told to stay behind, but we crept close to the doors to watch and listen. A sea of people roared when my parents stepped out, and the roaring didn’t stop even when Papa raised his hand and tried to speak. Then the whole enormous crowd began to sing the imperial anthem:
God save the tsar!
Mighty and powerful,
Let him reign for our glory. . . .
“You see?” said Olga, close beside me. “You see why I will never leave Russia?”
I nodded. I did see. I understood.
The Cossack guards pushed back the crowd to let our carriages through, but the people were in such a jubilant mood that they didn’t seem to mind. Not everyone was jubilant, though—we heard later that an angry mob had rushed to the German Embassy and attacked it, pulling down two huge bronze horses from the roof and rampaging through the inside. The Germans were now Enemy Number One.
“Everyone hates Cousin Willy,” I said.
Tatiana told me to hush, because Mama was worried about Uncle Ernie back in Germany. As if I didn’t remember.
Alexei was waiting in Peterhof to hear about everything that had happened. Dr. Botkin and Gleb and his sister had been with us, and Gleb was pleased to provide the details. His usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement and his green eyes glowed. “The Germans don’t know how to fight!” Gleb assured my brother. “They only know how to make sausages! All we have to do to win is to throw our caps at them.”
Alexei laughed and applauded. But he was still upset that he had missed such a thrilling event. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “There will certainly be more.”
I hoped Gleb was right, though, that victory would be easy—and quick, too.
• • •
We’d been waiting anxiously for Grandmère Marie to arrive at Peterhof from a visit to England, and when she finally did, she was exhausted and in a fury. Her train had been stopped in Berlin and a howling mob had attacked it, smashing the windows, ripping down the blinds in her car, and screaming profanities at her.
“I have never been so terrified in my life,” she told us. “That cursing and shrieking pack of rabble tried to grab me! Thank God the police arrived in time to save me. And that barbarian, Willy, wouldn’t allow me to cross Germany! Can you imagine the effrontery? What a vulgar and detestable man! He ordered my train diverted to the Danish frontier. A horde of madmen threw stones as we left the station. The damage to the train is considerable—you can see it for yourself. Willy didn’t dare keep me, but he did detain Felix and Irina. Xenia is beside herself, as you can imagine, and I don’t know where they are now. Oh, this is just too, too horrid! I have hated Germany for fifty years, and now I hate it more than ever.”
Felix and Irina were still on their honeymoon when “that barbarian” refused to let them go, until Felix’s father arranged for them to return to Russia through Finland.
Alexei had been promised a tenth birthday celebration when Grandmère Marie came, and he was not disappointed. She had arranged for a Shetland pony and a pony cart to be sent by ship from England. Alexei was delighted and became totally absorbed in thinking of a name for the little pony. “He’ll be a friend for Vanka,” Alexei said, Vanka being the donkey Papa had gotten Alexei when he was five. There was also a cake and ice cream and a serenade by the balalaika
orchestra, but a constant parade of generals coming out from St. Petersburg occupied Papa’s attention.
“Some are saying the war will be over by Christmas,” Papa told us.
“All we have to do is throw our caps at them,” I said.
Papa sighed. “If only that were true,” he said, and for just a moment I wondered if Gleb and the generals might be wrong.
A week later the whole family—including Alexei—traveled to Moscow, the old capital of Russia before Tsar Peter the Great built St. Petersburg. It was an ancient tradition for the tsars to go to the Kremlin in Moscow to ask God’s blessing on any war they were about to enter. Before we left Peterhof, we attended services in the white-and-gold chapel where all five of us children had been christened. Then we boarded the imperial train. It rolled quietly through the night and arrived in Moscow the next morning.
It seemed as though everyone in the entire city had come out to greet us, thousands and thousands of Russians hanging out of windows and over the edges of balconies, balancing on the limbs of trees—anywhere they could find—to cheer and wave banners. Church bells rang like mad, and at every church we passed, a priest came out to bless Papa.
We entered the walls of the Kremlin the way tsars always entered the fortified center of the city, through the Iberian gate, and our carriages delivered us to the Grand Palace, with its fireplaces carved out of alabaster, desks and tables inlaid with jade and topaz, porcelain clocks from France, and gold everywhere.
We were hardly settled in the imperial apartments when Alexei began to complain that his leg hurt so badly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to walk to the cathedral the next day. “I must walk tomorrow!” he cried, gritting his teeth, his face twisted with pain. “I must!”
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