There was only one thing that caused us distress, news of which came directly from Kalyayev in a smuggled letter. He was incredibly angry. Tormented. And in the smallest handwriting on a scrap of paper, he told why, that it was because of her, that Romanov woman, the Grand Duchess who should have died with her evil husband. What filled him with bitter regret was that news of his meeting with her was passed up and down the street, and appeared in every newspaper, each version more strange and different than the last.
“Comrades,” he wrote to us, “please forgive me my foolish deed, please don’t think ill of me! I should not have met with her… it makes me feel a traitor to the Organization!”
So upset was he that in short time he even wrote her a letter, a copy of which he made sure our spies got to us, for he wanted us, his comrades, to know what really happened.
Princess-
I did not know you, you came to me of your own accord: therefore the responsibility for the consequences of our meeting lies solely with you.
Our meeting took place, to all outward appearances, in circumstances of intimacy. What passed between us was not meant for publication but concerned us alone. We met on neutral ground, at your own direction, tête-à-tête, and were thus entitled to the same right of incognito. How otherwise to explain your selfless Christian feeling?
I trusted your nobility, supposing that your exalted official position and your personal merit would provide suf ficient guarantee against the kind of malicious intrigue in which even you, to some extent, have been implicated. But you were not afraid to be seen involved: my trust in you has not been justified.
There is malicious intrigue and tendentious versions of our private meeting. The question arises: could either have happened without your participation, albeit passive, in the form of nonresistance, when your honor dictated the opposite course of action? The answer is contained in the question itself, and I protest vigorously against a political interpretation of my decent feelings of sympathy for you and your grief. My convictions and my attitude to the Imperial House remain unchanged.
I fully recognize my own mistake: I should have reacted to you impassively and not entered into any conversation. But I was gentle with you, and during our meeting I suppressed that feeling of hatred, which in reality I feel for you. You know now what motive guided me. But you have proved unworthy of my magnanimity. Because for me there is no doubt that you are the source of all the stories about me, for who would have dared to reveal the substance of our conversation without first asking your permission (the newspaper version is distorted: I never admitted to being a Believer, I never expressed the slightest repentance).
The fact you remained alive is also my victory, and one that made me rejoice doubly when the Grand Duke had been killed.
– Kalyayev
Ha! Talk about a real man, talk about honesty!
Actually, though, that last part was not quite right. His victory? Not really, more like my little mistake. And back then I was quite sure she never, ever realized it-that that Romanov woman never knew that the reason she lived past her husband was not because of some God or Kalyayev, but because of me, a cowardly revolutionary who was afraid to act as she traveled to the opera. Oh, and when I read that letter I came up with a fat wish, that one day our paths should cross and I could… could…
Yes, my revolution burned with the hot embers of revenge.
A few months later, that May, actually, Kalyayev was secretly transferred to the capital and from Peterburg to the Shlisselburg Fortress way out on that small island, where they planned to take his life. I saw it all, too, for I killed someone else, a stupid merchant. Sure, I cut that guy’s fat neck, stole all his money, and then used those rubles to bribe one of the guards to get my way into the fortress just so I could watch them kill my great hero.
The execution of Our Poet was supposed to be secret, because they wanted no one of the people to know, because the bigwigs were afraid that riots would break out. And so at two o’clock in the morning, just as the first of the northern morning light was beginning to color the sky, they brought Kalyayev out. In the yard there were only a handful of officials, some guards, some prison people, and me, too, standing way at the back in the uniform of a yard worker. I wanted to wave, to call out, to say, “Don’t worry, I will witness your end and spread word far and wide of your bravery!” But I kept quiet. To my eyes he looked thinner, otherwise normal. And he mounted the scaffold without hesitation or assistance. Yes, true to his word, he was eager to die for the cause.
At the top of the steps he was met by a gray-bearded priest robed in black, who asked, “Would you like to address a last prayer to God, my son?”
Kalyayev shook his head, turned to the few of us there, and shouted, “I am happy to die for the cause of the Revolution! I am happy to have retained my composure right until the end!”
His words made me smile with pride, and I’ve always cherished the thought that maybe he recognized me out there, for I saw something-a grin of recognition, perhaps even a wink-when he looked my way. The next moment he was led up onto the block, and the beasty executioner, wearing a white shroud and red bonnet, smiled as wide as an opera singer. Having done this hundreds of times if not more, the executioner threw a rope over Kalyayev’s neck-and then in the blink of a second he knocked away the very block on which my hero was perched.
But the rope was too long!
Oh, dear Lord, it was so cruel the way Kalyayev fell, dropping through the air until his feet hit the ground. He cried out as he choked and struggled and half tumbled over, yet the rope kept him kind of upright. It was disgusting to see the way that young man twisted this way and that like a fish hanging from a pole and slapping the ground! Even the officials cried out in shock! Even I shut my eyes, so painful was it to see Our Poet stretched between life and death! It was only when the idiot executioner in his red bonnet and two others hoisted desperately on the rope, yanking Kalyayev completely up into the air, that they finished the job, either breaking his neck or choking him, I couldn’t tell which. Radi boga, even I had never been so mean, even I had always done a better job of killing someone.
And though our beloved Kalyayev met an early end, our young Revolution, its roots fed by his blood, was bursting with violent life! And I’ll shout it again and again, “Da zdravstvuet revolutsiya!”
Chapter 25 ELLA
Yes, the revolution took great hold that year of 1905 and caused such turmoil that I thought we would all be washed away. On top of this, the war in Manchuria continued so poorly, and while I could not busy myself with the doings of the Empire, I did have my beloved Moscow and countless wounded and abandoned who were in need of my attention. In essence, I had begun my withdrawal from the magnificent world where fate had cast me, and it was sometime during these months that my great scheme took birth and grew, it seemed, by the day if not the moment.
I accomplished many things, and one of the first things I did was to gather as many of Sergei’s diaries and letters and papers as I could. I myself read only a handful or two of pages, but it was more than I could bear, and so that history would never know the beasts that tore at the poor man’s soul, I took the papers I had gathered and tossed them in the tiled stove in my chamber, burning Sergei’s confessions completely and absolutely. With that accomplished, I turned away from the pain of the past and looked forward to the future.
Too, I prayed for many months for poor Kalyayev’s soul, and in my heart I found forgiveness for his deed, just as I prayed he found forgiveness for any of my sins upon him. I never visited him a second time, but if I had I would have said to him that I told virtually no one of our conversation. My visit to him was reported everywhere, but the thought that I could have betrayed his spiritual confidence was and still is repugnant to me. The only thing I can imagine is that we were secretly listened upon, for someone quite apart from me spread our conversation.
The day my husband was killed was the day I turned away from animal meats and began to wear
black garment and avoid festivities of any sort. It was a completely natural step, one that I took without even thinking. From then on, as if the decision had been made for me, I did not even partake of a glass of champagne at a christening and rarely appeared in public, and for these offenses society widely criticized me. But it made no matter what the tongues said, just more petty dishrags. Fortunately, Nicky gave me delicate kindness by permitting me to remain in the Nikolaevski Palace, and that I could live in that house was an intense comfort, and I found great strength and peace being near St. Aleksei’s relics and, of course, near my husband who had been laid to rest in a peaceful chapel of the Chudov. I made a request to Nicky, which was granted, to have the historical furniture taken out of my rooms and stored away with the catalogue kept in the Kremlin, so that after my death all would be put back as it was. With the luxurious appointments removed, I had my chambers painted white and the walls hung with icons, and there were those who with dismiss said my rooms quite resembled a nun’s cell. But I found it full of tranquillity. In addition, I gathered together some tattered pieces of Sergei’s clothing that he had worn on his last day, and I tucked them inside a large hollow cross, which I placed in a corner of my room. This, too, brought me great comfort.
The first step into my scheme was a small one, but that step led to a larger one and to yet another larger after that. That autumn I took a house beyond the walls of the Kremlin, and it was there that I organized a hospital for fifteen wounded soldiers. It was incredibly exciting, I must admit, for this was the first time I had ever been able to do such a thing, organize something beyond my official role without Red Cross or government participation, let alone Sergei’s heavy oversight. Virtually every decision was of my own, and I oversaw each and every detail, not as a Grand Duchess but both as an administrator and nurse. I spent nearly every day there, for it was among the suffering of these simple men that I was able to forget my own grief and, too, learn a new path. I so enjoyed reading to them and writing their letters for them and helping with their meals. They were my big babies.
However, that year was the most disgraceful of times, with many wondering why we were being reprimanded so by God-was it for the banishment of the Jews, for which I had long feared our punishment? Whatever the cause, in summer the war with Japan finally came to an end, albeit disastrously, and to add to our woes our shameful peace sparked such things as the mutiny on the battleship Potemkin. Just a nightmare for our poor Russia, there were so many assassinations, including that of Count Shuvalov, the military governor of the city, who had reached out to me that very day of Sergei’s death-the revolutionaries likewise extinguished him in a most bloody manner. Too, all across the countryside the peasants burned manor house after manor house and killed any number of landlord. It was all a great sin, perpetuated by the revolutionaries who told them that the Emperor himself had granted permission to do such, that is, take the land back from their greedy masters. What was happening to Russia? What disorganization, what disintegration, just like a piece of clothing that was beginning to rip and tear along the seams and fall completely open. Yes, it was the pure revolution.
The busier I kept the more at peace I felt, and yet late that September things took a particularly bad turn in Moscow. It seemed the entire city went out on strike, and the post, telegraph, telephone, and railroad, too, were all shut down. All the trams came to a halt and the bakeries as well, and also to my shock the ballet companies refused to work. Indeed, stranded as we were in the Nikolaevski Palace, the children and I were entirely cut off and abandoned from the outside world, guarded by those whose loyalty was at best dubious. Even the electrical workers walked away, so the entire city was left in dark, only in the distance could one see the glow of buildings that had been set afire. And while the Kremlin had its own power station, we feared turning on lights, so we too sat by oil lamp in the eve, the lamps themselves hidden from the windows-and to this several of my maids said it was all for the best, particularly for the children, as they had heard from someone of authority that reading by unnatural illumination was most poor for the eyes, damaging even. Then late one day came reports that the Kremlin was about to be assaulted and the children taken as hostages, and it was only then that I acquiesced and gave my permission for all the Kremlin gates to be shut and locked. Admittance was by special pass only. Another report claimed that the revolutionaries ’ plan was to catch the new Governor-General of Moscow and kill him, then kill countless other authorities throughout the city and seize the Kremlin along with the Arsenal and, in the hope that the troops would join, hold Moscow, a month later go to Tsarskoye and, of course, the horrible end was only too clear.
One beautiful afternoon toward the end of October we heard a particularly violent ruckus beyond the fortress walls. Street fighting, I could tell from the din, had broken out all over, for one could discern from every direction shouting and cries, any number of horses’ hooves, and the crack after crack of the Cossack whip. Gunfire as well. But I could not and would not be stuck here in the Kremlin, for I had duty, I had made promise.
Glancing out my window, I said, “I am needed at my hospital-there is to be an operation, an amputation, and I must be there to assist.”
“But, Your Highness, it’s far too dangerous,” gasped Countess Olsuvieva, my Grande Maîtresse, “Your carriage would be attacked the moment you were out the gate!”
“Then I’ll go on foot.”
“You mustn’t, Your Highness. Please, I beg you! There’s chaos everywhere. Even if you were to take a guard, your safety could not be guaranteed.”
“No, I won’t take a single person-that also would attract too much attention. I’ll change into something simple and go alone.”
“But it will be night soon!”
I had to admit that since the death of my dear one my reasoning had not been entirely logical, and yet here I knew a different kind of truth, certainly a more important one, and I said, “The soldier who needs my help doesn’t care in the least whether it’s day or night, dangerous or not, and neither do I. All that matters is that his leg is removed soonest so that the gangrene doesn’t spread further.”
My countess could not hide her disapproval, and she obeyed me only with the greatest hesitation, reluctantly helping me rid myself of all my jewelry, right down to and including my rings. Once I had put on an insignificant dress, I summoned our General Laiming.
To my husband’s aide-de-camp I said, “Sir, I am entrusting the children to you while I am away. If there are any disturbances of a profoundly serious nature, I ask you to hide them away or flee if need be.”
“But, Your Highness, where in the name of God are you-?”
“Please do not worry, for I have an important task at hand, and God will watch over me.”
I waved him away and made my way down, careful to keep my plans secret from the children. Exiting the Palace I made toward the Nikolsky Gate, passing the very spot where Sergei had met his end and where, according to my wishes, a large cross had been placed with the inscription, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I stopped, crossed myself, and continued, leaving the vast complex of the Kremlin via a small portal.
Emerging on the other side of the thick Kremlin walls, I entered a world of chaos such as I had never seen and which in truth broke my heart. The great square before me, always such a source of beauty and national pride, had forever been known as Krasnaya Ploshchad, which in old Russia had meant “the Beautiful Square.” In more modern times, krasnaya also meant a particular color, and I could see that our country had indeed crossed a distinct line and sensed that this place would now forever be perceived by that very color: red.
Yes, I could see the blood of workers and peasants and students splashed across the cobbles.
A gust of wind blew a sheet of paper against my dress. Grabbing at the paper, I saw that it was a printed leaflet, of which, I was sure, thousands had been distributed, and which read: “Brothers! Sisters! Take up arms! Long live the u
prising of the exhausted people!”
Tears welled in my eyes as I pressed the leaflet to my heart, and I glanced across the vast space toward the beautiful onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and saw so much more: ripped and torn clothing, a dead horse here and there, rubbish lying about in great quantity, and a number of smoldering carriages. It was through this very square that Nicky and Alix had entered the Kremlin for their coronation, and at that time this place had been a sea of exuberant exultation, thousands upon thousands of joyous subjects casting flowers and hurrahs at their new Emperor and Empress. Today, however, I had heard cries of quite a different nature, those of rage and desperation, and with my own eyes I could see that what had been cast were not flowers but pitchforks and, too, cobblestones dug up from the pavements.
God save and protect Russia…
I was one of but two or three souls about, and I wiped at my eyes and crossed the square. Making haste, I passed by one end of the Upper Trading Row and descended into the narrow, twisting streets of Kitai Gorod. All seemed relatively quiet, in fact eerily peaceful, but this calm was soon shattered by a sudden breaking of glass and any number of shouts and coarse words. Of course I should have just continued on my way to my hospital, but I couldn’t, for so much more than my curiosity had been aroused, specifically my need to understand. Turning a corner, I headed toward the sound of rage and destruction, which grew more pronounced each and every second. I heard a scream, and yet another-good Lord, was someone being beaten to death?
The Romanov Bride Page 10
