mountain we had made at the edge of a little artificial lake. He was also fond of playing with his donkey Vanka, which was harnessed to a sledge, and his dog Joy, an attractive little liver spaniel with short legs, and long silky ears which almost touched the ground.

Vanka was a creature of quite unusual intelligence and sense of humour. When the idea of giving Alexis Nicolaïevitch a donkey had been mooted, all the horse-dealers in St. Petersburg had been referred to in vain. Cinizelli’s Circus had then agreed to part with a thoroughbred animal which had grown too old to perform any longer. Thus had Vanka come to Court, and he seemed to be immensely attached to the young family. He certainly was most amusing, for his repertoire of tricks was quite inexhaustible. In the most expert manner imaginable he would turn out your pockets in the hope of discovering delicacies. He was particularly fond of old indiarubber balls, which he would quietly chew, closing one eye like an old Yankee.

These two animals played a large part in the life of Alexis Nicolaïevitch, for his amusements were few. Above all, he was very short of playmates. The two sons of his sailor Derevenko, his ordinary companions, were much younger than he, and had neither the education nor the development desirable.

It is true that his cousins sometimes spent Sundays and birthdays with him, but these visits were rare. I often pressed the Czarina to remedy this state of things. As a result of this pressure an attempt was made, but without result.

Of course, the disease to which the boy was a prey made the choice of his comrades an extremely difficult matter. It was lucky that, as I have said, his sisters liked playing with him. They brought into his life an element of youthful merriment which would otherwise have been sorely missed.

During our afternoon walks, the Czar, who was very fond of walking, usually went round the park with one of his daughters, but quite frequently he came and joined us. It was with his help that we made a huge tower of snow which became quite an imposing fortress before long and kept us busy several weeks.

At four o’clock we went in and resumed lessons until dinner, which was at seven for Alexis Nicolaïevitch and at eight for the rest of the family. We ended the day by reading one of his favourite books.

Alexis Nicolaïevitch was the centre of this united family, the focus of all its hopes and affections. His sisters worshipped him and he was his parents’ pride and joy. When he was well the palace was, as it were, transformed. Everyone and everything seemed bathed in sunshine. Endowed with a naturally happy disposition, he would have developed quite regularly and successfully had he not been kept back by his infirmity. Each of his crises meant weeks and sometimes months of the closest attention, and when the hæmorrhage had been heavy it was followed by a condition of general anæmia which made all hard work impossible for him, sometimes for a considerable period. Thus the interludes between attacks were all that were available, and, in spite of his quick brain, this made teaching a difficult matter.

The Grand-Duchesses were charming—the picture of freshness and health. It would have been difficult to find four sisters with characters more dissimilar and yet so perfectly blended in an affection which did not exclude personal independence, and, in spite of contrasting temperaments, kept them a most united family. With the initials of their Christian names they had formed a composite Christian name, Otma, and under this common signature they frequently gave their presents or sent letters written by one of them on behalf of all.

I am sure I shall be forgiven for allowing myself the pleasure of recording some personal memories here—memories which will enable me to recall these girls in all the bloom and spontaneous enthusiasms of their youth. I might almost say their childhood. For these were girls who fell victims to a dreadful fate at a time when others are blossoming into womanhood.

The eldest, Olga Nicolaïevna, possessed a remarkably quick brain. She had good reasoning powers as well as initiative, a very independent manner, and a gift for swift and entertaining repartee. She gave me a certain amount of trouble at first, but our early skirmishes were soon succeeded by relations of frank cordiality.

She picked up everything extremely quickly, and always managed to give an original turn to what she learned. I well remember how, in one of our first grammar lessons, when I was explaining the formation of the verbs and the use of the auxiliaries, she suddenly interrupted me with:

“I see, monsieur. The auxiliaries are the servants of the verbs. It’s only poor ‘avoir’ which has to shift for itself.”

She read a good deal apart from her lessons. When she grew older, every time I gave her a book I was very careful to indicate by notes in the margin the passages or chapters she was to leave out. I used to give her a summary of these. The reason I put forward was the difficulty of the text or the fact that it was uninteresting.

An omission of mine cost me one of the most unpleasant moments in my professional career, but, thanks to the Czar’s presence of mind, the incident ended better than I could have hoped.

Olga Nicolaïevna was reading “Les Miserables,” and had reached the description of the battle of Waterloo. At the beginning of the letter she handed me a list of the words she had not understood, in accordance with our practice. What was my astonishment to see in it the word which is forever associated with the name of the officer who commanded the Guard. I felt certain I had not forgotten my usual precautions. I asked for the book to verify my marginal note, and realised my omission. To avoid a delicate explanation I struck out the wretched word and handed back the list to the Grand-Duchess.

She cried, “Why, you’ve struck out the word I asked papa about yesterday!”

I could not have been more thunderstruck if the bolt had fallen at my feet.

“What! You asked your——”

“Yes, and he asked me how I’d heard of it, and then said it was a very strong word which must not be repeated, though in the mouth of that general it was the finest word in the French language.”

A few hours later I met the Czar when I was out walking in the park. He took me on one side and said in a very serious tone:

“You are teaching my daughters a very curious vocabulary, monsieur....”

I floundered in a most involved explanation. But the Czar burst out laughing, and interrupted:

“Don’t worry, monsieur. I quite realised what happened,

so I told my daughter that the word was one of the French army’s greatest claims to fame.”

Tatiana Nicolaïevna was rather reserved, essentially well balanced, and had a will of her own, though she was less frank and spontaneous than her elder sister. She was not so gifted, either, but this inferiority was compensated by more perseverance and balance. She was very pretty, though she had not quite Olga Nicolaïevna’s charm.

If the Czarina made any difference between her children, Tatiana Nicolaïevna was her favourite. It was not that her sisters loved their mother any less, but Tatiana knew how to surround her with unwearying attentions and never gave way to her own capricious impulses. Through her good looks and her art of self-assertion she put her sister in the shade in public, as the latter, thoughtless about herself, seemed to take a back seat. Yet the two sisters were passionately devoted to each other. There was only eighteen months between them, and that in itself was a bond of union. They were called “the big pair,” while Marie Nicolaïevna and Anastasie Nicolaïevna were still known as the “little pair.”

Marie Nicolaïevna was a fine girl, tall for her age, and a picture of glowing health and colour. She had large and beautiful grey eyes. Her tastes were very simple, and with her warm heart she was kindness itself. Her sisters took advantage somewhat of her good nature, and called her “fat little bow-wow.” She certainly had the benevolent and somewhat gauche devotion of a dog.

Anastasie Nicolaïevna, on the other hand, was very roguish and almost a wag. She had a very strong sense of humour, and the darts of her wit often found sensitive spots. She was rather an enfant terrible, though this fault tended to correct itself with age. She was also extremely idle, though with the idleness of a gifted child. Her French accent was excellent, and she acted scenes from comedy with remarkable talent. She was so lively, and her gaiety so infectious, that several members of the suite had fallen into the way of calling her “Sunshine,” the nickname her mother had been given at the English Court.

In short, the whole charm, difficult though it was to define, of these four sisters was their extreme simplicity, candour, freshness, and instinctive kindness of heart.

Their mother, whom they adored, was, so to speak, infallible in their eyes. Olga Nicolaïevna alone showed occasional traces of independence. They surrounded her with every attention. Of their own initiative they had arranged matters in such a way that they could take turns of “duty” with their mother, keeping her company for the day. When the Czarina was ill the result was that the daughter on duty could not go out at all.

Their relations with the Czar were delightful. He was Emperor, father, and friend in one.

Their feelings for him were thus dictated by circumstances, passing from religious veneration to utter frankness and the warmest affection. Was it not he before whom the ministers, the highest dignitaries of the Church, the grand-dukes, and even their mother bowed in reverence, he whose fatherly heart opened so willingly to their sorrows, he who joined so merrily in their youthful amusements, far from the eyes of the indiscreet?

With the exception of Olga Nicolaïevna, the Grand-Duchesses were very moderate pupils. This was largely due to the fact that, in spite of my repeated suggestions, the Czarina would never have a French governess. No doubt she did not wish anyone to come between herself and her daughters. The result was that though they read French, and liked it, they were never able to speak it fluently.[15]

The Czarina’s state of health accounts for the fact that the education of her daughters was to some extent neglected. The illness of Alexis Nicolaïevitch had gradually worn down her powers of resistance. At times of crisis she spared herself nothing and displayed remarkable energy and courage. But, once the danger had passed, Nature resumed her rights, and for weeks she would lie on a sofa quite exhausted by the strain.

Olga Nicolaïevna did not fulfil the hopes I had set upon her. Her fine intellect failed to find the elements necessary to its development. Instead of making progress she began to go back. Her sisters had ever had but little taste for learning, their gifts being of the practical order.

By force of circumstances all four had soon learnt to be self-sufficient and to find their natural good nature their sole resource. Very few girls would have accommodated themselves so easily to a life such as theirs—a life deprived of outside amusements, and with no other source of distraction than those joys of family life which are so despised in these days!

CHAPTER VII

THE INFLUENCE OF RASPUTIN—MADAME WYROUBOVA—MY TUTORIAL TROUBLES

(WINTER OF 1913)

WHILE the illness of Alexis Nicolaïevitch threw such a gloom over the Imperial family, and the influence of Rasputin, a product of their very distress, continued to grow, life at Tsarskoïe-Selo seemed to flow along as smoothly as ever, at any rate to outward appearance.

At that time I still knew very little about the staretz, and I was searching everywhere for material on which to base my judgment, for his personality interested me decidedly. But it was anything but easy. The children never mentioned Rasputin’s name, and in my presence even avoided the slightest allusion to his existence. I realised that in so doing they were acting on their mother’s instructions. The Czarina no doubt feared that as a foreigner and not orthodox I was incapable of understanding the nature of the feelings of herself and her family towards the staretz, feelings which made them revere him as a saint. By imposing this duty of silence on my pupils she allowed me to ignore Rasputin, or conveyed to me her desire that I should behave as if I knew nothing about him. She thus deprived me of any chance of taking sides against a man whose very name I realised I did not know.

From another source I had been able to convince myself that Rasputin played a very insignificant part in the life of the Czarevitch. On several occasions Dr. Derevenko told me the amusing remarks Alexis Nicolaïevitch had made about Rasputin in his presence. The latter tickled his young imagination and piqued his curiosity, but had no influence whatever with him.

As a result of Mlle. Tioutcheva’s protest, Rasputin no longer went up to the Grand-Duchesses’ floor, and he visited the Czarevitch but seldom.

No doubt the authorities were afraid I might meet him, for the rooms I occupied were adjoining those of my pupil. As I had required his personal attendant to keep me informed of the smallest details of his life, Rasputin could not have seen him without my knowledge.[16]

The children saw Rasputin when he was with their parents, but even at that time his visits were infrequent. Weeks, and sometimes months, passed without his being summoned to Court. It became more and more usual to see him with Madame Wyroubova, who had a little house quite near to the Alexander Palace. The Czar and his heir hardly ever went there, and meetings were always very rare.

As I have already explained, Madame Wyroubova was the intermediary between the Czarina and Rasputin. It was she who sent on to the staretz letters addressed to him and brought his replies—usually verbal—to the palace.

Relations between Her Majesty and Madame Wyroubova were very intimate, and hardly a day passed without her visiting her Imperial mistress. The friendship had lasted many years. Madame Wyroubova had married very young. Her husband was a degenerate and an inveterate drunkard, and succeeded in inspiring his young wife with a deep hatred of him. They separated, and Madame Wyroubova endeavoured to find relief and consolation in religion. Her misfortunes were a link with the Czarina, who had suffered so much herself, and yearned to comfort her. The young woman who had had to go through so much won her pity. She became the Czarina’s confidante, and the kindness the Czarina showed her made her her lifelong slave.

Madame Wyroubova’s temperament was sentimental and mystical, and her boundless affection for the Czarina was a positive danger, because it was uncritical and divorced from all sense of reality.

The Czarina could not resist so fiery and sincere a devotion. Imperious as she was, she wanted her friends to be hers, and hers alone. She only entertained friendships in which she was quite sure of being the dominating partner. Her confidence had to be rewarded by complete self-abandonment. She did not realise that it was rather unwise to encourage demonstrations of that fanatical loyalty.

Madame Wyroubova had the mind of a child, and her unhappy experiences had sharpened her sensibilities without maturing her judgment. Lacking in intellect and discrimination, she was the prey of her impulses. Her opinions on men and affairs were unconsidered but none the less sweeping. A single impression was enough to convince her limited and puerile understanding. She at once classified people, according to the impression they made upon her, as “good” or “bad,”—in other words, “friends” or “enemies.”

It was with no eye to personal advantage, but out of a pure affection for the Imperial family and her desire to help them, that Madame Wyroubova tried to keep the Czarina posted as to what was going on, to make her share her likes and dislikes, and through her to influence the course of affairs at Court. But in reality she was the docile and unconscious, but none the less mischievous, tool of a group of unscrupulous individuals who used her in their intrigues. She was incapable either of a political policy or considered aims, and could not even guess what was the game of those who used her in their own interests. Without any strength of will, she was absolutely under the influence of Rasputin and had become his most fervent adherent at Court.[17]

I had not seen the staretz since I had been at the palace, when one day I met him in the anteroom as I was preparing to go out. I had time to look well at him as he was taking off his cloak. He was very tall, his face was emaciated, and he had piercing grey-blue eyes under thick bushy eyebrows. His hair was long, and he had a long beard like a peasant. He was wearing a Russian smock of blue silk drawn in at the waist, baggy black trousers, and high boots.

This was our one and only meeting, but it left me with a very uncomfortable feeling. During the few moments in which our looks met I had a distinct impression that I was in the presence of a sinister and evil being.

The months slipped by, however, and I had the pleasure of observing the progress made by my pupil. He had grown fond of me and was trying to respond to the trust I showed in him. I still had a hard struggle against his laziness, but the feeling that the amount of liberty permitted him depended entirely upon the use he made of it fired his zeal and strengthened his will.

It was fortunate that the winter had been a good one, and there had been no other serious relapse after that at Livadia.

Of course I knew quite well that this was only an interlude, but I noticed that Alexis Nicolaïevitch was making a real effort to control his impulsive and turbulent nature, which had unfortunately caused serious accidents, and I began to wonder whether I should not find his illness, however terrible in other ways, an ally which would gradually compel the boy to become his own master and might refine his character.

It was all a great comfort to me, but I cherished no illusions as to the difficulties of my task. I had never realised so well before how his environment fought against my efforts. I had to struggle against the servile flattery of the servants and the silly adulations of some of the people around him. It always surprised me greatly that Alexis Nicolaïevitch’s simple nature had hitherto to a large extent resisted the attraction of the extravagant praise he received.

I remember one occasion when a deputation of peasants from one of the Governments of Central Russia came to bring presents to the Czarevitch. The three men of which it was composed, on an order given by Derevenko in a low voice, dropped on their knees before Alexis Nicolaïevitch to offer him what they had brought. I noticed that the boy was embarrassed and blushed violently, and when we were alone I asked him whether he liked seeing people on their knees before him.

“Oh no, but Derevenko says it must be so!”

“That’s absurd!” I replied. “Even the Czar doesn’t like people to kneel before him. Why don’t you stop Derevenko insisting on it?”

“I don’t know. I dare not.”

I took the matter up with Derevenko, and the boy was delighted to be freed from this irksome formality.

But a more serious element was his isolation and the circumstances under which his education was carried on. I realised that these were almost inevitable, and that the education of a prince tends to make him an incomplete being who finds himself outside life if only because he has not been subject to the common lot in his youth. Such teaching as he receives can only be artificial, tendencious, and dogmatic. It often has the absolute and uncompromising character of a catechism.

There are several reasons: the restricted choice of teachers, the fact that their liberty of expression is limited by the conventions of their official life and their regard for the exalted position of their pupil, and, finally, that they have to get through a vast programme in a very few years. It inevitably means that they have to resort to mere formulæ. They proceed by assertion, and think less of rousing the spirit of enquiry and analysis and stimulating the faculty of comparison in their pupils than of avoiding everything which might awaken an untimely curiosity and a taste for unofficial lines of study.

Further, a child brought up in such conditions is deprived of something which plays a vital part in the formation of judgment. He is deprived of the knowledge which is acquired out of the schoolroom, knowledge such as comes from life itself, unhampered contact with other children, the diverse and sometimes conflicting influences of environment, direct observation and simple experience of men and affairs—in a word, everything which in the course of years develops the critical faculty and a sense of reality.

Under such circumstances an individual must be endowed with exceptional gifts to be able to see things as they are, think clearly, and desire the right things.

He is cut off from life. He cannot imagine what is going on behind the wall on which false pictures are painted for his amusement or distraction.

All this made me very anxious, but I knew that it would not fall to my lot to remedy this serious state of affairs, so far as it could be remedied. There was a custom in the Russian Imperial family that when the Heir had reached the age of eleven he should be given a vospitatiet (educator), whose office was to direct the training and education of the young prince. The vospitatiet was usually a soldier, as the military career seemed the best qualification for this heavy and responsible duty. The post was usually given to a general, an ex-director of some military school. It was a highly coveted post in view of the powers and privileges it conferred, and particularly because of the influence the holder might get over the Heir, an influence which often continued during the early years of his reign.

The selection of the vospitatiet was thus a vital matter. The direction which Alexis Nicolaïevitch’s education would take depended upon him, and I awaited his appointment with considerable anxiety.

CHAPTER VIII

JOURNEYS TO THE CRIMEA AND RUMANIA—PRESIDENT POINCARÉ’S VISIT—DECLARATION OF WAR BY GERMANY
(APRIL-JULY, 1914)

IN the spring of 1914 the Imperial family went to the Crimea, as in preceding years. We arrived at Livadia on April 13th, a bright, sunny day. In fact, we were almost dazzled by the sunshine, which bathed the high, steep cliffs, the little Tartar villages half buried in the bare sides of the mountains, and the staring white mosques which stood out sharply against the old cypresses in the cemeteries. The contrast with the landscapes we had just left was so striking that, although this new country was familiar, it seemed quite fairylike and unreal in its wondrous beauty under this halo of sunshine.

These spring days in the Crimea were a delicious relief after the interminable St. Petersburg winter, and we looked forward to them months before they came.

On the excuse of settling in, we all took holiday the first few days, and used it to enjoy this marvel of nature to the full. Then regular lessons were resumed. My colleague, M. Petroff, accompanied us as before.

Alexis Nicolaïevitch’s health had improved in recent months; he had grown a good deal, and he looked so well that we were all in high spirits.

On May 8th the Czar, wishing to give his son a treat, decided that we should take advantage of a day which promised to be particularly sunny to pay a visit to the “Red Rock.” We left in a car, the party comprising the Czar, the Czarevitch, an officer from the Standard, and myself. The sailor Derevenko and the cossack on duty followed in another car. We gradually ascended the slopes of the Jaila mountains through beautiful forests of pine-trees, whose enormous trunks rose tall and majestic to the leafy dome above them. We soon reached the end of our journey—a huge rock sheer above the valley, and looking as if it had grown rusty in the course of ages.

The day was so fine that the Czar decided to continue the drive. We descended the northern slopes of the Jaila mountains. There was still plenty of snow about, and Alexis Nicolaïevitch had huge fun sliding on it. He ran round us, skipping about, rolling in the snow and picking himself up, only to fall again a few seconds later. It seemed as if his lively nature and joie de vivre had never been displayed to better advantage before. The Czar watched his son’s frolics with obvious pleasure. You could see how happy he was to realise that the boy had recovered the health and strength of which he had been deprived so long. Yet he was still haunted by the fear of accidents, and every now and then he intervened to moderate his transports. Although he never so much as referred to the disease to which the Heir was a victim, it caused him perpetual anxiety and concern.

The day drew to a close, and we were quite sorry to have to start back. The Czar was in high spirits during the drive. We had an impression that this holiday devoted to his son had been a tremendous pleasure to him. For a few hours he had escaped from his Imperial duties and the attentions, exquisitely

polite though they were, of those about him. Thanks to the fact that this little trip had been quite impromptu, he had even dodged the vigilant care of the palace police, a thing he felt was always about him (though this duty was performed in the discreetest possible manner), and hated thoroughly. For once, at any rate, he had been able to live like an ordinary mortal. He seemed rested and relieved.

In ordinary times the Czar did not see much of his children. His work and the demands of Court life prevented him from giving them as much time as he would have wished. He had handed over their bringing-up entirely to the Czarina, and in the short time he spent with them in family intimacy he liked to enjoy their company without restraint and with a mind free from all cares. At such times he wanted to be free of the immense burden of responsibility upon his shoulders. He wanted to be simply the father and forget that he was the Czar.

Nothing of any importance occurred to break the monotony of our life during the following weeks.

About the end of May there were rumours at Court that the Grand-Duchess Olga Nicolaïevna was about to be betrothed to Prince Carol of Rumania.[18] She was then eighteen and a half. The parents on both sides seemed in favour of the match, which was very desirable at that moment on political grounds also. I knew that M. Sazonoff, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was doing his utmost to bring about the betrothal and that the final arrangements were to be made during a visit which the Russian Imperial family were to pay to Rumania in the immediate future.

One day at the beginning of June when I was alone with Olga Nicolaïevna she suddenly asked me a question with that confident and disingenuous frankness which was all her own and the legacy of the relations which had been established between us when she was quite a little girl:

“Tell me the truth, monsieur: do you know why we are going to Rumania?”

In some confusion I replied:

“I believe it’s a courtesy visit. The Czar is going to return the visit the King of Rumania paid him some time back.”

“Oh, that’s the official reason ... but what’s the real reason? I know you are not supposed to know, but I’m sure everyone is talking about it and that you know it....”

As I nodded in assent, she added:

“All right! But if I don’t wish it, it won’t happen. Papa has promised not to make me ... and I don’t want to leave Russia.”

“But you could come back as often as you like.”

“I should still be a foreigner in my own country. I’m a Russian, and mean to remain a Russian!”

On June 13th we embarked on the Imperial yacht Standard at Yalta, and the next morning we arrived at Constanza, the great Rumanian port on the Black Sea where the celebrations were to take place. On the quay a company of infantry with its colours and band received us with military honours, while a battery of artillery posted on the hill above the fort gave us the prescribed salute. All the ships in the harbour had their flags out.

Their Majesties were received by the old King Carol, Queen Elizabeth (“Carmen Sylva”), and the princes and princesses of the royal family. After the customary presentations we went to the Cathedral, where a Te Deum was celebrated by the Bishop of the Lower Danube. At one o’clock the members of the two families took luncheon together privately, while the suite were the guests of the President of the Council of Ministers. The royal luncheon was served in the pavilion which “Carmen Sylva” had had built at the pierhead. It was one of her favourite residences, and she spent a considerable part of every year there. She was fond of sitting for hours, “listening to the sea,” on the terrace which seemed suspended between the sky and the waves, where the great sea-birds only could break in on her solitude.

In the afternoon Their Majesties gave an At Home on board the Standard and then attended a great review.

At eight o’clock in the evening we all assembled for the gala banquet, which was served in a beautiful room built for the purpose. It was certainly charmingly decorated, with its ceiling and walls of white stucco sown with little electric lamps most tastefully disposed and its palms and plants and profusion of well-arranged flowers. The whole thing was a blend of colour and line which was highly pleasing to the eye.

The Czar, with Queen Elizabeth on one side and Princess Marie[19] on the other, was in the centre of a long table at which eighty-four guests were seated. The Czarina sat opposite him, between King Carol and Prince Ferdinand.[20] Olga Nicolaïevna was next to Prince Carol, and replied with her usual natural charm to his questions. The three other Grand-Duchesses, who found it none too easy to conceal their boredom on such occasions, lost no chances of leaning to wards me and indicating their sister with a sly wink.

Towards the end of the meal, which proceeded with the usual ceremonial, the King rose to give the Czar a toast of welcome. He spoke in French, but with a strong German accent. The Czar replied, also in French. He spoke pleasantly, in a musical, well-modulated voice. When dinner was over we went into another room, where Their Majesties went round talking to the guests, and those to whom this favour was not accorded lost no time in collecting in groups as affinity or mere chance dictated. But the evening was cut short, as the Standard had to leave Constanza the same day. An hour later the yacht put to sea and set sail for Odessa.

The next day I heard that the scheme for the marriage had been abandoned, or at any rate indefinitely postponed. Olga Nicolaïevna had won.[21]

On the morning of June 15th we arrived at Odessa. The Czar reviewed the troops of the garrison, who were presented to him by General Ivanoff, commanding this military area.

The next day we stopped for several hours at Kishineff in Bessarabia in order to be present at the unveiling of a monument to the memory of Alexander I., and on the 18th we returned to Tsarskoïe-Selo. Two days later the Czar was visited by the King of Saxony, who came to thank him for his appointment as honorary colonel of one of the regiments of his Guard. During the visit the troops paraded before the palace. It was the only ceremony which marked the King’s short stay. On June 23rd he bade farewell to the Imperial family.[22]

Shortly afterwards we left for Peterhof, where we embarked on July 14th for a short cruise in the fjords of Finland. The Alexandria[23] took us from Peterhof to Cronstadt, where the Standard was waiting for us. As we were going on board the Czarevitch jumped at the wrong moment, and his ankle caught the bottom of the ladder leading to the deck. At first I thought this accident would have no ill effects, but towards evening the boy began to be in pain and his sufferings rapidly increased. Everything pointed to a serious crisis.

When I woke next morning we were in the heart of a Finnish fjord. It was an exquisite spot. The sea was deep emerald green, flaked with white by the waves, and dotted with small islands of red granite crowned with pines whose trunks flashed in the sunshine. In the middle distance was the shore, with its long fringe of yellow sand and its dark green forests which stretched away to the horizon.

I went down to Alexis Nicolaïevitch’s room. He had had a very bad night. The Czarina and Dr. Botkin were with him, but quite powerless to alleviate his terrible sufferings.[24]

The day passed sullenly and slowly. Since the previous evening I had noticed that the suite were a prey to unwonted excitement. I asked Colonel D—— what the cause was, and learned that there had been an attack on Rasputin and that his life was in danger. He had gone to Siberia a fortnight before, and on his arrival at his own village, Pokrovskoïe, had been stabbed in the stomach by a young woman. The wound might be fatal. There was great excitement on board, whisperings and mysterious confabulations which suddenly stopped whenever anyone suspected of being an adherent of Rasputin came near. Everyone else was inspired by a lively hope of being at last delivered from that baneful influence, but no one dare reveal his joy too openly. The villainous moujik seemed to have nine lives, and he might recover.[25]

On the 19th we returned to Peterhof, where the President of the French Republic was expected. Our cruise was only interrupted, and we were to resume our voyage after he left. Alexis Nicolaïevitch had taken a turn for the better in the last two days, but he was still unable to walk, and he had to be carried off the yacht.

In the afternoon of the next day the cruiser La France arrived in Cronstadt harbour with the French President on board. The Czar was there to receive him. They returned to Peterhof together, and M. Poincaré was taken to the apartments prepared for him in the palace. In the evening a gala banquet was given in his honour, and the Czarina and the ladies-in-waiting were present.

For four days the President of the French Republic was the guest of Nicholas II., and many ceremonies marked his short visit. He made an excellent impression upon the Czar, a fact which I was able to prove to my own satisfaction under the following circumstances.

M. Poincaré had been invited to the Imperial luncheon-table, where he was the sole guest. He was received without the slightest formality into the family circle at the little Alexandria Cottage.

When the meal was over the Czarevitch came and showed me, not without considerable pride, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour which the President of the Republic had just given him. We then went out into the park, and in a few minutes we were joined by the Czar.

“Do you know, I’ve just been talking to M. Poincaré about you?” he said in his usual affable manner. “He had spoken to Alexis and asked me who had taught him French. He is a remarkable man, with a splendid intellect, and a brilliant talker. That’s always useful; but what I like most is that there is nothing of the diplomat about him.[26] He is not reticent, but plain-spoken and frank, and wins one’s confidence at once. If only we could do without diplomacy humanity would make immense strides.”

On July 23rd the President left Cronstadt for Stockholm, immediately after a dinner given in Their Majesties’ honour on the La France.

The next day, to our utter amazement, we learned that Austria had presented an ultimatum to Serbia on the previous evening.[27] I met the Czar in the park in the afternoon. He was preoccupied, but did not seem anxious.

On the 25th an Extraordinary Council was held at Krasnoïe-Selo in the Czar’s presence. It was decided to pursue a policy of dignified but firm conciliation. The Press was extremely angry at the step taken by Austria.

The next few days the tone of the Press became increasingly violent. Austria was accused of desiring to annihilate Serbia. Russia could not let the little Slav state be overwhelmed. She could not tolerate an Austro-Hungarian supremacy in the Balkans. The national honour was at stake.

Yet while tempers were rising and the diplomats were setting the machinery of all the chancellories in motion, heartrending telegrams left Alexandria Cottage for distant Siberia, where Rasputin was slowly recovering from his wound in the hospital at Tioumen.[28] They were nearly all of the same tenor: “We are horrified at the prospect of war. Do you think it is possible? Pray for us. Help us with your counsel.”

Rasputin would reply that war must be avoided at any cost if the worst calamities were not to overtake the dynasty and the Empire.

This advice was consonant with the dearest wish of the Czar, whose pacific intentions could not be doubted for a moment. We had only to see him during that terrible last week of July to realise what mental and moral torture he had passed through. But the moment had come when the ambition and perfidy of Germany were to steel him against his own last hesitation and sweep everything with them into the whirlpool.

In spite of all the offers of mediation and the fact that the Russian Government had suggested closing the incident by direct negotiations between St. Petersburg and Vienna, we learned on July 29th that general mobilisation had been ordered in Austria. The next day we heard of the bombardment of Belgrade, and on the following day Russia replied with the mobilisation of her whole army. In the evening of that day Count Pourtalès, the German Ambassador at St. Petersburg, called to inform M. Sazonoff that his Government would give Russia twelve hours in which to stop her mobilisation, failing which Germany would mobilise in turn.[29]

The twelve hours granted to Russia in the ultimatum expired at noon on Saturday, August 1st. Count Pourtalès, however, did not appear at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs until the evening. He was shown in to Sazonoff, and then formally handed him Germany’s declaration of war on Russia. It was ten minutes past seven. The irreparable step had been taken.

CHAPTER IX

THE IMPERIAL FAMILY IN THE FIRST DAYS OF THE WAR—OUR JOURNEY TO MOSCOW

(AUGUST, 1914)

AT the moment when this historic scene was taking place in the Foreign Minister’s room at St. Petersburg, the Czar, the Czarina, and their daughters were attending evensong in the little Alexandria church. I had met the Czar a few hours before, and been much struck by the air of weary exhaustion he wore. The pouches which always appeared under his eyes when he was tired seemed to be markedly larger. He was now praying with all the fervour of his nature that God would avert the war which he felt was imminent and all but inevitable.

His whole being seemed to go out in an expression of simple and confident faith. At his side was the Czarina, whose care-worn face wore that look of suffering I had so often seen at her son’s bedside. She too was praying fervently that night, as if she wished to banish an evil dream....

When the service was over Their Majesties and the Grand-Duchesses returned to Alexandria Cottage. It was almost eight o’clock. Before the Czar came down to dinner he went into his study to read the dispatches which had been brought in his absence. It was thus, from a message from Sazonoff, that he learned of Germany’s declaration of war. He spoke to his Minister on the telephone for a short time and asked him to come down to Alexandria Cottage the moment he could get away.

Meanwhile the Czarina and the Grand-Duchesses were waiting for him in the dining-room. Her Majesty, becoming uneasy at the long delay, had just asked Tatiana Nicolaïevna to fetch her father, when the Czar appeared, looking very pale, and told them that war was declared, in a voice which betrayed his agitation, notwithstanding all his efforts. On learning the news the Czarina began to weep, and the Grand-Duchesses likewise dissolved into tears on seeing their mother’s distress.[30]

At nine o’clock Sazonoff arrived at Alexandria. He was closeted with the Czar for a long time, and the latter also received Sir George Buchanan, the Ambassador of Great Britain, in the course of the evening.

I did not see the Czar again until after lunch the next day, when he came up to kiss the Czarevitch[31] before leaving for the solemn session at the Winter Palace, at which, in accordance with traditional usage, he was to issue a manifesto to his people announcing the war with Germany. He looked even worse than on the previous evening, and his eyes sparkled as if he had the fever. He told me he had just heard that the Germans had entered Luxemburg and attacked French customs houses before war was declared on France.

I will reproduce here some of the notes I made in my diary about this time.