The illness we sisters had just gone through resulted in a partial loss of our hair. When Marie became half-bald our doctor suggested that we have our heads shaved, which was done shortly before our departure for Tobolsk. We four looked so much alike afterwards that we could not tell who was who. Outdoors we wore turbans, especially when we were working in the vegetable garden which was beautiful and ready for our use.
On the evening of Monday, July 31st, 1917, old style, Kerensky permitted Uncle Michael to come to the palace. Father was grateful for this kind gesture on the part of Kerensky. At that time Uncle Michael had already been placed under arrest. The visit had a painful effect. No one of the family was allowed to see Uncle except Father. Kerensky and Colonel Kobylinsky had to be present during the visit which took place in Father’s study. The meeting was distressing to Father and I am sure it was also to Uncle Michael. It was almost useless, because privacy was denied to the brothers. Neither thought this was to be the last time that they would see each other. Under the conditions the two brothers were deprived of an opportunity to confide in each other. However, I remember Father saying that he would not have abdicated under any circumstances had he known that Uncle Michael would also abdicate. It was said that the latter did so under pressure while being held as a prisoner by the Provisional Government, for which Kerensky was responsible. At this meeting Father asked about his mother and was told by Uncle that it was impossible for him to see her. Father said: “Why not send Mr. Johnson (Uncle’s secretary) or contact General Ivanov.” Father asked Uncle to have Kerensky arrange for us to go to the Crimea. Granny was in the Crimea—for the first time since the death of her husband, Alexander III. Also our Aunt Xenia with her family and Aunt Olga with her new-born first child were there.
As Alexei’s thirteenth birthday had approached, we had trembled for fear that something might happen on that day. We somehow expected our departure, but not on such short notice. So many momentous incidents had been connected with the number thirteen that we sisters were superstitious about that number. The three hundredth anniversary of the Romanov dynasty was celebrated in 1913. On March 13th, 1917, Marie became deadly ill with measles and pneumonia. On Sunday, July 30th (August 12th), 1917 Alexei became thirteen years old. Misfortune struck us again. After the Te Deum in our chapel and congratulations for Alexei’s birthday, Count Benckendorff brought the news that we were to leave the next day. We still hoped it would be the Crimea. Because of Alexei’s birthday it was postponed to the following day. We all went about as if nothing had happened, but in our hearts there was grief and fear. Alexei played on the little island and we went out and looked over the garden. We knew then that it was our last time in this beloved place. If we must go, let’s go quickly.
We did not know our destination. Kerensky made a secret of it. He assured Father it would be a safer place, and that we should take with us plenty of warm clothing. Both parents were stoical. Evidently we were not going to the Crimea. For weeks our trunks had been ready, but now we each had been told to decide what additional, but only needed, articles we wished to take with us. Mother said to leave everything undisturbed. I laid aside many things which finally had to be abandoned. I felt like a traitor. At last, I finished sorting.
I was determined to help pack my own suitcase for the first time. It was no longer possible to take anything out of our vaults, treasures given Mother by Father and her family. A number of her precious icons were wrapped carefully. She took only those given by proven, loyal friends. We children also selected some from the corners of our bedrooms to take with us on this trip.
In spite of our intentions to travel lightly, trunk after trunk was filled and sent downstairs. If we should ever reach England we wanted so much to have some of our things with us.
It was decided that any member of our household who so wished could go with us, but anyone who did not intend to follow us should leave the palace immediately. A number of employees, not wanting to be separated from their families, had already left. Father preferred to take along only those without family responsibilities. However, many servants left their families behind and followed us into exile. No doubt, it took courage to follow us, especially when our destination was not known, yet we hated to leave so many behind whose loyalty we never questioned. At the same time it was decided that the garden vegetables would be used by those employees who stayed with us to the last. Count Benckendorff was to remain in the palace and care for Father’s private business affairs.
Before we left Father reminded Count Benckendorff that he, through Count Rostovtsev, Mother’s secretary who was in charge of our private fortunes, and through Mr. Peter Bark, whose responsibilities related to family private interests abroad including insurance and investments, should pay, respectively, all our bills at home and abroad. One of Count Benckendorff’s stepsons, Prince Valia Dolgorukov, was to go with us. We heard later that Kerensky went back to the palace, after taking us to the station, and ordered Count Benckendorff to leave our home at once.
Father was given the choice of taking one of the generals with him. He selected General Tatishchev. This friend, who was independently rich, had all the necessary qualities and was liked by everybody. The several hundred men who carried our baggage downstairs were rewarded. One of them, a soldier, lifted his three-ruble note to his lips and kissed it. By the way his shoulders shook, we knew that he was crying. A few of our trunks were left upstairs and some were brought to Tobolsk much later. We were allowed to take with us several dogs. I took my “Jemmy” who had been given to me by Anna. Being small she did not require much food.
We were now leaving our bedrooms, music room, class room, and playrooms, where we had placed our dolls with their arms stretched out as if they were asking us not to leave them behind. Alexei tearfully placed his Teddy bear against the door to guard his possessions. As we wandered through the rooms in lingering farewell, each tried not to see the other. Those who were to stay behind cried and kissed us children every time they saw us. These good-byes to our childhood home were dreadful. This ancestral home we were leaving was part of us. We gave it a reverential farewell. Marie and I went to our knees in the corner of our bedroom, set up with icons. Our eyes were fixed on the empty places from which some icons had been removed to go with us on this trip.
We were nervous, full of anguish, and, in spite of our efforts to be brave, we cried and we were reduced to sobs. Our good friend Dr. Botkin, who had been absent because of illness in his family, had just returned. He gave us sisters drops of valerian to quiet our nerves. What went on in Father’s and Mother’s hearts only they knew. It was a queer, heartrending feeling when we left our rooms not knowing of the future ahead.
We five children went down the private spiral stairway. As we did so, the memory of my young years came back to me. I remembered when I happily used to run up and down the steps trying to make two at a time. Now I could not see them; a handkerchief was pressed to my swollen eyes. The stairs led us to Mother’s apartment. She had just finished a thanksgiving prayer when we appeared. We did not dare to look at her.
No doubt that to Father that home was full of Tsar-spirits, looking down on him from portraits condemning this final surrender of autocracy. A life-sized portrait of Mother when she was young, happy, and beautiful hung in Father’s study—his favorite portrait. It was by Kaulbach, painted in 1903. He stopped and examined it as if he had never seen it before.
No doubt in Mother’s mind were the words Aunt Ella said to her once: “Remember what happened to other Empresses!” Mother may also have thought of the painting of Marie Antoinette and her children by Mme. Vigée-Lebrun, which was given to Mother by the President of France. Was she thinking now of a common misfortune? Or, possibly, she thought of the words of the Emperor Joseph II, brother of Marie, when he prophesied to his pretty sister the coming disaster: “In very truth, I tremble for your happiness; the revolution will be a cruel one and perhaps of your own making.” But it was not the case with my Mother: revolution was of the traitors’ making. I often ask myself, why was Mother so drawn to this unfortunate woman, who in character and education was so different from my Mother? At home in the glass wardrobe, were Olga’s and Tatiana’s christening gowns. They were copies of the dresses of Marie Antoinette’s children. In another case were a few copies of the Queen’s own dresses, made for Mother in Lyons during one of her early visits to France. We were all puzzled by the fascination Marie had for Mother, who was a student of history and had an aversion for its tragic pages.
Our departure was scheduled for midnight, August 13th, new style. Before the fateful hour arrived we were served tea. Midnight came but no summons. Nevertheless, shortly after one in the morning, we assembled in the semicircular hall. Our personal luggage was standing at one side. Soon Count Benckendorff came with a message that General Tatishchev had informed him that he was not allowed to come to the palace but would be at the station to meet us.
Books and magazines were brought to us. We could not read anything. My thoughts went back to the pages Mlle. Schneider had read to us while we were recovering from our illness, and to the painting on the wall of Marie Antoinette in a large hat, sitting with her children and a white, long-haired dog at her feet. This large, gold-framed painting, approximately six feet high, dominated the room. Below it there was a simple, inlaid console table and on the floor, on either side, stood two tall red French enamel vases. Somehow I had the idea that they had been a gift to the family from Cousin Wilhelm. From the time of the outbreak of the war, I had a strong impulse to break them.
Father, who long before had read all the best known books on the French Revolution, asked for those volumes again when the reign of terror swept our country. My older sisters read them, too. Marie and I, because of our weakened eyes, went through only certain parts. No doubt these traitors and the revolutionists had read them also, and followed the same pattern. Kerensky likewise was probably not ignorant of these events. There are so many similarities between the French and the Russian Revolutions.
Now the French Revolution stood full of meaning before me. During the coronation festivities in France, when Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were being crowned, a number of shocking disasters occurred. These were similar to the tragedy that occurred at the coronation of my parents. In the former, when France’s economy declined and conditions were bad, only 35 per cent of the land was held by the French peasants; the rest was in the hands of the Church, the nobility and the crown. But Russia economically was strong in spite of the war and the devastation of the western areas.
When a daughter was born to the royal couple, Marie Antoinette had eighty attendants at her service. History records that she was a gay woman with demands for unlimited luxury and extravagance. It was also said that during the critical economic conditions in her country, she had purchased an enormously expensive jewel for herself. They discovered much too late that this was not true.
The Russian people would not have believed that Father and Mother had been extravagant. As Father commented, when the revolution broke out 75 to 80 per cent of Russian soil was in peasant hands. When one of the children in our family was born, we had only a few attendants. Besides, Mother never cared for gaiety or luxury. During the war we repaired our own clothes and made our own beds. As Louis XVI was betrayed by Mirabeau, so Father was betrayed by the Allies, with the help of the Duma and men like Kerensky, Ruzsky, Lenin, and Trotsky, and other foreign instigators. Many foreign elements gave aid and encouraged the revolution in my country. As horrors occurred in France, so did they in Russia. Marat asked for a quarter of a million lives, but Trotsky, Lenin, Apfelbaum and others of the clique demanded more than fifteen millions. Allegedly they all were guilty of something. Most of the educated classes, millions of peasants, and forty thousand Greek Orthodox clergymen were killed.
Many of the revolutionists were shipped to Russia for the purpose of inciting the plundering, robbing and strangling of Russia. They were supported by the prisoners of war, mostly Austro-Hungarians and Germans. They were helped by a powerful branch of the Christian church, who were apparently desirous of detaching our people from the Greek Orthodox Church. Fortunately the Russian people were and still are very devoted to and proud of their own religion which they consider to be the true exponent of the Christian faith as delegated to us by the Apostles and particularly by the Apostle Paul. (Read M. Pierre Gilliard’s book, Thirteen Years at the Russian Court.)
Distressed and restless we sat in this room, wondering if the same misfortune that befell the court of Louis XVI was awaiting us. In one instance to stimulate the revolution, the weapon was the jewel; in the other, Rasputin. We wondered whether the other courts of Europe and particularly our own royal relatives were making any efforts to save Russia and ourselves.
At four in the morning we had tea again. As daybreak was pouring through the windows and the lights were turned off, breakfast was ordered for 5:30. By mistake or by force of habit, the table for us five children and the governess was set upstairs. This caused a furious consternation and confusion around the watchful men. We were not allowed to go upstairs and we did not care to return there again.
Finally an excited officer came running and announced to Count Benckendorff that he had talked with Kerensky who was on his way to us. The room became full of people who waited interminably to say good-bye to us and to the staff who were to go with us. The sentries filled the doorways, forming a long line on both sides to the waiting motors. We strained our swollen eyes in the dawning light to see all we could as the cars sped down the courtyard and through the garden’s side entrance.
Near the fence there were some people who had been waiting all night to have a glimpse of their Emperor for the last time. They ran toward this gate but were repulsed by the sentry. We saw the church with its blue dome, the double eagle and the golden cross, the little lake, the palace, the park, all for the last time. The iron gates, our prison gates, swung open and closed after us. Our hearts closed with them. There were no bells ringing as we left our home, no cheering of the regiments of Cossacks who used to pass in brilliant parade before the palace. No convoy followed the Emperor on horses, dressed in tall caps and red and blue coats; and no yellow flag fluttered on the car. No flag caught the morning breeze on the roof top; it had been removed long ago, even though Father and we were still there. The cars moved like a funeral procession.
Escorted by a detachment of cavalry, we arrived at the Alexander station. The air was fresh. The golden sun flooded the sky. One hoped that he could hear the words: “I shall light your way wherever you go.” What a change in the appearance of this charming and beautiful village had taken place! The immaculate asphalt roads of Tsarskoe Selo I used to drive over only five months ago were no longer the same. I could see the wound the new leaders had inflicted upon this peaceful village. It was indeed a depressing and fearful sight.
In order to board the train, our automobiles stopped a short distance from our own white station, which was not far from the public one. Approaching it we saw in the distance a heap of luggage still being loaded into the train. With the troops guarding the vicinity, we walked along and crossed the track. As we were to board the train, Mother gave her hand to Kerensky who kissed it and wished her a pleasant trip. There was no stool to step on and Mother had trouble negotiating the high step. When she reached her compartment, she collapsed and fell before anyone could catch her, spraining her ankle and a finger, and struggling to catch her breath. Dr. Botkin gave her a sedative. Partly because of the heat, it was several days before she recovered from the strain.
It was sad to leave our friends, especially those officers who stood at the station humbly with their caps in their hand, and their heads bowed for the last time—their final reverence to Russia. The family stood near the windows in two different cars and blessed those good men, when suddenly several of them entered the car, and wanted to fall on their knees before Father, but he would not let them do so. Instead, he embraced them, their faces resting on his shoulder. This great man thanked his loyal officers (especially two men, Kushelev, and another whose name I do not remember but which was something like Artasalev) for their services with the words, “Be loyal and help your country; they need you now more than ever.”
With these words, they withdrew, and Father touched his own insignia of command, promoting them to a higher rank for the last time. This touching scene made him withdraw from the window so that they might not see the tears in his eyes. Suddenly on order of Commissar Kozmin, all the shades of the car were drawn.
Already within the confines of these quarters, Father’s spiritual agony was supreme. He knew that he had abdicated not for selfish reasons, but to avoid the bloodshed which he foresaw, but which the others did not. Now, this suffering family carried with them into uncertainty the centuries-old secrets of the dynasty.
With a quick jerk and screech the wagons-lits began to move. The vibration sent shivers to our souls. It was 6:30 A.M. We hoped the train would be heading for the west or south. However, it was not long before we realized much to our disappointment that we were heading eastward.
Father once promised us that as soon as the war was over, he would take us to visit the Siberian cities. It was now evident that Father’s promise to us of a Siberian trip was being fulfilled without advance knowledge or planning. Later when Kerensky was being accused by the people for sending us to Siberia, he did not have the courage to admit it, but instead cowardly tried to lay the blame on my Mother by saying that it was her wish to have the family go to Siberia. The truth is however that when it became evident that we were being sent to Siberia, Mother remarked, “Of all places, how could he think of Siberia?”
Just before our departure from Tsarskoe Selo, Father made each of us sign our names on slips of papers, put them in separate envelopes and leave them in our rooms.