Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia. Alexander Mikhailovich
including the representatives of all the reigning houses of Europe, through the long halls of the Winter Palace to the adjoining chapel. Immediately after the first wedding, performed according to the rites of the Greek Orthodox Church, a second one was conducted by the Protestant minister inside the palace. In such a way both the Emperor of Russia and the Emperor of Germany were given full satisfaction, and their relatives, Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia and Grand Duke Friedrich of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, were united twice within forty minutes.
A family lunch served after the second religious ceremony and a state dinner at night filled the program of the day. Next morning was allotted to the reception of the foreign ambassadors and various court dignitaries. Then another family meal had to be attended. Only at the end of the second day were the newly-weds permitted to board their special train that was to take them to Germany.
The whistle blew, the guard of honor presented arms, and we lost our Anastasia. Mother cried; father pulled at his glove. The heartless law that forced the members of the Russian reigning house to marry foreigners of royal blood scored its first casualty in our family; it was to continue its tyranny up to the year 1894, when I broke its validity by marrying Grand Duchess Xenia, daughter of my cousin Emperor Alexander III.
The departure of Anastasia made my mother decide to go abroad in the spring. Officially she wanted her sons to meet her brother, the Grand Duke of Baden; unofficially she longed to see her favorite child. It meant that for four months we would have to be separated from the Caucasus by thousands of miles. I tried every conceivable ruse to be permitted to return to Tiflis but my parents were not in a habit of soliciting my advice. Thus, in the summer of 1880 I met for the first time the representatives of a nation which was destined to loom so large in my future life. There were two pretty American girls playing tennis in the park, not far from the ducal palace. I lost my heart to both of them, unable to decide which one of the two I liked better. This fact, however, had no influence on our relations, for I was strictly forbidden to talk to any and all Americans, an aide-de-camp of the Grand Duke of Baden watching my movements at close range. The girls noticed my admiring glances and unaware of the cruel edict of my mother decided that I must be either too shy or too stupid or both. Each time they would finish playing a hard-disputed set, they would come to rest on a bench next to the spot where I stood. Talking in a theatrical whisper they would pass remarks damaging to my manly self-respect.
“What is the matter with that boy?” the taller girl would ask. “Can it be that he is deaf and dumb? Do you think we should learn the language of the mutes?”
I wished to God the damnable aide-de-camp would leave me alone for a few minutes, so that I could show to those adorable creatures what kind of a mute I was, but the German officers are taught to obey orders implicitly: if necessary he would have stood by my side for forty-eight consecutive hours. Even my shy attempts at smiling became known at the palace and were seized upon as an occasion for merciless teasing by both my brothers and my German cousins led by the future Reich Chancellor Prince Max of Baden. I began to find short notes under my pillow written by Michael and George but signed—“your loving American girls.” Tiny American flags would be stuck in the back of my overcoat, and my appearance in the drawing-room would be greeted by a few bars of a popular American march played on the piano by one of the torturers. After two weeks of silent struggle I gave in and kept away from the tennis court for the remainder of our stay in Baden-Baden.
In the beginning of that autumn we returned to Tiflis.
CHAPTER FOUR
AN EMPEROR IN LOVE
1
ON a foggy evening in the winter of 1880, a heavy explosion shook the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, wrecking the quarters of the Guards situated on the ground floor and killing forty officers and soldiers. It occurred exactly at the moment when the grand master of ceremonies appeared on the threshold of the dining-room with his usual announcement—“His Majesty, the Emperor.”
A slight mathematical error in the construction of the infernal machine which was placed in the basement saved the private apartments of the Czar from destruction. Just a few pieces of crockery were broken and several windows shattered.
A hurried investigation revealed the simultaneous disappearance of a recently hired janitor. The latter, no doubt, belonged to the same revolutionary party—nicknamed “nihilists” because of their determination to annihilate everything pertaining to the existing régime—which had commenced its terroristic activities in the early seventies and had gained additional momentum thanks to the system of criminal trials by jury introduced by the liberal Alexander II. Acquittal was almost assured for its members, and a young girl, Vera Zasoulich, who fired at the Governor-General of St. Petersburg in 1878 had the unique opportunity of hearing the presiding justice make an eloquent speech in her defense.
Writers, students, doctors, lawyers, bankers, merchants and high officials appeared equally anxious to see a republic established in the country that had witnessed the liberation of the serfs but nineteen years previously. Eighty per cent of the nation still remained illiterate but the impatient intelligentsia demanded the immediate granting of the universal franchise and the convocation of a parliament invested with extraordinary powers. The willingness to compromise displayed by the throne whetted the appetites of the would-be prime ministers, while the extreme weakness of the police encouraged the unperturbed development of the most daring revolutionary schemes.
The idea of regicide was in the air. Nobody felt it keener than Dostoievsky whose writings should be today considered a veritable prophecy of the Bolshevik upheaval. Shortly before his untimely death, in January, 1881, during a conversation with the famous Russian editor, Souvorin, he said in a tone of astounding sincerity:
“You seem to think that there was a great deal of clairvoyance in my last novel Brothers Karamazoff, but wait till you read its sequel. I am working on it now. I am taking Alesha Karamazoff out of his holy retreat in the monastery and am making him join the nihilists. My pure Alesha shall kill the Czar!”
2
The news of the tragic events in the Winter Palace made my father decide to go to St. Petersburg. He could not bear being separated by twelve hundred miles from his beloved imperial brother, and we were told to prepare to spend the coming winter in the north.
A dense cloud of gloom hung over the entire country. The official cheerfulness of the numerous generals who met us at the big stations along the route failed to disguise their anguish. Everybody understood that the Czar would not be able to escape much longer the continuous attempts on his life unless a firmer hand took the trembling wheel of state. The old-timers thought my father should be put in charge of the Government because his sterling soldierly qualities were favorably known throughout Russia.
Few people realized that even the most influential members of the imperial family had to reckon at that moment with the power of a woman, strange in their midst. We children learned of her existence on the eve of the arrival of our special train to the capital, when we were summoned to the salon car.
We saw at once that a heated conversation must have taken place between our parents. The face of our mother was covered with red spots while father puffed at a long black cigar, a thing he seldom risked doing in her presence.
“Listen, boys,” said father, pulling at the Cross of St. George which he had received for conquering the Western Caucasus and which was always attached to the high collar of his coat, “there is something I want to tell you before we reach St. Petersburg. You have to be ready to meet the new Empress of Russia at your first dinner in the palace.”
“She is not an Empress as yet,” interrupted mother; “do not forget that the real Empress of Russia has died only ten months ago.”
Father jumped up and stood erect, his six-feet-three towering over us.
“I wish you would let me finish,” he said sharply, raising his deep voice, “we are, all of us, faithful subjects of the Emperor. We have no right whatsoever to criticize his decisions. A grand duke has to take his orders in the same