Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia. Alexander Mikhailovich
Dolgorouky. He has bestowed upon her the title of Princess Yourievskaya to be used until the period of state mourning for your late Aunt Marie has passed. Then Princess Yourievskaya shall be crowned Empress of Russia, but even now you are supposed to kiss her hand and follow all the other rules prescribed by etiquette. There are likewise three children by this second marriage of the Czar. A boy and two girls. They are naturally your cousins. Be friendly with them.”
“Je pense que vous allez un peu fort quand même (I think you are going a little too strong),” remarked mother, trying to control her temper.
We five boys looked at each other. I remembered that during our previous stay in St. Petersburg we were not permitted to approach a large apartment in the Winter Palace occupied by a beautiful lady and several small children.
“How old are our new cousins?” suddenly asked my brother Sergei, who even at the age of eleven possessed an inclination for getting all available data.
Father did not like his question. He looked displeased.
“The boy is seven, the girls are six and four,” he said dryly.
“How is it possible . . .” commenced Sergei, but father raised his hand:
“That will be all, boys. You may return to your car!”
We spent the balance of our journey discussing the mysterious goings-on in the Winter Palace. We decided that father must surely have made an error and that the Emperor was married to Princess Yourievskaya for much longer than ten months. But then it looked as though he possessed two wives at the same time. The real meaning of mother’s distress became clear to me much later. She was horrified lest a bad example should confront her unspoiled children: the ominous word “mistress” had been rigorously kept out of our dictionary up to then.
3
Even the impassive grand master of ceremonies was visibly embarrassed next Sunday night, when the members of the imperial family gathered around the dinner-table in the Winter Palace ready to pass their pitiless judgment on “that awful woman.” His voice expressed grave misgivings as he announced, tapping the floor three times with his ivory-handled staff:
“His Majesty, the Emperor, and Princess Yourievskaya.”
My mother turned her head away in plain disgust. My future mother-in-law, then the wife of the heir apparent, Grand Duke Alexander Alexandrovich, lowered her eyes. She would not have minded it so much for herself but she was thinking of her sister Alexandra married to the Prince of Wales. What will old Queen Victoria say when she hears of this disgrace? . . .
The Emperor walked in briskly with a strikingly attractive woman on his arm. He gave a gay wink to my father and then sized up the massive figure of the heir apparent. He counted on the loyalty of the former but had no illusions as to the attitude of the latter. Princess Yourievskaya gracefully acknowledged the formal bows of the grand duchesses and sat down in Empress Marie Alexandrovna’s chair! Prompted by curiosity, I never took my eyes off her. I liked the sad expression of her beautiful face and the radiance of her rich blond hair. Her nervousness was obvious. Frequently she turned to the Emperor, and he patted her hand gently. She would have succeeded in conquering the men had they not been watched by the women. Her efforts to join the general conversation were met with a polite silence. I felt sorry for her and could not comprehend why she should be ostracized for loving a handsome, kind and cheerful man who happened to be the Emperor of Russia.
A long association did not dampen their mutual adoration in the least. At sixty-four Alexander II acted as a boy of eighteen. He whispered words of encouragement into her small ear; he wanted to know whether she liked the wine; he agreed with everything she said; he looked at his relatives with a friendly smile inviting them to enjoy his idyllic happiness, and joked with me and my brothers, extremely satisfied that at least we youngsters had taken a fancy to the poor princess.
At the end of the dinner the governess brought in the three children.
“Ah, there is my Gogo,” exclaimed the Emperor proudly, lifting the vivacious boy in the air and placing him on his shoulder. “Tell us, Gogo, what is your full name?”
“I am Prince George Alexandrovich Yourievsky,” replied Gogo, and started to arrange the side-whiskers of the Emperor, brushing them with his two little hands.
“Well, we are all very glad to have made your acquaintance, Prince Yourievsky. By the way, prince, would you care to be a grand duke?”
“Please, Sasha, don’t,” nervously said the princess. This joking reference to the possibility of legitimizing their morganatic children made her blush. For the first time during the evening she forgot all about etiquette and addressed her husband by his little name.
Fortunately, Gogo was too much engulfed in playing barber to His Majesty to consider the advantages of a resplendent imperial title, and the Czar did not insist on an answer. It became clear, however, that in his quiet unobtrusive way Alexander II had decided to ignore the sulkiness of the shocked grand duchesses, for even at this first family reunion he was chiefly interested in providing a joyful Sunday for his little children. After dinner a show was given by an Italian prestidigitator, and then the younger guests were taken by Gogo into the adjoining salon, where he demonstrated his skill in riding a bicycle and sliding down the so-called Russian Mountains sitting on a rug. The little chap wanted to make friends with everybody, particularly with my cousin Nicky who seemed to enjoy immensely the idea of having acquired a seven-year-old uncle at the age of thirteen.
On the way back home from the Winter Palace we witnessed another hopeless dispute between our parents.
“No matter what you say or do,” declared our mother, “I shall never recognize that scheming adventuress. I hate her. She is despicable. Imagine her daring to call your brother ‘Sasha’ in the presence of all the members of the imperial family.”
Father sighed and shook his head in despair.
“You still refuse to realize, my dear,” he retorted rather meekly, “that whether she is good, bad or indifferent, she is married to the Czar. Since when is a wife forbidden to use her husband’s little name in public? Do you ever address me as ‘Your Imperial Highness’?”
“How can you make such a silly comparison,” said mother and tears appeared in her eyes. “I did not break up a family. I married you with the consent of your family and mine. I am not plotting to ruin the empire.”
It was the turn of father to get mad.
“I positively forbid you”—he emphasized every word—“to repeat such disgraceful gossip. The future Empress of Russia will be treated with courtesy by you and every other member of the imperial family, including the heir apparent and his wife. The subject is closed once and forever.”
4
But nobody could have closed that exciting subject in the winter of 1880-1881. The members of the imperial household and the venerable leaders of St. Petersburg society were openly accusing Princess Yourievskaya of planning to entrust her favorite, General Loris-Melikoff, with dictatorial powers and to bring about radical changes in the Constitution.
As is always the case, the women proved to be particularly merciless in their denunciations of Gogo’s mother. Guided by hurt vanity and blinded by bitter jealousy, they rushed from house to house repeating the wildest possible rumors and spreading poisonous calumny. It mattered not that Princess Yourievskaya belonged to the old historical family of Dolgoroukys who traced their origin directly to Rurick, the Scandinavian conqueror of Russia. In fact, it made her situation more precarious, the insatiable gossipers dwelling with relish upon the fantastic tales of the imaginary feud between the Romanoffs and the Dolgoroukys. They talked of a peasant prophet who had predicted two hundred years ago that swift death would befall any Romanoff marrying a Dolgorouky. They quoted the tragic end of Emperor Peter II to lend strength to this crazy theory. Did he not die on the day set for his wedding to the young Princess Nathaly Dolgorouky? Was it not significant that the