Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia. Alexander Mikhailovich
of Europe seemed to have agreed that their sons should be beaten into the realization of their future responsibilities. Many years afterward, while exchanging reminiscences with Kaiser Wilhelm, I appreciated the comparative mildness of my Tiflis teachers; his heir, the crown prince of Germany, who had married one of my nieces by that time, dryly added that the amount of punishment dealt to an imperial father invariably fails to soften the path of his son.
Lunches and dinners, so enjoyable in most families, brought no relief to the hard routine of our upbringing.
The viceroy of the Caucasus had to represent the Emperor in his relations with the millions of people inhabiting the southeast of Russia, and we could never sit at the table with less than thirty or forty guests. Government officials who came from St. Petersburg; Oriental potentates on their way to see the Czar; commandants of the outlying military districts; socially prominent persons accompanied by their wives; aides-de-camp and ladies-in-waiting; officers of the bodyguard and a score of tutors—all used this opportunity of expressing their political views and soliciting special favors.
We children had to watch our p’s and q’s, and not speak until spoken to. How many times, nearly bursting with a desire to tell our father of the marvelous fortress built by us on the top of the mountain back of the palace, or of the new Japanese flowers planted by our gardener, we had to keep silent and listen to a pompous general commenting on the folly of Disraeli’s latest undertaking!
Whenever addressed by the guests, which was done of course solely as a matter of politeness toward the powerful viceroy, we had to confine our answers to the expressions prescribed by a rigorous etiquette.
A lady inquiring with an unnaturally sweet smile on her lips as to my ambitions for the future, knew in advance that Grand Duke Alexander would be severely reprimanded by his parents should he express an intention to become a fireman or an engineer. My choice of a career lay between the cavalry commanded by my uncle Nicholas, the artillery supervised by my father, and the imperial fleet headed by my uncle Constantin.
“Nothing could be so splendid for a boy in your position,” usually said the lady, “as to follow in the steps of your illustrious father.”
What sensible reply could have been made to this supposition, considering that twelve pairs of eyes of my teachers were glaring straight into my face and were putting the dignified words in my mouth?
My brother George once chanced to confess his inclination for portrait painting. He was greeted with the ominous silence of all parties assembled at the table, and understood his mistake shortly afterward, when the majestic tower of cherry and vanilla ice-cream glided past his place without a stop.
The seating order of the table precluded any possibility of giggling at the peculiarities of the guests or whispering among ourselves: we were never permitted to sit next to each other, but were sandwiched between the grown-up persons. It was pointed out to us in no uncertain terms that we had to behave toward our neighbors just as the viceroy would have done himself. Laughing at poor jokes and simulating a vivid interest in the political developments abroad entered into our obligations of hospitality, and developed in us a sense of self-relying resourcefulness.
Every minute of our time we had to bear in mind that some day we would be taken to that Russia which lay hidden behind the chain of mountains. There while visiting in the palace of our reigning uncle, we would be grateful to those who had made us acquire all these excellent manners! Otherwise our cousins would point fingers at us and call us “the savage Caucasians.”
Then for an hour after lunch and twenty minutes after dinner we were allowed to play in our father’s study, an enormous room laid with gorgeous Persian rugs and decorated with Caucasian swords, rifles and pistols. Its windows over-looking the Golovinsky Prospect (the main thoroughfare of Tiflis) provided an unforgettable view of Oriental pageantry. We never tired watching the tall swarthy mountaineers in their gray, brown and red cherkeskas, mounted on splendid spirited horses, with their hands resting on the hilts of gold and silver daggers covered with glittering precious stones. Accustomed to the different nationalities who came to see the viceroy, we recognized the lackadaisical Persians wearing silken robes that stood out vividly against the background of the sober black costumes of the Georgians and the conventional uniforms of our guards. Armenian vendors of fruit, gloomy Tartars astride their mules, and yellow-skinned Bucharans yelling at their overburdened camels provided the rest of this ever-moving picture.
The enormous bulk of Kasbek mountain—its snow-covered peak piercing skies of the richest blue—dominated the narrow winding streets which ran toward the market-places sizzling with restless humanity, and the melodious sound of the rapid river Kura brought an element of peaceful harmony into the atmosphere of this shrieking capital.
Too much beauty in one’s early surroundings may tend to develop a sad character, but we were supremely happy during those short intermissions between drills and the educational grind. We wanted to stay forever in Tiflis. We had no use for European Russia. Our local Caucasian patriotism made us consider the gold-braided envoys of St. Petersburg with a mixture of mistrust and contempt. The Emperor of Russia would have been painfully surprised to learn that every day, from one to two and from eight to eight-thirty in the evening, his five nephews in the far-away south were plotting a near-secession. Fortunately for the empire, our tutors kept their vigilant guard, and just at the moment when we were about to distribute most important posts among the five of us, an unpleasant voice would be certain to remind us that the French irregular verbs awaited their victims in the classroom.
At the stroke of nine we had to retire to our bedroom, put on long white shirts (pajamas had not reached Russia as yet) and fall asleep at once. Even then we continued to be under close observation. Not less than five times during the night a tutor would enter our quarters and cast a suspicious look at the five human bundles hidden under the blankets.
Shortly before midnight we would be awakened by the sound of clinking spurs which signified the arrival of our father. Disregarding the remonstrances of our mother, he believed that future soldiers should sleep despite the most terrific noises.
“What are they going to do later on,” he used to remark, “when they will have to steal a few hours’ rest to the accompaniment of a heavy cannonade?”
I can still see his tall figure and serious handsome face bending over our beds, while he blessed us with the broad movement of his strong hand. Before leaving, he would mutter a short prayer asking the Almighty to help him make good Christians and faithful subjects of Russia out of his five sons. No religious doubt ever entered his clear-cut convictions. He believed in every word written in the Scriptures, and his accounts with the Divine Forces were being kept in perfect order: as a powerful administrator, he supervised rendering unto God that which was God’s, expecting that everything which was Cæsar’s would in turn be rendered unto Cæsar.
From the point of view of our parents and tutors we grew to be a nice bunch of healthy children, but the modern scientists would have detected in our natures the unmistakable traces of love-starvation. We ourselves did suffer from extreme loneliness. We had nobody to talk with. Our position kept us away from other children of our age, and each one of us was too proud to complain of his sufferings to his brothers.
The very thought of interrupting our father’s busy occupations with a vague conversation on no particular subject would have struck us as something little short of madness. Our mother dedicated all her efforts to the ungrateful task of suppressing even the slightest exterior signs of tenderness or affection; in her early youth she fell a victim to the far-fetched ideas of Spartan education advocated in her native Germany.
GRAND DUKE ALEXANDER AT THE AGE OF FOUR
THE FUTURE EMPRESS MARIE OF RUSSIA, IN 1876, HOLDING HER DAUGHTER XENIA