Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia. Alexander Mikhailovich
DUKE ALEXANDER IN ITALY AT THE AGE OF FIVE
AN IMPERIAL PICNIC PARTY IN THE EARLY 80’S, WITH CZAR ALEXANDER III STANDING IN THE CENTER AND GRAND DUCHESS XENIA ON THE EXTREME LEFT.
While thoroughly democratic in our dealings with the servants, we had to remember that a grand duke should never show the tiniest weakness in the presence of his inferiors. He must always keep a satisfied appearance, hiding his sorrows beneath a bright Russian shirt of blue silk.
There remained our sister Anastasia. We worshiped that tall dark-haired girl who was the exclusive favorite of our father; but when talking to her, we liked to pose as the faithful knights ready and willing to execute the orders of their “dame sans merci.” We put at her feet all the love stored during months and years of dull military drills. We were extremely jealous of her and felt a terrific heartache when the young Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin came to Tiflis to make the acquaintance of his fiancée. Our instinctive dislike for his elegant German manner of clicking his heels and kissing hands reached the proportions of hatred: when our brother Nicholas discovered the real purpose of his visit. The arrival of our future brother-in-law deprived us of the only outlet for our affection, and we turned toward Nature—that had always been kind and spoke in terms of hope.
Allowed to remain outside during the winter but one hour, we counted impatiently the days separating us from the advent of spring. Our vacations lasted six weeks, and were spent either in Borjom, the enormous country estate of our father near Tiflis, or on the Black Sea, in the Crimean residence of the Emperor.
I shall always think kindly of scarlet fever, for this illness enabled me to experience the happiest summer of my life. I was eight. I fell ill and became unconscious on the way to Borjom, whence my parents intended to go to St. Petersburg to visit with the Czar. The doctors diagnosed scarlet fever at once, and I was left in Borjom in the care of a lady-in waiting, an aide-de-camp and two court physicians. For six joyful weeks I stayed in bed, being petted by them and feeling myself the center of attention.
Every afternoon a military band brought close to the house played my favorite songs. Scores of persons passing through the Caucasus journeyed to Borjom to pay their respects to the son of the viceroy, and the majority of them brought boxes of candy, toys and books by Fenimore Cooper. My two doctors readily consented to play Indians. Armed with the sword of the aide-de-camp, they would attempt to scalp the terror-stricken lady-in-waiting, who then in strict accord with her part would call for the help of the Fearless-White-Man-of-Two-Guns. The latter, leaning against the pillows, took an excellent aim at her torturers, and his pellets crashed straight against their foreheads.
The period of my convalescence brought about a series of picnics in the near-by woods and mountains. With every one of the tutors away in St. Petersburg, there were no lessons to attend, and we would leave early in the morning in a comfortable carriage drawn by four sturdy native horses. It took one’s breath away to watch these little animals climb with utmost ease up the stiffest hills over a slippery road. Their calisthenics always reminded me of an episode which happened the year before during the visit of the Shah of Persia in Tiflis. This Oriental sovereign, a short man of generous plumpness, had become frightened while taken on a tour of inspection in the mountains, and jumping out of the vehicle, yelled at my mother: “Mourez seule!” (“You’ll have to die alone!”)
My happy days were filled with gathering blackberries, playing dominoes and listening to tales of the old Caucasus. I nearly cried with disappointment when the doctor pronounced me completely cured and a telegram arrived advising us of the approaching return of my family. I knew that for the first and last time in my childhood I had been given the chance of a friendly intercourse with grown-up people, who saw nothing unusual or offensive in showing a little affection for a lonely boy left in their care.
Back in Tiflis I listened with indifference to the excited conversation of my brothers. They never stopped admiring the splendors of the imperial palace in St. Petersburg, but I wouldn’t have exchanged my summer in Borjom for all the diamonds of the Russian crown. I could have told them that while they had to behave at the table of our uncle, surrounded by smiling courtiers and tiptoeing butlers, I lay for hours in the tall grass watching the red, blue, yellow and mauve patches of flowers covering the slopes of the mountain, and following the flight of the larks that had a habit of rising all the way up and then coming down like a stone to protect their nests. I remained silent, however, for I feared my simple happiness would be ridiculed.
The year 1875 marks a significant date in my childhood: my brother Alexis was born shortly after Christmas, and I met two persons who were destined to become my lifelong friends.
My parents took all possible precautions to conceal from us the real circumstances accompanying the birth of a child. We were expected to combine a thorough knowledge of modern artillery with a sincere belief in the stork.
The booming of one hundred and one guns caused us considerable surprise.
“The Almighty deemed it necessary,” explained our military tutor, “to send another son to Their Imperial Highnesses.”
On the second day we were permitted to enter our mother’s apartment and see our brother. For no good reason at all everybody smiled and thought we boys should be jealous. My brothers said nothing. I myself was filled with sympathy for the newcomer. I hoped for his sake that by the time he grew up, all our teachers would have passed out of existence. Looking at the wrinkled reddish face of the baby, I felt distinct pity.
The ceremony of baptism took place three weeks later and was preceded by a mammoth parade of the garrison. The music played and the crowds shouted, while the baby, carried in the arms of the eldest lady-in-waiting, was being escorted to the cathedral by numerous military and civil dignitaries.
Poor Alexis rested quietly on a silk cushion, in his long white-lace robe, with the blue ribbon of St. Andrew—the highest decoration in Russia—attached to his tiny breast. The touch of cold water made him shriek at the top of his voice. He had to be submerged three times while the archbishop read a special prayer. Then amidst the same pomp, music and excitement, he was taken back to his mother. Neither she nor our father could have been present at the ceremony, as the Greek Orthodox Church does not allow parents to witness the dedication of their child to God. This age-old rule happened to be extremely significant in the case of our little brother: Alexis remained on this earth for but a short time: he died from galloping consumption at the age of twenty. Although attached to him stronger than to any other member of my family, I never regretted his passing away. A brilliant boy of liberal heart and absolute sincerity, he suffered acutely in the atmosphere of the palace.
That spring we left Tiflis earlier than usual, to spend six weeks in the Crimean estate of our uncle. We were met at the port of Yalta by the Emperor himself, who said he was anxious to see the most savage of his Caucasian nephews, and proceeded to the beautiful palace of Livadia, famous for its exquisite gardens.
A long spectacular flight of stairs led straight down to the Black Sea. That same day, while jumping over its marble steps, in a great flurry of pleasant anticipations, I bumped into a smiling boy of my age walking beside a nurse with an infant in her arms. We sized each other up; then he extended his hand and said:
“I guess you are my cousin Sandro. I didn’t see you last summer in St. Petersburg. Your brothers said you were ill with scarlet fever. Don’t you know me? I am your cousin Nicky, and this is my little sister Xenia.”
His kind eyes and pleasant manner appealed to me at once. My distrust of all northerners suddenly gave way to a strong desire to be chummy with this particular one. He also must have taken a fancy for me, because our friendship, formed at that very moment, lasted forty-two years. The elder son of the then heir apparent, Alexander Alexandrovich, he was to inherit the throne in 1894, the last representative of the house of Romanoff to rule over the Russian Empire.
I frequently disagreed with his policies and wished he had shown better judgment in choosing his counselors and more determination in some of his decisions; but all this concerned