Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia. Alexander Mikhailovich
said Bismarck admiringly of Disraeli, when the latter succeeded in bluffing the Russian delegation into accepting the most grotesque terms of peace which traveled a long way toward making the future World War inevitable. In fact, “der alte Jude,” in his perennial desire to assure the maintaining of the Turkish Empire in Europe, glorified Berlin in the eyes of Constantinople, thus laying the foundation for the deadly intrigues of Kaiser Wilhelm in the Balkans. Thousands of British soldiers were to meet their doom in Gallipoli thirty-seven years later because Disraeli was trying to make things uncomfortable for St. Petersburg in 1878. No excuse, however, could be advanced for the conduct of the Russian diplomats, who instead of countering Disraeli’s move with an immediate proclamation of a Russo-German Alliance, commenced to promote a nonsensical and eventually fatal entente with France and Great Britain.
2
In the meanwhile, I was still eleven and experiencing the thrill of my first war.
My father having been appointed commander-in-chief of the Russian Army, the peaceful capital of the Caucasus had assumed overnight the stern appearance of General Headquarters.
The mobilized soldiers crossing afoot the mountains separating European Russia from the Southern Caucasus—at that time there was no direct railroad communication between Moscow and Tiflis—were fed daily in the spacious gardens of our palace, and an emergency hospital opened its activities in the halls of the ground floor.
Each morning, we kids escorted our father on his tours of inspection of the newly arrived troops, listening breathlessly to his simple soldierly speeches tending to explain the causes of the war and the urgent necessity for quick action.
Then the Great Day came: my own 73rd Krimsky Infantry Regiment passed through Tiflis on its way to the front, ready and waiting to make the acquaintance of its undersized colonel.
Six a.m. found me standing in front of the mirror and glaring in complete delight at my brilliant uniform, highly polished boots and impressive saber. Back of me I felt jealousy and animosity: my four brothers resented my triumph. They cursed the fate that had kept their regiments in the north. They anticipated that each and every victory scored by our army would be accredited by “that boisterous Sandro” to the prowess of his 73rd Krimsky Infantry Regiment.
“They seem to be pretty tired, those soldiers of yours,” said brother Michael, looking through the window at the four thousand men placed in front of the palace and all along the Golovinsky Prospect.
I ignored this petty remark. They looked beautiful, as far as I was concerned.
I thought I should make an appropriate speech to this regiment of mine and was trying to recall some spectacular expressions contained in the history of the Napoleonic campaigns.
“My dear heroes!”
No, that would sound too much like a translation from the French.
“My glorious soldiers!”
Or better still, “My glorious brethren!”
“What in Heaven’s name are you trying to do?” asked father, entering the room and noticing my calisthenics.
“He wants properly to inspire his regiment,” answered Michael, and it took the strong right arm of father to stop the righteous indignation of the colonel of the 73rd Krimsky Infantry Regiment.
“Try to be serious, children. No necessity to tease Sandro. Nobody expects him to make speeches, anyway.”
That sounded disappointing.
“But, I say, father, am I not supposed to address the soldiers?”
“Just wish them Godspeed. That’s all. Now let us go. And remember: you have to look cheerful and pleased, no matter how tired you feel.”
By midday I understood the meaning of my father’s warning. It took us four hours to pass in review the sixteen companies of the regiment, all made of healthy bearded giants, pleasantly amused at the sight of their very young and exceedingly self-conscious colonel. Sixteen times in succession I had to repeat—“Hail the First Company, hail the Second Company” etc., and hear in reply an overwhelming chorus of two hundred fifty voices wishing me “good health.” It was almost impossible for me to follow the gigantic stride of my father, who towered a full head over these warriors especially picked for their height. Never again in my life did I feel so exhausted, and yet so happy at the same time.
“I would advise your resting for a while,” suggested mother, when we returned to the palace.
The very idea of resting while my four thousand soldiers were on their way to the battlefields! I went straight to the large relief map of the Caucasus attached to the wall and started to draw the line of march to be followed by the 73rd Krimsky Infantry Regiment.
“I never heard anyone doing so much spur-clicking,” exclaimed brother Michael, and left the room in utter disgust. Although younger than he by three years I had outgrown him by an inch and a half that same winter, a thing that worried him considerably.
3
A week later father left for the front. We envied him and could not sympathize with the sorrow of our sobbing mother. We were so proud to see him seated in an especially built large carriage, drawn by four horses, with six Cossacks galloping behind, and three Cossacks in front, one of them carrying the banner of the viceroy, bearing a Greek Orthodox cross on a white background in a frame of black and orange stripes, with an inscription “God Save and Protect” embroidered all over it and a massive bronze cross attached to the end of the pole. Innumerable carriages with generals and members of the staff followed right after, escorted by a squadron of Guard-Cossacks. The solemn bars of the Russian National Anthem and the frantic hurrahs of the population created a martial atmosphere. We could not think of returning to the routine of daily lessons. We wanted to talk war. We discussed the possibility of fighting continuing for several years, in which case we all would be given an opportunity to join our father.
Each morning brought something exceedingly exciting.
The Caucasian Army captured a Turkish fortress.
The Danube Army, commanded by our uncle Nicholas, crossed that great river and headed for Plevna, where the bitterest battles of the war were to be fought.
The Emperor visited Headquarters distributing decorations to numerous officers, all of them well known to us.
The first party of Turkish prisoners arrived in Tiflis.
The names of several of my father’s assistants, principally that of General Loris-Melikoff, were being repeated every minute.
It was fascinating to realize that all these good friends of ours had suddenly become great national heroes. It was a joy to witness the departure of our military tutor, called to the colors shortly after the declaration of war, and the subsequent slackening of the relentless discipline dominating our education. Awful as this confession may sound, I did wish that a helpful Turkish bullet should spare us the necessity of ever seeing this ferocious man again. Fortunately for the future peace of my mind, he came back unscathed and highly decorated, although his place in the palace was by that time taken over by a tutor of milder disposition.
A regular service of special messengers established between the palace and the headquarters of our father in Alexandropol kept us in close touch with the latest events on the front, and the arrival of the daily army communiqué provided a signal for rushing toward the relief map and moving the flags indicating the positions of our army. The communiqué spared no colors in describing the achievements of our army; it usually mentioned the number of the Turks killed, wounded, and captured,—and these figures sounded like sweet music to our ears. Many years later, while in command of the Imperial Air Forces during the World War, I learned the curious mechanism directing the editing of the official communiqués and wished I could revive the gullibility of the eleven-year-old enthusiast, who watched with shining eyes the progress of the Russian Army through Turkey, not realizing the size of the human