Alexandra (33 page)

Alix had not slept for five nights. She began to nap, briefly, from sheer exhaustion, but she could not allow herself to sleep for any length of time lest she be needed. She barely kept herself
groomed, napping in her day-clothes, washing hastily, sitting while her maid dressed her hair simply and rapidly. Her hair had grown dull and lustreless. Grey streaks appeared within its dark gold
mass, signs of her anxious state. Weakened and confused from lack of sleep, she could hardly take in Dr Fedorov’s pronouncements and cautions, but she realized that Alexei might well die. In
his worst moments he cried out for death, begging for the pain to stop, asking to be buried, as he said, ‘in the light’, out of doors with the sky over his head, not in a dark damp
mausoleum with his Romanov ancestors.

With infinite weariness Alix forced herself to preside at the dinner table, to keep up a pretence of lightheartedness in front of her guests. She heard them talking about the latest invention of
sensation-seeking journalists in Petersburg. The Russian newspapers were full of stories about political extremists who managed to get aboard the imperial yacht and attack Alexei. The supposed
attack was said to have been made during the summer, leaving the boy alive but weak. The reports caused a stir, and though there were no journalists at Spala – thankfully – questions
were once again being raised about the succession.

Alix listened to it all, letting the talk wash over her in her weariness, glad that her sister Irene was there to help her do all that was expected of her. She often had to get up from the
table, or leave the sitting room, to go to Alexei’s bedside, and Irene, with her pleasant, relaxed
manner, took over as hostess. Irene delivered her sister’s
messages and instructions to the staff, dealt with the papers that were brought from Petersburg, helped to keep order and stability in the household.

Alexei continued to cling to life, but his heartbeat was feeble when Dr Fedorov listened to it, and his fever had risen to a dangerously high 105 degrees. He could not live much longer, his
heart was giving out.

Now the crisis had become a matter of state. The heir to the throne was about to expire, and protocol had to be followed. Lest the tsar’s subjects be taken by surprise by the inevitable
sorrowful news to come, they had to be warned. On the night of October 21, a medical bulletin was issued. Now the vigil beside Alexei’s bed became a death-watch.

The guests dispersed. In the outdoor chapel, the servants said their prayers and villagers from the district began to gather out of reverence, knowing that the tsarevich’s life was ebbing.
A package was delivered from Petersburg, containing herbs to be infused and given to the patient to reduce fever and calm the stomach. They were sent by the Tibetan healer Bachmanov, whose skill
Alix trusted. Whether or not she tried to administer the infusions is unknown, but on the following day, October 22, the tsarevich lay very still, and Alix was convinced that he could not last more
than a few hours. The priest came, another medical bulletin was prepared. Irene asked that, out of respect, the members of the household would retire to their rooms to await further news.

There was nothing to do now but wait, and pray.

Why Alix waited until her son was dying to send word to Father Gregory in Siberia can only be guessed. Perhaps she assumed that he was unreachable. Perhaps, despite her staunch defence of him to
Minnie, she was concerned that any contact she had with him would cause renewed scandal. Or perhaps, as she often said, she trusted that the starets would sense, without being told, that she needed
him, and felt that no message was necessary. Whatever the reason, she at last sent a telegram, asking for his help.

Hour by hour, the vigil around the boy’s bed went on, lasting throughout the night. There was no change in his condition. Morning
came, then afternoon. Still no
change. That he had survived this long surprised the doctors, who had said that hope was futile.

Father Gregory’s telegram was brought to Alix that evening. ‘Fear nothing,’ it read. ‘The malady is not so dangerous as it seems to be. Do not let the doctors bother him
too much.’
⁶

To the utter amazement of the family, the doctors, the entire staff, Alexei began to improve within hours of the receipt of Father Gregory’s reassuring message. His heartbeat was stronger,
his pain and swelling beginning to subside. He still had a high fever, but it was dropping, and when Dr Fedorov and Dr Raukhfus came in to examine him, he actually let them touch him for the first
time.

Word of the seemingly miraculous change in the tsarevich’s condition spread quickly, and a service of thanksgiving in the chapel drew a large crowd. A positive medical bulletin was
prepared, to be sent out to the court and to the country at large.

Alix had the gratifying experience of responding to telegrams of sympathy with the good news of her son’s recovery. Father Gregory had cured him, from far-off Siberia. He had brought him
back from the very brink of death.

It was nearly a month before the patient was recovered sufficiently to make the journey to Petersburg. He put on weight, colour returned to his cheeks and he was able to go out riding in the
pony cart, although the groom who led the cart had to be careful to avoid bumps in the road. His left leg was still bent, and he still had some pain in his right knee which made walking difficult.
But he was his cheerful self again.

All Petersburg knew that the tsarevich had recovered and, for a few weeks, all Petersburg rejoiced. The dynasty, the long line of Romanovs that stretched back into the early seventeenth century,
would go on, no matter how disappointing the current occupant of the throne might be. No matter that the succession had been disturbed and altered yet again by the recent marriage of the
tsar’s brother Michael to his commoner mistress – an act of rebellion, indeed of betrayal, in the tsar’s view. What mattered was that historical tradition be maintained, that the
house of Romanov survive.

The three hundred years of Romanov rule were much on the minds of citizens of the capital as the new year 1913 began. It was the tercentenary year, and the shops were
full of commemorative objects – scarves with the images of Nicholas and the first Romanov, Tsar Michael, miniature crowns and sceptres, candies in the shape of medallions, with the
tsar’s face stamped on them, mugs and plates with the imperial profiles. New commemorative postage stamps were put into circulation. Special flags flew from public buildings, special gifts
from the imperial bounty were provided to the poor, who lined up at hospitals and shelters to receive their bundles of food and trinkets. Beggars were given a hot meal and a new suit of
clothes.

In preparation for the ceremonies to be held early in March, choirs met to rehearse their litanies; workmen in thick gloves and warm hats and coats painted and repaired the fronts of mansions
and churches. Both banks of the Neva were decorated with gigantic letters painted in red and purple and gold, spelling out ‘God Save the Tsar’, and on the Nicholas Bridge, crimson and
violet lights cast eerie reflections on the river ice at night. A huge scrim hung down from the roof of the Academy of Sciences, bearing the painted form of Peter the Great, dressed as a workman in
peasant blouse and trousers, a hammer in his outsize hand.

The full majesty of Russia’s past, or, at least, a simulacrum of it, was made to loom up over the pygmy present, lending an ennobling glow to the city. Strollers along Nevsky Prospekt,
socialites on their way to balls and parties, even the jaded habitués of night clubs and brothels could not help but be caught up in the gaudy glamour of the lights, the colour and the
flashy tinsel, the party-like atmosphere. Throughout the holiday season and on into the deep cold of February, a superficial air of gaiety prevailed, underscored, as always, with some sour notes of
gossip and ongoing scandal.
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Alix’s pleasure at her son’s recovery, though profound, was to be brief, for his health continued to be fragile and his recovery slow. She discovered that her candour in revealing
the true nature of his illness to trusted family members had been a terrible miscalculation. Far from eliciting sympathy and understanding, it led to deeper
hostility
towards her. She was now blamed for having, as one of the grand duchesses said, ‘contaminated the Romanovs with the diseases of her own race’.
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Nicky was pitied for having a crippled son, and a wife who had caused his disability.

‘A sense of endless despair filled the tsarina’s soul,’ the children’s Swiss tutor Pierre Gilliard wrote. ‘The last hope had failed.’ She felt, Gilliard
thought, as if ‘the whole world were deserting her’. The hostility of her in-laws had deepened, her few friendships were dwindling. Even her new wardrobe mistress, Madame Naryshkin,
reserved, respectable, and judgmental, conveyed her disapproval and the two women often clashed; Madame Naryshkin was Minnie’s close friend and, through her, Minnie’s attitudes were
brought into the palace and, as it were, installed there.
⁹

Stana, the Montenegrin grand duchess, did not share the general view in the family that Alix was blameworthy. But Alix sent Stana away, telling her ‘it was useless to be empress of Russia
if one could not do what one liked, and that all she craved was the privilege to be left alone and allowed to enjoy, unrestrained, her taste for solitude’.

Many days, solitude was what she claimed. She stayed alone in her boudoir, her head throbbing, worrying over Alexei and no doubt dreading the forthcoming festivities, where she would be required
to appear. Her teeth ached, she suffered from neuralgia in her face and from the usual intermittent chest pains.

She had once referred to herself as the Pechvogel, the bird of ill omen, which brought bad luck and catastrophe. Now nearly everyone saw her that way, as the carrier of misfortune into the
Romanov family. She shrank from the caustic tongues of Aunt Miechen and the others, from her mother-in-law’s criticism and advice and her wardrobe mistress’s disapproving glances. Alone
with her thoughts, often in pain, she rested, prayed and brooded, dreading the days to come.

A
lix stood, her husband beside her, in the gold-curtained imperial box in the Mariinsky Theatre, listening to the orchestra play ‘God Save
the Tsar’. Everyone in the vast theatre was standing, singing along with the musicians, their attention on the tsar and tsarina. Her face was expressionless; her eyes, grave and thoughtful,
gave nothing away, though the tribute of the crowd was moving and the singing robust and thrilling. She was pale, her hands, clutching her fan of white eagle’s feathers, trembled and her
cheeks, which had been pale, began to flush. She tried to master her mounting discomfort, to mentally remove herself from the crowded theatre and from the people who stared at her while they sang.
But her breath became shallow, and the bodice of her white velvet gown began to rise and fall rapidly, the diamonds sprinkled across its surface twinkling and flashing.

At last the anthem was over. The crowd applauded and cheered and the empress nodded her head briefly before sitting in her gold-upholstered armchair. The tribute was ended, but the stares and
whispers of those in the audience went on. Alix knew what they were saying, how they were judging her and blaming her, holding her accountable for her son’s illness, accusing her of
controlling her husband and forcing him to govern according to her views, influencing him to favour Germany and all things German because she did. She knew what they were saying about how she had
contaminated the Romanov succession, and about her unholy relationship with Father Gregory. She knew that they condemned her and sneered at her behind her back.

She bit her lip and clutched her fan more tightly, her hand trembling convulsively, her chest heaving. She was feeling faint. She couldn’t stand the stares, the
whispers any longer. She leaned over and said a few words to her husband, then got up and went to the rear of the box, where she could not be seen by the audience.

Her move was noticed. ‘A little wave of resentment rippled over the theatre,’ Meriel Buchanan, daughter of the British ambassador, recalled. ‘Women glanced at each other and
raised their shoulders expressively, men muttered despairingly below their breath.’ They told each other that, after all, the empress hated the capital, had always rejected and scorned it.
Even on this important day she could not manage to take her proper place beside her husband, to put her feelings aside and do her duty for his sake. She created a ‘disagreeable
impression’, as usual. But her panic was real, as Meriel, who was in the adjacent box, could clearly see. She was in a torment of distress and anguish.

It was the same on the night of the ball given by the nobility for the tsar and tsarina. Alix made her entrance on her husband’s arm, and danced the opening polonaise with him, but her
face was grave and taut with strain, the expression of her mouth ‘most tragic’. The splendour of her white and silver satin gown, the magnificent diamond necklace at her throat that had
once been worn by Catherine the Great, the flashing diamond tiara all gave the appearance of regal serenity. But however splendid her garb, her fatigue and discomfort were evident and she looked,
Martha Mouchanow thought, like a ‘middle-aged, haggard woman, racked with cares and anxieties’.
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