On Saturday, February 25th, 1917, the Empress told me that she wished me to come to Tsarkoe Selo on the following Monday, and I was (let me confess it) still in bed when the telephone rang at 10 a.m. I suppose my delay in answering must have amused the Empress, for her first words were: “I believe you have only just got out of bed, Lili. Listen, I want you to come to Tsarkoe by the 10.45 train. It’s a lovely morning. We’ll go for a run in the car, so I’ll meet you at the station. You can see the girls and Anna, and return to Petrograd at 4 p.m. I’m certain you won’t catch the train, but anyhow I’ll be at the station to meet it.”

I dressed at express speed, and, snatching up my gloves, a few rings, and a bracelet, I ran into the street in search of a fiacre. I had quite forgotten that there was a strike, and no conveyances were available! At this moment I saw M. Sablin’s carriage: I hailed him, and begged for a lift to the station. On the way I questioned him.

“What news, Monsieur ...?”

“There’s nothing fresh,” he replied, “but everything is quite all right, although I must admit it is very strange about the bread shortage.”

The train for Tsarkoe was just moving out of the station when I arrived on the platform, but I scrambled in, and found myself in the company of Madame Tanieff, Anna’s mother, who was going to see her daughter, now ill, like the Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, with the measles. Madame Tanieff, like M. Sablin, knew nothing fresh; she was chiefly concerned about Anna’s illness; but the first words of the Empress, who, true to her promise, was awaiting me, were:

“Well, how is it in Petrograd? I hear things are very serious.”

We said that there was apparently nothing alarming, and the Empress told Madame Tanieff to get into the car with us, and she would take her to the Palace.

It was a glorious morning: I remembered the splendour of the day long afterwards; the sky was an Italian blue, and snow lay everywhere. We were not able to drive in the Park on account of the drifts! On the way back, we met Captain Hvostchinsky, one of the Garde Equipage. The Empress intimated her wish to speak to him, and the car stopped.

Captain Hvostchinsky smiled at the notion of danger. “There is no danger, Your Majesty” he said; so, reassured, the Empress and I returned to the Palace. I went at once to see the Grand Duchesses. They were certainly very ill, suffering from bad pains in the ears; but they were pleased to see me, and I sat between the two camp beds, talking to them. After lunch I went up again, and presently the Empress joined us.

She beckoned me into the next room: I could see that she was agitated. “Lili,” she said, breathlessly, “it is very bad. I have just seen Colonel Grotten, and General Resin, and they report that the Litovsky Regiment has mutinied, murdered the officers, and left barracks: the Volinsky Regiment has followed suit. I can’t understand it. I’ll never believe in the possibility of Revolution—why, only yesterday, everyone said it was impossible! The peasants love us ... they adore Alexis! I’m sure that the trouble is confined to Petrograd alone. But I want you to go and see Anna ... she may also have been told this, and you know how easily she is frightened!”

I found Anna ill, and light-headed, and, as I entered her bedroom, I thought what a contrast it presented to the cool, darkened room which I had just left. Olga and Tatiana were so patient, they lay so still, and were grateful for any attention. This sick room resembled a “lever du Roi” in the days of Louis XIV. Anna was surrounded by a crowd of “sisters” and three doctors were in attendance. Madame Tanieff was there, looking the picture of misery, and Anna’s sister, who was almost hysterical, kept on exclaiming, “All is lost.” They had expected General Tanieff to lunch, but he had not arrived ... there was no news of him. What were they to do? General Tanieff entered in the midst of this confusion, breathless, and scarlet in the face. “Petrograd is in the hands of the mob,” he exclaimed, “they are stopping all cars ... they commandeered mine, and I’ve had to walk every step of the way.”

At this intelligence, Allie Pistolkors (she had married the Grand Duke Paul’s stepson) burst into tears and begged me to ask the Empress what she had better do. I promised to see the Empress at once, and, as the Grand Duchesses Anastasie and Marie had just come to fetch me, I returned to the private apartments with them.

The winter afternoon was fast drawing in, and I found the Empress alone in her boudoir. She could give me no message for Mme Pistolkors. “I don’t know what to advise,” she said, sadly. Then, turning to me, “What are you going to do, Lili? Titi is in Petrograd ... had you not better return to him this evening?”

At the sight of the Empress, so tragically alone, so helpless in the midst of the signs and splendour of temporal power, I could hardly restrain my tears. Controlling myself with an effort, I tried to steady my voice:

“Permit me to remain with you, Madame,” I entreated.

The Empress looked at me without speaking. Then she took me in her arms and held me close, and kissed me many times, saying as she did so:

“I cannot ask you to do this, Lili.”

“But I must, Madame,” I answered.... “Please, please let me stay. I can’t go back to Petrograd and leave you here.”

The Empress told me that she had tried to ’phone the Emperor, and that she had been unable to do so. “But I have wired him, asking him to return immediately. He’ll be here on Wednesday morning.”

After this conversation we went to see the Grand Duchesses, and the Empress lay down on a couch in their bedroom. I sat beside her, and we conversed in low tones so as not to awaken the sleeping girls. The Empress was still unable to believe in the reports, and she expressed a wish to see the Grand Duke Paul. “How I wish he would come,” she said. She then asked me to go over to Anna’s apartments, and say that she felt too unwell to come herself.

Anna’s room still looked like a “lever du Roi”; Allie had taken her departure, so Mme Tanieff told me, and had gone to the Palace of the Grand Duke Paul. I lost no time in delivering the Empress’s message, and quickly returned to her. The evening wore on.... News came that Petrograd was in a state of upheaval, and that crowds of mutineers were everywhere. The Empress begged me to ’phone Linavitch, the A.D.C. to the Emperor, and ask him to tell us what was happening. Linavitch was in command of a company of Horse Artillery at Pavlosk, two miles from Tsarkoe Selo, so it was not difficult to “get” him. “Tell Her Majesty,” he said, “that I am here with my company, and that all will be well.”

I spent the evening with the Empress in the mauve boudoir, and she told me how glad she was to have me near her. “I know the Grand Duchesses want you to be somewhere close to their room, so I’ve decided that the red drawing-room will be the best place for you to sleep.[1] Come with me. Anastasie is waiting for us,” she said.

The red drawing-room was a fine room; everything in it was upholstered in scarlet, and scarlet and white chintz covered the easy chairs. A bed had been arranged on one of the couches, and the two Grand Duchesses, with tender solicitude, had seen to the minor details themselves. Anastasie’s nightgown lay outside the coverlet, Marie had put a lamp and an ikon on the table by the bed; and a snapshot of Titi, taken from their collection of photographs, had been hastily framed, and occupied a place next to the holy ikon. How dearly I loved them all ... how glad I was that I was privileged to share their danger!

The Empress left me with Anastasie, as she wished to see Count Benckendorff, so Anastasie and I sat down comfortably on the red carpet, and amused ourselves with jig-saw puzzles until she returned.

The Empress came back from her interview with Count Benckendorff in a state of painful agitation, and, directly Anastasie had gone to bed, she told me that the reports were worse. “I don’t want the girls to know anything until it is impossible to keep the truth from them ...” she said, “but people are drinking to excess, and there is indiscriminate shooting in the streets. Oh, Lili, what a blessing that we have here the most devoted troops ... there is the Garde Equipage ... they are all our personal friends, and I place implicit faith in the tirailleurs of Tsarkoe.”

I think that this thought comforted her: she seemed happier when she bade me good night.

I woke early on Tuesday morning.... Sleep

had been almost impossible, but I had dropped into an uneasy slumber soon after dawn. I dressed at once, hoping to be ready for the Empress, but she was before me, and at half-past eight she entered the red drawing-room. We went at once to the Grand Duchesses, and drank our cafÉ au lait in their room. The Empress told me that she had wired repeatedly to the Tsar, but had received no reply. Later in the morning she received Count Benckendorff and Colonel Grotten, who informed her that matters were becoming more alarming and that the Garde Equipage had better remain inside the Palace, as there was a report that the mob, supported by the Duma, was even now marching on Tsarkoe.

The Empress immediately consented; she was really delighted at the thought of having the Garde Equipage at the Palace, and the Grand Duchesses were frankly overjoyed. “It’s just like being on the yacht again,” they said. The Garde Equipage, which was now augmented by the Mixed Guard, and by sentinels taken from the Cossack Convoi, took up its quarters outside the Palace and in the vast souterrains. One part of the Palace was arranged as an ambulance station. We were very busy, but the Grand Duchesses made light of danger and showed none of our agitation. The Empress was always awaiting a reply to her telegrams. None came.

Tuesday was a day of general unrest. It seemed as if the weather were in sympathy with man’s savage mood. The blue sky of Monday had vanished, an icy blizzard swept around the Palace, and a north wind drove the deep snow into still deeper drifts. In the afternoon, on my way back from seeing Anna, I encountered Baroness Ysa BÜxhoevgen on one of the corridors. She was almost running and she seemed very much disturbed. “I must see the Empress,” she said. “I’ve just come from Tsarkoe Selo (the town): everything is awful—they say there is mutiny and dissatisfaction amongst the troops.” Ysa’s terror was general: panic seized the dwellers in the Palace, but none of the servants left us. Mlle Schneider’s maids, it is true, fled, but they came back again the next day.

The Empress was very anxious to see the Grand Duke Paul, but I believe that at first there was some misunderstanding, as the Grand Duke thought that etiquette demanded that the Empress should ask him, and he declared that he would not come unless she did. I had received a hint of this, so, when next I saw the Empress, I suggested that perhaps the Grand Duke was waiting for her invitation.... This had not occurred to the Empress; she told me to ’phone at once and ask the Grand Duke to come and see her after dinner.

I was placed, unwillingly, in a very awkward predicament. I had no official position at Court, but the Empress seemed to think that my duty was to act as her mouthpiece, and to assume an authority which I was far from desiring.

However, I ’phoned to the Palace of the Grand Duke, and, in the name of the Empress, I asked him to come to Tsarkoe Selo. His son answered the ’phone, and rather brusquely demanded to know who on all the earth was speaking.

“Lili Dehn,” I said.

His “Oh!” was more eloquent than words!

During the afternoon the Empress called me into her boudoir. “Lili,” she said, “they say that a hostile crowd of 300,000 persons is marching on the Palace. We shall not be, we must not be afraid. Everything is in the hands of God. To-morrow the Emperor is sure to come.... I know that, when he does, all will be well.” She then asked me to ’phone to Petrograd, and get in touch with my aunt, Countess Pilar, and other friends. I ’phoned to several, but the news grew worse and worse. At last I ’phoned to my flat. The Emperor’s A.D.C., Sablin, who lived in the same building, answered my ring. I begged him to take care of Titi, and, if it were possible, to join us at Tsarkoe, as the Imperial Family needed protection; but he replied that a ring of flames practically surrounded the building, which was well watched by hostile sailors. He managed, however, to bring Titi to the ’phone—and my heart ached when I heard my child’s anxious voice:

“Mamma, when are you coming back?”

“Darling, I’ll come very soon.”

“Oh, please come; it’s so dreadful here.”

I felt torn between love and duty, but I had long since decided where my duty lay.

I told the Empress what Sablin had reported; she listened in silence, and then, by some tremendous effort of will, she regained her usual composure. Her strength strengthened me. We had, indeed, every need for courage. The poor “children” were lying desperately ill.... They looked almost like corpses.... Anna was in high fever, the Palace was terror-stricken, and outside brooded the dread spectre of Revolution!

All at once the Empress was seized with an idea to talk to the soldiers. I begged to accompany her, in case of any unforeseen treachery, but she refused. “Why, Lili,” she said, reproachfully, “they’re all friends!” Marie and Anastasie went with her, and I watched them from a window. It was quite dark, and the great courtyard was illuminated with what appeared to be exceptionally powerful electric lights. The distant sound of guns was audible ... the night was bitterly cold. From where I stood, I could see the Empress, wrapped in furs, walking from one man to another, utterly fearless of her safety. She was the calm, dignified Tsaritsa—the typical consort of the Tsar of all the Russias. Here was no hysterical religious maniac, no abandoned heroine of the novel! The Empress moved in this tragic mise en scÈne, protected by her own goodness; but, when the light fell on her fair, pale face, I trembled. I knew her weak heart, her delicacy of physique—suppose she were to faint?

When the Empress came back, she was apparently possessed by some inward exaltation. She was radiant; her trust in the “people” was complete, she was sustained by that, often, alas, broken reed of friendship. “They are our friends,” she kept on repeating, “they are so devoted to us.” She was, alas, presently to discover that the name of Judas is often synonymous with that of a friend.

One thing troubled her fleeting happiness. “I haven’t seen a company in the basement.... It is such a pity, but I didn’t feel well enough. Perhaps I can manage it to-morrow.”

After her visit to the soldiers, the Empress received Count and Countess Benckendorff, who asked to be permitted to remain at the Palace. Their request was gladly granted, and rooms were arranged for them.

The Grand Duke Paul arrived later in the evening. He was a tall, imposing man, who was considered to be very fascinating, and, what was more to his credit, excessively kind at heart. He had a long conversation with the Empress, and we could hear their agitated voices in the next room. The Empress told me afterwards that almost her first words had been:

“What of the Guards?”

And the Grand Duke had replied in tones of fatality:

“I can do nothing. Nearly all of them are at the Front.”

When we went to bid the Grand Duchesses good night, I was distressed to find that the firing was distinctly to be heard from their room. Olga and Tatiana did not appear to notice it, but, when their mother had gone, Olga asked me what the noise signified. “Darling, I don’t know—it’s nothing. The hard frost makes everything sound much more,” I said lightly.

“But are you sure, Lili?” persisted the Grand Duchess. “Even Mamma seems nervous, we’re so worried about her heart; she’s most certainly overtiring herself—do ask her to rest.”

The Empress decided that Marie should sleep with her. “You, Lili, will sleep in the room with Anastasie, and have Marie’s bed. Don’t take off your corsets ... one doesn’t know what may happen. The Emperor arrives between 5 and 7 to-morrow morning, and we must be ready to meet him. Come to my room early, and then I’ll tell you the train.”

Neither the Grand Duchess nor I could sleep, and we lay awake in the darkness talking in low tones. Occasionally I was silent, but, when this was so, Anastasie never failed to ask: “Lili, are you asleep?”

During the night we got up and looked out of the windows. A huge gun had been placed in the courtyard. “How astonished Papa will be!” whispered Anastasie. We stood for a few minutes watching the weird scene. It was so bitterly cold that the sentinels were dancing round the gun in order to keep warm. Their figures were sharply defined against the arc-lights—it seemed like some new Carmagnole; in the distance we heard shouts of drunken voices and occasional shots—and so the night passed.

At 5 a.m. on Wednesday morning we went downstairs to the Empress’s bedroom. She was awake, and as she opened the door she whispered: “Hush ... Marie is asleep: the train is late.... Most probably the Emperor won’t come until ten.” The Empress was fully dressed, and she looked so sad that I could not help saying impulsively: “Oh, Madame, why is the train late?”

She smiled wanly, but did not reply. As we went back to our bedroom, Anastasie said in agitated tones: “Lili, the train is never late. Oh, if Papa would only come quickly.... I’m beginning to feel ill. What shall I do if I get ill? I can’t be useful to Mamma.... Oh, Lili, say I’m not going to be ill.”

I tried to calm her, and I persuaded her to lie down on her bed and sleep; but the poor child was actually sickening for the measles. Anastasie was the sweetest-natured girl: she adored her mother, and delighted in running hither and thither on her errands. The Empress always alluded to Anastasie as “my legs!”

When the Empress joined me in Olga’s room a little before nine, she still hoped for the 10 o’clock train. “Perhaps the blizzard detains him,” she said. She lay down on the couch, and I sat on the floor beside her; we spoke in undertones; but her chief anxiety was concerning my want of sleep.

“Sit on a chair, Lili, and put your feet up on the couch,” she said.

“No—no—Madame,” I replied, “it is not to be thought of.” But, at her request, I compromised matters by resting the tips of my shoes on the end of the couch.

Ten o’clock came, but we still heard nothing. It was the first of March, a month fatal to the Romanoffs—well might they “beware the Ides of March!” The Emperor Paul was suffocated on the first of March, and, thirty-six years previously, on this date, the Emperor’s grandfather, Alexander II, was killed by a bomb. The March of 1917 is destined to be associated with the downfall of the dynasty.

We were living in a state of continual and unrelieved anxiety. Dr. Botkin and Dr. Direvenko were in constant attendance on the three Grand Duchesses, but the Tsarevitch was, fortunately, much better. Poor Anastasie could not reconcile herself to the idea of being ill: she cried and cried, and kept on repeating, “Please don’t keep me in bed.”

Service in the Palace was quite normal, but the water supply which worked the private lift used by the Empress had been cut off, and in consequence she was now obliged to walk upstairs. This sounds a trivial incident, but it entailed a great deal of suffering on the Empress, who was already overtired and overstrung. Her heart, always affected, now became much worse, owing to her having to go up and down stairs so often, but she insisted upon seeing her children, and she used to go up the staircase at times almost on the verge of fainting. I supported her—walking behind her and holding her underneath the arms.

We could not understand what had become of the Emperor: the Empress thought that the delay arose owing to the confusion on the railways, which were now in the hands of the Revolutionaries.

The dreary afternoon of March 1st was signalised by an unhappy occurrence. The Empress and I were standing at the window overlooking the courtyard, when we noticed that many of the soldiers had bound white handkerchiefs on their wrists. An enquiry as to the reason elicited the reply that the white handkerchiefs signified that upon the representation of a Member (who had come to Tsarkoe Selo) the troops had consented to act in unison with the Duma.

The Empress turned to me. “Well ... so everything is in the hands of the Duma,” she said, with a certain degree of bitterness. “Let us hope that it will bestir itself, and do something to remedy the disaffection.”

She moved away from the window. I could see she was hurt and disappointed ... but this was not destined to be the last of her many disillusions!

Count Appraxin, Secretary to the Empress, arrived later in the day: he had experienced the greatest difficulty in reaching Tsarkoe—and his news was not reassuring. We sat up late that evening—dinner had been a mere farce—our minds were too anxious and too preoccupied to think of food. The children were dangerously ill, the whereabouts of the Emperor were unknown, and the Revolution was at our gates. When at last I bade the Empress good night, she told me not to undress. “I’m not going to do so,” she said, and her quiet tones were significant that she anticipated the worst!

CHAPTER II

Early on the morning of March 2nd the Empress came into the Grand Duchesses’ bedroom. She was deathly pale—she seemed hardly alive. As I ran towards her I heard her agitated whisper: “Lili—the troops have deserted!”

I found no words with which to answer. I was stupefied. At last I managed to stammer:

“Why, Madame? In the name of God, why?”

“Their Commander-in-Chief, the Grand Duke Cyril, has sent for them.” Then, unable to contain herself, the Empress said brokenly, “My sailors—my own sailors—I can’t believe it.”

But it was too true. The Garde Equipage had left the Palace at 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.—the “faithful friends,” the “devoted subjects,” were with us no longer. The officers of the Garde were received by the Empress in the mauve boudoir during the morning: I was present, and I heard from one of my husband’s friends that the duty of taking the Garde to Petrograd had been carried out by a “temporary gentleman,” Lieutenant Kouzmine. The officers were furious, especially their commandant, Miasocdoff-Ivanof, a big, burly sailor, whose kind eyes were full of tears.... One and all begged to be allowed to remain with the Empress, who, almost overcome by emotion, thanked them, saying: “Yes—yes—I beg you to remain: this has been a terrible blow, what will the Emperor say when he hears about it!” She then sent for General Resin, the Commander of the Mixed Guard, and instructed him to make room for the loyal officers in his regiment.

General Resin told me long afterwards that he was relieved when he knew that the cowardly Garde had actually left the Palace, as orders had been given for a detachment to go on one of the church towers which commanded a view of the courtyard, and if, by a certain time, the troops had not joined the Duma, to train two enormous field-guns on to the Palace!

There was still no news of the Emperor, although the Empress constantly telegraphed. It was reported that his train was returning to G.H.Q., and at the time many people thought that if it reached there the troops would have followed the Emperor. We ’phoned to the hospitals for news, and the Empress received a good many people. To all these she was her usual calm, dignified self. When I marvelled at her fortitude, she replied: “Lili, I must not give way. I keep on saying, ‘I must not’—it helps me.”

In the late afternoon, Rita Hitrowo (one of the younger ladies-in-waiting, and a friend of the Grand Duchesses) arrived from Petrograd with the worst possible tidings, and, after the Empress had spoken to Rita, she received two officers of the Mixed Guard, who proposed to try and get a letter from her through to the Emperor: it was arranged that they should leave Tsarkoe the next evening. The Empress was always willing to hope. But the night passed, and still never a word came from the Emperor.

On March 3rd I took my cafÉ au lait with Marie, and we were joined by the Empress. It was a day of agony. The Grand Duchesses grew worse: their ears were badly inflamed, it seemed as if they might not recover. The Empress tried to snatch a little rest by occasionally lying on a couch: her feet had now become very painful, and her heart affection was, at times, alarming. Meals were silent and horrible affairs: I felt as though each morsel would choke me. But, as I had now grown desperate with anxiety, I conceived the notion of communicating with the Emperor by aeroplane. Might not his whereabouts be discovered in this way? The Empress welcomed the idea, and she sent for General Resin, and asked for an aeroplane to be despatched at once. He agreed, but even the weather was against us.... A blizzard set in; the dark sky was blotted out with scudding snow, and the wind howled dismally round the Palace.

The Grand Duke Paul arrived about 7 o’clock in the evening. The Empress was engaged in writing letters for the officers to convey to the Emperor, but she received the Grand Duke without a moment’s delay.

The interview took place in the red drawing-room. Marie and I were in the adjoining study, and from time to time we heard the loud voice of the Grand Duke and the agitated replies of the Empress. Marie began to get apprehensive.

“Why is he shouting at Mamma?” she asked. “Don’t you think I had better see what’s the matter, Lili?”

“No, no,” I said, “we had better remain here quietly.”

“You can remain, but I’ll go to my room,” she answered. “I can’t bear to think Mamma is worried.”

Hardly had the Grand Duchess left the study when the door opened and the Empress appeared. Her face was distorted with agony, her eyes were full of tears. She tottered rather than walked, and I rushed forward and supported her until she reached the writing-table between the windows. She leant heavily against it, and, taking my hands in hers, she said brokenly:

“AbdiquÉ!”

I could not believe my ears. I waited for her next words. They were hardly audible. At last: “Le pauvre ... tout seul lÀ bas ... et passÉ ... oh, mon Dieu, par quoi il a passÉ! Et je ne puis pas Être prÈs de lui pour le consoler.”

“Madame, trÈs chÈre Madame, il faut avoir du courage.”

She paid no attention to me, and kept on repeating, “Mon Dieu, que c’est pÉnible.... Tout seul lÀ bas!” I put my arms around her and we walked slowly up and down the long room. At last, fearing for her reason, I cried: “Mais Madame—au nom de Dieu—il vit!!”

“Yes, Lili,” she replied, as if new hope inspired her. “Yes, he lives.”

“I entreat you, Madame, don’t lose your courage, don’t give way: think of your children and of the Emperor.”

The Empress considered me with almost painful scrutiny.

“And you, Lili, what of you?”

“Madame, I love you more than anything in this world.”

“I know it—I see it, Lili.”

“Well, Madame, write to him. Think how pleased he will be.” I drew the Empress towards the writing-table, and she sank on a chair.... “Write, dear Madame, write,” I repeated.

She obeyed almost like a child, murmuring, “Yes, Lili ... how glad he’ll be.”

Feeling that I might venture to leave the Empress for a few minutes, I went in search of Dr. Botkin, who gave me a composing draught for her.... But the Empress did not wish to take it, and it was only when I said: “For his sake, Madame,” that she complied.

The sound of bitter weeping now attracted my attention. In one corner of the room crouched the Grand Duchess Marie. She was as pale as her mother. She knew all! At this moment Volkoff, that faithful servant, entered, and in trembling tones announced that dinner was served. The Empress rose and endeavoured to regain her composure.... I followed her into the next room. She looked round. “Where is Marie?” she said.

I went back to the red drawing-room. Marie was still crouching in the corner. She was so young, so helpless, so hurt, that I felt I must comfort her as one comforts a child. I knelt beside her, her head rested on my shoulder. I kissed her tear-stained face.

“Darling,” I said, “don’t cry.... You will make Mamma so unhappy. Think of her.”

At the words, “Think of her,” the Grand Duchess remembered the unswerving devotion of the children towards their parents. Every thing was always subservient to Mamma and Papa.

“Ah ... I’d forgotten, Lili. Yes, I must think of Mamma,” she answered. Little by little her sobs ceased, her composure returned, and she went with me to her mother.

That night the Empress and I sat up very late: she had paid her usual visit to the Grand Duchesses, when she had tried outwardly to appear calm. But alone with me it was a different matter. The Empress told me that the Emperor had abdicated in favour of the Tsarevitch. “Now he’ll be taken from me,” she cried. “The people are to assume the Regency. What shall I do?” She started at every footfall; she trembled at the mere sound of a voice.... One idea obsessed her—someone might come at any moment to take away her son!

“But, Madame, nothing can be done until the Emperor returns.”

“No, surely they will not dare; and he’ll be with us very soon,” she said. Then, with her usual unselfishness, the Empress insisted upon seeing Count Benckendorff. “I must console him and strengthen him. I can imagine his state of mind.”

It was an affecting interview.... I do not know what actually transpired, but, when the Empress returned, she was crying. “Le pauvre vieux,” she murmured, as if to herself.

I did not allow the Empress to see how apprehensive I was, how utterly despairing. I did not share her optimism.... The position was most precarious, and the desperate condition of the Grand Duchesses augmented the general unhappiness. Our only hope lay in the Emperor’s return—at any rate, his presence would afford us some moral protection! That night Marie and I slept in the red drawing-room. We lay awake for hours talking about the new developments. But one thought consoled us. The Emperor was still alive!

When the Empress paid her usual visit to the Grand Duchesses, she told us that her first idea was to see all those in the Palace, and console them as much as possible. Countess Gendrinkoff, her devoted lady-in-waiting, who was away visiting a sick relative, returned to Tsarkoe directly she heard of the Emperor’s abdication, and her meeting with the Empress was most touching. At first neither of them spoke; and then the Countess, usually a most self-contained individual, broke into bitter weeping.

It was a tragic morning. Towards noon the Empress sent for me. “Lili,” she said, “the Duma is losing no time. M. Rodziansko[2] has intimated that we must make our preparations for departure. He says we are to meet the Emperor somewhere en route. But we can’t possibly go; how can we move the children? I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they say it would be fatal! I’ve told Rodziansko this, and he is returning later to acquaint me with the decision of the Duma.”

Rodziansko and his colleagues returned at the time appointed. They were at once taken to the Empress.

“The decision of the Duma is unalterable,” said Rodziansko curtly.

“But my children—my daughters ...” pleaded the Empress.

“When a house is on fire, it is best to leave it,” answered Rodziansko, with a sardonic smile.

There was apparently nothing to be done. We were at the mercy of Tiberius, and we commenced our preparations for departure. The Empress asked me if I would like to accompany them. I begged to be permitted to do so. “I cannot leave you, Madame,” I said.

We endeavoured to ’phone to certain friends, but it was impossible. At last the operator, in frightened tones, whispered, “I can’t give you the number; the telephone is not in our hands. I beg you, don’t talk—I’ll ring you up directly it is safe.”

In the course of the afternoon a servant informed us that an officer of one of the Tartar regiments begged the Empress to receive him. The Empress asked me to interview him, as she felt too ill to do so, and accordingly I went over to the fourth wing of the Palace, where the officer was waiting. As I traversed the long corridors, I heard the sound of rough voices. I stopped, terrified, at the entrance of one of the salons—the Mixed Guards were just about to change the guard; but “changing the guard” was no longer the decorous proceeding of yester-year! When the fresh detachment entered the salon, they threw themselves literally into the arms of the other soldiers, shouting, “New-born citizens of freedom, we congratulate you.”

I passed the “new-born citizens of freedom,” and I found Lieutenant Markoff, to whom I explained the reason of my “deputising.” The poor boy had been wounded, he could scarcely stand; but his spirit was unconquerable. “Madame,” he said, “I’ve fought my way through the mob in order to see the Empress, and assure her of my devotion. The assassins wanted to tear off my epaulettes with HER cypher. I told them that the Empress had given them to me, and that it was her right alone to deprive me of them. I’ve arrived here at last.... I entreat you to ask the Empress to allow me to remain somewhere near her.... I don’t care if I wash up the dirty plates. I’ll do anything—only let me stay!”

I promised Markoff to deliver his message, and on my way back I heard the soldiers laughing and singing. Sick at heart, and utterly disgusted at their behaviour, I reported it to the Empress. “Les malheureux,” she said, “ce n’est pas leur faute, c’est la faute À ceux qui les trompent.” She granted poor young Markoff’s request, and told me to see General Resin, and arrange for Markoff to be included in his detachment.

I suppose the first idea of most people in the position of the Empress, faced with hurried flight, would have been to save their jewels. But jewels were a secondary consideration with the Empress; her chief treasures were those of sentiment, and, as I watched her collecting her favourite books and photographs, I thought that in this instance, as in all others, she was more of the woman than the Empress. And the idea of leaving the scene of many of her happiest associations must have been heart-rending to her. She had transformed the Palace into a home; here she had watched the beautiful growth of her four fair daughters and her adored son. And here she was destined to drink the uttermost dregs of the Cup of Sorrow.

Whilst she was gathering together her personal treasures, the Empress, recalled in imagination to Petrograd, by the sight of a photograph, asked me to telephone to Prince Ratief, the Commandant of the Winter Palace, and tell him that her thoughts were with them all. Fortunately I was enabled to do so; the Prince himself answered my call. “I thank Her Majesty from my heart. We are still alive, but crowds surround the Palace,” he said.

After dinner, we went to see the Grand Duchesses, and then to the mauve boudoir—there was no news from the Emperor; all sorts of rumours were current, the most insistent being that he had returned to G.H.Q.

Sunday, the 5th of March, was for us another hopeless dawn. The Empress gave orders for a Te Deum to be sung, and the miraculous ikon from Znaminie[3] brought to the Palace and taken to the sick-rooms. The procession bearing the ikon passed through the Palace; the Empress walked in it, and, as I looked at the lovely representation of the Virgin and Child, the expression of the eyes seemed the same which I had often seen in those of the Empress—a combination of Faith, Hope and Tragedy!

It was a strange sight to witness the solemn little procession as it traversed the almost deserted splendours of the Palace. Incense wafted wreaths of perfume towards Heaven, the solemn chant rose and fell, the gold and blues of the Virgin’s draperies glowed when the ikon passed one of the windows, the sacred symbol of the Cross raised its head above the tumult of Revolution. It seemed to me as if this were some last appeal to God, Who, we are told, is a God of Love and Pity.

The Empress was anxious that the ikon should be taken to Anna’s room, so the procession wended its way thither. There, as usual, were the fuss and overcrowding which seemed inseparable from Anna’s attack of measles; doctors, nurses and sisters took up all the available space, so, whilst the Empress was praying by the bedside, I stood by the door. One of the doctors from Anna’s hospital was near, and, recognising me, he whispered: “I say, Madame Dehn, I think I shall say good-bye to the Palace. Things are getting too hot for my comfort.” But, if he expected an answer, he received none. I simply stared at him.

The Empress was still kneeling by Anna’s bed, and Anna, now thoroughly hysterical and exaltÉe by reason of much incense and many prayers, was crying and kissing the Empress’s folded hands. It is quite impossible for English readers to imagine such a scene, but these religious processions in the case of illness were of common occurrence with us.

I went back to see Anna later in the evening, and, when I entered the bedroom, I was surprised to see the matron of Anna’s hospital, who was praying—a taper in her hand. Directly she saw me, her prayers took unto themselves wings; we had always disliked each other, so our conversation was short and to the point.

“What, are you still here?” she exclaimed, meaningly.

“Yes ... I’m here,” I replied, with equal emphasis.

Anna said nothing; she looked more childish than ever, and very ill at ease. The impression which I received was a bad one, and, when I related to the Empress what I had seen, she wrote to the doctor at the hospital, and asked him to send for the matron, as her presence was not required. Soon after this she resigned, and, like many others of her kind, she left Tsarkoe for an unknown destination.

On Monday, March 6th, all was in readiness for our departure. But one thing yet remained for us to do, and this was, in my eyes, of the utmost importance. During one of my restless nights, I suddenly remembered that the Empress had always kept a diary and that she possessed the diaries of her friend, Princess Orbelliany, which had been bequeathed to her by the Princess.

These contained most intimate accounts of various people, and events connected with the Court. I likewise remembered the Empress’s sentimental habit of preserving correspondence with associations, and I dreaded the possibility of either letters or diaries falling into the hands of the Revolutionaries. I knew that the worst construction would be placed by the “Sons of Freedom” on anything unusual which these papers might contain. Even the Empress’s habit of calling people by pet names might be construed as sensualism or treason!

I hardly dared suggest the wisdom of destroying this personal property, but my devotion triumphed over my nervousness. To my intense surprise, the Empress at once agreed to do as I proposed.

It may be argued that I was guilty of the worst Vandalism in persuading the Empress to destroy her diaries and correspondence. I may have been, in an historical and artistic sense—but I was right on the score of friendship. We had already experienced the misconstruction which had been put on one sentence in a letter: What might not be the fate of the contents of the Imperial diaries if they fell into the hands of censorious and “pure-minded” Revolutionaries?

Princess Orbelliany’s diaries were burned first. They consisted of nine leather-bound volumes, and we experienced much difficulty in destroying them. This auto-da-fÉ of sentiment took place in the red drawing-room, but we did not attempt to finish burning the diaries and correspondence in one day. It was at best a melancholy task, and we decided to spread it over a week—especially as the Grand Duchesses were very ill, and we had to be with them constantly. Olga was now suffering with inflammation in the head, and Anastasie made little or no progress.

After lunch, when the Empress and I were sitting in the mauve boudoir, we were startled by the sudden entrance of Volkoff. He was very agitated, his face was pale, he trembled in every limb. Without waiting to be addressed by the Empress, and utterly oblivious of etiquette, he cried: “The Emperor is on the ’phone!”

The Empress looked at Volkoff as if he had taken leave of his senses; then, as she realised the full import of his words, she jumped up with the alacrity of a girl of sixteen, and rushed out of the room.

I waited anxiously. I kept on praying that a little happiness might yet be hers ... perhaps, for all we knew, the danger had passed.

When the Empress returned, her face was like an April day—all smiles and tears!

“Lili,” she exclaimed, “imagine what were his first words ... he said: ‘I thought that I might have come back to you, but they keep me here. However, I’ll be with you all very soon.’” The Emperor added that the Dowager Empress was coming from Kieff to be with him, and that he had only received the Empress’s wires after the abdication. “The poor one!” said the Empress. “How much he has suffered! how pleased he’ll be to see his mother!”

Thus the day which had begun so sadly ended happily ... we went at once to tell the glad news to the Grand Duchesses and the Tsarevitch, who was much better, and greatly excited at the prospect of his father’s return. M. Gilliard, a charming Swiss, who taught the children French, was with him, but Mr. Gibbs, his English tutor, was in Petrograd. I always remember Mr. Gibbs and his kindness to me. On one occasion upon going to Petrograd he put himself to great inconvenience to get news of Titi, and procure clothes for myself. Notwithstanding innumerable difficulties, he returned with reassuring tidings of Titi, and a clean nurse’s uniform and lingerie for myself.[4]x

CHAPTER III

After our usual visit to the children (March 7th) the Empress and I went into the red drawing-room, where a fierce fire was burning in the huge grate, and we recommenced our work of destruction.

A large oaken coffer had been placed on the table; this coffer contained all the letters written to the Empress by the Emperor during her engagement and married life. I dared not look at her as she sat gazing at the letters which meant so much. I think she re-read some of them, for at intervals I heard stifled sobs, and those sighs which have their origin in the heart’s bitterness. Many of the letters had been written before she was a wife and a mother. They were the love-letters of a man who had loved her wholly and devotedly, who still loved her with the affection of that bygone Springtime. Little dreamt either the lover or the beloved that these letters were afterwards destined to be wet with tears.

The Empress rose from her chair, and, still weeping, laid her love-letters one by one on the heart of the fire. The writing glowed for an instant, as if desirous of burning itself into her very soul, then it faded, and the paper became a little heap of white ash.... Alas for Youth! Alas for Love!

When the Empress had destroyed her correspondence, she handed me her diaries to burn. Some of the earlier volumes were gay little books bound in white satin; others were bound in leather. She smiled bravely as I took them, and an immense disgust seized me when I thought that the country of my birth was responsible for her misery and the injustice meted out to her. “I can’t bear Russia,” I cried. “I hate it.”

“Don’t dare say such things, Lili,” said the Empress. “You hurt me.... If you love me, don’t ever say you hate Russia. The people are not to blame; they don’t understand what they are doing.”

A coloured post-card of South Russia fell out of one of the diaries. I picked it up. It was a pretty picture of young girls standing in a flower-starred meadow ... and it brought Revovka back to me. “That’s home,” I murmured. But the Empress heard my words.

“What did you say? Repeat it, Lili. You said, ‘That’s home.’ Now you must never say you hate Russia.”

At this time, I am proud to say, the Empress relied on me as woman to woman. To her, I was always “Lili,” or “My brave girl.” I was her friend in trouble. The fact that I possessed no official position mattered nothing to her; every moment I was writing letters, taking messages, and seeing people on her behalf. I obeyed her absolutely, and her gentle influence gave me fresh strength to hope and to endure.

The burning of the diaries extended over Wednesday and Thursday ... but on Thursday one of the Empress’s dressers came to the red drawing-room and begged us to discontinue. “Your Majesty,” said she, “the sweepers are searching for the half-charred pieces of paper, some of which have been carried up the chimney. I beg of you to cease.... These men are talking among themselves.... They are utterly disloyal.” But our task was completed—at any rate we had checkmated the curiosity of the Revolutionaries!

At 7 o’clock the Empress asked me to telephone again to the Winter Palace. As on the previous occasion, Prince Retief answered me.

“How are things with you?” I enquired.

“The mob is even now at the gates of the Palace,” he replied with absolute unconcern. “I beg you, Madame, to present my assurances of fidelity and devotion to the Empress.... I may not be able to do so again.... Ah!... I thought as much. Madame, it distresses me to appear discourteous, but I fear I am about to be killed.... The doors of this room are being forced!” His voice ceased—there was a terrible crash.... I could bear no more, and the receiver slipped from my nerveless hands.

We remained in the mauve boudoir until quite late, but, just as we were about to go to bed, Volkoff entered in a state of painful agitation. He managed to tell us that M. Goutchkoff had arrived, and insisted upon seeing the Empress. It was then 11 o’clock.

“But, at this hour—it’s impossible,” said the Empress.

“Your Majesty, he insists,” stammered Volkoff. The Empress turned to me—terror and pathos in her eyes. “He has come to arrest me, Lili,” she exclaimed. “Telephone to the Grand Duke Paul, and ask him to come at once.” Regaining her composure, the Empress rearranged the Red Cross head-dress which she had taken off, and stood waiting in silence for the Grand Duke. Neither Marie nor myself dared speak. At length, after what seemed an interminable agony of suspense, the Grand Duke entered, and the Empress told him in a few words about her ominous summons. The next moment, loud voices in the corridor, and the banging of a door, announced Goutchkoff’s arrival in the adjoining room.

Goutchkoff, the Minister of War during the Revolution, was an openly avowed personal enemy of the Emperor, whom he had never forgiven for not having accepted him at his own valuation as the uncrowned king of Moscow. He had compelled the Emperor to abdicate through revenge; spiteful curiosity now urged him to gloat over the sufferings of a defenceless woman! He was a hideous creature, who wore big spectacles with yellow glasses, which partially disguised the fact that he was unable to look anyone straight in the face.

Marie and I clung desperately to the Empress; we were certain that all was now finished. She kissed us both tenderly, and passed out with the Grand Duke Paul, an infinitely tragic figure, recalling to my mind a vision of Marie Antoinette, whose troubles possessed so many similarities with those of the Empress. Volkoff, that loyal servant, true to the traditions of Imperial regime, informed us that Goutchkoff had brought two A.D.C.’s with him, and that one of these men had accosted him with the words: “Ha, ha! Here we are. You didn’t expect us to-night, eh? But we are masters of the Palace now!”

Marie and I sat side by side on the sofa, the young girl shook with fear, but her terror was not for herself—Marie, like all the children, thought only of her beloved mother.

In this crisis of their fortunes, the Imperial Family manifested no sorrow at the loss of their rank and prestige. The only anxiety shown by them was the fear of parting one from the other. Theirs might have been the words inscribed upon the wall of a certain old prison in Italy: “Better death than life without you.” And, if the report of their death be true, they most mercifully never knew the pain of separation.

At last footsteps sounded in the corridor—the door of the boudoir opened—and, to our unspeakable relief, we saw the Empress!

Marie ran towards her mother, half crying, and half laughing, and the Empress quickly reassured us.

“I am not to be arrested this time,” she said. “But, oh! the humiliation of the interview! Goutchkoff was impossible—I could not give him my hand. He told me that he merely wanted to see how I was supporting my trials, and whether or no I was frightened.” Her pale cheeks were rose-flushed, her eyes sparkled—at this moment the Empress was terrible in her anger. But she soon regained her calm dignity, and we bade her good night, thankful that she was spared to us.

Wednesday, March 8th, is a day momentous in the annals of new-born Russia, inasmuch as it witnessed the arrest of a woman and five sick children, and of those adherents who knew the meaning of the words Friendship and Duty.

In the morning Count Benckendorff came to inform us that the Emperor would arrive at Tsarkoe on the 9th, and that the Revolutionary authorities had decided to arrest everyone in the Palace by noon. The Count asked the Empress to give him a list of those of her suite who would be willing to remain, and the Empress at once addressed me: “Lili ... do you understand what this order means? After it is enforced, nobody will be allowed to leave the Palace, all news from outside will be stopped. What do you wish to do? Think of Titi ... Can you bear to be without tidings of him?”

I did not hesitate. “My greatest wish is to remain with you, Madame,” I replied.

“I knew it!” exclaimed the Empress. “But ... it will, I fear, be a terrible experience for you.”

“Don’t worry on my account, Madame,” I answered. “We will share the danger together.”

At noon, General Korniloff made his appearance at the Palace with the order for the arrest of the Imperial Family. The Empress received him wearing her Red Cross uniform, and she was genuinely pleased to see him, since she laboured under the mistaken idea that he was well disposed towards herself and the family. She was entirely mistaken, as Korniloff, thinking that the Empress disliked him, never lost an opportunity of spreading the most malicious reports concerning her.

Korniloff told the Empress that the Palace troops were to be replaced with those of the Revolution; there was no use for the Mixed Guard and the Cossack Convoi; the Palace was now thronged with Revolutionaries, who were walking about everywhere. When the officers of the Mixed Guard bade farewell to the Empress, many of them broke down and sobbed. She afterwards told me that it was also for her a most painful moment. The officers asked the Empress for a handkerchief, as a souvenir of her and the Grand Duchesses.... This handkerchief they proposed to tear in pieces, and divide between them; and later, to their great joy, we sent them some “initial” handkerchiefs.

It was a day of good-byes; many officers came in from Petrograd to bid farewell to the Imperial Family; the Tanieffs left, as the Empress had insisted upon them returning to the Palace of the Grand Duke Michael, where they might reasonably hope to be in safety.

At last the Empress decided to tell the Grand Duchesses about the abdication ... she could not bear this painful task to devolve upon her husband. She therefore made her way to their apartments, and was with them alone for a long time. Anantasie seemed to sense what had happened ... and after her mother had left them she looked at me, and said, very quietly, “Mamma has told us everything, Lili; but, as Papa is coming, nothing else matters. However, you have known what was going on ... how could you keep it from us? Why, you’re usually so nervous ... how is it you are so calm?”

I kissed her, and said that I owed all my fortitude to her mother. She had set such an example of courage that it was impossible for me not to follow it.

When the Empress broke the news to the Tsarevitch, the following conversation took place:

“Shall I never go to G.H.Q. again with Papa?” asked the child.

“No, my darling—never again,” replied his mother.

“Shan’t I see my regiments and my soldiers?” he said anxiously.

“No ... I fear not.”

“Oh dear! And the yacht, and all my friends on board—shall we never go yachting any more?” He was almost on the verge of tears.

“No ... we shall never see the ‘Standart.’ ... It doesn’t belong to us now.”

The Empress and I took tea together, and she told me how glad she felt that the Garde Equipage had left their colours in the Palace. “I should be so sorry to think that the colours were in the possession of the Duma,” she remarked. At that moment we heard the sound of voices, and a noise of singing and shouting. The Empress sprang off the couch on which she was lying, and rushed across to the window. “Oh, Madame, don’t look, I implore you,” I said, fearing the worst. But she did not hear me. Then I saw her grow pale, and she fell back half fainting on the couch. The sailors were leaving the Palace with the colours!

The Grand Duchess Marie was seized with measles late that evening. Like her sister, Anastasie, she dreaded being ill. “Oh, I did so want to be up when Papa comes,” she kept on repeating, until high fever set in, and she lost consciousness ... her last comprehensible words being, “Lili, can’t you sleep with Mamma to-night?”

“Yes, darling,” I told her. “I won’t leave Mamma alone—I’ll be somewhere near her, even if I have to sleep in the bath.”

I went to the Empress. “Madame,” I said, “will you permit me to remain near you to-night?”

“No, Lili, certainly not. If anything should happen, why should you be obliged to witness a tragedy?” she replied.

I returned to Olga and Tatiana, who, like Marie, were very anxious about their mother. “Lili, you must not leave Mamma alone. One of us has always slept with her[5]—she’s not strong. Promise, promise us that you won’t leave her alone;” and, when the Empress came to pay her last visit to the sick-room, the Grand Duchesses reiterated their request.

The Empress at first demurred ... but, when she realised how much the Grand Duchesses dreaded her being left alone, she consented. “Well, Lili,” she said reluctantly, “you see that the children must have their own way. But I will not allow anyone to think I am frightened. Undress upstairs, and, when my maids have left me, slip down the private staircase, bring your

sheets and blankets, and you can make up a bed on the couch in my boudoir.”

It was a bright moonlight night. Outside, the snow lay like a pall on the frost-bound Park. The cold was intense. The silence of the great Palace was occasionally broken by snatches of drunken songs and the coarse laughter of the soldiers. The intermittent firing of guns was audible. It was a night of beauty, defiled by the base passions of men.

I went quietly downstairs to the mauve boudoir. The Empress was waiting for me, and as she stood there I thought how girlish she looked. Her long hair fell in a heavy plait down her back, and she wore a loose silk dressing-gown over her night clothes. She was very pale, very ethereal, but unutterably pathetic.

As I stumbled into the boudoir with my draperies of sheets and blankets she smiled—a little affectionate, mocking smile, which deepened as she watched me trying to arrange my bed on the couch. She came forward, still smiling. “Oh, Lili ... you Russian ladies don’t know how to be useful. When I was a girl, my grandmother, Queen Victoria, showed me how to make a bed. I’ll teach you.” And she deftly arranged the bedding, saying, as she did so: “Take care not to lie on this broken spring. I always had an idea something was amiss with this couch.”

The bed-making “À la mode de Windsor” was soon finished, and the Empress kissed me affectionately and bade me good night. “I’ll leave my bedroom door open,” she said; “then you won’t feel lonely.”

Sleep for me was impossible. I lay on the mauve couch—her couch—unable to realise that this strange happening was a part of ordinary life. Surely I must be dreaming; surely I should suddenly awake in my own bed at Petrograd, and find that the Revolution and its attendant horrors were only a nightmare! But the sound of coughing in the Empress’s bedroom told me that, alas! it was no dream.... She was moving about, unable, like myself, to sleep. The light above the sacred ikon made a luminous pathway between the bedroom and the boudoir, and presently the Empress came back to me, carrying an eiderdown. “It’s bitterly cold,” she said. “I want you to be comfortable, Lili, so I’ve brought you another quilt.” She tucked the quilt well round my shoulders, regardless of my protestations, and again bade me good night.

The mauve boudoir was flooded with moonlight, which fell directly on the portrait of the Empress’s mother, and on the picture of the Annunciation. Both seemed alive.... The sad eyes of the dead woman watched the gradually unfolding tragedy of her daughter’s life, whilst the radiant Virgin, overcome with divine condescension, welcomed the angel who hailed her as blessed among women.

Masses of lilac were arranged in front of the tall windows. It was customary for a fresh supply of lilac for the mauve boudoir to be sent daily to Tsarkoe Selo from the south of France; but, owing to the troublous times, no flowers had reached the Palace for a couple of days. Just before dawn, the dying lilac seemed to expire in a last breath of perfume ... the boudoir was suddenly redolent of the perfume of Spring ... tears filled my eyes. The poignant sweetness hurt me—winter was around us, and within our hearts. Should we ever know the joys of blue skies, and the glory of a world new-born?

All was silent, save for the footsteps of the “Red” sentry as he passed and repassed up and down the corridor. At first the Revolutionaries had celebrated their sojourn in a Palace by singing seditious and obscene songs, but little by little these had ceased ... the soldiers slept. My mind reverted constantly to the sick girls and to their brother, who, happily, unlike them, did not share their apprehensions. What a contrast this night presented to the quiet, happy nights of long ago! I confess it was difficult to see the hand of God in this—to me—unnecessary suffering, and to accept all in the spirit of humility which the Empress manifested.

At seven o’clock the Empress told me I had better return to the red drawing-room, so I gathered my bedclothes together and slipped unperceived and unheard up the staircase.[6]

CHAPTER IV

On the morning of Thursday, March 9th, the Empress came into the Grand Duchesses’ bedroom; she was agitated and anxious, as she had been informed that the Emperor would arrive at the Palace between eleven and twelve. I went with her to see the Tsarevitch, and we sat by his bed talking to him. The little boy was very excited, and he kept on looking at his watch, and counting the seconds which must pass before his father’s arrival.

Presently we heard the sound of an automobile, and Volkoff entered. The faithful servant had refused to accept the fact of the Emperor’s abdication, and, in a manner worthy of Imperial traditions, he announced:

“His Majesty The Emperor!”

The Empress sprang from her chair, and ran out of the room. I, too, rose. The meeting between the reunited family must not, surely, be witnessed by any outsider! But the Tsarevitch seized my hand. “No, no, Lili, you’re not to leave me,” he insisted, so I sat down by him for five minutes, and eventually I managed to slip away and take refuge in Anna’s room—where I remained until after lunch, when I was summoned to the Imperial presence.

Following my instructions, I went into the Grand Duchesses’ room; the Empress was not there. Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps. I knew to whom they belonged—but they were no longer the footsteps of a confident and happy man. They sounded as if the person who was advancing was very, very tired.

I trembled from head to foot—I dared not at first raise my eyes. When I did so, I encountered the tragic, weary eyes of the Emperor.

He advanced to where I was standing, and took my hands in his, saying, very simply:

“Thank you, Lili, for all you have done for us ... and I?... what have I done for you? Absolutely nothing! Why, I have not even kept Dehn near you.”

“Your Majesty,” I answered, now unable to speak without crying ... “it is for me to thank you for the privilege of being allowed to remain with you.”

As we went into the red salon, and the light fell on the Emperor’s face, I started. In the darkened bedroom I could not see clearly, but I now realised how greatly he had altered. The Emperor was deathly pale, his face was covered with innumerable wrinkles, his hair was quite grey at the temples, and blue shadows encircled his eyes. He looked like an old man; the Emperor smiled sadly when he saw my horrified expression, and he was about to speak, when the Empress joined us; he then tried to appear the light-hearted husband and father of the happy years; he sat with us and chatted on trivial matters, but I could see that he was inwardly ill at ease, and at last the effort was too much for him. “I think I’ll go for a walk—walking always does me good,” he said.

We passed through the corridors to Anna’s apartments, where the Emperor left us, and went downstairs. The Empress and I entered the bedroom, and stood by one of the windows which looked out over the Park. Anna was very excited; she kept talking and crying, but we had eyes only for the Emperor, who by this time was outside the Palace. He walked briskly towards the Grande AllÉe, but suddenly a sentinel appeared from nowhere, so to speak, and intimated to the Emperor that he was not allowed to go in that direction. The Emperor made a nervous movement with his hand, but he obeyed, and retraced his steps; but the same thing occurred—another sentinel barred his passage, and an officer told the Emperor that, as he was now to all intents and purposes a prisoner, his exercise must be of the prison-yard description!... We watched the beloved figure turn the corner ... his steps flagged, his head was bent, his whole aspect was significant of utter dejection; his spirit seemed completely broken. I do not think that until this moment we had realised the crushing grip of the Revolution, nor what it signified. But it was brought home to us most forcibly when we saw the passage of the Lord of All the Russias, the Emperor whose domains extended over millions of miles, now restricted to a few yards in his own Park.

The Empress said nothing, but I felt her hand grasp mine; it was, for her, an agonizing experience. After an interval, she spoke.... “We’ll go back to the children, Lili; at any rate we can be together there.”

The Grand Duchesses were delighted to know that their father had returned, and I think the knowledge of his safety acted on them like a tonic. Poor Marie, who had so longed to be the first to welcome the Emperor, was now delirious, with intervals of consciousness. When I entered her room, she recognised me. “Well, Lili, where have you been?” she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Papa is really here, isn’t he?” The next moment she was back in the fantastic and terrible kingdom of fever. “Crowds of people ... dreadful people ... they’re coming to kill Mamma!! Why are they doing these things?” Alas, poor child, others have since asked the same question.

That day the Emperor and the Empress dined and spent the evening together. The Empress told me afterwards that the Emperor lost his self-control when he was alone with her in the mauve boudoir; he wept bitterly. It was excessively difficult for her to console him, and to assure him that the husband and father was of more value in her eyes than the Emperor whose throne she had shared.

. . . . .

I cannot say that the Revolutionaries treated us with excessive discourtesy, but some of their methods were reprehensible. For instance, when certain complications ensued with Marie, it became necessary to have another medical opinion. This request was at first refused, but afterwards the authorities agreed, on condition that an officer and two soldiers were present at the medical examination! Colonel Kotzebue, the first Revolutionary commandant, had formerly been an officer in the Lancers, and, as he was a distant cousin of mine, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him in this official capacity, and I asked him to come and talk to me in Anna’s room, as I considered he owed our family some explanation of his conduct.

“I can’t imagine why I was nominated for the post,” said Kotzebue. “All I can tell you, Lili, is that I was awakened in the middle of the night, and told to report myself at Tsarkoe Selo. Will you assure Their Majesties that there is nothing I will not try and do for them. This is really the happiest moment of my life, since it enables me to be of service to them.”

When the Empress sent for me on the morning of March 10th, I found her lying on the couch in her boudoir. The Emperor was with her; she motioned me to come and sit beside her, and the Emperor talked to us.[7] He first described an incident which had impressed him most strongly that very morning.

“When I got up,” he said, “I put on my dressing-gown and looked through the window which gives on the courtyard.[8] I noticed that the sentinel who was usually stationed there was now sitting on the steps—his rifle had slipped out of his hand—he was dozing! I called my valet, and showed him the unusual sight, and I couldn’t help laughing—it was really absurd. At the sound of my laughter the soldier awoke, but he did not attempt to move—he scowled at us, and we withdrew. But what a conclusive proof of the general demoralisation! All must indeed be at an end for Russia, as without law, obedience and respect no empire can exist.”

The Empress then questioned the Emperor about certain doings at G.H.Q.

“Some occurrences were exceptionally painful,” replied the Emperor. “My mother drove with me through the town, which was profusely decorated with red flags and a profusion of bunting. My poor mother couldn’t bear to look at the flags ... but the sight of them did not affect me; it seemed such a stupid and useless display! The behaviour of the crowd was in curious contrast to this exhibition of Revolutionary power, as they all knelt, as of yore, when our automobile passed.”

“I could not bear to say good-bye to Voeikoff, Niloff and Fredericks. They didn’t want to leave me. I had to insist at last. The Revolutionaries promised most faithfully not to harm them.”[9]

“One thing especially touched me,” continued the Emperor. “When I got into the train, I noticed five or six schoolgirls who were standing on the platform trying to attract my attention. I went to the window, and, when they saw me, they began to cry, and made signs for me to write something for them. So I signed my name on a piece of paper, and sent it to the children. But they still lingered on the platform, and, as it was bitterly cold, I tried to make them understand that they had better go home. However, when my train left, two hours later, they were still there. They blessed me, poor children,” said the Emperor, greatly moved by the recollection. “I hope their pure blessing will bring us happiness.”

The Emperor told us that he had received countless telegrams after the news of his abdication was generally known. Many were abusive, but others breathed the concentrated spirit of loyalty. Count Keller sent a telegram informing the Emperor that he declined to recognise the existence of the Revolution.[10] The Count afterwards refused to sign the documents of allegiance, and he broke his sword and threw the pieces down.

“General Rousky was the first to broach the subject of my abdication,” said the Emperor. “He boarded the train en route, and came into my saloon unannounced.

“‘Goutchkoff and Shoulgine are also coming to talk to you,’ he informed me. These gentlemen made their appearance at the next station, and they were excessively impertinent. Rousky told them that he had already discussed matters with me. But I refused to be ignored. I struck the table with my fist. ‘I’m going to speak, I will speak,’ I cried.

“‘You must abdicate in favour of the Tsarevitch, and the people will nominate a Regent,’ said Goutchkoff and Shoulgine.

“‘But,’ I replied, ‘are you sure—can you promise that my abdication will benefit Russia?’

“‘Your Majesty, it is the only thing to save Russia at the present crisis,’ they replied.

“‘But I must think it over.... I’ll give you my answer in a couple of hours.’”

“The delegates consented. I knew,” continued the Emperor, looking with affection at his wife, “that their first idea was to separate Alexis from the Empress, so I spoke to Dr. Fedoroff, who was in the train, and I asked him whether he considered it advisable to allow the Tsarevitch to be taken from her.

“‘It will shorten the Tsarevitch’s life,’ said Fedoroff bluntly.

“When Goutchkoff and Shoulgine returned, I intimated plainly that I would not part with my son. ‘I am ready to abdicate,’ I said, ‘but not in favour of my son, only of my brother.’

“My decision appeared to trouble them: they asked me to think better of it, but I was firm. Afterwards I signed the Act of Abdication. The train was then sent back to G.H.Q.”

Such is the bare narrative of the abdication, related as nearly as possible in the Emperor’s own words. Baron Stackelberg, a cousin of my husband’s, who was travelling with the Emperor, afterwards told me that he and M. Voeikoff, the Commandant du Palais, met Rousky on the platform of the station where he joined the train. The two gentlemen were about to send some telegrams from the Emperor to Rodziansko, in which the Emperor replied to the former’s request to give Russia a constitutional government. In the opinion of the Emperor, the moment had not arrived.

“Whose telegrams are these?” said Rousky.

“His Majesty’s,” answered Baron Stackelberg coldly.

Rousky snatched the telegrams from Baron Stackelberg, and put them in his pocket, remarking as he did so, “Useless!” So Rodziansko never received the Emperor’s telegrams, and Baron Stackelberg, who is now in Finland, can confirm the truth of the story. M. Voeikoff and the Baron looked at each other, neither spoke, but each read in the other’s eyes the unspoken thought—to kill Rousky then and there, and so avenge the insult to the Emperor. But Rousky had disappeared—the moment for righteous murder had passed!

. . . . .

Life at first went on much as usual after the Emperor’s return: he always insisted upon reading the daily papers, but the filth of the gutter press sickened and pained him. One evening I happened to come into the library where the Emperor was reading a newspaper: his expression showed that something had seriously displeased him. “Just look here, Lili,” he said, showing me the portraits of the new Cabinet. “Look at these men.... Their faces are the real criminal type. And yet I was asked to approve of this Cabinet, and to agree to the Constitution,” he added with a touch of bitterness.

My time was now fully occupied. The Grand Duchess Marie was seriously ill, and I relieved the Empress in nursing her.... I had taken upon myself the task, formerly performed by the Empress, of sponging poor Marie’s body, and, when the child was conscious, she liked me to brush and comb her lovely hair, which became sadly tangled as she tossed to and fro in her delirium. Marie was the first unmarried Grand Duchess to sleep on a “real” bed of her own, but, as she was so ill, we moved her from the narrow camp-bed to a more comfortable resting-place.

The Empress was a skilful nurse; she was especially expert in changing sheets and night-clothes in a few minutes without disturbing the patients. When I showed my surprise, she said quite simply: “I learnt to do useful things in England.... I’ve never forgotten what I owe to my English upbringing.”

One day my cousin, Kotzebue, told me that an English gentleman, Mr. A. Stopford,[11] a friend of the Grand Duchess Marie Paul, was desirous of being of use to the Empress. He had, it appeared, a cult for the Imperial Family, and, as he was about to return to England, he asked Kotzebue whether the Empress would not like to send some letters by him to her relations. I told the Empress at once. It seemed such a wonderful chance.... Her first cousin, King George V, and his devoted consort, would surely welcome news from the Imperial Family!

The Empress was deeply touched by Mr. Stopford’s offer. “I’ll think about it, Lili,” she said. But the next day she told me that she had decided not to communicate with King George and the Queen. “I can’t write. What can I say? I’m too hurt and wounded by my country’s behaviour.... But even with this I can’t speak against Russia.... Besides, the Emperor is more worried than ever; he is so fearful that his abdication, and the unrest, may spoil the Great Offensive.... No ... we can’t communicate with our cousins.”

Both the Emperor and the Empress constantly referred to England. The first idea of the Duma had been to induce the Imperial Family to go to England, but certain powers there were antagonistic to the proposition, as it was considered likely to be unfavourably received by the Labour Party. But those who were fearful of sheltering a defenceless family, whose only crime consisted in being defenceless, need have had no apprehensions.

The Emperor and the Empress did not wish to leave Russia. “I’d rather go to the uttermost ends of Siberia,” said the Emperor. Neither he nor the Empress could face the prospect of wandering about the Continent, and living at Swiss hotels as ex-Royalties, snapshotted and paragraphed by representatives of the picture papers, and interviewed by amazing American journalists. Their retiring spirits shrank from cheap publicity; they considered that it was the duty of every Russian to stand by Russia, and face the common danger together.

Apart from their personal disinclination to go to England, the Soviets were opposed to the suggestion, and it was stated that, if any train left Tsarkoe with the Imperial fugitives, it would be stopped, and everyone murdered, as the Emperor knew too much to be allowed to leave Russia.

The Emperor brought me the newspaper which contained this statement. He was in a terrible rage.... He could scarcely contain himself, and he almost threw the paper at me.

“Read this, Lili,” he exclaimed, his face white with passion. “Beasts! How dare they say such things.... They judge others by themselves.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” I answered, greatly troubled, “please don’t read these horrible papers.”

“I must, I must, Lili. I feel that I must know all,” said the Emperor.

Occasionally he was in better spirits, and more like his old cheerful self. The Emperor was generally able to see the humour of any situation, and he would sometimes laugh at the idea of being, what he called, “an Ex.” Everything was then “Ex.” “Don’t call me an Empress any more—I’m only an Ex,” laughed the Empress; and one day, when some especially unpalatable ham was served at lunch, the Emperor remarked, “Well, this may have once been ham, but now it’s nothing but an ‘ex-ham.’” He was always amused by the likeness between him and his cousin, King George. One day he showed me a photograph of the latter, saying, “Have you seen my last photograph, Lili? Doesn’t it flatter me?”

He had a great admiration for his cousin, and the Empress often spoke of Queen Alexandra, ... her beauty, her sympathetic nature, and her boundless charity. “I would so much like to see my married sister in England,” she invariably added, whenever she discussed her family. “Darmstadt is only a little spot in the garden of my memories,” she would say, “but my mother died there, so I can’t really be blamed for liking Darmstadt.... Isn’t ‘Home sweet Home’ typically English?

“None of my daughters shall marry German Princes,” she said on one occasion. It was suggested that Anastasie’s future home might be in England, and the Empress welcomed the idea.... An English marriage would have been very near her heart. But “l’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.” If Russia had not betrayed herself, or if she had remained as solidly united as France, nothing would ever have been heard of the pro-Germanism attributed to the Empress. She was essentially English—English in her dress, her personal habits, her absolutely Victorian outlook; some of her ideas respecting a mÉnage were akin to those of the Hausfrau, but even these were English, as domesticity has always been a British attribute.

The Empress showed no special marks of favour to Germans who had settled in Russia. The reports of her having done so are untrue, or greatly exaggerated. There is no doubt that German agents were very active in Russia, and that the octopus of espionage put forth its tentacles in every direction. But in justice to a much defamed woman, surely it is unfair to credit her with being the instigator of this. Every European country was riddled with Germans, England more so than any other, and, although it was more intimately connected with Germany by marriage and consanguinity, no stones were ever hurled at the various personages, Royal and otherwise, who were really not as English as was the Empress. I remember, in connection with her impartial outlook, that, in 1910, a wealthy German named Faltsfein, was obsessed with the idea of becoming a Russian nobleman. A friend of his, an officer named Masloff, asked the Empress to make it possible for Herr Faltsfein to change his skin, but she was very disgusted, and told Masloff that nothing would induce her to put such a proposal before the Emperor!

One awful day a lorry full of soldiers, in charge of an excessively ill-favoured officer, arrived at the Palace. Kotzebue interviewed him.

“I’ve come to fetch the Emperor,” said the officer, with an unprintable oath. “He’s going to be imprisoned in ‘Peter and Paul.’”

“You cannot remove the Emperor,” answered Kotzebue. “I am commandant here. I refuse to give up the Emperor at your orders.”

“Ah ... ah ... I knew it,” shouted the officer. “The Emperor has fled!... we were told so in Petrograd. Let’s search the Palace.”

Kotzebue almost came to blows with the man. “I tell you the Emperor is here ... I’ll prove it.” He then sent for Count Benckendorff and told him to ask the Emperor to pass through the corridor whilst the soldiers were looking. In a few moments the Emperor came slowly down the corridor ... the officer rushed threateningly towards him, but Kotzebue restrained him, saying, “Well, you——, now you’ve seen the Emperor. Go back to the Soviet, tell them he’s still here, and don’t come again on a fool’s errand.”

The Emperor now walked in the Park every day, and each time he returned greatly depressed at some fresh mark of disrespect. “But,” he said, “it’s very foolish to think that this behaviour can affect my soul—how petty of them to seek to humiliate me by calling me ‘Colonel’ ... after all, it’s a very worthy appellation.”

The Empress was a tragic figure, and, in her invariable Red Cross uniform, she symbolised Pity, in a world which knew not the meaning of the word. Every hour that I knew her, I loved her more.

One day, Kotzebue told me that Titi was ill; in fact, very ill, but I did not like to agitate the Empress until Kotzebue came to ask her to permit me to go with him and telephone from the basement of the Palace. She was greatly distressed to hear that her godson was ill, and equally concerned at not having been told before. “My poor girl, what you must have suffered!” she said.

Kotzebue and I descended into the basement: two soldiers guarded the telephone, and I was informed that I could only be allowed five minutes’ conversation.

“How is the child?” was my first question.

“Very ill, Madame,” answered my maid.

“Please, please bring him to the ‘phone.’” I waited impatiently, and then a little feeble voice whispered: “Maman ... c’est vraiment toi! quand viendras-tu?”

At that moment a soldier interposed.

“Your five minutes is up!”

I returned to the Empress, almost heart-broken, but I endeavoured to appear cheerful. The interminable day wore away, evening fell, and I assisted at what had now become a sort of nightly routine. Every evening the Emperor wheeled the Empress in her invalid-chair across the Palace in order to visit the suite. It was a melancholy pilgrimage. She first stopped to talk with the Benckendorffs, and afterwards passed from group to group of her faithful adherents, taking Anna’s room on the way back—Anna, so to speak, representing the last word in dejection, as she was ever full of terrors and presentiments.

That night I was glad to seek refuge in the red drawing-room and find myself alone, and able to indulge in what is described as “a good cry.” As I left the mauve boudoir, the Emperor and the Empress kissed me, and made the Sign of the Cross. I felt instinctively that they loved me, and were sorry for me.

A bright fire was burning in the red drawing-room, but I did not undress—I sat in front of the fire thinking of Titi. Yet even the knowledge that my son was seriously ill did not suffice to make me feel that my place was not here. I knew in my soul that the Empress came first, and would always be first where my duty was in question. I was well aware that I might never see my husband or my child again ... but I knew that I should follow the Imperial Family wherever Destiny might beckon me. I confess I had my moments of weakness, when I longed for the security of home, and the peaceful existence which had hitherto been mine. To-night I felt more than usually despondent. The fire burnt low, and I sought to read the future in the red embers, just as I had done at Revovka in the long ago. Suddenly I heard the door of the salon open very softly, and a line of light pierced the darkness ... someone was coming in!

I turned quickly to face the person who dared intrude upon the privacy of the apartments occupied by the Imperial Family.... Was it some fresh assumption of power on the part of the Revolutionaries?

But my visitor was no emissary of the Revolution—the slender figure standing in the doorway was that of the Empress. She looked more than usually fragile ... she breathed with difficulty, her face was pale with fatigue, and, when I remembered the arduous ascent of the stairs, I was terrified lest a heart attack would ensue.

“Madame, Madame,” I cried, “is anything amiss? Are you in danger?”

“Hush, Lili,” said the Empress. “The Emperor and I are quite safe. But I couldn’t rest without coming to see you. I know all about Titi, I quite realise what you feel.” She took me in her arms just as a tender mother might have done, and she soothed me and caressed me. “My poor, dear child,” she said. “Only God can help you. Trust in Him, as I do, Lili.”

We mingled our tears, and she stayed with me for some considerable time. It was a strange scene, but I wish that those who revile the memory of the Empress could have seen her then, and experienced the pity, love and understanding which were so essentially her prerogatives. She strengthened and consoled me as no other could have done, and her last words of comfort before she left me were: “Perhaps they’ll let us bring Titi from Petrograd to the Red Cross Hospital opposite the Palace, then you could always see him through one of the windows.”

CHAPTER V

The Tsarevitch was now almost well, and running about the Palace much as usual. I do not think he noticed many changes, the Revolution conveyed nothing to him except when he missed certain of his soldiers and his friends. He was still a happy, light-hearted child.

The Imperial Family had no presentiment of disaster for themselves, but they suffered untold agonies of mind over the fate of Russia. “Can you imagine what it means to the Emperor to know that he is cut off from active life?” said the Empress.

Soon after the episode of telephoning from the basement, Kotzebue went to Petrograd. I was anxious for his return, as he had promised to go and see Titi, and bring me the latest news from home. Days passed ... I became apprehensive, and made enquiries, only to be told that we should not see him again at Tsarkoe! I saw in this an omen of coming trouble, so I went at once to the Emperor and acquainted him with what I had heard. The Emperor and the Empress were watching some of the ladies-in-waiting who were walking in the Park, followed by sentinels; the Empress noticed my agitation.

“Why, Lili, whatever is the matter?” she enquired.

“Madame ... I hear that Kotzebue is to be replaced.”

The Emperor looked at me. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he remarked: “Well—it can’t be helped” and straightway changed the conversation ... possibly to calm our fears, or more probably to show how unaffected he was by the mandates of the Revolutionaries.

The long, monotonous days passed—we endured them alternately with the calmness of despair and with gratitude for their dullness. Once we witnessed a sight of horror. Hearing a sound of military music, and the tramp, tramp of many people, we went to the windows, and saw a funeral procession wending its way across the snow-covered Park. But this was no ordinary funeral; the dead were some of the soldiers who had been killed at Tsarkoe Selo on the first day of the Revolution. It was a red burial—the coffins were covered in scarlet, the mourners were dressed in scarlet, and scarlet flags waved everywhere. Seen in the distance the procession looked like a river of blood flowing slowly through the Park. Everything was red and white, and the superstitious might have inferred from this a presage of the innocent blood so soon to be outpoured ... since the snow was not whiter than the souls of the young and beautiful who are now safe in the keeping of a God of Justice, who most surely will repay!

None of us could forget the impression produced by this funeral; blood seemed everywhere, and terror lurked in the shadows. The soldiers were buried in the Park, within sight of the Palace—another refinement of torture for those whose imaginations were already overexcited. Our nerves were frayed, although I do not think that we were guilty of giving way to our emotions. But it was difficult to maintain our composure when insolent officers treated us in a shameful manner, or a soldier called the Empress by some filthy epithet. One soldier, however, was a Bayard. He possessed an English name, and his father taught in a school at Riga. This man was really extraordinary. He was not only polite, but he invariably tried to show us that he did not share the Revolutionary outlook. The two regiments which were at the Palace distinguished themselves by a series of petty thefts; not even the spoons were safe. I suppose they would have described these articles as “Souvenir spoons”!

. . . . .

We were no longer to complain of monotony. Even then, events unknown to us were moving quickly, and in my case definitely.

The Grand Duchess Marie was still very ill, and Anna, who knew this, decided to go and see her. The Empress was against the idea; Anna was ill, she said, and it was better for her health and her safety to keep as quiet as possible, and not to draw any undue attention to her presence in the Palace. So strongly did the Empress disapprove, that she was taken in her wheeled chair to see Anna, but she returned more nervous and apprehensive than before.

I spent the morning with the Empress, and I lunched with Anna, in the apparently forlorn hope of dissuading her from attempting to see Marie. After luncheon we discussed the burning question of Kotzebue’s disappearance. Suddenly we were startled by hearing a noise in the corridor.... Anna instantly rang the bell. A servant answered it.

“Who is outside?” demanded Anna.

“I don’t know,” replied the man, who was evidently much disturbed; “the soldiers are here.” At this moment a skorohod[12] entered, and handed me a tiny folded note. I opened it.... Written in pencil, in the Empress’s handwriting, were these ominous words:

“Kerensky passe par toutes nos chambres, pas avoir peur—Dieu est lÀ. Vous embrasse toutes les deux.”[13]

Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. I had barely time to slip the precious note inside my bodice when the door was flung open, and a man, followed by two others, came in. I stood up at once and looked at our visitor—it was Kerensky himself!

I saw a slight man with a pale face, thin lips, shifty eyes, seen under lowered lids, and a nondescript nose. Kerensky gave one the impression of being mal soignÉ.... He was not tall, but slight in figure, and his head drooped in a curious manner: he wore the blue jacket of an ordinary workman.

Kerensky slowly considered us.

“Are you Madame Anna Virouboff?” he said, addressing Anna.

“Yes,” replied Anna, faintly.

“Well, put on your clothes immediately and be ready to follow me.”

Anna made no answer.

“Why the devil are you in bed?” he demanded, staring at Anna’s invalid dÉshabillÉe.

“Because I’m ill,” whimpered Anna, looking more childish than ever.

“Well” ... said Kerensky, turning to an officer, “perhaps we had better not move her. I’ll have a chat with the doctors. In the meantime, isolate Madame Virouboff. Place sentinels before the door—she’s to hold no communication with anyone. Nobody is to come into this bedroom or to leave it until I give the order.”

He went out of the room, followed by the officers. Anna and I looked at each other, speechless with dismay. My first collected thought was for the Empress. I would not be separated from her.

“I must try and see Their Majesties,” I said wildly.

“Yes, Lili, do. For God’s sake see them,” sobbed Anna.

I opened the bedroom door very softly: the sentinels had not yet arrived. I caught a glimpse of Kerensky entering the room occupied by the doctors; then, impelled by some desperate courage, I ran down the corridors, and arrived breathless in the Grand Duchesses’ apartments. I found the Empress with Olga. I told her, in a few words, what had happened. Then distant footsteps warned us of Kerensky’s approach.

“Run ... Lili—hide in Marie’s room—it’s dark there,” whispered the Empress.

I had barely time to crouch down behind a screen in Marie’s room when Kerensky came in. He took no notice of the sick girl, but went in search of the Empress, who, with the Emperor, had now gone into the schoolroom. From where I was hiding I could hear Kerensky shouting. In a few moments the Empress entered; she was trembling visibly.... The Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana (now convalescent) rushed forward.

“Mamma, Mamma, what is the matter?”

“Kerensky has insisted upon my leaving him alone with the Emperor,” answered the Empress.... “They’ll most probably arrest me.”

The two girls clung to their mother, and slowly made their way back to Marie. I had now emerged from behind the screen, and I went into the schoolroom, where I determined to remain until I saw the Emperor.

After what seemed a very long time the Emperor came out—alone.

“Your Majesty,” I cried, “tell me, I implore you, if there is anything dreadful in store for Her Majesty?”

The Emperor was painfully nervous. “No, no, Lili, and if Kerensky had uttered one word against Her Majesty, you would have heard me strike the table—thus—” and he struck the writing-table with his fist. “But I hear they’ve arrested Anna. Poor unfortunate woman, what will become of her?”

At the sound of her husband’s voice the Empress came out of Marie’s bedroom. The Emperor told her that Kerensky had arrested Anna because he suspected that she was implicated in political plots. “If it’s true, it’s an awful thing,” said Kerensky; “but I suppose everything will now be disclosed.”

Their Majesties then related the particulars of their interview with Kerensky.

“His first words,” said the Empress, “were, ‘I am Kerensky. You probably know my name.’

“We made no answer.

“‘But you must have heard of me?’ he persisted.

“Still no reply.

“‘Well,’ said Kerensky, ‘I’m sure I don’t know why we are standing. Let’s sit down—it’s far more comfortable!’

“He seated himself,” continued the Empress. “The Emperor and I slowly followed his example, and, finding that I still declined to speak, Kerensky insisted upon being left alone with the Emperor.”

Shortly afterwards, to our great relief, we were informed that Kerensky had left the Palace and gone to the Town Hall. The new commandant, Colonel Korovichenko, was then presented to the Empress, who begged him to allow her to say good-bye to Anna. Korovichenko consented, and the Empress went, unaccompanied, to Anna’s room. She sat very silent when she returned: she felt the parting keenly, as both the friends knew that, in all probability, it might be for ever!

The Emperor, the Grand Duchesses and myself now took up our position in “Orchie’s room,”[14] from which the windows commanded a view of the entrance to Anna’s apartments. I was sitting by the Empress near the window.... All at once she took my hand, and said in a voice choked with emotion:

“At least, God will allow you to remain, and....”

Her sentence remained unfinished.... At this moment someone knocked at the door; it was Count Benckendorff, who had hurried along to tell the Empress that he still hoped better things for Anna.

This was only a temporary respite. A little later we heard the sound of an automobile in the courtyard. I looked down, and saw two automobiles drawn up in front of the Imperial entrance to the Palace. Another knock! This time it was a servant who announced:

“The new Commandant wishes to speak to Madame Dehn.”

I went out; Korovitchenko, a fair-haired, common-looking man with a hard mouth, was standing at the end of the corridor.

“Madame Dehn?” he enquired brusquely.

“Yes ... I am Madame Dehn.”

“Well ... get ready. Take as little as possible with you; you are going with Kerensky to Petrograd.”

I nearly fainted, but I managed to run back to “Orchie’s room.” In a few hurried words I acquainted the Empress with Korovitchenko’s orders.... I could not look at any of them. I tried to be calm, but at the sound of Tatiana’s uncontrollable sobbing I broke down and wept in the arms of the Empress.

“Eh bien ...” she said, releasing me gently from her embrace, “il n’y rien À faire.”

“Is Madame Dehn ready?” shouted someone outside.

The Empress called Zanoty (one of her dressers) and told her to put some things together in a suit-case. She did not speak to me—or I to her—our hearts were too full. It was like some terrible nightmare. At length I managed to go into Anastasie’s room.... She was in bed. I kissed her many times, and told her that I would never forsake them. Poor Marie lay asleep in her darkened room.... I kissed her flushed cheek, blessed her, and went out quietly. There was no time to say good-bye to the Tsarevitch.

. . . . .

Zanoty had packed my suit-case, and the Empress now sent her to fetch a sacred medal, which she hung round my neck, blessing me as she did so. At the last moment Tatiana ran out of the room, and returned with a little leather case containing portraits of the Emperor and the Empress, which had stood on her especial table ever since she was a tiny child. “Lili ...” she cried, “if Kerensky is going to take you away from us, you shall at least have Papa and Mamma to console you.”

Another imperative summons told us that the moment of parting was at hand. I put on my hat, and we left “Orchie’s room”; the Emperor and the Empress walked on either side of me, and the Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana followed us. I had never imagined in the “happy” days that it would ever be my lot to traverse this corridor with a breaking heart, or under such conditions. For ten years I had received nothing but affection from the Imperial Family—I had watched the children grow up, I had been their playmate and their friend—now I had to leave them in hostile and menacing surroundings.

Russia had already deprived them of their Imperial state, their possessions and their liberty: surely she might not have deprived them of their friends!

We walked slowly towards the head of the great staircase ... the moment for saying farewell had arrived ... I tried to be brave ... the silence was unbroken save by Tatiana’s stifled sobbing. Olga and the Empress were quite calm, but Tatiana, who has been described by most contemporary historians as proud and reserved, made no secret of her grief.

Two soldiers were waiting on the staircase ... the little group of the Imperial Family stopped, and surrounded me ... then all pretence of self-control vanished. We clung together, but our unavailing tears made no impression on hearts harder than the marble staircase on which we stood.

“Come ... Madame ...” said one of the soldiers, seizing me by the arm.

I turned to the Empress. With a tremendous effort of will, she forced herself to smile reassuringly; then, in a voice whose every accent bespoke intense love and deep religious conviction, she said: “Lili, by suffering we are purified for Heaven. This good-bye matters little—we shall meet in another world.”

The soldiers hurried me down the staircase, but I stopped half-way, and looked back. The Imperial Family was still where I had left them; with a rough gesture, my guards motioned me to descend. I could see my beloved Empress no longer.

I walked to the door of the second entrance where some officers and soldiers stood, laughing and talking. Two automobiles were waiting outside. It was bitterly cold, and a bleak wind howled round the Palace, and drove the snow in stinging dust against my face as I sat in the open automobile waiting for Anna. At last she appeared; she looked ghastly, and her eyes were swollen with crying. Two officers sat facing us, and a third took his place beside the chauffeur. In this manner we saw the last of Tsarkoe Selo ... but I had left my heart behind.

We proceeded rapidly towards the private station, where the automobile stopped. I walked quickly inside. I held myself erect ... I would not let our enemies think that I knew the meaning of the word Fear. As I passed, some of the soldiers sneered ... “See how haughty she is,” they remarked; but I took no notice.

The Imperial train was waiting, and the thought flashed across my mind that the Revolutionaries were surely most inconsistent people, since Kerensky & Co. did not scruple to avail themselves of the luxuries appertaining to Imperial state. Anna and I made our way to the drawing-room compartment, where we seated ourselves—I say “ourselves,” but, in reality, Anna was lying half fainting on a chair. I could just see the Palace through the window of the saloon, and I looked at nothing else until the train moved out of the station, and, even then, my straining eyes sought the familiar building which held so much that was dear to me.

Suddenly I became aware that someone was shouting, and thumping on the floor with a stick. I withdrew from the window to see what was the matter, and I encountered the angry gaze of Kerensky.

“Look here ... you’d better listen when I’m talking to you,” he raged.

I simply looked at him. Nobody had ever addressed me in such a manner! I am a tall woman; perhaps my height (I towered above him) and my unspoken contempt made him think better of continuing in this strain.

“I merely wanted to tell you that I am taking you to the prison of the Palais de Justice,” said Kerensky. “From there you will be transferred (with deep meaning) somewhere else, and that will be the actual place of your imprisonment.”

I still looked through him, and he beat a retreat into his own compartment. Ten minutes later we were at Petrograd!

The A.D.C.’s made Anna go first; I followed and as we walked down the train we passed through the saloon where Kerensky and another man were stretched out comfortably in the Emperor’s easy chairs! When Kerensky saw me he sat up, and looked me up and down with a kind of half-fierce curiosity. I returned his appraising glance with one of disdain ... the next moment Anna and I were told to get into a closed carriage (another relic of Imperialism), and we drove away in the company of the A.D.C.’s—mere boys—who were evidently keenly interested in us both.

I was horrified at the change which the Revolution had wrought in Petrograd. Its quiet, well-bred look had completely disappeared, it wore the aspect of a person just recovering from a drunken bout. Red flags were everywhere, and crowds of unrestful people were waiting in long queues outside the bakers’ shops. This sight roused Anna from her lethargy of grief, and, childish as ever, she remarked, quite happily, “Well, Lili, it’s no better after the Revolution than it was before.” I silenced her further criticisms with a glance at the A.D.C.’s, and I felt quite relieved when our carriage sank first in one, and then in another of the dirty heaps of snow which cumbered the streets, and which had not been removed by the road sweepers. No policemen were visible; law and order had ceased to exist, but groups of odd-looking people hung about at the corners of the streets. These loungers were unmistakably Jews.... The Ghetto-like appearance of Petrograd was amply accounted for.

The carriage stopped outside the Palais de Justice, and we were conducted down seemingly endless corridors to a room on the fourth floor. This room was empty, save for two easy chairs, a small chair and a table on which stood a carafe of cold water. The aides-de-camp told us to ask the sentinels for anything we wanted, and they were about to leave us alone when I said to one of them: “Will you try and let my servants know that I’m here?”

“Impossible,” he answered, “but in your next prison you’ll be allowed to see your friends once a week.” The young men then went away, and Anna at once began to cry. I tried to console her, but I was completely worn out—my powers of endurance had snapped, since there was no one to be brave for!

The room was bitterly cold, and we huddled together, wondering what next would happen. Suddenly shots rang out in the corridor ... were they harbingers of death? The firing was followed by coarse laughter, and a soldier ran into our room. “Ah ... ha!... ha!!...” he mocked, “were you afraid ... did you think you were going to be killed?”[15]

As I sat in the cheerless room, thinking over many things, I suddenly remembered that Anna had a great predilection for carrying letters and photographs about with her—my heart sank—supposing that she had done so now?

“Anna,” I said, trying to speak lightly, “what papers have you brought away with you?”

“Oh, lots, Lili,” answered Anna. “I’ve some letters of the Empress, some letters from Gregory, and two photographs of him.”

I suppose my expression must have betrayed me. Anna began to whimper.... “Oh, Lili, why do you look so grave? Surely they won’t treat us badly? What shall we do?”

“You must give me every paper in your possession.”

She demurred. “But why, Lili?”

“Because it’s dangerous to retain anything connected either with Her Majesty or with Rasputin. The worst construction is likely to be placed on the most innocent expressions ... you cannot surely wish to injure the Empress!”

Anna instantly handed over the letters, but the difficulty arose as to how best to destroy them. To burn them was impossible, as we had no stove; I therefore decided to tear the letters up in minute pieces, and throw them down the lavatory which we were permitted to use. In this way, I destroyed what might have been considered “compromising” documents!

After what seemed an interminable time, steps sounded in the corridor, the door was flung open, and Kerensky entered. He deliberately turned his back on Anna, but he surveyed me with the same appraising yet hostile scrutiny. We looked at each other without speaking.... At last, he shrugged his shoulders, and remarked to an officer:

“This place is damnably cold. Have the stove seen to immediately.”

He left us without another word, and we heard him speaking at some length outside. The sentinels were then changed, and the soldier who was on duty in our room began to talk to me.

“Well, Mademoiselle,” he said, “it’s ten thousand pities to see you here ... you do look sad. Whatever have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s horrible ... they’ve no right to arrest young ladies like you.”

“Perhaps the new regulations are responsible for our arrest.”

“The new regulations!” The man laughed loudly. “That’s a good idea ... I don’t think they’ll bring much luck. How can we get on without an Emperor? Don’t imagine that we wanted this. Do you think we joined willingly? Why, they had to use force to get us ... we were unarmed, it was no good attempting to resist them.”

This kindly soul came from South Russia, and, when I told him who I was and where my estates were situated, he was ready to do anything for me.

“I’m on duty again to-morrow,” he said, “so try and write a letter, and I’ll see that it’s delivered.”

Night fell, and we were faint with hunger and fatigue. A little soup was brought us, but we could not swallow it. Every few minutes the door opened, and soldiers came in and made fun of us.

“We’ve two pretty girls now to look at,” they mocked, but their laughter was better than their coarse jokes ... some of these made me grow scarlet with, shame, and I trembled lest their coarseness might become something unspeakable. We wanted to wash ... but washing was impossible—we had neither jug nor basin—the only water available was that in the carafe. I opened my suit-case, and as Zanoty had put some cotton-wool and lint with my things I quickly made a pad of some of the wool, and, pouring a little water into the glass, I damped the pad and mopped my face, drying it afterwards with some more cotton wool. At 1 a.m. we were surprised to see the two A.D.C.’s come in with some soldiers. One of the A.D.C.’s addressed Anna.

“Madame ... we have orders to remove you.”

Anna caught hold of my hand. “Oh, Lili, Lili,” she moaned, “don’t let them take me away. Can’t you come with me?... I daren’t go to another prison without you.”

“Cannot you let me accompany Madame Virouboff?” I said.

“The order is for Madame Virouboff,” replied the A.D.C., and at this moment an officer entered.

“What’s all the fuss about?” he demanded. The A.D.C. explained. “What ... is Madame Virouboff really here?” cried the officer. “Well, I’ve always wanted to have a look at her ... which one is it?” The A.D.C. indicated Anna, who was gazing from one to the other with frightened eyes.

“Get up,” ordered the officer.

Anna meekly obeyed; as she did so, her crutch was visible.

“But ... what’s wrong?” asked the officer, now evidently greatly astonished.

“I’m a cripple,” faltered Anna.

“Good God,” exclaimed the officer. He was silent, but he examined Anna much in the same way that a naturalist surveys a prehistoric beast. He could not reconcile the Anna of reality with the Anna of fiction. In common with many people, not only in Russia, but all the world over, he had imagined a totally different Anna Virouboff. Perhaps he had visualised her as an adventuress of melodrama, a passionate intrigante, a subtle schemer, the masterful confidante of a weak Empress!

What did he actually see?

Rasputin’s reputed sorciÈre-en-chef stood before him, a little trembling creature, with the prettiness and the plaintive voice of a child. The officer could not believe his eyes.

“Do you mean to tell me that you are a cripple?” he stammered.

“I’ve always used a crutch since my railway accident,” she said, helplessly, “I couldn’t avoid being in an accident, could I?”

“Extraordinary, extraordinary,” muttered the officer—he was still looking at her—“now, come along.” But Anna threw herself on my neck, and refused to leave me. Her sobs were heart-breaking. To do them justice, the soldiers handled this butterfly broken on the wheel very gently. A group of journalists, male and female, all equally unkempt, were busy taking notes, and they glanced half-scornfully and half-pityingly at the shrinking figure of Anna Virouboff as she disappeared in the darkness.

CHAPTER VI

The long days passed in their monotonous progress. I no longer seemed to belong to the outside world. I heard nothing, nobody came near me—I was as one dead. But, if my days were monotonous, my nights were full of horror. When darkness fell, and the authorities relaxed their incessant watchfulness, the soldiers became brutish ... when I say that I dared not fall asleep, some idea may be gathered of my dread! I had never met the eyes of lust until now ... but it was impossible not to understand the glances of many of the soldiers. And I was not under any false illusions about the morality of freedom, it might surely be called the Freedom of Immorality! I thought of my husband far away in England, of my child lying ill within a short distance of my prison, and of that dear family for whose sakes I would gladly suffer untold misery. Memory opened her book, and I saw within its pages people and scenes which stirred many bitter-sweet recollections in my heart. Once again I walked under the linden trees at Revovka, and listened to the nightingales. I saw the forgotten grave with the wild rose weeping her petal-tears over la morte amoureuse; once again I stood in the Winter Garden waiting to see the Empress, sometimes I played with Titi and the Grand Duchesses and heard the Empress’s kind voice. The pale face and hypnotic eyes of Rasputin recalled my pilgrimage.... The church towers and houses of Tobolsk rose against the evening sky, the dark and sinister river flowed past me....

Memory turned back more pages of her wonderful book, and I saw the Tsarkoe Selo of yesterday, the sick children, their fragile mother, and the Emperor, to whom Destiny had proved so cruel.

I endeavoured to preserve a calm mental outlook, it was useless.... I wondered whether escape might be possible, but my room was situated on the fourth floor, I dared not risk the descent from the window. One idea obsessed me. I must see Kerensky, and this idea grew more intense when I heard that I was shortly to be removed to another prison. “They are making enquiries about you,” said the A.D.C.

“Well, I want you to do something, and inform the Minister Kerensky that I would like to see him.”

The A.D.C. was evidently startled by my request.

“Hm ... I’ll do my best, but—” his gesture was significant of the hopelessness of such a request.

Upon his return, the A.D.C. said tersely:

“I’ve seen about your affair, but Kerensky sleeps; he has just dined.”

“Will you ask him to see me when he awakes?”

“Yes....” Again the significant gesture.

I waited impatiently. I felt that this interview with Kerensky would prove the critical point in my present desperate situation. I paced up and down the room, and my nervous agitation aroused the pity of one of the soldiers, who remarked kindly:

“Poor young lady! You do seem worried!”

Three hours passed.... They seemed like centuries, and then the A.D.C. entered.

“The Minister will receive you,” he said.

I hastily arranged my sadly crumpled Red Cross uniform, and two soldiers with fixed bayonets stationed themselves on either side of me. The A.D.C. led the way down endless stairs and lengthy corridors. At last we halted before a half-open door, and, as I stood there, I smelt the delicate fragrance of roses. Surely no roses grew in this terrible prison soil? But the perfume was unmistakable, and I was not left long to wonder from whence it proceeded.

I was ushered into a large, well-furnished reception room, formerly occupied by some Minister under the Empire, and on a table stood an enormous basket of blood-red roses. On another table was a basket of scarlet carnations, the warm air was heavy with the mingled odours of roses and clove pinks. So the Ministers of the Revolution were able to indulge their taste for roses in March, whilst the Sons of Freedom clamoured in the snow for bread!

The door at the extreme end of the room was ajar; presently it opened, and Kerensky came in. He glanced at me, walked to the writing-table, where he seated himself, and indicated a place for me.

Kerensky: “Well, what do you want. You asked to see me?”

Myself: “I want to ask you why I am under arrest. I have never meddled in politics, they are the last things that interest me. I can’t regard myself as a political prisoner.”

Kerensky (taking a roll of paper off the desk, and perusing it): “Listen.... Firstly, you are accused of staying voluntarily with Their Majesties when you had no official position at Court. Can you deny this?”

Myself: “Certainly not, I have no wish to do so. I stayed with Their Majesties, as I could not possibly desert them at such a moment. I love the Imperial Family as individuals. Surely this cannot constitute a crime in your eyes.”

Kerensky: “Well ... let it pass.... What is this close friendship between you and the Empress?”

Myself: “I am honoured with the friendship of the Empress. She knows my husband, she has been so good to us that we cannot be devoted enough to her.”

Kerensky (impatiently): “Enough of the Empress. What do you want?”

Myself: “What I ask is not freedom, but imprisonment in my own house. My child is ill. I want to be with him.”

Kerensky (laughing satirically): “You didn’t consider your child when you left him alone in Petrograd in order to remain with your beloved Empress.”

Myself (angrily): “I know best why I left him. You call yourself a patriot ... I suppose you put the love of your country before family ties? I love the Imperial Family, they come before my family ties. You’ve taken me away from them—I haven’t gone willingly. Why deprive me of my child?”

Kerensky (with sinister emphasis): “Listen, Madame Dehn, you know too much. You have been constantly with the Empress since the beginning of the Revolution. You can, if you choose, throw quite another light on certain happenings which we have represented in a different aspect. You’re DANGEROUS.”

A long silence.

Kerensky: “Can you explain why all orders from the Empress passed through you? You had no official position ... it’s a most suspicious occurrence.”

Myself: “We were practically isolated in the private apartments through fear of contagion. Besides, what orders could the Empress give without their being known to you?”

Kerensky: “The servants are witnesses that all orders came through you. Enquiries will reveal the truth ... if you are honest ... well and good. If not ... that’s another matter.”

I looked at him. Kerensky seemed absolutely implacable, but I decided to make one last appeal. He apparently loved flowers; this proved that, as his senses could be appealed to, why not his heart?

“If you had a child of your own, you’d understand my feelings,” I said.

Kerensky surveyed me with that now familiar appraising scrutiny. “I don’t think much of you as a mother,” he replied, smiling coldly, “but—how old is your child?”

“He is seven.”

“Well, Madame, it so happens that I have a child, and he, too, is seven. I can decide nothing, but I am now going to a Council at which Prince Lvoff will be present. He must decide.”

I looked him straight in the eyes. This time he met my gaze fully and squarely.

“I’m perfectly certain that you can do anything you like, without consulting anyone,” I said. This tribute to his vanity appealed at once to Kerensky. With most men vanity is the most powerful factor. Wound a man’s vanity and he will never forgive you; pander to it, and he is your friend for life. Kerensky was no exception: I had discovered the heel of this Russian Achilles.

“You are quite right. Of course I can do what I like. Go back to your room—I’ll send you my answer later in the evening.” He pressed an electric bell on his table. The A.D.C. entered.

“Has Madame Dehn a bed in her room?” asked Kerensky. “If not, see that one is placed there.”

“Oh, I don’t want a bed,” I interrupted. “Please let me go to my child.”

“I’ve already told you,” said Kerensky, “that I’ll let you know later. But ... if I allow you to go home, you must give me your written promise not to act in any way against us.”

The A.D.C. made a sign to the soldiers, Kerensky took no further notice of me, and I was hurried out of the warm flower-scented apartment into the icy corridor.

Black despair overcame me when I regained my room. Kerensky had been non-committal; but I had hopes that my allusion to him as omnipotent might have some favourable effect; so I sat in the corner nearest the door, straining my ears to catch the sound of approaching footsteps.

Shortly after midnight my friend the A.D.C. made his appearance, and, with a theatrical gesture, indicative of boundless space, he advanced, saying:

“The Minister grants you permission to go home.”

My feelings are better imagined than described. I sprang up, and made the Sign of the Cross, and my hand sought the beloved medal hidden in my dress. So I was really free! I could hardly believe it, surely I could not have heard aright!

The A.D.C. told me to put on my hat and cloak and follow him.... Before I did so he asked me to sign a paper agreeing not to leave Petrograd, and to hold myself in readiness to be interrogated. I did so; then, picking up my suit-case, I went downstairs.

He left me in the hall. I had now apparently lost all interest for him, as he did not trouble to bid me farewell.... He merely pointed out the door, and disappeared. I looked round, hardly daring to move. I was not able to realize that I was free to go when, and where, I chose. I pushed open the heavy door, and found myself in the cold and darkness outside. Not a single fiacre was in sight; I felt too exhausted to move, but I made a supreme effort to walk.... Impossible! My feet slipped in all directions in the melted snow and slush of the road. Suddenly I noticed a man who was regarding me with evident curiosity.... My heart sank. What if this scrutiny meant that I was about to be rearrested?

The man made his way to where I was standing. “Are you Madame Dehn?” he enquired civilly.

“I am.”

“I thought I recognised you, Madame. I’ve been at your house several times. I was formerly Madame Kazarinoff’s footman. Poor, poor Madame, who would have believed this could happen to you. Let me help you. I know where I can find a fiacre.”

He presently returned with a fiacre, and assisted me to get in with all the courtesy and deference of a well-trained servant. I thanked him many times.... He gave the direction to the driver, and we drove away.

It was one in the morning before I arrived home. I rang the bell, and after some delay the door was opened by my maid ... who nearly fainted when she saw me.... I couldn’t speak. My thoughts were concentrated on Titi.... I ran past her upstairs to his room.... It was empty! What had happened—could he be dead? I hurried across the landing to my bedroom.... A light was burning.... Someone was in bed.... Thank God, I recognised the beloved dark head of my boy—he was safe. I fell on my knees beside him. With a little start, and a smile, which was like balm to my yearning heart, Titi awoke....

“Mother, mother....” He flung his arms round me. I covered his face with kisses. “Where have you come from?” he enquired.

“From prison.”

The child began to cry. I realized the tactlessness of my reply. “If they ever take you away again I’ll go too,” he sobbed. “But where’s ‘Aunt Baby’? What has happened to her? And where is Papa? They say he’s been killed.”[16]

“Darling, darling, I can tell you nothing about Papa.”

Hearing the sound of voices, my father now came into the room. He was greatly relieved to know that I was safe, as all sorts of stories were current respecting my fate and that of Anna Virouboff. But my one thought was for my child: he was much better, but the room struck cold, and I asked my father how it was that there was no fire. He shrugged his shoulders. “Ma chÈre,” he replied, “the answer is quite simple—we have no wood! The servants manage to steal a little to burn during the day, but at night c’est bien autre chose.”

I undressed as quickly as possible, and got into bed. I held Titi close. I kissed him passionately. I trembled with mingled joy and fear!.... No one should separate us. I knew nothing as to our ultimate fate, but I had made up my mind, during these first hours of freedom, to escape as soon as possible to my estates in South Russia, and, if the Imperial Family were removed from Tsarkoe, to join them.

It was a strange home-coming. The whole house was disorganised. The servants were still devoted to my interests, but food and fuel were difficult to obtain. I spent the morning of the next day lying on a couch in my dressing-room. I was really ill; the long strain had told, and Nature was now exacting her toll in the shape of occasional heart attacks. The hours passed peacefully and slowly, but at ten o’clock in the evening the telephone rang, and my maid told me that the Commandant of the Equipage de la Garde wanted to speak to me.

I was surprised and vexed. After the way in which certain officers had treated the Imperial Family, it was not agreeable for me to continue their acquaintance. However, I went to the ’phone.

“Madame Dehn,” said a well-known voice, “have you actually come back from the Palace?”

“Yes, I returned to Petrograd a few days ago.”

“I heard that you had been placed under arrest. How is it then that you are at home?”

“Kerensky has given me permission to be with Titi. Cannot you, for my husband’s sake, and as one of his brother-officers, come over and see me?”

“Impossible,” answered the voice. “Look here, you can’t stay where you are.”

“Very well, since you order, I suppose I must obey. I’ll try and find somewhere else, as soon as I am rested.”

“You must go NOW.”

“I haven’t anywhere to go, and the child is ill.”

“Take him to an hotel. I won’t be responsible for your safety. Lots of things may happen during the night.... The sailors may come and murder you.” The Commandant then rang off, and left me to face this new terror. But my mind was made up. I would not leave home at a moment’s notice. If we had to die, we would die together. I was too exhausted, and the child was too ill, to contemplate a midnight flight.

I rang up my husband’s nephew, who was in barracks, and he promised to keep me well advised; but fortunately the night passed peacefully. Nobody came near the house.

Weeks elapsed, and Kerensky seemed to have completely forgotten my existence. I led a quiet life, but my heart was torn with anxiety concerning my beloved friends. I received some letters from the Empress, and I wrote constantly to her, and to the Grand Duchesses. It was in connection with this correspondence that I was summoned to Tsarkoe Selo, by order of Commandant Kobilinsky.

I was instructed to leave Petrograd secretly, and to wear my Red Cross uniform. It was early in July, and the trees were bravely apparelled in their young verdure. It was very different to that bleak March afternoon when the snow lay thickly on the ground, and the wind had stung my face with its icy breath. Outwardly, at all events, everything was peaceful, but tears filled my eyes at the recollection of past Julys.... Surely God would not permit the innocent to suffer; surely Justice would awaken in the soul of misguided Russia, and all might yet be well.

As I approached the Palace I became sensible of an eerie change, both in it and in its immediate surroundings. I stopped to consider in what the change consisted. Then knowledge dawned upon me. Tsarkoe was a dead place. Its windows were almost hidden by the straggling branches of the unclipped trees, grass grew between the stones of its silent courtyard, and I instantly likened it to a famous Russian picture, “Le Chateau OubliÉ.” ... It was indeed a forgotten castle! I walked to and fro gazing up at the windows, but those within the Palace gave no sign of life. I wanted to call aloud that I was there, but I dared not imperil their safety or my own. I considered even now that I held my life in trust for the service of the Empress.... Who knew when she might require me?

Kobilinsky had taken up his quarters in the large building opposite the Palace, so I repaired thither. There were hardly any people visible, and I was directed to Kobilinsky’s private room. He was a dark, shortish, nervous man, wearing military uniform, and, as the Empress had written that he was kind to them, I was naturally anxious to make a good impression. This interview is of some importance as I am enabled to contradict a part of Kobilinsky’s deposition which appeared in a recent publication. In this deposition he queries the name of the writer of certain letters

which came to Tsarkoe Selo, and attributes them to quite another person. The actual writer was myself, and the confusion respecting the signature arose from the fact that I had used a fanciful name composed of that of Titi and myself. There was not, and never has been, any “Mysterious Personage” as Kobilinsky’s deposition leads one to suppose.

“Are you Madame Dehn?” asked Kobilinsky, eyeing me with some degree of curiosity.

“Yes, Commandant!”

“Are these from you?...” he continued, handing me a packet of letters.

“Most certainly. They are all in my handwriting,” I said.

“Then why on earth don’t you sign your full name when you write?” he queried testily.

“Because I’ve never been in the habit of doing so. ‘Tili’ is a fanciful name, a combination of ‘Lili’ and ‘Titi.’”

“I don’t believe you,” he said bluntly. “It is the name of another lady.”

“Why don’t you make enquiries if you doubt my word?” I returned. “You’ll easily find out that I’m telling the truth.”

“Well, well,” he grumbled. “I suppose I must believe you. But, see here, Madame, you’ve got to promise me something. You must agree to destroy all the letters which the Empress has sent you. If you don’t, I won’t allow you to write or to receive any more letters. I suppose,” he added, “that such a devoted friend as yourself has not come to-day without bringing some letters for the Family?”

I acknowledged that such was the case. Kobilinsky smiled, and took the letters. He then signified that the interview was over.

Kobilinsky “passed” many letters to and from the Empress after this, but I was always haunted by the fear lest my precious correspondence might be stolen, or else forcibly destroyed. Fortune favoured me, and an opportunity occurred to send my letters and certain private papers to England under the safe conduct of General Poole. These papers were ultimately deposited in a safe in London belonging to Prince George Shrinsky-Shihmatoff.

The Empress and the Grand Duchesses corresponded with me regularly after they left Tsarkoe, in fact up to a few weeks of their departure for Ekaterinburg. These letters were entrusted to confidential persons and smuggled by them out of the prison. Those who expect startling revelations of political importance will be sadly disappointed in these pathetic little leaves which have drifted from Friendship’s tree across a passion-racked country, and, like the song, “have found their home” in the heart of a friend. But, for the student of psychology, the just man or woman, the curious seeker “behind the scenes” of Royalty, they will, I think, possess some interest. They will plead for a hearing far more effectively than any poor words of mine. Not one of them contains a sigh for the splendours of a throne. The woman who longed to be in the Crimea at a time of year when the acacias were like “perfumed clouds” made no allusion to the past glories of the Winter Palace, or the comfortable “English” life at Tsarkoe Selo. Perhaps the words of the writer who “being dead yet speaketh” may serve to efface some of the lies and scandals which have bespattered the name of an Empress who has been condemned so unmercifully.

The Empress and I have never met since that March afternoon when she bade me farewell. I cannot accept the almost overwhelming proofs of the tragedy of Ekaterinburg. From time to time reports of the safety of the Imperial Family have reached us, but the next moment we are faced with evidence that the whole of them have perished. God alone knows the truth, but I still permit myself to hope.

After my interview with Kobilinsky I returned to Petrograd, where I spent some uneventful weeks. Poor Anna was right when she said that things were no better after the Revolution than they were before! Existence was a difficult problem: a period of starvation set in, and we, like others, became familiar with the pangs of hunger. It was impossible to procure nourishing food for Titi; so, almost at my wits’ end, I applied for permission to remove him to South Russia.

This permission was most unexpectedly granted. Two weeks later Kerensky’s Government fell, and for the moment I was forgotten!

We lived very quietly at Beletskovka, and I was always planning the best way of escape to rejoin my beloved friends. “L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.” A wave of Bolshevism swept over South Russia, and our safety was menaced to such an extent that I was forced to escape with Titi to Odessa, and, as our adventures in no way touch on the subject of this book, I shall refrain from relating them. Suffice it to say that we managed to reach Odessa, and from thence, under the protection of the French, we went to Constantinople.

From Constantinople we made our way to Gibraltar, and from Gibraltar to England, where my husband was awaiting me after a three years’ separation.

Added by the Empress:

. . . . .

L’ENVOI

The first idea of writing this book occurred to me some time after my arrival in England. I had always known that the Empress had been grossly misrepresented in Russia, but I had not attached much importance to the fact, as I had seen the Revolutionary propaganda, and I fully realized the methods of the Revolutionaries in relation to the Imperial Family.

I was, however, astonished and horrified to discover that the same ideas were current in the broad-minded and enlightened country which has afforded me and so many other fugitives such kindly sanctuary.

If possible, I think the Empress has been more universally condemned in England than in Russia. I have scarcely heard her name mentioned without its being coupled with the degrading attributes of treachery, sensualism, hysteria, and religious mania. To one who knew her intimately and who loved her devotedly, such a state of things is unspeakably painful. I accidentally saw a film which was the grossest libel on her character and her personality, the mind of the producer having been apparently bent upon presenting the Empress as a combination of the chief forms of lurid wickedness which appeal to patrons of the cinema. I have also read novels about her which, whilst enraging me as mendacious chronicles, have considerably enlightened me as to the capacity for invention of which the human imagination is capable. More serious works have condemned the Empress in a courteous manner, but they have been none the less scathing in their judgment. Some writers, after the story of Ekaterinburg was authentically given to the world, have been more tolerant and more pitying in their censure, but it has been always censure.

Therefore, in the face of such hatred and contempt for one at whose hands I have received nothing but kindness and love, I determined to write my impressions of the Empress as I knew her, both in the happy days and afterwards in those of war and unrest during the first dark weeks of the Revolution.

I reasoned, I trust with justice, that although the majority of people are always ready to believe the worst of anyone, there must be others who, in the spirit of fair play, would be willing to look on the reverse side of the picture. There must surely be friends and relations in England who would welcome facts which proved that the Empress had been true to her English upbringing and to the traditional right living of the descendants of Queen Victoria. English people seem to have forgotten, when the Empress was vilified on the screen and in cold type, that she was the daughter of Princess Alice, a name which is associated with all that is noblest and best in woman, a name which alone, one might have thought, would have pleaded for that of her daughter. But nothing protected her, not even the facts that her first cousin was King of England and that one of her sisters was married and living in this country.

I knew the almost impossible task of rehabilitation which lay before me, but, as the task daily assumed greater proportions, love and pity for my beloved friend urged me to attempt it.

I knew that I might be accused of being a RasputiniÈre, since my photograph taken with him had appeared in one of the English illustrated papers; but my best reply to such a possible charge is that I am living in England with my husband and child, and that my husband has sanctioned my description of Rasputin as I and others knew him. If the Empress’s association with Rasputin had been a guilty one, or if I had not been in a position to describe events exactly as they happened, this book would never have been written.

It is both unjust and untrue to ascribe the Revolution as directly consequent upon the Emperor’s weakness, or the pro-Germanism and hysteric sensuality of the Empress. I have endeavoured to show that Rasputin was probably one of the unconscious tools of the Revolution against Imperialism: there is no doubt that German intrigues brought Lenin back from Switzerland to overthrow the milder rule of Kerensky, who was not ready to offer the country an efficient substitute for Tsardom, but the Empress was entirely innocent of pro-Germanism. Russia was ripe for Revolution; she had essayed Revolution years before the Empress or Rasputin saw the light. Her political history alone proves my statement, but War hurried the feet of Revolution toward her bloodstained goal. Other European kingdoms have tottered or fallen, but Russia is a land of extremes: hence the extreme methods of her ideas of equality, which are, in many respects, similar to those of the French Revolution.

I am well aware that certain “official” documents relative to the Empress were sent to England, and I know the shameful assertions which they contained. These documents emanated from the Duma, and were “arranged” by the Duma, in order to justify many things which would otherwise have been unjustifiable.

I have not attempted to give to the world any elaborate descriptions of Court festivities, and those happenings which are the common property of all European journalists. Mine is a very simple rÉsumÉ of the daily life and personality of the Empress as I knew her. I have endeavoured to avoid anything in the nature of exaggeration, in the hope that the public, who have innocently lent a ready ear to those things which are untrue, and which have been exploited by people who never saw or spoke to the Empress, will give equal consideration to the testimony of one who both knew and loved The Real Tsaritsa.

INDEX

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, K, L, M, N, O, P, R, S, T, V, W, Y.

Alexander II, 21
Alexandra, Queen, 199
Alexandra, Tsaritsa, passim
Anastasie, Grand Duchess, 78, 159, passim
Appraxin, Count, 161
Bariatinsky, Princess, 61
Beletsky, General, 106-7
Benckendorff, Count, 152-3, 157, 167, 181, 201, 212
Botkin, Dr., 72, 159, 240
BÜxhoevgen, Baroness, 154
Clementine of Coburg, 129
Cyril, Grand Duke, 162
Dehn, Charles, 37, 41, 53, 138
Dehn, Madame, passim
Direvenko, Dr., 159
Dolgorouky, Princess, 21
Dolgouroki, Prince, 137
Duma, 36, 250
Elidor, 95
Fedoroff, Dr., 195
Ferdinand of Bulgaria, 129
French Revolution, 249
Gendrinkoff, Countess, 168
George V, 199
Germogen, 95
Gibbs, Mr., 83, 175
Gilliard, M., 83, 175
Golitzin, Princess, 38-9
Golovina, Mary, 117
Gourko, General, 139
Goutchkoff, M., 178-80, 194-5
Grand Duchesses, 75-84, 134, et passim
Greek Church, 128
Grotten, Colonel, 137, 140, 149, 153
“Hampshire”, 57, 143
Hitrowo, Rita, 163
Horvat, 15, 32
Hvostchinsky, Captain, 148
Kapnist, Count, 136
Keller, Count, 194
Kerensky, 51, 208-13, 216-9, 224-9, 249
Kitchener, Lord, 57
Kobilinsky, Commandant, 233-8, 240
Korniloff, General, 181-2
Korovichenko, Colonel, 211
Kotzebue, Colonel, 191, 201-2, 205
Kotzebue-Pilar, Countess, 139
Koutousoff, Prince, 16
Kouzmine, Lieutenant, 162
Labour Party, 198
Laptinsky, Akilina, 113-6, 121-2
Lenin, 18, 249
Linavitch, 136, 151
Litovsky Regiment, 149
Lvoff, Prince, 227
Marie, Grand Duchess, 77, 166, passim
Markoff, Lieutenant, 169-70
Mary, Queen, 68
Miasocdoff-Ivanof, 162
Nicholas, Grand Duke, 22, 132-3
Nicholas, Tsar, 51, 85-91, 188-91, passim;
abdication, 165, 194
Olga, Grand Duchess, 75, passim
Orbelliany, Princess, 173-4
Orchard, Miss, 212
Orianda, 34-5
Orloff, General, 47-8
Orloff, Prince and Princess, 107
Paul, Grand Duke, 151, 154, 157, 164, 179
Pistolkors, Allie, 149-50
Poole, General, 237
Protopopoff, 116, 120-1, 135, 140-2
Rabindar, 136
Rasputin, 77, 93-143
Raswosoff, Admiral, 239
Ratief, Prince, 171
Resin, General, 149, 163, 164
Retief, Prince, 178
Revolutionary Agents, 34
Ripe, Miss, 32
Rodziansko, 168-9, 195-6
Rousky, General, 194-6
Russian peasant, 23-31
Russian Revolution, 147-250
Sablin, M., 147, 155
Shoulgine, 194-5
Shrinsky-Shihmatoff, Prince, 237
Soukhomlinoff, General, 132-3
Stackelberg, Baron, 195-6
Stopford, A., 197
Swastika, 63
Tanieff, Madame, 148-9
Tatiana, Grand Duchess, 76, passim
Tsarevitch, 81-4, 99, 183, passim
Tutcheff, Mlle, 77
Varnava, 110
Vasiltchikoff, Princess, 135-6
Victoria, Queen, 59-60
Virouboff, Anna, 38, 47, 97-8, 112, 114-21, 126, 129, 137, 149, 172-3, 209-19, 221-2
Volinsky Regiment, 149
Volkoff, 166, 174, 178-9, 188
William, Kaiser, 90
Yousopoff, Prince, 117, 125

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