The Grand Duchess of Nowhere (21 page)

He said, ‘And the first thing I’m going to do … Ducky, scissors please.’

And when I’d found scissors, he carefully cut away the blue and white stripes of the tricolour.

‘This,’ he said, holding up the red strip, ‘will be flying from our house before daybreak.’

Uncle Paul said, ‘No, not that. Do think, Cyril Vladimirovich. If you do that, there’ll be no turning back.’

‘Indeed,’ Cyril said. ‘But there can be no turning back anyway. I know it. You know it. The question is, does Nicky realise it? Has anyone tried to call him?’

I said, ‘The telephones aren’t working.’

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Why would they be? Well, there are plenty of fires burning. Perhaps we could send him a smoke signal. Abandon ship.’

In bed he suddenly began to tremble. He said he was cold but even with my furs piled on top of him the shaking didn’t stop until eventually he fell asleep. His men may have spared him from execution but there must have been a moment at Kronstadt when he wondered if he’d be the next to be taken out to die in the snow.

Cyril wasn’t the only one to go to the Tauride Palace the next morning and surrender himself to the will of the Duma. The Tsar’s Cossack cavalry led the way, followed by the Preobrazhensky regiment and the Semenovsky. Then the Marine Guard marched with Cyril at their head. It was all over very quickly. Very civilised, he said. He was shown into the chamber. Kerensky was present and Rodzianko, President of the Dunce and Sunny’s old
bête noir
. They gave him a piece of paper to read from and he pledged his allegiance to the Provisional Government.

‘So that’s that,’ he said. ‘Scissors again, please, darling.’

He sat and snipped out the Imperial cipher from his epaulettes.

I said, ‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’

He shrugged.

‘Badges are easily replaced,’ he said. ‘Lives aren’t. And I have no intention of getting hanged or shot for the sake of a bit of gold thread. Now we must wait and see what happens. Nicky’s only chance will be if he comes back at once and accepts the authority of the Duma. Then I think he’d better take Sunny to a convent, at least until the war’s over. A convent with a big, strong gate.’

It felt awfully lonely. No one else in the family had declared their position. Boris had gone to ground. Grand Duke Misha was still out in Gatchina and keeping his opinions to himself. Uncle Paul
was agonising. I wasn’t exactly frightened, though I did rather wish we didn’t have a red flag dangling so provocatively from our roof.

I said, ‘Won’t it attract attention? What if types come knocking at our door?’

Cyril laughed.

‘Types!’ he said. ‘They may come anyway. And if they decide to hang the lot of us there’s not much we can do about it. No harm in appearing to be sympathetic to their cause though. They’re already roasting Nicky’s eagles. The one over Brocard’s door has gone, and Fabergé’s and Nicholls’ and Plincke’s.’

On Nevsky Prospekt they were hauling the Imperial emblems down from shop fronts and tossing them on their bonfires.

Cyril wanted me to go to Tsarskoe Selo to be with the girls. He was going to stay in town until Emperor Nicky returned.

He said, ‘Kerensky seems to think he’s on his way so I may as well wait and see what happens. Face the music. But I’m sure if we asked Alf Knox he’d find a car to take you home. You must consider your condition, darling.’

I wanted to stay with him but he was right. There was no sense in both of us risking a bullet, either a stray one or a well-aimed one.

He said, ‘I don’t feel in any immediate danger. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking of doing. I might put a sign on our front door that says PROPERTY OF THE PETROGRAD SOVIET. ADMITTANCE STRICTLY BY APPOINTMENT. That might make them pause before they break in looking for Sheraton firewood.’

Alf Knox very kindly sent Lieutenant Gerhardi to drive me. He was a very amusing young man. I’d even say he was flirtatious if it weren’t such a ridiculous notion. He was born the same year as Elli. Imagine that. If Elli had lived it might have been her he was flirting with, not her deluded old mother. Except that Ernie Hesse would never have allowed me to bring her to Russia. She’d be back
in Darmstadt, married to some cousin or other, and separated from me by this damned war.

The only problem with Willie Gerhardi was his driving. He seemed quite relieved when I suggested I take the wheel and was greatly impressed by my ability to talk and drive and smoke all at the same time.

He’s the sort of man that pops up in one’s life and then disappears just as suddenly, always on the move, not quite belonging anywhere. He was English by his manner, Prussian by his name, anything but Russian although he was St Petersburg born and bred. The Gerhardis have a house over Vyborg side, on the embankment, and some kind of manufactory. They were the sort of family we never met. Not our kind, as Miechen would say. Sometimes I feel we’ve missed knowing some perfectly nice people. Perhaps it’ll be different from now on. They talk about The New Order. Perhaps we’ll be the kind of people
they
never meet.

We drove out past the Ekaterinhof Vokzal, to avoid the city centre, but we were still flagged down at the corner of Moskovsky Prospekt. Two men came to our side window, red rags tied to their bayonets, but they were smiling.

‘Britanski!’ they greeted us.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘British Mission. Lieutenant Gerhardi is going to see General Guchkov.’

One of them stuck his head right inside the car. He had bad teeth.

‘
Kto?
’ he said. ‘Keerharty?’

They consulted one another, then a head came back through the open window.

‘This Keerharty?

‘Yes.’

‘Hero of working peoples?’

Gerhardi leaned across.

‘My father, actually,’ he said.

‘Father? You father?
Nepravda!
’

‘No,
he
father, I son.’

‘Ah! Son!’

The head retracted and a grimy hand replaced it. Gerhardi shook it.

‘
Zdrastvuytye! Ochen rad!
’

Another hand appeared. He shook it. Then the message went along the line to the barricade, to clear the way for the son of Keerharty, hero of working peoples, and lady Britanski driver. We were waved through like Royalties. Although, come to think of it, not like Russian Royalties at all, not any more.

Gerhardi was laughing.

I said, ‘Is your father really a hero of working peoples?’

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘He’s a factory owner. He’s one of those villains who employs people and pays them a wage. No, it was a case of mistaken identity but look, it worked in our favour so let’s not quibble.’

‘So, who did they think you were?’

‘The son of Keir Hardie,’ he said. ‘Bloody Keir Hardie! Socialist. Land reformist. And who, by the way, is probably dead by now and if not he must be older than Moses. What a hoot. And funnily enough, it’s not the first time this has worked to a Gerhardi’s advantage. Back during the 1905 troubles my father had a close shave. A mob of workers bound him hand and foot, bundled him in a coal bag and were preparing to drown him when someone asked who he was and they mistook “Gerhardi” for “Keir Hardie”, the same as this lot. Upon which, they let him go. And they apologised for putting him in a filthy sack. So I suppose on both occasions we should be grateful to the old Friend of Working Peoples.’

I liked Willie Gerhardi. He was supposed to have become an
accountant or a banker but the war had saved him from that fate. When peace comes, if it ever comes, he has no intention of surrendering to that destiny. He intends to write. Not just books. Scenarios for the cinematograph too. That’s the coming thing, apparently, with good money to be made. Who knows, perhaps someday we’ll hear of him.

I told him about my ambulance fleet. He told me about working for the British Mission.

‘It’s a jammy posting, really,’ he said. ‘Correspondence mainly. Writing reports, deciphering wires and so forth. I’m just grateful to be doing anything that doesn’t involve sitting on a horse.’

He had had a brief, unhappy career in the Scots Greys.

I said, ‘I suppose the wires you see are terrifically top secret?’

‘Not all of them,’ he said. ‘Quite often they just say things like “Whereabouts flour consignment not clear”.’

I said, ‘Because, of course, what we’re all wondering is, where is the Emperor? But I realise you’re not likely to know.’

He said, ‘I can tell you what little I do know. He left his HQ yesterday.’

‘And he’s coming to Petrograd?’

‘One imagines.’

‘So, he’ll probably be here today?’

‘Possibly. Except that there’s some kind of problem on the line between here and Malaya Vishera so he might have to travel the rest of the way by road. Don’t you hate the way we’re supposed to call it Petrograd?’

‘What kind of problem on the line?’

‘Goodness knows. Snow, probably. Or perhaps someone’s burned the sleepers to try and get warm. Roll on spring.’

I said, ‘My husband thinks another snowfall would clear the streets.’

‘Does he?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I agree with him. I think people are having too much fun. But anyway, my guess is that the Tsar will try to go to Moscow if he can’t get through this way. Or even go back to HQ. He can’t just sit on a train that’s going nowhere.’

In fact Emperor Nicky did precisely that. As we learned later, it wasn’t snow that had blocked the line to Petrograd, it was soldiers with machine guns. Eventually, after a lot of discussion, it was decided to reverse the Imperial train and try to go west, as far as the command post at Pskov. From there the situation was to be reviewed. At Pskov, Nicky was told that even the Preobrazhensky Guard had deserted him. He also found out what Cyril had done.

I asked Gerhardi in for a cup of tea but vehicles were precious. He had to get the car back to the city as soon as possible. Masha and Kira watched him get behind the wheel and go juddering off down Sadovaya Street.

Kira said, ‘I don’t think that man knows how to drive.’

*

It was strange to be home, to hear birdsong instead of gunfire and smell hot food instead of scorching wood. Peach greeted me civilly. Had she shown the slightest hint of disrespect, I’d have sent her packing at once, trains or no trains, but she made no reference to the events in town. I even began to wonder if she was aware of them. She sent the girls to fetch their copybooks, to show me what they’d been doing. She said, ‘I’ll take some of the time I’m owed tomorrow.’ She said she’d missed at least three of her half-days, two when I had morning sickness and the one she’d been obliged to work when I stayed in Petrograd, contrary to our arrangement.

I said, ‘Well, you may take a half-day but you know circumstances have been very difficult. We’re all having to make sacrifices.

And if you were hoping to go into the city, I think you’ll be disappointed. There’ll be very few trains until things settle down.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘so you think things will settle down?’

I said, ‘Mr Kerensky seems to be getting things under control. The city’s already less tense. All we need now is for His Imperial Majesty to come. He’s on his way. There are likely to be some changes, of course, but then life will get back to normal.’

‘Do you think so?’ she said. But she wasn’t really asking me. She was challenging me.

*

It was bitterly cold. Fifteen degrees below, at least, Cyril said. He came home that night, very late, but the girls heard his voice and came running down to see him. I must say they never greet me so eagerly. He found them peppermints from his pocket and made them each a little bird out of notepaper. It was another hour before Peach got them settled again and Cyril and I could talk.

I had Sunny to thank for his coming home for the night. Minister Rodzianko was concerned for her safety so Cyril had been told to bring out a battalion of Marines to guard the Alexander Palace. A squadron of Cossacks was camped there too and a battery of foot artillery with field guns. Cyril had seen Sunny, briefly. She’d come out to thank the guards. He said she looked strained but had put on her best imperturbable Empress face.

‘Asked if my men had everything they needed. Said she was very heartened to see us. Much comforted by our presence, etc. Very pleasant to me, actually. She clearly hasn’t heard that I’ve jumped ship.’

‘Is she really in danger, do you think?’

‘Yes, I do. And I think Nicky has finally realised it. He’s stuck in Pskov but he wired Rodzianko and said he understands the need
to work with the Duma on certain concessions and will give the matter his attention when he gets back to Petrograd.’

‘And what did Rodzianko say?’

‘Too late.’

‘Is it?’

‘I’m afraid it is. The Duma and this self-appointed Soviet, they differ on a hundred and one points. They’ll probably argue over where the sun rises. But if there’s one thing they agree on it’s that Nicky is finished. He has to go.’

‘And how will that happen?’

‘That’s up to Nicky. He can go voluntarily. He should. He should go at once. Or he can wait to be removed. Knowing Nicky, he’ll hesitate and hesitate until he feels the country’s boot on his rear end.’

‘What does “removed” mean?’

‘I don’t know. Siberia. Sandringham.’

Here is what happened next. Grand Duke Misha, Uncle Paul, Grand Duke Nikolasha, Uncle Bimbo, one by one, they stepped forward, spoke up and conceded that Nicky’s opportunity to save his throne had passed. He must abdicate. Uncle Sandro disagreed.

‘He should bring in more troops,’ he said. ‘Three hundred Romanov years down the drain just because of the price of bread? Just because of a few troublemakers? Nicky should stop wavering and remind Russia he’s its anointed Emperor. He should give these revolutionaries a taste of cold steel.’

Uncle Sandro was in a minority of one. By the time the Imperial train reached Pskov, Nicky’s abdication was unavoidable but his Chief of Staff had insisted that the news be kept from him until he’d had a night’s rest. Nicky would have drunk to that. He was famous for leaving urgent telegrams unopened.

But I wonder if he did sleep? Could he possibly have believed that by morning the crisis would be over and we could all go back to our old lives? I asked Cyril who’d be the one to tell Nicky.

‘Probably draw straws for it,’ he said. ‘Damned glad I’m not there. Nicky’s been a fool, but still, one never likes to see a man broken.’

General Ruzsky was handed the cup of poison to deliver to his Emperor. He had telegrams from the generals at the Stavka and in
the Caucasus. He had telegrams from the admirals in the Black Sea and the Baltic. Every one of them said Nicky must go.

They say he caved in very quickly. Just a few minutes of silence, one cigarette, and then he signed a declaration they put before him. He renounced the throne in favour of Tsesarevich Alexis. But of course it was so much nonsense. Alyosha couldn’t reign, even if Russia were willing to accept another Emperor. Twelve years old and plagued with the bleeding disease.

As the day wore on, Nicky began anyway to regret what he’d done. Not the abdication, but the naming of Alyosha as his successor. He’d imagined that the whole family would be permitted to retire, perhaps down to the Crimea, until the boy came of age but then it dawned on him that it was very unlikely. Or perhaps General Ruzsky was sent in with more bad news. How could Nicky possibly be allowed to remain in Russia? What if he began campaigning to regain the throne? No, he’d have to leave the country, and the Tsesarevich would have to stay, perhaps with his Uncle Misha acting as his guardian and regent. Who could say when Nicky and Sunny would ever see their son again?

So then a new declaration was drafted, an abdication in favour of Grand Duke Misha. Nicky signed it and they varnished over his signature at once, to prevent any further change of heart. He signed letters too, his last act as Emperor. Uncle Nikolasha was reappointed as Commander-in-Chief and Prince Georgy Lvov was named as First Minister of a new Provisional Government.

So now I must cease referring to Nicky as Emperor. I don’t know what we’re supposed to call him. Cyril suggests ‘Nikolai Alexandrovich’ should be perfectly acceptable to everyone.

*

We heard gunfire during Thursday night. Just warning shots, according to Kuzma who went out to investigate. A crowd had
broken into Velinsky’s wine shop on Tserkovaya Street and gone mad with drink. There were casualties. Hundreds, some claimed, martyrs, driven to a moment’s madness by hunger and desperation and shot down by troops still loyal to the Empress. Or was it more like half a dozen, who’d fallen into a deep, drunken sleep and died of the cold. It all depended on who you listened to. Everything depended on who you listened to.

That was the morning when confirmation of Nicky’s abdication came to Petrograd. Uncle Paul went to the Alexander Palace to break the news to Sunny. In fact the news got there ahead of him, from servants who’d come in from town, but Sunny had disregarded it. She thought it was just another wild rumour.

Uncle Paul told us how it had gone.

‘Anna Vyrubova was there,’ he said. ‘And Nastinka Hendrikova and Dr Botkin, I took the precaution of asking him to attend. I thought it very likely Sunny would faint. But she held herself together. No tears, no vapours, at least not in front of me. She conducted herself like an Empress, even if she’s not one any more. If anything I’d say she was angry. Not with Nicky. With Russia.’

The papers with Nicky’s signature were taken to the Tauride Palace, but it was several days before Nicky himself arrived. He was permitted to go to the Stavka first, to say farewell to the troops. I was about to write ‘his troops’ but of course they’re not his any more. Everything belongs to The People now.

Cyril said, ‘Stupid idea if you ask me, allowing him to go to HQ. Why draw out the agony with farewell speeches? And what if he tries appealing to the troops? What if he tries pulling on their heart strings and they start shouting “Long live the Tsar”? Then we could have a real mess on our hands.’

But Nicky did no such thing. He was well and truly finished. Cyril went into town as soon as the abdication was certain. He
wanted to be there when Grand Duke Misha, Tsar Michael as we now thought, drove in from Gatchina. I asked him if he was going to pledge his allegiance to Misha.

‘That rather depends,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my allegiance will be the first thing on Misha’s mind. There goes his nice quiet life. And anyway it’s not entirely clear that Nicky had the right to hand him the succession. The lawyers will make a meal of that and you can see their point. Alexis was the heir. He still is, in a sense. If Nicky is allowed to pass the throne to anyone else, it makes a complete nonsense of the rules of succession. He could have passed the crown to his kennel man.’

I said, ‘Or to you.’

‘Please don’t say that,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be hard enough preventing Ma from scheming.’

I wanted to go with Cyril to Glinka Street but he insisted I stay in the country with the girls.

He said, ‘We don’t know how things are going to unfold. They may change very rapidly now, for better or for worse.’

But for two days it was almost as though nothing had happened. No bells were rung for Tsar Misha, no cannons were fired. Was he the new Emperor or was he not? There was a long meeting at the Tauride Palace. Kerensky was there, and Rodzianko, and at the end of the day there was still no clear decision. Misha hadn’t claimed the throne but he hadn’t declined it either. All he’d say was that it was up to the Provisional Government and the people to decide. Did they want him or did they not? Then he went home, or rather was sent home, with orders to go to Gatchina and stay put.

Cyril said, ‘That’s the Soviet’s doing. They won’t trust any Romanov. The Duma would probably have suggested that Misha go to the Front, to make a little speech of encouragement to the
troops. We are still at war after all. But this Soviet, they want him where they can control him.’

So we still had no Emperor. On Sunday morning I went to Divine Liturgy at Our Lady of the Sign. There was no prayer for Nicky and the Imperial Family, but there was no prayer for Misha either. There was just an awkward pause before the priest continued with the bit about seasonable weather and an abundance of the fruits of the earth.

Boris said, ‘We must be thankful the telephones aren’t working. Ma’s no doubt in a spin, planning what to wear to Cyril’s coronation.’

I feared he was right, but I did miss Miechen. Life seemed terribly dull without her and information was so much harder to get. If she’d been stuck out at Tsarskoe Selo, Bertie Stopford would have battled through all obstacles to bring her the latest news, but his attentions to me only extended as far as Glinka Street.

Everything I did hear was old news by the time it reached me. A letter came from Miechen. Dowager Empress Minnie had travelled to the Stavka to be with Nicky in his hour of humiliation.

Dearest, dearest Ducky
, Miechen wrote,
we may see you Empress yet. Poor Minnie is destroyed of course. She blames Sunny entirely for what has happened, though I don’t agree and I’ve told her so. An Emperor cannot hide behind his wife’s skirts. But of course Minnie will never hear a word of criticism of her darling boy. I truly think this may kill her
.

It didn’t. As far as we know Dowager Minnie is with us yet. She’s a tough old bird.

Uncle Paul advised me to burn Miechen’s letter at once. Brother-in-law Boris said stable doors and bolting horses came to mind. We were probably all being watched and listened to and spied on from dawn till dusk. A silly letter from Miechen was neither here nor there.

A new week began. On Monday nothing happened. I mean nothing. When an Emperor has been toppled, one rather expects thunderbolts to strike or the birds to behave in some odd way that makes old country folk run about crossing themselves. But nothing. On Tuesday some of the news sheets revived the rumour that Grigory Rasputin had been Sunny’s lover.

Boris said, ‘That’s the press for you. When there’s no news, rake up some old tittle-tattle.’

On Wednesday he and Uncle Sandro left for the Stavka. They were to be allowed to accompany Nicky back to Petrograd.

I said, ‘Allowed? Why would you not be allowed? You’re family.’

Boris said, ‘Yes, but Nicky’s still regarded as a bit of a hot potato. What if he’s got a plan? Of course anyone who really knows Nicky knows the idea is laughable, but the Duma are taking no chances. They’re sending their own escort too. They want to make sure he gets back safely and without incident.’

It all sounded rather heavy-handed to me.

Boris said, ‘Not really. We’re not bringing him back in chains, Ducky. Not actual chains.’

Cyril would not be in the escort party.

Boris said, ‘Wouldn’t be quite the thing, would it? Nicky knows Cyril was the first to abandon him. And, strictly speaking, Cyril’s next in line, if Misha doesn’t take the throne. It could make for a very long train ride if we had Cyril along. What would one talk about? It’s going to be pretty hateful as it is.’

On Thursday Nicky began his journey home, but not to Petrograd. They brought him through Minsk and Vitebsk and then directly to Tsarskoe Selo. It was a long, circuitous journey but it saved the awkwardness of his arriving at the Baltic Station. What exactly is the protocol for greeting a former Emperor? And, as Cyril says, that way Nicky was at least spared the sight of the city streets.
The bill posters and the broken windows and the armoured cars parading red flags. Even the changes at Tsarskoe Selo must have given him a shock. There were soldiers all over the park and extra sentries at the Alexander Palace gates.

It was late on Friday morning when Nicky’s train arrived. Cyril was in town, at meetings, but I had Uncle Bimbo for company. He’d grown tired of waiting to be released from his country exile and decided to come back anyway.

He said, ‘Not much Sunny can do to me now, and I need to keep an eye on my hothouses. I hear these revolutionaries enjoy smashing glass. The needs of lemon trees are probably quite lost on them. I hope to educate them.’

My mind was on Nicky and Sunny. I felt I should go and see them at some point, much as one might call on a house in mourning. I should at least ask after Alyosha and the girls. I should at least enquire if there was anything they needed. Uncle Bimbo said better not to.

‘Condolences on losing your Empire? Might sound a bit hollow, don’t you think, Ducky? Particularly seeing that Cyril was the one who led the way? First rat off the ship?’

‘Is that what you think? That Cyril behaved like a rat?’

‘No, but I imagine it’s Nicky’s opinion. Anyway, I very much doubt you’d be able to visit them. When people are under house arrest, there are bound to be restrictions.’

House arrest. I had no idea what it might entail. Uncle Bimbo said they’d probably be permitted to walk in the garden. But they wouldn’t be allowed any horses, or access to Nicky’s motors.

‘In case they try to make a dash for it, do you see?’

I said, ‘Sunny won’t mind so much. She never went anywhere even when she could. How long do you think they’ll be kept like that?’

‘Until there’s a suitable transport, I imagine. There’s a rumour the British are sending a cruiser to pick them up from Murmansk. There’s also a rumour that they’ll be evacuated through Vladivostock. Across to San Francisco and then, well, who knows where? But you can’t depend on anything you’re told these days.’

The last we heard, the whole family was being moved east so perhaps the Vladivostock rumour was true. But that was months ago. Perhaps they’re already in America. That would be rather thrilling for their girls. Plenty of handsome husbands to be found there, I’m sure. And they’ll still be able to style themselves Grand Duchess. The Americans like that kind of thing, in foreigners.

Uncle Paul went to the station, to be there when Nicky’s train steamed in.

‘Grey-faced,’ he said. ‘An old man. What is he? Not even fifty. He looks more like seventy.’

Nicky had been driven directly to the Alexander Palace. One of his adjutants, Valya Dolgoruky, was allowed to ride with him, and Uncle Paul too, as a courtesy. Boris and Uncle Sandro had stayed on the train until the sad procession had left.

Uncle Paul said, ‘Can’t say I blame them. It was a difficult moment and they’d already had the torture of the train journey. I shed a quiet tear when Nicky stepped down onto the platform, and so did Dolgoruky. Not Nicky though. He was dry-eyed. It was as though he were sleep-walking.’

They’d driven to the Alexander Palace in silence. When they reached the gates they’d been challenged by the sentry.

‘So unnecessary,’ Uncle Paul said. ‘It was pure theatre. They just wanted to make Nicky identify himself. Humiliate him.’

‘What name did he use?’

‘Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov. Then they made a great show of opening the gates as slowly as possible and glaring into
the car. You should see the state of those soldiers. Boots not polished, slouching at their posts, smoking on duty. Sunny came down to the door to meet him and they didn’t even remove their caps. Disgraceful. I’d have said something but I didn’t want to upset Nicky. He was so calm. In a world of his own. I don’t think he even noticed that no one had saluted him.’

*