Читать книгу Once A Grand Duke by Alexander Grand Duke of Russia - Alexander Mikhailovich - Страница 11

“A BOY has just been born in the family of His Imperial Highness,” announced an aide-de-camp of Grand Duke Michael, then Viceroy of the Caucasus, bursting into the office occupied by the commandant of the Tiflis fortress on the morning of April 1, 1866. “Have the imperial salute of one hundred and one guns fired immediately.”

“It ceases to be funny,” answered the old general, looking gloomily at the calendar hanging over his head. “I have been pestered all morning long. Try your April first jokes on someone else, or I shall report you to His Imperial Highness.”

“You don’t seem to understand, Excellency,” said the aide-de-camp impatiently. “This is no joke. I come straight from the palace and would advise you to carry out the orders.”

The commandant shrugged his shoulders, glanced once more at the calendar and started for the palace to verify the news.

Half an hour later the guns commenced to boom, and a special proclamation informed the excited Georgians, Armenians, Tartars and Highlanders promenading along the main thoroughfare of the Caucasian capital that the newly-born grand duke was to be christened Alexander, in honor of his imperial uncle, Emperor Alexander II.

On April 2, 1866, at the tender age of twenty-four hours, I became the honorary colonel of the 73rd Krimsky Infantry Regiment, an officer of the fourth rifle battalion of the Imperial Guard, an officer of the Guard Hussars, an officer of the Guard Artillery Brigade and an officer of the Caucasian Grenadier Division. A beautiful wet-nurse had to exercise all her ingenuity to pacify the holder of all these exalted positions. . . .

Following in the steps of his uncompromising father Emperor Nicholas I, my father thought it only natural that his sons should be raised in an atmosphere of militarism, strict discipline and exacting duties. Inspector-general of the Russian artillery and viceroy of an enormously rich, half-Asiatic province incorporating some twenty-odd nationalities and fighting tribes, he had but small regard for the niceties of modern education.

My mother, Princess Cecilia of Baden before her marriage, came of age in the days when Bismarck kept all Germany spellbound by his sermon of iron and blood.

Small wonder that the joys of my care-free childhood came to an abrupt end on my seventh birthday. Among the many gifts presented to me on that occasion I found the uniform of the colonel of the Seventy-third Krimsky Infantry Regiment and a sword. I shrieked with delight, imagining that it meant a possibility of getting rid of my usual costume, which up to then had consisted of a shirt of pink silk, broad trousers and high red-leather boots.

My father smiled and shook his head negatively. Of course, I would occasionally be permitted to don the glittering uniform if I were a good boy, but first of all I had to deserve the honor of wearing this noble sword. I had to study hard for many years.

My face became rather long, but the worst was yet to come.

“Beginning with tomorrow,” explained my father, “you are to live in the same quarters with your brothers Michael and George. You will take your orders from their tutors.”

Good-by, my kind nurses. Good-by, fairy tales. Good-by, peaceful dreams. My head sank into the pillows; I cried all night long, refusing to listen to the comforting words of the big-hearted Cossack Shevtchenko. Finally, seeing that his promises to visit with me each and every Sunday failed to produce the necessary effect, he whispered to me in a frightened tone: “Think what shame it would mean for you if His Imperial Majesty should mention it in an army order that his nephew, Grand Duke Alexander, does not deserve to command the Seventy-third Krimsky Infantry Regiment because he likes to cry like a girl.”

I jumped up from the bed and rushed to wash my face. To think that I very nearly disgraced my entire family in the eyes of the imperial court!

An event of still greater importance coincided with this seventh birthday of mine. I suppose it amounted to a veritable spiritual dawn, so strong was the shock caused to my young soul.

The custom of the Greek Orthodox Church required every boy to be taken to his first confession before venturing upon the road of worldly knowledge. The kind Father Titoff did his best to soften the ordeal, but he had to obey the relentless regulations.

For the first time in my life I learned of the existence of various sins accurately classified and described at length by this holy man. A child of seven was called upon to confess his intercourse with the Devil. The God who talked to me in murmurs of red, white and blue flowers growing in our garden had suddenly given way to a menacing and unforgiving Being.

Trying to avoid my horrified look, Father Titoff spoke of the damnations and tortures of hell guaranteed for anyone who would attempt to hide his sinfulness. He raised his voice, and I glanced tremblingly at the Cross on his breast, lighted by the rays of the hot Caucasian sun. Could it be that I had committed some frightful crime, unconsciously and unwittingly?

“Very often little boys steal small things from their parents. They mean no harm, but their deed constitutes a sin!”

No, I felt quite certain of never having stolen even a piece of candy out of the big silver bowl that stood on the mantelpiece in the dining-room, although more than once I had been tempted to do so. My mind traveled back to the previous summer spent in Italy. While in Naples, admiring a group of fruit trees behind our villa, I did pick a luscious red apple, which had a sharp flavor that made me feel homesick for the Caucasus.

“Father Titoff, am I to be thrown into Hell for picking an apple in Naples?”

Well, he could see a way to square this sin of mine if I would promise never to repeat the grave misdeed.

His willingness to compromise prompted my courage. Stuttering, stammering and swallowing the words, I expressed my bewilderment at the existence of Hell.

“You always said, Father Titoff, when you came to lunch to the palace, that God loved all men, women, children, animals and flowers. Then how could He permit these awful tortures to be practiced in Hell? How could He love and hate us at the same time?”

It was the turn of Father Titoff to become terrified.

“Never say it again! It is a sacrilege! Of course, God loves us all; there is no such thing as hatred in His Kingdom.”

“But, Father Titoff, you just told me yourself of those awful tortures awaiting all sinners. Then you mean to say that God loves only the virtuous people and does not love the sinners?”

He sighed deeply and put his soft white hand on my head.

“My dear boy, you will understand all this in due time. Some day when you have become a great commander, you will thank me for developing a spirit of true Christianity in your soul. Now, just follow my advice and do not ask me any more questions.”

I left the church with a firm conviction of having lost something exceedingly precious which nothing could replace, even if I should become the Emperor of Russia.

“Did you say your adieus to the nurses?” asked my father when I climbed on his chair to kiss him good night.

Nothing mattered for me any more. What good could the nurses do if we were all doomed to Hell?

And from then to the age of fifteen my education resembled the training in a regiment. My brothers Nicholas, Michael, Sergei, George and myself lived as in barracks. We slept on narrow iron beds, only the thinnest possible mattress being allowed over the wooden planks. I remember that even in later years, after my marriage, I could not become accustomed to the luxury of a large bed with double mattresses and linen sheets, and ordered my old hard bunk to be put next to it.

We were called every morning at six o’clock. We had to jump out of our beds immediately, for a severe punishment swiftly followed an attempt to sleep “just five minutes more.”

Kneeling in a row in front of the three ikons, we said our prayers, then took a cold bath. Our breakfast consisted of tea, bread and butter. Any other ingredients had been strictly forbidden, lest we should develop a taste for a luxurious life.

A lesson in gymnastics and practice with firearms filled another hour, particular attention being paid to the handling of a mountain gun placed in the garden. Very often our father would pay us an unexpected visit and watch with a critical eye our progress in the study of artillery. At the age of ten I would have been able to take part in the bombardment of a large city.

From eight to eleven, and from two to six, we had to study and do our homework. According to the etiquette of the imperial court, no grand duke was allowed to enter a private or a public school, in consequence of which we were always surrounded by an army of special tutors. Our educational program planned for eight years consisted of lessons in religion (Old and New Testament, Divine Service, history of the Greek Orthodox Church, comparative history of other churches, Russian grammar and literature, foreign literature, history of Russia, history of Europe, history of America, history of Asiatic countries, geography, mathematics (which covered arithmetic, algebra, geometry, trigonometry), natural history, French, German, English, calligraphy and music. On top of that we were taught the handling of all sorts of firearms, riding, fencing, and bayonet fighting. My eldest brothers Nicholas and Michael had to learn Latin and Greek as well, but we, the youngest three, were fortunately relieved of that nonsensical torture.

Learning presented no difficulties either for me or for my brothers; but the unnecessary severity of our tutors created considerable bitterness. No doubt a mammoth meeting of protest would be staged by the fond American parents were their children to be treated in the manner approved of by the imperial family of Russia.

The smallest mistake in spelling of a German word deprived us of dessert; the miscalculation of the meeting-place of those two fatal trains, which seem to exert a strange fascination on the teachers of arithmetic all over the world, meant that the guilty party had to kneel for a full hour, with his nose turned toward the wall; a shy repartee never failed to bring the heavy ruler on our heads or wrists, and the very thought of disobeying the orders of this or that teacher was accompanied by a resounding slap.

Once in a while, feeling the formation of a lump in our throats, we would attempt to come out with a declaration of independence; then a grave report would be presented to our father just before lunch-time, mentioning the names of the ringleaders, as it was his exclusive prerogative to attend to the thrashing.

It shall always remain a mystery to me how such an inane system did not succeed in dulling our wits and fostering a hatred for all subjects we had to study in our childhood.

I must add, however, that all the sovereigns of Europe seemed to have agreed that their sons should be beaten into the realization of their future responsibilities. Many years afterward, while exchanging reminiscences with Kaiser Wilhelm, I appreciated the comparative mildness of my Tiflis teachers; his heir, the crown prince of Germany, who had married one of my nieces by that time, dryly added that the amount of punishment dealt to an imperial father invariably fails to soften the path of his son.

Lunches and dinners, so enjoyable in most families, brought no relief to the hard routine of our upbringing.

The viceroy of the Caucasus had to represent the Emperor in his relations with the millions of people inhabiting the southeast of Russia, and we could never sit at the table with less than thirty or forty guests. Government officials who came from St. Petersburg; Oriental potentates on their way to see the Czar; commandants of the outlying military districts; socially prominent persons accompanied by their wives; aides-de-camp and ladies-in-waiting; officers of the bodyguard and a score of tutors—all used this opportunity of expressing their political views and soliciting special favors.

We children had to watch our p’s and q’s, and not speak until spoken to. How many times, nearly bursting with a desire to tell our father of the marvelous fortress built by us on the top of the mountain back of the palace, or of the new Japanese flowers planted by our gardener, we had to keep silent and listen to a pompous general commenting on the folly of Disraeli’s latest undertaking!

Whenever addressed by the guests, which was done of course solely as a matter of politeness toward the powerful viceroy, we had to confine our answers to the expressions prescribed by a rigorous etiquette.

A lady inquiring with an unnaturally sweet smile on her lips as to my ambitions for the future, knew in advance that Grand Duke Alexander would be severely reprimanded by his parents should he express an intention to become a fireman or an engineer. My choice of a career lay between the cavalry commanded by my uncle Nicholas, the artillery supervised by my father, and the imperial fleet headed by my uncle Constantin.

“Nothing could be so splendid for a boy in your position,” usually said the lady, “as to follow in the steps of your illustrious father.”

What sensible reply could have been made to this supposition, considering that twelve pairs of eyes of my teachers were glaring straight into my face and were putting the dignified words in my mouth?

My brother George once chanced to confess his inclination for portrait painting. He was greeted with the ominous silence of all parties assembled at the table, and understood his mistake shortly afterward, when the majestic tower of cherry and vanilla ice-cream glided past his place without a stop.

The seating order of the table precluded any possibility of giggling at the peculiarities of the guests or whispering among ourselves: we were never permitted to sit next to each other, but were sandwiched between the grown-up persons. It was pointed out to us in no uncertain terms that we had to behave toward our neighbors just as the viceroy would have done himself. Laughing at poor jokes and simulating a vivid interest in the political developments abroad entered into our obligations of hospitality, and developed in us a sense of self-relying resourcefulness.

Every minute of our time we had to bear in mind that some day we would be taken to that Russia which lay hidden behind the chain of mountains. There while visiting in the palace of our reigning uncle, we would be grateful to those who had made us acquire all these excellent manners! Otherwise our cousins would point fingers at us and call us “the savage Caucasians.”

Then for an hour after lunch and twenty minutes after dinner we were allowed to play in our father’s study, an enormous room laid with gorgeous Persian rugs and decorated with Caucasian swords, rifles and pistols. Its windows over-looking the Golovinsky Prospect (the main thoroughfare of Tiflis) provided an unforgettable view of Oriental pageantry. We never tired watching the tall swarthy mountaineers in their gray, brown and red cherkeskas, mounted on splendid spirited horses, with their hands resting on the hilts of gold and silver daggers covered with glittering precious stones. Accustomed to the different nationalities who came to see the viceroy, we recognized the lackadaisical Persians wearing silken robes that stood out vividly against the background of the sober black costumes of the Georgians and the conventional uniforms of our guards. Armenian vendors of fruit, gloomy Tartars astride their mules, and yellow-skinned Bucharans yelling at their overburdened camels provided the rest of this ever-moving picture.

The enormous bulk of Kasbek mountain—its snow-covered peak piercing skies of the richest blue—dominated the narrow winding streets which ran toward the market-places sizzling with restless humanity, and the melodious sound of the rapid river Kura brought an element of peaceful harmony into the atmosphere of this shrieking capital.

Too much beauty in one’s early surroundings may tend to develop a sad character, but we were supremely happy during those short intermissions between drills and the educational grind. We wanted to stay forever in Tiflis. We had no use for European Russia. Our local Caucasian patriotism made us consider the gold-braided envoys of St. Petersburg with a mixture of mistrust and contempt. The Emperor of Russia would have been painfully surprised to learn that every day, from one to two and from eight to eight-thirty in the evening, his five nephews in the far-away south were plotting a near-secession. Fortunately for the empire, our tutors kept their vigilant guard, and just at the moment when we were about to distribute most important posts among the five of us, an unpleasant voice would be certain to remind us that the French irregular verbs awaited their victims in the classroom.

At the stroke of nine we had to retire to our bedroom, put on long white shirts (pajamas had not reached Russia as yet) and fall asleep at once. Even then we continued to be under close observation. Not less than five times during the night a tutor would enter our quarters and cast a suspicious look at the five human bundles hidden under the blankets.

Shortly before midnight we would be awakened by the sound of clinking spurs which signified the arrival of our father. Disregarding the remonstrances of our mother, he believed that future soldiers should sleep despite the most terrific noises.

“What are they going to do later on,” he used to remark, “when they will have to steal a few hours’ rest to the accompaniment of a heavy cannonade?”

I can still see his tall figure and serious handsome face bending over our beds, while he blessed us with the broad movement of his strong hand. Before leaving, he would mutter a short prayer asking the Almighty to help him make good Christians and faithful subjects of Russia out of his five sons. No religious doubt ever entered his clear-cut convictions. He believed in every word written in the Scriptures, and his accounts with the Divine Forces were being kept in perfect order: as a powerful administrator, he supervised rendering unto God that which was God’s, expecting that everything which was Cæsar’s would in turn be rendered unto Cæsar.

From the point of view of our parents and tutors we grew to be a nice bunch of healthy children, but the modern scientists would have detected in our natures the unmistakable traces of love-starvation. We ourselves did suffer from extreme loneliness. We had nobody to talk with. Our position kept us away from other children of our age, and each one of us was too proud to complain of his sufferings to his brothers.

The very thought of interrupting our father’s busy occupations with a vague conversation on no particular subject would have struck us as something little short of madness. Our mother dedicated all her efforts to the ungrateful task of suppressing even the slightest exterior signs of tenderness or affection; in her early youth she fell a victim to the far-fetched ideas of Spartan education advocated in her native Germany.

GRAND DUKE ALEXANDER AT THE AGE OF FOUR

THE FUTURE EMPRESS MARIE OF RUSSIA, IN 1876, HOLDING HER DAUGHTER XENIA

GRAND DUKE ALEXANDER IN ITALY AT THE AGE OF FIVE

AN IMPERIAL PICNIC PARTY IN THE EARLY 80’S, WITH CZAR ALEXANDER III STANDING IN THE CENTER AND GRAND DUCHESS XENIA ON THE EXTREME LEFT.

While thoroughly democratic in our dealings with the servants, we had to remember that a grand duke should never show the tiniest weakness in the presence of his inferiors. He must always keep a satisfied appearance, hiding his sorrows beneath a bright Russian shirt of blue silk.

There remained our sister Anastasia. We worshiped that tall dark-haired girl who was the exclusive favorite of our father; but when talking to her, we liked to pose as the faithful knights ready and willing to execute the orders of their “dame sans merci.” We put at her feet all the love stored during months and years of dull military drills. We were extremely jealous of her and felt a terrific heartache when the young Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin came to Tiflis to make the acquaintance of his fiancée. Our instinctive dislike for his elegant German manner of clicking his heels and kissing hands reached the proportions of hatred: when our brother Nicholas discovered the real purpose of his visit. The arrival of our future brother-in-law deprived us of the only outlet for our affection, and we turned toward Nature—that had always been kind and spoke in terms of hope.

Allowed to remain outside during the winter but one hour, we counted impatiently the days separating us from the advent of spring. Our vacations lasted six weeks, and were spent either in Borjom, the enormous country estate of our father near Tiflis, or on the Black Sea, in the Crimean residence of the Emperor.

I shall always think kindly of scarlet fever, for this illness enabled me to experience the happiest summer of my life. I was eight. I fell ill and became unconscious on the way to Borjom, whence my parents intended to go to St. Petersburg to visit with the Czar. The doctors diagnosed scarlet fever at once, and I was left in Borjom in the care of a lady-in waiting, an aide-de-camp and two court physicians. For six joyful weeks I stayed in bed, being petted by them and feeling myself the center of attention.

Every afternoon a military band brought close to the house played my favorite songs. Scores of persons passing through the Caucasus journeyed to Borjom to pay their respects to the son of the viceroy, and the majority of them brought boxes of candy, toys and books by Fenimore Cooper. My two doctors readily consented to play Indians. Armed with the sword of the aide-de-camp, they would attempt to scalp the terror-stricken lady-in-waiting, who then in strict accord with her part would call for the help of the Fearless-White-Man-of-Two-Guns. The latter, leaning against the pillows, took an excellent aim at her torturers, and his pellets crashed straight against their foreheads.

The period of my convalescence brought about a series of picnics in the near-by woods and mountains. With every one of the tutors away in St. Petersburg, there were no lessons to attend, and we would leave early in the morning in a comfortable carriage drawn by four sturdy native horses. It took one’s breath away to watch these little animals climb with utmost ease up the stiffest hills over a slippery road. Their calisthenics always reminded me of an episode which happened the year before during the visit of the Shah of Persia in Tiflis. This Oriental sovereign, a short man of generous plumpness, had become frightened while taken on a tour of inspection in the mountains, and jumping out of the vehicle, yelled at my mother: “Mourez seule!” (“You’ll have to die alone!”)

My happy days were filled with gathering blackberries, playing dominoes and listening to tales of the old Caucasus. I nearly cried with disappointment when the doctor pronounced me completely cured and a telegram arrived advising us of the approaching return of my family. I knew that for the first and last time in my childhood I had been given the chance of a friendly intercourse with grown-up people, who saw nothing unusual or offensive in showing a little affection for a lonely boy left in their care.

Back in Tiflis I listened with indifference to the excited conversation of my brothers. They never stopped admiring the splendors of the imperial palace in St. Petersburg, but I wouldn’t have exchanged my summer in Borjom for all the diamonds of the Russian crown. I could have told them that while they had to behave at the table of our uncle, surrounded by smiling courtiers and tiptoeing butlers, I lay for hours in the tall grass watching the red, blue, yellow and mauve patches of flowers covering the slopes of the mountain, and following the flight of the larks that had a habit of rising all the way up and then coming down like a stone to protect their nests. I remained silent, however, for I feared my simple happiness would be ridiculed.

The year 1875 marks a significant date in my childhood: my brother Alexis was born shortly after Christmas, and I met two persons who were destined to become my lifelong friends.

My parents took all possible precautions to conceal from us the real circumstances accompanying the birth of a child. We were expected to combine a thorough knowledge of modern artillery with a sincere belief in the stork.

The booming of one hundred and one guns caused us considerable surprise.

“The Almighty deemed it necessary,” explained our military tutor, “to send another son to Their Imperial Highnesses.”

On the second day we were permitted to enter our mother’s apartment and see our brother. For no good reason at all everybody smiled and thought we boys should be jealous. My brothers said nothing. I myself was filled with sympathy for the newcomer. I hoped for his sake that by the time he grew up, all our teachers would have passed out of existence. Looking at the wrinkled reddish face of the baby, I felt distinct pity.

The ceremony of baptism took place three weeks later and was preceded by a mammoth parade of the garrison. The music played and the crowds shouted, while the baby, carried in the arms of the eldest lady-in-waiting, was being escorted to the cathedral by numerous military and civil dignitaries.

Poor Alexis rested quietly on a silk cushion, in his long white-lace robe, with the blue ribbon of St. Andrew—the highest decoration in Russia—attached to his tiny breast. The touch of cold water made him shriek at the top of his voice. He had to be submerged three times while the archbishop read a special prayer. Then amidst the same pomp, music and excitement, he was taken back to his mother. Neither she nor our father could have been present at the ceremony, as the Greek Orthodox Church does not allow parents to witness the dedication of their child to God. This age-old rule happened to be extremely significant in the case of our little brother: Alexis remained on this earth for but a short time: he died from galloping consumption at the age of twenty. Although attached to him stronger than to any other member of my family, I never regretted his passing away. A brilliant boy of liberal heart and absolute sincerity, he suffered acutely in the atmosphere of the palace.

That spring we left Tiflis earlier than usual, to spend six weeks in the Crimean estate of our uncle. We were met at the port of Yalta by the Emperor himself, who said he was anxious to see the most savage of his Caucasian nephews, and proceeded to the beautiful palace of Livadia, famous for its exquisite gardens.

A long spectacular flight of stairs led straight down to the Black Sea. That same day, while jumping over its marble steps, in a great flurry of pleasant anticipations, I bumped into a smiling boy of my age walking beside a nurse with an infant in her arms. We sized each other up; then he extended his hand and said:

“I guess you are my cousin Sandro. I didn’t see you last summer in St. Petersburg. Your brothers said you were ill with scarlet fever. Don’t you know me? I am your cousin Nicky, and this is my little sister Xenia.”

His kind eyes and pleasant manner appealed to me at once. My distrust of all northerners suddenly gave way to a strong desire to be chummy with this particular one. He also must have taken a fancy for me, because our friendship, formed at that very moment, lasted forty-two years. The elder son of the then heir apparent, Alexander Alexandrovich, he was to inherit the throne in 1894, the last representative of the house of Romanoff to rule over the Russian Empire.

I frequently disagreed with his policies and wished he had shown better judgment in choosing his counselors and more determination in some of his decisions; but all this concerned Emperor Nicholas II and did not in the least affect my relations with “Cousin Nicky.” Nothing could have altered in my mind the image of the cheerful boy in a little pink shirt, who stood on the marble steps of the long stairs in Livadia pointing at the sailing ships on the horizon and squinting his dreamy, curiously shaped eyes at the sunset. . . . I married his sister Xenia nineteen years later.

Now I was entering upon the tenth year of my life and the third year of my learning, which meant that a new set of studies and military exercises would be added to my duties.

Brought up amongst the grown-ups and hearing so much talk of the heavy responsibilities facing a grand duke, I was already pondering over problems which are usually reserved for a more mature age. Strange to say, my emotional, spiritual and intellectual development had preceded my sexual awakening by several years. Not until 1882, when my parents moved definitely to St. Petersburg, where I commenced to attend the ballet performances, did that troublesome restlessness make itself felt. Up to that time, possibly as a result of severe discipline, I had remained pure, both in desire and in thought. The study of the Old Testament, so likely to affect a child’s imagination, impressed me from an entirely different angle. Utterly unconscious of its sexual significance, I worried over the legal aspects of the Adam and Eve episode. I thought it extremely unjust on the part of God to banish these two innocent people from Paradise. In the first place, God could have ordered Satan to let them alone; and in the second place, why did He create the perfidious fruit that caused humanity so much suffering?

Father Titoff, slightly suspicious of me since the day of my first confession, had tried in vain to plead the cause of the Old Testament. He let me go on for a while, praying for the salvation of my soul from the abyss of disbelief, but finally lost patience and threatened to report me to my father. This unanswerable argument killed my interest in his lessons, and I turned my battery of questions against the teachers of geography and natural history.

Like most Russian boys, I contemplated the possibility of running away to America, and learned the names of all the states, principal cities and rivers in the United States. I never gave a moment of peace to Admiral Vesselago, who was considered somewhat of an expert on American affairs, having participated in the Russian naval demonstration staged in American territorial waters in 1863 as a protest of Emperor Alexander II against British interference in the Civil War. I wanted to know whether it was safe for a boy to walk in the streets of New York without being properly armed.

Half a century later, swapping tales of childhood with my late friend Myron T. Herrick, I was deeply moved by his description of the effect produced in the Middle West by the arrival of the Russian squadron.

“I realize,” Herrick related, “that it must have been the darkest moment in the history of the Union. I was too young to follow the events, but my mother walked around the farm with eyes swollen by constant crying. She had the greatest difficulty in finding laborers, as all the young men had joined the army. One morning, when I played in the back yard, I suddenly heard my mother scream:

“ ‘Myron, Myron, come here quick!’ I rushed to her, thinking that something awful had happened. Standing in the center of the room, with a single sheet of newspaper in her hands, heavy tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, she repeated over and over again: ‘Myron, we are saved.’ The Russians had arrived. ‘Myron, we are saved!’ At that time I knew very little of the nations living outside the United States. There were the perfidious English whom we had to beware of, and there were the French who had written those naughty books so often discussed in the general store; but who were the Russians? ‘Mother,’ I asked, ‘are they anything like the Indians? Do they scalp people?’

“Too bad,” concluded Mr. Herrick, “that you did not run away to America. We would have had lots of things to tell to each other if you had reached Ohio in time to catch me on the farm.”

Beginning with the fall of 1876 the conversation around our dinner-table centered on the imminence of a war with Turkey. All other topics were brushed aside, as everybody realized that our proximity to the Turkish border would force the Caucasian army to act with lightning speed. The visitors from St. Petersburg gave vivid pictures of the atrocities committed by the Turks in the Slavonic states, and several officers on father’s staff had asked his permission to join the Bulgarian army as volunteers.

Our daily military exercises acquired a new significance. We discussed how we should act in case the Turks attempted to attack Tiflis and the palace. We envied the age of our elder brother Nicholas. At eighteen, he would certainly be entitled to join the army and cover himself with glory; we had been taught from infancy that war meant glory. Nobody told us of the casualties suffered by Russia during the Napoleonic and Crimean wars. We knew the names of the generals decorated with the Order of St. George, and we thrilled at the exploits of the heroes who had defended Sebastopol. Our teachers and our books neglected to mention the existence of hospitals, badly in need of bandages, and the heavy toll of human lives exacted by typhoid fever. Death itself was never discussed in our presence. Our reigning forebears never died: they “passed away in peace.”

Around that time a bold murder took place in Tiflis. The two bandits had been promptly caught, court-martialed and condemned to the gallows. Their execution took place on an elevated platform not far from the palace.

Coming down to the classroom, we saw all our tutors gathered in front of the windows in a state of terrific excitement and glaring at something. Instead of ordering us back to our quarters, they made a motion for us to approach the windows. Not realizing what was really happening, we witnessed the gruesome spectacle.

Dense crowds were standing in front of the gallows, looking at the executioner, who was attending to the last preparations.

Then two pale figures appeared and were pushed toward him from behind. A moment later two pairs of stockinged feet swung in the air. I screamed and turned my head away.

“Grand Duke Alexander will never make a good soldier,” said our military tutor sententiously.

I wanted to shriek at him, jump on him, strike him; but a nauseating feeling of sickness kept me paralyzed.

Several days passed before that awful sight left my mind. I walked around as in a dream, not daring to look through the windows lest I should see those two again. I did my lessons and answered the questions put to me, but could not gather my thoughts. It was as though a hurricane had passed over my soul, leaving in its wake the débris of all that had been planted there by three years of study.