Queen Marie of România

It is not as a judge that I wish to speak of the Tsar Nicholas II, late sovereign of all the Russians, but as a relative and friend, for I am of his blood and his race. Cruelly stricken myself, by the great modern tragedy, I feel it my duty to speak with kindness of a man whom I consider as a martyr, especially in these hours when the official world does not rise to defend him.

Is there a more tragic fate than to have possessed all, to have been placed as high as a man could be, to have had the power for good or evil put between one’s hands and then not to have been able to do anything with it, not to have known how to guide a great country which was trembling with a desire to advance toward the light! The Tsar’s name alone electrified millions of beings. He was at the same time a despot, a symbol, and the head of the Church; and also ‘the little father,’ a mystic being who belonged to everyone, a kind of household god familiar to all, the very keystone of the immense Empire. This power, this immense force which he really controlled, came to him in youth when he had all his life before him for the realization of his ideals, for the seeking of the light. But in a time in which all effort points toward progress he could only retreat. Therein lies the tragic element--the secret of his downfall--his fault, his very great fault.

Nevertheless, Nicholas II had high aspirations. He desired passionately the happiness of his giant people. His heart was tender and kind; he inclined toward all that was great and good. If he had been well surrounded, counseled by the right kind of men, and married to a clear-seeing woman with large views and modern ideas, who would have pushed him ahead instead of drawing him back, he might have become an immense instrument for the good of his people.

The exterior circumstances of his life are known. I shall not repeat them. I prefer to call forth more intimate visions, more personal souvenirs, images which my eyes have seen, emotions which have made their echo in my heart. Our roads did not often cross, but we were closely related and I knew the Tsar from my earliest childhood. My mother was the only daughter of the Tsar Alexander II.

The court of Russia was certainly one of the most brilliant in Europe. My mother came from it and as long as I can remember, all which pertained to this court possessed, in my childish eyes, an extraordinary prestige, a particular radiance to which nothing else could be compared. The Tsar was the central figure, as if the whole world turned about his mystic presence. Even to-day a kind of superstitious terror takes hold of me when I recall the atmosphere which surrounded the Tsar of all the Russias. I see again immense palaces, infinite numbers of soldiers and courtiers, large silent corridors with guards in bizarre uniforms, and before the doors, giant Cossacks in red robes, of savage aspect, with belts stuffed with pistols and daggers, and wearing huge fur bonnets on their heads. A special odor prevailed in these imperial dwellings, a strange mixture of turpentine and Russia leather which I have never found anywhere else. Drawn up before the portal, the great carriages waited; the bearded coachmen draped in their long surtouts of blue cloth busy quieting with their voices the splendid ‘Orlof’ horses who impatiently scraped the pavement, shook their long manes and swept the earth with their long tails. The horses were generally black, but often their golden flanks gleamed like cuirasses polished in the sun--some were white spotted with gray.

In these visions of Russia of the past, churches, chapels, and priests hold a great palace. I remember the marvelous chants rising toward the vaulted cupolas; the voices rich in profound sonorities, rising like bells of bronze above the silence in supernatural harmony. I see the shining gold and the precious stones; I see the splendor of the old icons and giant columns of precious porphyry and malachite. And in the shadows made luminous by the flames of many candles, I see the priests, young and old, in heavy vestments of gold brocade, performing strange rites which filled with terror my youthful imagination. The older men have snowy beards and long hair, but the younger ones recall strikingly the image of the Son of God, even as he is painted on the Russian icons. Their voices trouble my heart, while clouds of perfumed smoke rise from the censors.

And I see an infinity of faces; very beautiful women crowned with magnificent tiaras, almost bent under the weight of their jewels; and close by them very tall men in uniform, some smiling, some of severe visage, but one and all profoundly absorbed in the divine service, kneeling often, bowing their foreheads and, with contrite gestures, making a large sign of the cross.

My first memory of Nicholas II--or Niky, as we all called him--goes back to the time when he was but a boy. He was somewhat timid, with good gray-blue eyes, dreamy and preoccupied, with red lips which seemed formed for words of kindness. I think I see him still, clothed in the white summer uniform, come toward us down the long wooded avenue of his summer dwelling. I see him mounted on a Cossack horse whose long tail almost trails on the ground. A dozen Russian wolfhounds follow him, jumping at the head of the horse, wandering through the trees, supple and gracious like legendary animals, their eyes fixed upon the blonde youth who looks forward to so formidable a heritage. After the few words which he address to the other children, he goes away at a gallop and we follow him with our eyes hoping to see him return, to hear him speak again, to feel him looking at us with his dreamy eyes, so good, so caressing.

In 1894, Alexander III died, and Nicholas II ascended the throne. He was only twenty-six years old, and some weeks later he married Alice, Princess of Hesse, a very beautiful and very serious girl, who took the name of Alexandra when she became converted to the Orthodox religion.

I see again Nicholas at his coronation, at the moment of his greatest glory, at the height of his earthly power: the unique moment in which he stood before his people, the incarnate symbol of all which the Tsar then personified in the eyes of the great empire.

Those days of the coronation return to me in a series of images whose sumptuosity is fantastic. One saw all that exterior pomp rising from power in this world, and inherited from generation to generation, mingling with that mysticism inherent in everything in Russia. The young and beautiful Empress appears to me as impressive as the Tsar; both seem detached from mortality; one might have thought them two divinities whom great and small asked only to exalt. How well I see them both in their solemn entry into Moscow, the old legendary city in which the Tsars have always been crowned, in which to-morrow the sacred sign of power will be placed upon their heads, amid pomp and prayer, for good or for evil!

Principal figure of all the procession, Nicholas goes down the street on a large white horse. He does not appear in sumptuous garments, but wears the deep green uniform in which we are accustomed to see him, on his head the narrow round astrakhan toque which is characteristic of the Russian army. His breast is crossed by the blue ribbon of St. Andrew; the precious stones of the great orders sparkle upon the somber cloth of the garment. There is nothing magnificent, nothing very imposing either in his costume or his aspect. Once more we see the same dreamy eyes, the same friendly lips, which we had known as children-those lips formed only for friendly words. One does read, however, in his poise the calm dignity of one conscious of heavy duties. He salutes to the left and to the right, a suspicion of a kindly smile upon his lips.

On the following day Nicholas and his lovely companion were crowned in the old cathedral of the Kremlin and became the anointed monarchs of the greatest kingdom upon earth.

It was an interminably long ceremony but of fascinating beauty in its legendary form. So magnificent was it, that it seemed unreal as if one had been carried back to the days of the old histories.

The church is high, somber, and vaulted; the golden walls ornamented with archaic frescoes. Time has harmonized all the tones and marvelously softened the colors. A golden dust fills the sanctuary; within it, the expression of every face changes and becomes strange and mysterious; a solemn sense of waiting takes hold of all; the atmosphere becomes tense as if giant wings are beating somewhere in the shadows. All eyes are fixed upon the two figures of the man and woman to whom all are to render homage, the man and woman who will henceforth incarnate the fate of the great country.

Nicholas is pale; he seems to bend beneath the weight of the prodigious crown of his ancestors. His golden mantel seems to heavy for his shoulders and one thinks involuntarily of the giant stature of those who came before him. But in his eyes there is a mystic ardor.

The Empress has the air of wearing more easily the insignia of royalty: but her cheeks are burning, her eyes are feverish and her lips drawn. There is no gentleness in her expression. Even there in that golden cathedral, in the hour of her greatest glory, she seems to be defying an invisible enemy who might any moment attack her from the shade.

The ceremony is ended, the crowned couple leave the sanctuary; the sunshine of a spring day blazed out of doors. Followed by priests and high dignitaries, they slowly ascend steps covered with a red carpet, which lead toward a large terrace overlooking the populace--pages clad in scarlet and silver, carry the trains of their heavy mantles. Arrived at the terrace, they turn their faces toward their subjects. The sun falls hard upon them, shining on their fantastic jewels, while from below there rolls in heavy thunder the acclamation of the myriad voices of the crowd. Urged by an irresistible emotion, this crowd falls on its knees, regarding with ecstasy those two luminous figures which stand motionless above them like strange gods who are to be seen but once in a lifetime.

A cruel event marked the sumptuous days with a stain of blood. A great popular fête had been organized outside the town in a huge field. There the peasants were to be given souvenirs carrying the image of the Emperor. The newly crowned couple, followed by royal guests, were to go, in great pomp, to assist at the disposition of these souvenirs to the thousands of peasants who had come from the four quarters of the immense country. By some fault of organization, a riot ensued, and hundreds of men, women, and children who had come together to rejoice, lost their lives in a bloody disaster more murderous than a battle.

This deplorable event cast its shade upon all the following ceremonies and fêtes. The Tsarina, with her natural disposition to melancholy, was very sorrowful because of it. Many saw in it an evil presage for the new reign. ‘Begun in blood,’ said they, ‘it will finish in blood.’

The Living Age, 11 October 1919, pp. 157-160