The Grand Duchess of Nowhere (17 page)

Cyril got no leave for the rest of the year and his letters were written in a kind of code.

We feel the heat of the Sun, even here. Has it wandered from its ordained orbit?

Mrs Nicholas and her pet monkey seem to have taken up playing with toy soldiers
.

Cyril now says that Empress Sunny had sight of every order, every map, every military decision that was committed to paper.
And whatever Sunny saw, Rasputin undoubtedly saw too. Cyril isn’t given to exaggeration. He swears everyone at the Stavka knew Nicky was leaking like a sieve but when anyone tried to raise it with him he’d go off in an Imperial huff, shut himself away in his railway carriage and write another billet-doux to Sunny.

All I knew was what was happening in Petrograd. In February 1916 half of the Council of Ministers resigned. The news was sent to Nicky and his rather comical reply was that they needed his permission to resign and permission was denied. Sunny made matters worse. She said the Council of Ministers were traitors, every one. Not only must their attempted resignations be ignored, but they must be sacked immediately and replaced with better, loyal men. It would be no trouble at all because she already had a list of suitable candidates.

After that it became rather like a dangerous party game. Whenever the music stopped yet another of Rasputin’s recommendations was to be found wearing a ministerial hat. Sturmer became Prime Minister. He was a famous mediocrity but Rasputin recommended him. Then Polivanov was removed as War Minister. Miechen heard it from Bertie Stopford and called me immediately.

She said, ‘Polivanov is replaced by Shuvayev! Can you believe it? He must be a hundred if he’s a day.’

Actually Shuvayev wasn’t quite that old but everyone knew it wasn’t a wise change. He was just a faithful old dog. He should have been left to sleep in his basket. A War Minister needs teeth.

There was worse to come. Protopopov was promoted as new Minister of the Interior. It wasn’t that he was incompetent. He was perhaps out of his depth but those in power often are. The real problem with Protopopov was that he tried to be all things to all men. He’d always appeared to be a reformer but suddenly he abhorred any talk of reform. He’d deplored Rasputin, but then he became Rasputin’s friend and Sunny’s man, willing to do whatever made her happy,
whatever would keep the throne safe for Nicky and then for Alyosha.

Things began to unravel. Nothing was ever where it should have been. An army needs munitions but factories can’t make them if they run out of fuel and metal. People must be fed but they won’t be if the railways are clogged with trains going nowhere. Russia was too big to be run from Sunny’s mauve couch.

Cyril returned to Petrograd in the autumn of 1916. His new posting was to the Kronstadt garrison so he was often able to come home and see the girls before their bedtime even if he couldn’t stay to dine. He was horrendously busy. Quite often he’d have a late meeting and have to go back to the base rather than sleep at home, but it seemed to suit him. I’d never seen him looking so well. Miechen noticed it too.

She said, ‘I suppose he’s got a girl.’

I’m afraid Miechen had no concept of how busy a senior naval officer is in time of war.

She said, ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s only normal, after all. How long have you been married?’

Then she slid the knife between my ribs.

She said, ‘If only your complexion had held up better. You are using Pond’s, I hope?’

I didn’t mind her criticism. Well, I did, a bit.

‘You know how it is,’ she said. ‘Men can grow jowls and nose hairs but if they’ve got a bit of jingle to spend the girls will still go for them. But the first wrinkle and we’re finished. But never mind. Cyril’s discreet, just as his father was. I’m sure he’ll never bring any trouble under your roof.’

I laughed at her. I knew women like Miechen and Mother took their husbands’ carryings-on for granted but Cyril and I were a different case entirely. We were kept apart for too long for either of us to have any appetite for love affairs. Cyril kept himself vigorous for me, not for some silly soubrette. Or so I thought.

I’m afraid to say it often didn’t feel as though we were at war. So many of our menfolk were back in town, especially towards the end of 1916. Miechen entertained, on a suitably restrained scale, and there was almost a full programme at the Mariinsky. That’s not to say things were completely normal. There were days when one couldn’t get proper
kalach
for breakfast, even from Filippov’s. There were days when it was difficult to find petrol. But the war wasn’t thrilling any more. People were bored and restless. That was when Peach started to be so contrary and at times quite rude.

‘Is that your greatest problem?’ she said to me one morning. ‘That you have to eat yesterday’s bread?’

I was shocked. A Russian servant would never be so rude to one’s face.

Then Masha said, ‘When is Peach leaving?’

‘She isn’t.’

‘Well, when she made Kira do her seven-times table over and over and Kira told her she didn’t like her she said “you’ll miss me when I’m gone”.’

‘It’s just a thing governesses say.’

Nevertheless I sent for Peach.

I said, ‘The girls have the impression you’re thinking of leaving us.’

‘Not immediately,’ she said. ‘But nothing lasts forever.’

‘Well, you won’t be able to sail for England till after the thaw, and even then it’ll be fearfully dangerous. Look what happened to poor Herbert Kitchener.’

‘I don’t intend going to England,’ she said. ‘I mean to stay in Russia and see what happens.’

See what happens. It sounded slightly batty at the time, like those people who carry boards, THE END IS NIGH. But Peach saw it coming, I suppose because of the neighbourhoods she ventured into on her half-day. She never went for a walk with the other English governesses. She seemed to prefer her own company, but as her Russian improved, and to be truthful it overtook mine in no time, she began mixing with certain types.

I said, ‘Then if you intend staying in Russia, why leave a perfectly good position? Has another family made you an offer?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m rather tired of governessing. It’s very tying. Half a day a week isn’t much time off. And I don’t even get that if it isn’t convenient to you.’

‘But I make it up to you.’

‘No, you don’t. You forget.’

I said, ‘So, what do you intend to do? How will you live? Do you have an income?’

I knew she didn’t.

With friends, she said. She’d live with Russian friends. And when I asked her what she’d do for money she laughed.

‘Money?’ she said. ‘That’ll soon be a thing of the past. It’ll be fair shares for all.’

I’d never heard anything like it. I called Miechen.

She said, ‘It sounds to me as though she’s losing her mind. Perhaps she’s going through the climacteric? You had better get rid of her at once.’

She said she’d find me a replacement. With half the Vladimir Palace given up for a hospital she had far more servants than she needed.

I said, ‘But a maid’s no use to me. Even if Masha goes to the Smolny next year, I’ll still need a proper governess for Kira.’

‘Well, Ducky,’ she said, ‘we must all make sacrifices. There is a war on, you know.’

So there was discontent in our schoolroom and discontent, so we heard, on the streets. Political meetings were the great new fashion. They were held in upper rooms and back rooms, and on any evening you might choose from half a dozen of them. What did they discuss? Change, according to Cyril. But what changes exactly?

‘That depends which meeting you go to,’ he said.

All through December there was a procession of senior Romanovs, anxious to talk to Emperor Nicky and acquaint him with the mood of the people. There must be an elected government, sooner rather than later, and it must be willing and able to make reforms. The days of a Tsar having the power of life and death over all of Russia were disappearing. Petrograd wouldn’t stand for it any more and where Petrograd led the rest of the country would soon follow.

Uncle Bimbo was the first to see Nicky. He went all the way to the Stavka to give him a paper he’d written, a kind of essay on the state of the nation.

‘Thought it best to put it in writing,’ Uncle Bimbo said. ‘To avoid any misunderstandings. Poor blighter looked dead on his feet. I told him to read my report when he wasn’t so tired. Nothing in it he doesn’t know in his heart, I’m sure. Things have to change. For a start Sunny must be deprived of the Regency and Rasputin must be sent back down the hole he crawled from.’

But Nicky didn’t read Uncle Bimbo’s report. He just sent it on to
Sunny in the next Imperial bag and after she’d read it she allowed her fury to be widely known. Uncle Bimbo, she said, was guilty of treasonous sentiments. She wanted him punished. We were worried for him but he appeared not to care. Instead of leaving town as everyone advised he went out to Tsarskoe Selo every day to potter around his hothouses and be right under Sunny’s nose.

He said, ‘If she wants my guts for garters, let her come and get them. Personally I’m not afraid of her. I only fear her for Russia’s sake. If Nicky doesn’t listen to older, wiser heads we’re liable to end up with troubles far worse than Empress Nincompoop.’

Uncle Paul was the next to try. He waited till Nicky was back at Tsarskoe Selo for a few days. That was a mistake. At the Alexander Palace no one saw the Emperor on official business without Sunny sitting in or listening through an open door.

Sweet, reasonable Uncle Paul. If anyone could have persuaded Nicky to stop and think, to make some concessions before the matter was taken out of his hands, surely he was the one to manage it, but Sunny interrupted and countered every suggestion he made.

‘Paul Alexandrovich,’ she said to him, ‘you seem to forget, the Emperor has a sacred duty to pass the throne to his son, not to give half of it away.’

But it was Uncle Paul’s criticism of Rasputin that tipped her into an absolute rage. How dare he! Grigory Rasputin was the Imperial Family’s beloved friend. He’d saved the Tsesarevich’s life on several occasions and would continue to do so. He wanted nothing for himself. Only the well-being of his Emperor and Empress and their children.

Uncle Paul said, ‘Beloved friend! Can you imagine? She calls that fleabag their beloved friend! And all the time she was berating me, Nicky just sat there, puffing on a
papirosa
. Never said a word.’

Cyril said all we could hope was that Rasputin would be his
own undoing, that he’d overstep some invisible mark laid down by Nicky and be banished.

He said, ‘If you ask me, Paul and Bimbo have only made things worse. We’d do well to keep our opinions to ourselves. We just have to hope Sunny gives her Beloved Friend enough rope to hang himself.’

But there was one last attempt made to bring Nicky and Sunny to their senses. Aunt Ella came, all the way from Moscow. She’d taken the veil after Uncle Serge was killed and I must say she looked quite lovely. She’d designed her own habit. Dove grey and white. Very sensible and flattering. Black can look so draining as one gets older.

Cyril had warned her it was likely to be a wasted journey because Sunny was deaf to all advice. Ella said nevertheless she must try. Sunny might be the Empress of All the Russias, but she was also her baby sister and she would never forgive herself if she didn’t try to pull her back from the edge of calamity. In Moscow, she said, there was a new slogan being paraded quite openly.

Doloy Sashe
. Down with Sasha! Which was both treasonous and disrespectful, to refer to Empress Alexandra as Sasha. Imagine if Grandma Queen’s subjects had gone about calling her ‘Vicky’.

Aunt Ella lunched with us before she went to see Sunny. I walked her as far as the Children’s Pond before I turned for home. She was back in my drawing room within the hour. I believe she’d been crying.

‘Hopeless,’ she said.

She and Sunny hadn’t exactly quarrelled but she’d quite failed to persuade her of the gravity of the situation and they’d parted in icy silence.

Aunt Ella said, ‘I suppose my timing wasn’t the best. Nicky left for the Stavka this morning. When he’s gone she must feel terribly lonely.’

All the more reason then to welcome a rare visit from a dear sister.

Cyril said, ‘Was Sunny quite alone? The serpent wasn’t coiled at her feet?’

Aunt Ella crossed herself. ‘Please, Cyril,’ she said, ‘don’t judge the monk Grigory. Leave that to God.’

‘So was he there?’

‘I didn’t see him. But I had the strongest feeling he was there somewhere, listening. What does it matter? They say Sunny tells him everything anyway. Perhaps he was outside the door.’

It was very much what George Buchanan had said.

‘In conversation with the Tsar, one has the distinct feeling a feminine ear is pressed to the keyhole, and when one talks to the Tsarina, one detects a whiff of sulphur from the next room.’

Sunny had told Aunt Ella she would hear no criticism of Grigory Rasputin. Not only had he saved Alyosha’s life but he also came highly recommended by at least two bishops and she thought Ella would concede that a bishop’s opinion always carries more weight than that of a nun, particularly a nun who didn’t even submit to the authority of an abbess. Ella managed to smile at that jibe. But when she’d offered to leave, Sunny had said it would be best.

Aunt Ella said, ‘We didn’t even kiss goodbye.’

I tried to cheer her up.

I said, ‘Sunny’s never good face to face. You know that. When you get back to Moscow write her a letter. Just tell her you love her.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. But, Ducky, I have the most awful feeling I’ll never see her again.’

We had a good birchwood fire burning but I still felt a chill when she said that. Cyril said it was just Aunt Ella having one of her mystical moments.

He said, ‘Of course they’ll see each other again. If Nicky carries on the way he’s going we’ll all end up in bloody Norfolk. Better start sewing your diamonds into your drawers, darling.’

I said, ‘I don’t have many diamonds.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said. ‘And your emeralds.’

*

The first proper snow came. Big, slow-falling flakes. Kira and Masha liked to stand outside and catch them on their tongues. It was the day before Miechen’s Christmas bazaar so I went into town and stayed at Glinka Street. Cyril was going to a party at the Akvarium.

I said, ‘Why don’t I come with you?’

We’d seen so little of each other lately in spite of his home posting.

He said, ‘I don’t think so, darling. Not tonight. It’s not that kind of party.’

Just men letting off steam, he said. I called the Yusupov palace. If it was that kind of party Felix was sure to be going. I thought Rina and I might have tea and exchange magazines. But Rina was away from home. She’d taken the baby south, to escape the Petrograd winter.

Cyril came in extremely late but rather frisky. I know they sometimes have tableaux at the Akvarium. Girls without corsets, or even in the altogether, though not in December one imagines. I heard him go to the drawer where he kept his rubber goods. I heard him whisper, ‘Damnation.’

It was the coldest night of the year. I was glad to have him to warm my feet on.

The telephone woke us. It was still completely dark. I expected Cyril to ring for shaving water at once but he came back to bed.

I said, ‘Is there a flap on? Do you have to go in?’

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘That was Bimbo.’

Before he could say any more the telephone rang again, and again. I got up.

I said, ‘What’s going on? Did someone die?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But Sunny’s ju-ju man is missing.’

It seemed rather early in the day for anyone to be reported missing. I’m sure there were plenty of men still weaving their way home with sore heads. But Uncle Bimbo had it from Betsy Trubetskoy and Betsy had it from three different sources, though she couldn’t quite remember where they had it from. Grigory Rasputin had gone out for the evening and never returned home.

I said, ‘I wouldn’t depend on Betsy for information.’

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But George Buchanan thinks there’s something afoot.’

Miechen telephoned at eight thirty. I’d never known her to be up so early.

Cyril kept saying, ‘Ma, please, do
not
start calling everyone in your book. It’s just a rumour.’

He came back to the breakfast table.

He said, ‘My mother will get us all into trouble one of these days. Rasputin may well be the Devil incarnate and Sunny is certainly a dangerous fool, but she’s still our Empress. One must be careful.’

Uncle Bimbo came to the house. Cyril said they’d better talk in his study. Man talk.

I said, ‘You might at least tell me what you’re going to talk about. I have to go to your mother’s wretched Christmas bazaar.’

Cyril said, ‘All the more reason to tell you nothing. What you don’t know you can’t repeat.’

So infuriating. Uncle Bimbo winked at me.

He said, ‘Don’t fret, Ducky. It’s all something and nothing, I’m sure. Rasputin’s probably asleep under a table somewhere, like the dog he is. Fine thing.’

Grigory Rasputin was all anyone talked about at the Sale of Work. Actually it was rather good for business because people shopped mindlessly. They threw money at us and filled their bags with spectacle cases and doilies and crocheted angels the quicker to get back to discussing the exciting question of the day: where was the Empress’s miracle-worker?

Miechen asked me to stay to luncheon.

‘Just you,’ she said. ‘And Bertie Stopford. If there’s any news, Bertie will have it.’

He came late, but he brought an armful of Crimean tuberoses and plenty of information for us to chew on. Rasputin was still missing. His daughters were accustomed to his late hours but said he always came home, eventually. His bed had not been slept in. As to where he’d spent the evening, the stories varied. He’d been at Villa Rhode all evening. He’d left in a troika, with two gypsy girls, at around midnight. No, no, he’d dined at Kubat, then gone off in a motor. Possibly a Delage. Destination unknown.

Rasputin’s daughters swore he hadn’t dined anywhere. He’d been feeling unwell and had planned to stay at home all evening, but then Felix Yusupov had persuaded him, quite pressed him, to go to a little soirée he and Rina were giving at Moika Street. Told him Rina wanted most particularly to seek his advice on something.