Crimea. Autumn, 1902.
Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova.
Princess Helen is here, at the palace. She is a young brunette of about seventeen or eighteen years of age. The daughter of a Serbian prince and a student at the Smolny Institute of Noble Maidens. Helenʼs mother died twelve years ago, so she has lived with her aunts in Russia for quite some time.
My girls like her a lot. She is good with children and is playing with mine in the nursery as I watch, embroidering a shirt and seating on a couch next to Miss Eagar, who rocks my one-year-old Anastasia. My baby is tired now, but she was screaming just a few minutes ago, struggling to absorb the precious attention her sisters were bestowing upon their dolls. Not that this was done out of malice, of course. I donʼt think my little one was even aware of just how loudly she was screaming. I guess playing with her sisters simply makes her overly excited.
Princess Helen, her aunt Princess Vera, and some of her cousins came to have tea with us as they often do, and the young princess kept up playing with my girls. Just like my youthful sister-in-law Olga, Helen still possesses a playful spark that makes children feel drawn to her. Yesterday, with the sincere honesty only children are truly capable of, my big Olga said to me: "Mama, I really like Helen".
Having wrapped two of the dolls up in white bed sheets, the princess and my girls appear to be organizing a wedding for them.
"Tanechka!" Olga points at the bed sheet Tatiana has cleverly folded and unfolded so that it looks like a dress on the doll. "That is beautiful!"
"The wedding is when the girl looks pretty", Tatiana moves to take Olgaʼs doll and put together a similar dress for it. My eldest is delighted by her sister's kindness, and now Maria, who was pretending to drink tea with Princess Helen, is showing Tatiana her own doll so that she can make a dress for it as well.
I smile down and decide to watch them play together for a while. None of my girlies understand the significance of weddings yet, but that is to be expected. They also enjoy pretending to be nuns or peasant women, and they often do so while covering their little heads and bodies with brown blankets to simulate habits and head scarves. They used to do this a lot with their cousin Elizabeth.
My three oldest have become inseparable. They play in the playroom or the nurseries all day long and love building "houses" by positioning two chairs next to each other and then placing blankets on top of them. Nicky and I have been made to have "tea" inside those tiny spaces the girls call houses way too many times to count. I canʼt bear to think what it must be like for Miss Eagar.
I wish I were playing on the floor with my daughters right now, but I have come to grow tired rather easily lately. My chest often feels tight. My legs, heavy. Sometimes it even hurts to breathe. My heart still longs for that child who never was. I imagined that baby boy so many times I have yet to believe he isnʼt actually here. How I longed for that dear baby!
I wanted a boy, badly, although another baby girl would have also made me really happy... just not that, not that… I cried so much after the doctor told me. The tears simply wouldnʼt stop flowing. And Nicky, my poor Nicky, he was so very disappointed, I know it, but he is a saint.
My long-suffering Job, as my one and only always calls himself. My Nicky never once complained to me or conveyed the deep grief I truly believe his poor heart was enduring. He was too busy being the most perfect and gentlest of husbands to think about himself. Too busy comforting and reassuring me with both words and physical affection. Assuring me he loved me more than anything in this life and that God had made it happen for a reason. That I know. I trust God, and I know this heavy trial was sent to test my faith, but it still pains me so.
I focus on my daughters to distract myself from the bitter thoughts. Olga is squeezing Mariaʼs cheeks after she said, as my little Maria frequently does, something endearing about Olga or, to be precise, about her doll.
Those lovely giggles. I clearly remember how it felt holding each of them in my arms for the first time. They were all so pink and tiny! I canʼt even describe with words the love I felt. It was so big, so encompassing that no amount of kissing or cuddling those dear babies would have been enough to pour out all of my affection without asphyxiating the poor precious angels. I told Nicky about the joyous realization I had when I held Olga for the first time: It is through the love of mom and dad that babies first experience the love of the Lord. I felt it through my beloved parents, and now I am passing the feeling on.
How I longed to have another newborn around the house! Another baby to cherish. It feels not as if I had never been pregnant but as if I had lost him, my son. I was deprived of the chance to hold him and pour all of that love. I miss him.
As I recovered from the misfortune and was forced to engage with people again, I began to discern unkind whispers around me. I am no good, it is said. I bring bad luck and will never bear a son. Poor Nicky, is what they say, married to that crazy woman. It is never ʼpoor Alexandraʼ. I donʼt even know whether some of the whispers are real or imagined, for nothing is ever said to my face, and I can never pick out full sentences, but I can put the pieces together… and does it even matter what it is that they are saying out loud when I know what they are thinking? High society, not the real Russians. The real Russians are pure-hearted, hardworking, pious and humble people. Real Russians love their sovereigns.
But maybe there is something wrong with me indeed. I should have known better. I should have suspected something was wrong.
The baby wasnʼt kicking. I knew this very well, and yet instead of acknowledging the truth I tried to attribute any tiny sensation I experienced in my belly to him. I did worry on several occasions, but my friend Philippe would tell me not to, for he claimed to know my son was resting and thinking things through, important matters, as there would be hard times ahead once he was born.
I truly donʼt want to believe this, but it is likely Philippe was simply mistaken. I know he is a good and wise man. I have heard him speak. So much of what he argues coincides with my own worldview, but maybe he is wrong.
"Alix, last night I had the revelation again", he wrote in his latest letter to me. "You will soon give birth to another child. I insist that the greatest Romanov Tsar and most powerful of all earthly monarchs shall come from your womb. What God has confirmed I know to be true. He has a special fondness for Your Imperial Majesty. The Tsar, the great leader, will come this year or possibly next year, just remember Seraphim of Sarov".
As soon as I received and examined the note, I ripped it into dozens of pieces without even letting Nicky read it first. It was too much. Nicky is a man of faith, but he is also a man of reason, and our friend Philippe is a good and spiritual man, but I suspect he has acquired the dishonest habit of telling us only what he thinks we want to hear.
This year, he said, or possibly next year... and if he is proven wrong he can simply argue he never revealed to us the specific date or month. How convenient! And yet I wish it were true. Everyone thought my little Anastasia would be a boy, and when she was born a girl, Philippe asserted there was a special fate in store for her, an unusual and important destiny. That may not be true either. It is such a shame, but I donʼt need her to be special. She is my happy baby girl and that is enough.
Tatiana has stopped playing, at least for a moment. She is, instead, making funny faces at baby Anastasia, still in the arms of Miss Eagar. Tatiana puts her fingers inside her ears and pulls her tongue out. Anastasia reacts accordingly for her age, with contagious baby laughter. Of course it is easy for Tatiana to make her one-year-old sister laugh. Both Olga and Tatiana love doing it. God bless them.
Philippe spoke to us about Seraphim of Sarov many times, saying he would help us. The only portion of the letter I didnʼt dismiss as absolute nonsense. I do believe Seraphim of Sarov will intercede for us before God and help my husband and I conceive a son.
Seraphim is a Holy Man, and while he may not be a saint yet, Nicky is working hard to change that. My husband and I already believed in Seraphimʼs holiness before even meeting Philip.
Some time ago, a Metropolitan of the church visited the Alexander Palace. I received him in one of the dwellingʼs most illuminated spaces, the formal reception room, where I also welcome the vast majority of dignitaries. The floor is made of a dark gold parquet, an enormous Savonnerie carpet covering a good portion of it. In the middle of the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier with a ruby glass center.
Pieces of 18th century French furniture as well as a number of small sculptures decorate the room, among them bronze busts of Alexander I and his wife Elizabeth, Paul I, and a colored Wedgewood bust of Alexander I. On the wall hangs a marble carving of Catherine the Great, accompanied by a number of large paintings on the walls, the biggest of which is a huge painting of the Cossacks of the Imperial Guard.
I sometimes write on the reception roomʼs roll-top desk. It is quite comfortable, and several 18th century clocks stand close to inform me of the hour every time I need a reminder.
But one of my favorite elements of the reception room is a tapestry that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. This valuable historical legacy was a gift from the French President Lebrun, a collector. I have been fascinated by that poor woman for quite a while. Such a sad, tragic fate. I don't consider the queenʼs death to be the most unfortunate aspect of her story, which undoubtedly was the forceful separation from her precious son and daughter. She died alone, slandered, and unable to protect her orphaned children from further harm. Her little boy was awfully mistreated. He fell ill and died due to the terrible conditions he was placed in by his jailers. Her little girl survived, but only after a long imprisonment that haunted the poor thing for the rest of her life.
Before we sat down around one of the reception roomʼs small tables, the Metropolitan asked me to pray with him. After we had done so, I decided to ask him about Seraphim of Sarov and the question of his canonization. The man was a bit skeptical, although he was well aware of the devotion common people already showed for the Holy Man.
Oo
Seraphim of Sarov was born in Kursk on 1759. When he was only ten years old, Seraphim fell gravely ill, but the Virgin Mary appeared to him in a dream and promised to heal him. Soon after that, a procession carrying the miraculous icon of Our Lady of Kursk passed through the ailing boyʼs village. Seraphimʼs mother was handed the icon, and as she held it over her sick childʼs head, the boy immediately began to recover, later becoming a monk and receiving the name "Seraphim", which means "full of fire" in Hebrew. Fiery were also his prayers. Seraphim spent most of his time in the temple, where he was blessed with the ability to see angels. He also got to see the Virgin Mary again, many times, and even had a vision of the Lord.
Seraphim ate very little and only once a day. On Wednesdays and Fridays, when most Orthodox Christians are only required to abstain from animal products, alcoholic drinks, and olive oil, Seraphim would not eat at all. He often prayed amidst the trees and would eventually move to a modest wooden cabin in the middle of the forest, becoming a hermit and thus achieving a perfect spirituality and closeness to God. The animals of the forest seemed to sense Seraphimʼs meekness, for the he was more than once witnessed feeding foxes, wolves, hares, and even bears.
One day, a group of thieves attacked the poor man, beating him to a pulp in an attempt to find anything valuable. Seraphim didnʼt fight back. He even interceded for his tormentors before the judge when they were arrested. How huge was his forgiving heart!
By the end of his life, Seraphim had become a starets, blessing hundreds with his wisdom and spiritual advice. He gained great popularity, for he had healing powers as well as the gift of prophecy. It is said Seraphim would answer peopleʼs questions before they could even finish asking them.
"Acquire a peaceful spirit, and thousands around you will be saved", Seraphim used to say. His words soothe my soul. I still have hope, faith that God will help us, but if I donʼt have a son, I know it will be for the best. Godʼs will is always for the best.
Oo
My discussion with the Metropolitan got nowhere that day. We were interrupted by Miss Eagar and my little daughters, who burst into the room excited and talkative, especially Maria. Even almost-a-year-old Anastasia was babbling like a tiny adult. It was sometime afterward that the matter of Seraphimʼs canonization was put into consideration.
Olga and Tatiana, upon realizing who the guest was, stared at the Metropolitan in awe and respect, but my almost-three-year-old Maria innocently asked him why he was wearing a dress when he also had a beard, and Anastasia started babbling even louder while making weird faces at him.
I was awfully embarrassed, of course, and I tried making this known to Miss Eagar without drawing too much attention to myself. She didn't seem to get the message though. Instead of leaving with the girls, Miss Eagar approached me and the Metropolitan, who stood up in order to receive the new guests. Much to my dismay, baby Anastasia leaned forward and grabbed two strands of hair from each side of the manʼs beard.
"I am sorry, Your Majesty", Miss Eagar apologized with a nervous smile, "but they insisted on coming to see their mama and I am outnumbered by these little indians". I was still trying to get Anastasiaʼs hands off the man when Maria began whooping as if she were indeed an indian, running across the room dangerously close to the busts. It was clear she had found Miss Eagarʼs statement hilarious.
"I have a loose tooth, mama! Look!" Olga used her fingers to move the loose tooth in question back and forward.
"I am pulling it off", Tatiana added with a proud smile as she clasped her arms around my waist, barely reaching it.
"That is great darling!" I exclaimed, genuinely happy for Olga but also slightly concerned. I bent down to Tatianaʼs level for a moment. "Donʼt try to pull it off prematurely, Tatiana, you might hurt your sister". I stroked her hair gently before standing straight again. "You can stay, girls, but I need you to play quietly while mama talks to…"
My attention diverted back to Maria, who was still running and yelling.
"Maria! Stop running!" I scolded her louder than I had intended to. "And stop making that dreadful noise!" I gently moved Tatiana out of the way in order to dash after my third daughter. Capturing the mischievous little girl was easy, but only covering her mouth with one of my hands was enough to make her stop shouting. She got angry at first, as I could tell by her squirming.
"Calm down", I coaxed her. "Be a good girl…"
I smiled down at her and, slowly but surely, she relaxed, smiling back at me solely with her gorgeous big blue eyes, as her mouth was still covered. The sweet Maria had found the entire situation extremely amusing. I put a finger on my mouth with the hand I wasnʼt using to cover hers to dissuade her from shouting again and then let her go.
Anastasia was still tugging the Metropolitanʼs whiskers when I returned taking a giggling Maria by the hand. My youngest was fiercer than ever, growling and grinding her teeth. I honestly donʼt know where she learned that hideous behavior from, although it is possible Xeniaʼs wild boys have somehow managed to become a bad influence even on a toddler.
"Anastasia, leave the poor Metropolitan alone!" I lamented. "You are hurting him!" In response to my pleas, Miss Eagar tried to pull Anastasia away from the man without hurting either of them. "That is not nice! Oh no, Miss Eagar, do detach her from his poor beard!"
Finger by finger, Miss Eagar and I managed to remove Anastasiaʼs hands from the Metropolitan's beard, achieving this over the course of a few minutes. Anastasia might have simply gotten bored though, for knowing my willful little child like the palm of my hand, I find it difficult to believe that she merely gave up. Witnessing Anastasiaʼs unique and strong personality develop makes me hopeful my friend Philippe might be right about her after all.
Thankfully, the Metropolitan did not make a huge fuss about the torment inflicted upon his strands of hair. He even made the sign of the cross on my girls before leaving, but that didnʼt stop me from apologizing countless times for the disastrous event, as I was incredibly mortified. My girls are tender-hearted and usually well-behaved. I take great pride in that.
Oo
A sudden scream interrupts my thoughts.
"Mama, Tatiana pulled my hair!" Olga whines as she approaches me, her small hands rubbing her head. Miss Eagar left the room to change Anastasia's diapers a while ago.
"Not true! Not true!" Tatiana walks in our direction. I wish I had paid more attention, because I really have no clue which one of my daughters might be lying.
I leave the shirt I have been working on by my side, pick Olga up, and let her sit on my lap. She is getting heavy, almost seven years old at last.
"Calm down sweetheart", I soothe her, and she lays her head on my breast. I turn to Princess Helen, who is holding Mariaʼs hand. "Did you see what happened?"
"They were both playing so nicely", the young girl replies with a sad smile, "and in seconds something went down", she shakes her head. "I was fixing Maria's bow, why did you fight girls?"
"She pulled my hair!" Olga exclaims.
"Did not!" Tatiana crosses her arms. "I wanted her to stop breaking the Nini's dress."
"She pulled my hair", the frowning Olga repeats with a tiny voice.
"Who is Nini?" I ask.
"The doll", Helen informs me. They seem to change the dollsʼ names every single minute.
"Girls", I address them both, "it is not right to pull anyone's hair, much less a sister's hair, and not even for that reason, Tatiana".
"I wasn't ripping the dress", Olga says. "I was taking Niniʼs clothes off because she is going to Peterhof to have a baby, and she needs new clothes." I have to stop myself from giggling at that.
While staying at Peterhof, Nicky, the girls, and I went for a walk taking Anastasia on a stroller. My daughters and I were wearing simple matching white dresses and hats. Nicholas was, as usual, strolling in his uniform. All of us were enjoying the sight of the sea when Olga asked me if I was having another baby, for she understood that was the reason we had come to Peterhof, the birthplace of three of my children.
"There is no baby this year, darling", I said to her with a sad smile.
"How do people in America travel to Peterhof whenever they have babies?" Olga then asked. "Miss Eagar says it is very far away". Needless to say, Nicky and I laughed quite a bit at her occurrence before explaining to her that most babies are not born in Peterhof.
"I didnʼt pull the hair, I just touched", Tatiana argues, bringing me back to reality. My daughterʼs head is down, and her hands are clasped together. I extend my free arm to get her to come closer and put it around her shoulder once she has done so.
"Donʼt fight girlies", I look back and forward between my daughters. "I donʼt know who started it, but it is not good to pull anyoneʼs hair."
"No good", my three-year-old Maria speaks her mind with much righteousness as she shakes her head. "Pull hair hurts." She is talking a lot these days, my baby.
"That is right, Maria", Helen encourages her.
"See? You were very mean", Olga glares at Tatiana.
"Well Tatiana, maybe you owe your sister an apology", I say.
Now it is Tatiana who frowns. Still, she hesitantly apologizes to Olga with a simple: "Sorry".
Getting Olga to accept her sisterʼs apology was slightly harder, but reminding her of what our Lord said we ought to do naturally softened her heart. My two oldest girls canʼt stay mad at each other for too long either way. Now they are back to playing with Helen and little Maria. I, on the other hand, will continue working on the shirt I have yet to embroider.
A child should receive the basic laws of morality at home, where cordiality and tenderness are concentrated.
Oo
Miss Eagar returned without Anastasia, who has been put to bed already. Just before I finish embroidering the shirt, Maria prances towards me, teddy bear in hand. She growls, offering me the stuffed animal.
"What is it, my love?" I leave the shirt on the arm of my seat. She growls again, letting out a giggle in the process. I decide to indulge her by taking the teddy bear as she seems to wish for me to do.
"Grrr!" I growl, stand up, and proceed to playfully chase Maria. My older girls squeal with joy as soon as they pick up on what their mama is doing and gleefully join the game, running around the room with their dolls to escape the wrath of the teddy bear. Still sitting on the floor, Helen looks up at us with a smile of incredulity.
My girlies laugh out loud without moderation. Olga hides behind the furniture, Tatiana screams. Holding her doll under her arm, Maria claps enthusiastically whenever she is not running. She is the most adorable.
I would keep doing this forever if my body allowed me to like his allows my Nicky to catch the girls when they jump into the water. Like it allows him to swim, laugh and splash with the girlies for more than an hour a day. My husband likes to go swimming with the three eldest, and our constant visits to Livadia allow him to do so fairly often.
Not me. Eventually, my legs let me down. First comes the tingling, then the pain. Mild. Bad. Unbearable. I slow down to rub my tired limbs. I have to stop.
"Helen, dear", I extend my arm to hand the teddy bear over, "make sure he eats the little girls." I add with my best attempt at a smile. Princess Helen receives the toy, smiles back, and continues playing with my daughters.
I sit back down and silently lament my situation. I put my hand on my head and recline, praying for the pain to go away. The pain which inevitably reminds me of another kind of pain. Of the baby I will never hold.
The laughter of my girlies, still running around, reminds me of Xeniaʼs boisterous boys. The fact my own sister-in-law keeps bearing boy after boy while I struggle does nothing to improve my state of mind.
God has granted me more than most women could ever hope for. My friend Philippe is right, He has a special fondness for me. A loving marriage, a saint for a husband, four beautiful, adorable, unique, and healthy children… and yet, watching my nephews' typically boyish energy as they tumble play with my girls whenever we visit them or they visit us… watching that not only gets on my nerves sometimes because of their occasional roughness. It simply breaks my heart.
As much as I try not to want it so badly, it is becoming impossible. With each passing year, I am still yet to fulfill my most important dynastic obligation by providing Russia with the much-anticipated male heir.
But it is not even about having an heir now, it is more of a complaint any common woman could also have. I simply want a boy as well as daughters. My own boisterous boy, and why can't I have one?
I hate being envious. I know it isnʼt Christian, and I am happy for Xenia, she is a dear friend, but it is not fair. Four of them now, one after the other, right after Irina. She has as many sons as I have daughters.
It is not fair. It is so preposterous to think Xeniaʼs sons have more claim to the throne for virtue of being direct male-line descendants of a Tsar than my brilliant daughter Olga does. She is the legitimate daughter of the current Tsar, who was chosen by God to rule. Surely it is his child who should rule after him. It is the natural order of things.
Not fair. Why God? Xenia did not even need to have that many sons! And yet: Andrei, Feodor, Nikita, Dmitri... she is also pregnant again, really pregnant that is, unlike me, of course. I am crazy. I am a crazy woman who grieves a dear baby that never was.
I do hope, at the very least, that the baby Xenia is indeed expecting is not another boy. It would be like a slap in my face, or a knife to my heart.
I suddenly feel a subtle tap on my leg. I look down and see my daughter Tatiana.
"Why are you sad, mama?" She asks, and I feel the urge to burst into tears, not tears of sadness but tears of joy. Tatiana doesnʼt understand the reason for my melancholy and thankfully has never experienced as much physical pain as I have. She is only five. And yet she doesn't hesitate. She stops playing in order to climb on to my lap and hug me.
"Donʼt be sad, mama", she says, and I squeeze her tiny body as if my life depended on it.
She did the same thing back in Peterhof. My condition was a lot poorer then. Her constant presence helped me so much. The other girls would be playing outside, and I knew very well that she wanted to be out there, playing with them. But she stayed. Tatiana has a huge heart, my baby, my most conscientious daughter.
Imagining her future makes me awfully emotional and so very excited. She is so precious and unselfish already, and if I keep guiding her on the right path, she will become an amazing woman, similar to her grandmother Alice, devoted to the poor and suffering. So many scenarios run through my mind! I both dread and hope for the day a similarly kind and devoted man asks for her hand and she is with him as happy as I am right now with her father.
"I am really proud of you", I kiss her cheek. "You are being very good right now, mama feels much better." She smiles so widely after I tell her that, looking so very happy. She is the daughter who took after me the most, but right now I am catching a glimpse of her fatherʼs gentleness. I am so happy.
God has blessed me with everything I need. His will should be done. I simply have to pray He concedes us one more miracle.
Oo
Later, in a moment of human weakness, I donʼt actually go straight to my room. Instead, I stop by the corridor and weep. I weep as I did the day I was told I wasnʼt pregnant. For weeks and months following that cursed day, I would sob in Nickyʼs arms for hours. I would do so alone in my room, walking through the corridors, murmuring to myself as I am doing right now: "Why, why will God not grant me a son?"
The little anecdote with the Metropolitan is fictional, it is borrowed from the novel "The Empress of tears" by Kathleen McKenna Hewtson, which is a novel on Alexandra. It is good, although it doesn´t have much on OTMA, but if there are any more cute snippets of OTMA I may choose some more to put them here.