Anastasia (3 page)

When Papa disappears into his study to work — he has much to do as the autocrat of All the Russias — my sisters and I go to Mama’s boudoir, her private sitting room. She lies among the pillows on her chaise longue and helps us decide how we should dress for the day, always in matching outfits.

At precisely nine o’clock we march off to our classrooms and devote ourselves to French with M. Gilliard, to English with Mr. Gibbes, and to Russian with Professor Petrov. And all that other nonsense about mathematics and geography. Botheration!

18/31 January 1914

I have found Tatiana’s diary! She puts it under her pillow. I would never leave mine in such an obvious place. I keep it in my wardrobe, beneath a pile of chemises.

Got up at 7
A.M.
Had breakfast with Papa. Went to Mama, who suggested the navy blue and white outfits for today: something cheerful, to remind us that spring will come eventually. A. looks so funny in hers — like a little barrel.

I’m “A.,” obviously. I do
not
look like a barrel in the blue and white outfit, and it’s stinking of her to say so! But I do admit that it’s not as elegant on me as on her, just because I’m still short.

19 January/1 February 1914

More from T’s diary. She goes on about how much she enjoys her class with Monsieur Gilliard, because she “loves the sound of the French language.” What balderdash!

Mama and Papa insist that we must learn all these languages, as they did when they were young. “When I first came to Russia to marry your papa, I had to study very hard to learn Russian.” Poor Mama — she still blushes whenever she tries to speak Russian, but we are careful not to tease her. Papa speaks Russian to us and English to Mama. Mama speaks English to us, and sometimes German, which we are also supposed to be learning.

Mama was born in Hesse-Darmstadt, part of Germany, but she says she is completely Russian in her heart and soul, and she wants no association with Germany — especially not with her cousin Wilhelm, who is the kaiser of Germany, as Papa is the tsar of Russia. (Cousin Willy’s country is tiny, though, compared with Russia.
Everything
is tiny compared with Russia.) Mama says she doesn’t trust Willy.

Later

I’ve gone through T’s diary, and every single entry sounds the same as the one before.

Exercise out of doors with Papa at eleven, even though bitter cold. Lunch at twelve with Mama and Papa. Practice piano for one hour. Tea at five, same as always.

And so on. No wonder she doesn’t bother to hide her diary: It’s
very
dull.

21 January/3 February 1914

Ha! Olga thinks she is so clever! I found her diary
disguised as a book of devotions
— imagine that! She covered it with a jacket of black leather and put it on her shelf with her other prayer books. Her diary is slightly more interesting than Tatiana’s. For instance, last week she wrote this disturbing entry:

Poor Papa! He seems so weary these days — as though he carries a tremendous weight on his shoulders. Something is troubling him deeply.

What can it be? I’ll have to pay closer attention.

23 January/5 February 1914

Tatiana is right. Tea is exactly the same every day, always the same boring bread and butter and biscuits.

Mama says that when she was a young girl spending her summers in England with her grandmother Queen Victoria, the teas were much more interesting than ours. All sorts of little sandwiches and cakes! But Mama can do nothing about it, because teas are always done the same way in the imperial family. That’s us.

So, at exactly five o’clock, Papa walks into the library and butters himself one slice of bread, which he eats while he drinks two glasses of tea. (We have our tea the Russian way: The samovar keeps the water hot, and the tea is served in tall glasses set in silver holders. Mama says that in England, tea is served in lovely porcelain cups with saucers.) Papa reads his newspaper, and when he’s finished he goes back to his study, where lots of serious-looking men wait to see him.

It must be difficult to be the most important man in the world — more important than any king, and certainly more important than Mama’s cousin Kaiser Willy.

Later

Papa
does
seem distracted, and I think I know why.

Papa loves Russia and the Russian people more than anything in the world, and most of them worship him. Last year, to mark the three hundredth anniversary of the Romanov reign, our family took a boat trip on the Volga River. The idea was to retrace the journey of the first Romanov tsar from his home in the town of Kostroma to Moscow. As we were passing through a small village, I saw an old man fall down and kiss my father’s shadow, because even the shadow of the tsar is holy.

But Papa has explained to us that not everyone adores him. Not everyone believes that he is the Father of Russia, and that Mama is the Mother of Russia, even though she loves the Russians as much as he does. There are people who say the peasants are suffering, and blame it on Papa. There are even some people who believe that others should share in the rule of our country!

That’s nonsense, of course. Only the tsar must rule. Now it’s Papa. Someday, years and years from now, it will be my brother, Alexei, the tsarevitch. This is God’s will, so how could it be any other way?

I think it’s because he believes some people don’t love him enough that Papa looks so sad.

24 January/6 February 1914

I’m writing this in Mama’s boudoir, next to the bedroom where she and Papa sleep. I’m supposed to be practicing French, but writing in my diary is more interesting — or
plus intéressant
, as they say.

This is Mama’s special place. Everything is mauve — mauve walls, mauve silk curtains, the chaise longue covered in mauve satin.

M. Gilliard says that lots of the words we use are French — this is his attempt to persuade me that there’s some point to studying his favorite language. For instance,
b
oudoir
is French (pronounced boo-DWAHR), and it means, “a place to sulk.” I wonder if Mama knows that? And then
mauve
(pronounced MOHV) is also a French word for that pale bluish purple color that Mama adores. And
chaise
longue
(pronounced shez LOHNG) means “long chair.”

So there: I’ve done a French lesson without even being told. My reply to all of it is
Pfui!
, which is German for “Faugh.” M. Gilliard should be proud of me.

Later

Twenty-nine degrees of frost, but we went outside, anyway. I nearly froze my fingers taking pictures of Alexei being pulled on his sled by Vanka, his donkey, and of my sisters. They refused to pose because of the cold, so it’s just whatever I could catch them doing.

26 January/8 February 1914

Tomorrow we are going to a wedding in St. Petersburg, and today my sisters talk about nothing but gowns, jewels, hair, slippers, furs, and who will be there. The bride is my cousin Irina. Her mother is Papa’s sister, Xenia. Irina is very nice, but she has six younger brothers who are the worst creatures in the world. The two oldest, Andrew and Theodore, are fairly civilized, but the rest are terrors. Nikita, who’s a year older than I am, once accused me of biting him. This is definitely not true, because I would never get that close to him.

28 January/10 February 1914

What a splendid wedding! Irina was a beautiful bride, and everybody was talking about her lace veil, which once belonged to Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. Papa gave her in marriage — he’s probably practicing for the four of us.

Irina’s husband is Felix Yussoupov, who Papa says is heir to the largest fortune in Russia. As a wedding gift Papa gave them a bag of diamonds, which seemed strange to me because Felix probably already has all the diamonds he wants.

To my surprise, my cousins behaved like perfect gentlemen. But we left soon after the ceremony, because Mama wasn’t feeling well. The boys may have been up to their usual tricks as soon as we were gone.

29 January/11 February 1914

The court photographer is coming next week to do our portraits, and Mama is in a dither about what we must wear.

Mama has had our maids carry dozens of our best dresses to her boudoir, where they’re draped over every chair, and she changes her mind from one minute to the next. (The selections do not include that sailor outfit that Tatiana says makes me look like a little barrel. I shall
never
forgive her for that.)

I suggested peasant blouses, but Mama was appalled. That’s one of her favorite words:
appalled
. I think she uses it about me more than about anybody else, except maybe when one of the servants does something wrong.

I don’t think Papa was appalled in the least. I think he rather likes the idea. He often wears embroidered peasant shirts and soft boots, when he doesn’t have to dress in a uniform weighted down with all those heavy medals and ribbons. If Papa is appalled by things I do, he never says so. He just smiles with those crinkly lines around his eyes and calls me
Shvibzik
.

Mama wants us to look like English princesses. The portrait of her grandmother, Queen Victoria, hangs in her boudoir. I often get the feeling that Queen Victoria is looking sternly at us Russian girls. She died before I was born, or I would probably have appalled her, too.

30 January/12 February 1914

Now I understand why Mama is having our portraits made. Yesterday I was casually leafing through Olga’s diary (the one that looks like a prayer book), and I came upon this:

Papa says that Edward, Prince of Wales, is possibly interested in marriage. I told Papa that I am definitely not.

A suitable husband! For once I’m happy to be the youngest. I will not have to worry about such things as husbands and weddings for years and years. Poor Olga! Too bad it’s a secret, because I would love to torment her about it.

1/14 February 1914

Aunt Olga came out from St. Petersburg to spend the day with us, and we had an absolutely lovely time. After dinner Alexei insisted that she must visit his donkey. Vanka was hitched to a sled to pull Alexei, while we ladies rode in a sleigh. We stopped by the imperial zoo to say hello to the elephant that someone sent Alexei last year.

Then we all came back to the palace for tea. Tomorrow Aunt Olga is taking us to St. Petersburg.

2/15 February 1914

St. Petersburg

I love the city!

As always we went first to Anitchkov Palace for luncheon with Grandmother. The food was very elegant — not at all what we eat at home. Papa prefers what he calls peasant food, such as sauerkraut soup and
pirozhki
, little pies filled with rice and eggs. Mama doesn’t eat much of anything and only nibbles at whatever is on her plate. But Grandmother loves French food! Today we had veal kidneys with wine sauce in little pastry shells. (I ate the shell and managed to hide the kidneys in my napkin.) Each of us had a footman to serve us. I tried hard to make my footman laugh, but he would not.

Grandmother presided at the head of the table, and each of us had to say something pleasant and polite, all while sitting up absolutely straight and using exactly the right fork and knife. When it was my turn to speak, I accidentally let out a belch. Even though I begged everyone’s pardon, Grandmother was displeased.

At last we were excused, and we said good-bye to Grandmother and kissed her hand. (I love her perfume!) Then Aunt Olga whisked us off to her house.

She made us each lie down on a divan with our eyes closed for an hour before her guests were to arrive. I hate to lie down for rests! There’s always too much to do. My sisters closed their eyes and are pretending to sleep, but Aunt Olga is allowing me to write in my diary instead.

3/16 February 1914

Ts. S.

I wish we had more days like yesterday!

After everyone had rested, our maids helped us dress — Mama had sent along our green velvet tea gowns with the white sashes and pearl buttons — and arrange our hair and fasten our jewelry.

As usual, Aunt Olga had invited the most amusing young people (including Lieutenant Boris, the one who stepped on my feet, but he’s not so bad when he’s not dancing). After we had tea with some nice little cakes, we played charades, which I adore, because I’m really quite clever at acting out the parts. And then this same Lieutenant Boris produced a harmonica and began to play a lively tune. Soon we were all calling out songs for him to play. That clumsy oaf of an officer turns out to be rather talented!

It was all over much too soon, and Baroness Buxhoeveden came to escort us back to Tsarskoe Selo. Now all I can think about is when we shall go to the city again.

If only Alexei would stay healthy, and Papa not look so worried, and Mama smile a bit more, the world would be an absolutely perfect place.

4/17 February 1914

Father Grigory came to see Mama and Papa again. Such a strange man! He always comes to our rooms after we have put on our nightgowns and robes to say our prayers with us. I try not to get too close to him. I can’t say exactly why I am so uneasy around him, aside from his eyes that stab like icicles. And his evil smell! I believe Mashka has noticed it, even if Tatiana and Olga pretend they haven’t.

I don’t think Shura likes him much, either. Once I heard her tell Dunyasha, Olga’s maid, that she thinks it unsuitable for Father Grigory to visit our private rooms when we’re not properly dressed for visitors. And Dunyasha promptly put Shura in her place, telling her that Father Grigory is this family’s best friend, that Mama believes he was sent to her by God, and Shura has no business questioning that.

If this is so, couldn’t God arrange for Father Grigory to bathe himself before he comes here? That’s
my
question.

5/18 February 1914

When Dr. Botkin examined us this morning, he announced that I am coming down with a cold. I don’t need Dr. Botkin to tell me that. We always knows when he’s around, because of that French cologne he wears, but today my nose is so stuffed, I didn’t even notice it!