Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I: The Emperor’s Execution

Beyond the marshy snow plain, the domes and spires of Petersburg glisten, and the edge of the sky hangs low toward Finland.

In November 1917, a band of Red Guards with mud splattered up to their faces passed through Tsarskoye Selo’s gray archway adorned with golden ciphers and the imperial eagle, treading through accumulated snow as they marched laboriously toward the main avenue. Trucks laden with gun carriages hitched to ammunition wagons and armed workers rushed frantically past each other, while trenches were being dug in the fields flanking the avenue. In Petrograd, though Mensheviks clashed with Bolsheviks, every theater remained packed; officers in dashing uniforms struck billiard balls in hotel parlors, while noblewomen gathered in salons to discuss in refined tones their desire for the Tsar’s restoration or hopes for German troops’ swift arrival.

Nicholas II, who had abdicated in March, was at the detention facility in Tobolsk, Siberia, together with Empress Alexandra, Tsarevich Alexei, and the four grand duchesses: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia. Faint tidings of them came through indirectly via various means. The imperial family remained safe and sound, and it was said that the Tsar had in fact regained vitality after being transferred to Tobolsk. By the end of that month, when the Bolsheviks had overthrown the Kerensky cabinet and established their regime, and when the Cheka (Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution) was being organized, Petrograd’s appearance transformed completely, and the imperial family’s movements became utterly impossible to discern.

As that year drew to a close and mid-May of 1918 arrived, vague rumors spread hazily—that the Tsar had been transferred from Tobolsk to Yekaterinburg in the Ural Mountains, or that he was to be transferred. This meant moving about 150 miles closer to civilization, which didn’t seem an ill omen—yet that too remained mere speculation. As for how they were living, whether they still drew breath or had already been killed, such matters proved as elusive as grasping at clouds.

Meanwhile, here, there was tremendous chaos. From the day Vilicky became chairman of the Cheka and issued a proclamation stating, “All former bourgeois men and women are hereby appointed as grave-diggers for the lower classes. Those who refuse this labor shall be shot,” the mass slaughter of aristocrats, former high officials, and monarchists began, plunging Petrograd and Moscow’s noble societies into circumstances that threatened to transform them into graveyards.

If one harbored memories of the Tsar in their mind, the days became so perilous that Cheka spies could detect it just by the look in their eyes, making it impossible to dwell on memories of the abdicated imperial family. On July 17th, the Workers’ and Peasants’ Soviet issued an announcement in the Petrograd Izvestia stating that the former Emperor Nicholas Alexandrovich and his family had been executed in Yekaterinburg. Only that had been announced; there were no supplements or explanations whatsoever. The announcement merely stirred a vague sense of loathing in the hearts of the royalty and high-ranking nobles wearied by the Cheka’s pursuit, yet it imparted an immeasurable impulse to countries outside Russia. Foreign correspondents embarked on gathering detailed reports as if their hems were on fire, but with the Czech Legion and Ural Corps waging ceaseless guerrilla warfare across the Urals, all foreign travel had been prohibited; unable to plunge into this political tragedy unparalleled in world history, they could only gloss over matters by churning out speculative imaginings and tragic vignettes of Nicholas II.

With the September Dora Kaplan assassination attempt on Lenin as its catalyst, the Cheka’s work became a literal guillotine; leather gloves drenched crimson with blood had no time to dry, and by the end of 1920, they had slaughtered over two million people. Even the Cheka were overwhelmed—so much so that they themselves proposed halting executions—but with the Wrangel and Polish armies beginning their advance amid relentless upheavals, the massacre of Nicholas II’s family faded from people’s memories like wind dispersing mist, vanishing without notice of when it disappeared.

In the spring of 1922, under the title "The Truth of the Atrocities Inflicted Upon Nicholas II and His Family," a detailed record spanning from the day the imperial family arrived in Yekaterinburg until their final moments was published in the *Journal* under the signature of General Dudelick, shocking both continents. The gist was as follows.

Yekaterinburg was a small town located 150 miles southwest of Tobolsk on the eastern side of the Ural Mountains, where the headquarters of the Ural Communist Committee had been established—a place steeped in revolutionary atmosphere, also called "Red Yekaterinburg." The representatives of the Ural Corps, workers, and peasants—who prided themselves on being the vanguard of the Bolsheviks—felt dissatisfaction that the deposed emperor had been transferred to Tobolsk while bypassing Yekaterinburg. They repeatedly demanded via letters and telegrams that Sverdlov, chairman of Moscow’s Central Committee and a native of Yekaterinburg, hand them over, but received no response whatsoever. So upon sending investigators to Tobolsk to ascertain the situation, it became clear that—with no response forthcoming—the Central Executive Committee had decided to transfer the deposed emperor and his family to Uha in the south, and that an executive committee member named Yakovliev bearing the order had already arrived in Tobolsk.

There had been several plots to rescue the deposed emperor in the past, including an instance where a Greek-born nobleman named Goussavier arrived with forged transfer orders. For this reason, Pierre Botrov, Zhidkovsky, and Abdiyev of the Yekaterinburg Committee harbored suspicions about the legitimacy of the orders. They deployed monitors at every junction station along the branch lines, resolved to prevent any signs of escape assistance through violence, agreed to detain the deposed emperor’s party there if necessary, and began surveilling the special train.

Yakovliev had thirty-five Red Guards escort the five light carriages carrying the deposed emperor’s party. Departing Tobolsk at dawn, they arrived in Tyumen that afternoon. A special sealed train to transfer the party was waiting at Tyumen Station. Having received intelligence that there was a plan in Yekaterinburg to block the deposed emperor’s transfer to Uha, he thought it better to avoid Yekaterinburg and take the route via Omsk. He sent a telegram to Moscow to confirm this intention, but upon receiving a reply stating it was unnecessary, he reluctantly had no choice but to proceed along the planned route.

They arrived in Yekaterinburg approaching midnight when the night had deepened, but representatives of the Yekaterinburg City Committee switched the points to divert the sealed train into a siding and demanded the handover of the imperial party on grounds of suspicious behavior. As soon as Yakovliev refused, the crowd waiting on the platform suddenly turned violent toward him. Seizing the opportunity, Zhidkovsky and Botrov pulled the Emperor, Empress, and Maria from their carriage into an automobile, while Abdiyev boarded another vehicle; in close succession, they sped away through the midnight city.

Yakovliev presented the official order and protested to the City Committee, but with every last one of his Red Guards escort disarmed and thrown into prison—while Duke Dolgoruky, the chamberlain, was separated under interrogation pretext and summarily executed in Arapakhsk—their brutality rendered any meaningful discussion impossible. He sent an urgent telegram to the Central Committee about these developments, yet not even a protest came from Moscow, leaving the matter buried without resolution. For the deposed emperor and his family's exile, five rooms on the second floor of a local landowner's mansion named Ipatiev were allocated. Two days later, permission was granted for the court physician and servants to reside with them, but guards maintained three-shift watches on both veranda and corridors. Not only were they barred from stepping beyond their second-floor quarters, but the outer window frames received white paint to mark their distinct status, while submachine gun-armed sentries stood vigil—such was the meticulous rigor of their confinement.

Alexei and the three grand duchesses—Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia—arrived from Tobolsk three weeks later at the end of May. By this time, a log fence had been erected around the house. When Anastasia, unaware of the danger, opened a window to let in a breeze for Alexei, who was gasping in the heat, they were suddenly met with a tremendous single shot. One bullet grazed Anastasia’s cheek and shattered a holy icon into pieces—a decisive warning delivered.

Meals were served twice a day, in the morning and evening. These consisted of maggot-infested yukola (dried salmon) and shchi (salted meat and cabbage soup)—things so vile they were unbearable to even put in one’s mouth. From time to time, the nearby Carmelite monastery would send milk, eggs, and such. That alone provided human-like sustenance, but the guards were intensely spiteful. Each time, they would stomp into the dining hall with their muddy boots, thrust their hands into the plates while shouting, “You lot are eating luxuriously!” and knead the food about to render it inedible no matter how one tried—this had become routine.

Initially, the guards had been good-natured workers taking shifts from nearby factories, but when a man named Lutmin from the city’s revolutionary committee arrived as their full-time supervisor, all remaining decorum and discipline vanished at once. They brazenly pilfered the deposed emperor’s personal belongings and enacted senselessly harsh regulations, even prohibiting the grand duchesses from knitting. The family was confined to a drab, monotonous existence with no diversion other than visiting each other’s five rooms, their sole comfort becoming gathering in the deposed emperor’s chamber after dinner to sing hymns and Kelvin’s songs in hushed voices.

Nicholas interacted humbly even with lower-ranking soldiers and maintained a tranquil daily life, while Empress Alexandra grew increasingly despondent, scrawling swastikas on the walls of her room while muttering that these were symbols of good fortune. When her mood struck, she would spend entire days writing what resembled memoirs—though these consisted solely of religious recollections, filled with matters too mystical for anyone to comprehend. Alexei was too occupied battling his illness to comprehend the meaning of his wretched circumstances; in that respect, he could be called the happiest among the seven. However, the four young grand duchesses, having glimpsed their bleak future, fell into profound despair. To avoid succumbing to madness, they made special efforts to behave cheerfully—but this led the worker-turned Red Guards to misinterpret their demeanor, resulting in horrific acts: they would utter obscene jokes, brandish lewd pictures, and chase them about.

When July arrived, the heat suddenly intensified. The greatest torment was their inability to bathe; denied even water to wash themselves—let alone do laundry—their undergarments and bedding became caked with grime and sweat, filling the sealed room with an indescribable stench that on days of high humidity grew so oppressive as to feel nearly suffocating. Alexei, exhausted by the heat and foul air, hardly slept, while the deposed emperor would sometimes carry him and pace from room to room until morning. Fleas and lice multiplied ferociously, and the deposed emperor cut short the beard he had cultivated for over twenty years. The grand duchesses too were tormented by lice and chopped off their golden curls clean from the roots. (After they were massacred, their hair was discovered in a bundle inside the stove.)

As the family had visibly weakened, even Abdiyev awakened somewhat to reason and permitted them to stroll in the log-fenced courtyard for one hour each day. But this lasted only briefly; when Yekaterinburg clockmaker Korvinsky took over as chief guard, he immediately prohibited it.

In March of that year, when the Central Committee relocated to Moscow, the Cheka (Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution) soon commenced full-scale operations. This signaled a crisis for the Soviet regime: sabotage escalated from counter-revolution to armed uprising; Savinkov’s anti-Soviet conspiracy evolved into foreign intervention; the 300,000-strong Czechoslovak army launched assaults across Siberia to crush the Red Guards; and the Ural Communists, their position deteriorating, began sensing the peril that the deposed emperor might be recaptured at any moment.

Korvinsky grew impatient with handling the Nicholas family and repeatedly pressed the Central Committee to carry out their disposal, but as no progress was made, he lost patience. In mid-June, he convened the All-Ural Conference, resolved to execute the Nicholas family, and appointed a worker named Petro Zabarovich as the execution commissioner. In Zabarovich’s view, it was necessary to leave no traces of the massacre—he devised an elaborate method: incinerating the corpses and dissolving any remaining parts with sulfuric acid. Immediately setting to work gathering sulfuric acid in iron drums and kerosene, this preparation was completed by early July.

On July 15th, the young Vasiliev—who had been playing with the Crown Prince—was scolded that he must never come again starting that day and was driven away at the entrance. On the night of the 16th (midnight by Soviet time, On the dawn of July 17th), four committee members came up to the second-floor wing where the family resided. All four reeked of alcohol and gripped heavy Russian revolvers in their hands. Korvinsky first entered the bedroom and shook the deposed emperor awake.

“Before dawn, we received intelligence that the Czech Legion would attack.” “Stray bullets might strike here—go down to the basement and stay there.” The deposed emperor thanked Korvinsky and stood by the Empress, waiting for her to finish preparing. When Demidova asked, “Should we bring our belongings?” Korvinsky curtly replied, “Just the bedding will do,” and went into the adjacent dining hall.

Before long, the Romanov family and their attendants—eleven people in total—formed a line with the deposed emperor at the head and emerged into the dining hall. The deposed emperor wore cavalry trousers with heel-less boots and a faded khaki-colored officer's coat. Empress Alexandra held the Crown Prince’s hand while leading three grand duchesses and Tatiana—who cradled her beloved dog—with maid Demidova carrying the Crown Prince’s pillow. Following them came Dr. Potyomkin, the court physician; Kemudorufu, the chamberlain; and Sidney, the waiter—in that precise order.

Soldiers holding lanterns led the way as the four committee members descended first into the basement. Tatiana supported Alexei—his legs unsteady—while the deposed emperor offered his arm to assist the Empress. Behind the procession trailed ten Red Guards clutching their rifles. The lantern-lit basement revealed itself as a gloomy stone-chamber-like storeroom measuring seventeen shaku wide by sixteen shaku long, its upper wall bearing a single crescent-shaped window and another adorned with a crude mural depicting Empress Alexandra engaged in coitus with Rasputin. Korvinsky, Murachiovsky, Metovichif, and ten soldiers formed a disorderly cluster near the basement's center, forcing the family to huddle tightly against the walls.

After an indescribable moment of silence, Korvinsky—wearing an impassive expression—produced the Central Executive Committee’s proclamation (which he and Goloshukin had arbitrarily prepared) and read it aloud by the soldiers’ lantern light: “The Romanov family is hereby sentenced to death.” “There exists no plea for clemency before the special tribunal.” “There remains only to carry out the sentence.” That was all. Empress Alexandra covered her face with both hands while the grand duchesses collapsed where they stood, frantically making the sign of the cross. The deposed emperor protested, “Wasn’t the agreement that we’d be taken to Ukha?” Before he could finish speaking, Korvinsky impulsively cocked his revolver’s hammer. A bullet pierced through the center of the deposed emperor’s left ribcage. He swayed like a withered leaf before crumpling forward. The Crown Prince and nine others fell under successive rifle volleys—all reduced to corpses within five minutes of the proclamation’s reading. Maid Demidova fled screaming toward the stairway while shielding herself with a pillow, only to be mercilessly gunned down at its base. The youngest grand duchess Anastasia received a rifle-butt strike to her skull when her wailing grew too strident, silencing her forever.

The Red Guards soldiers stripped the clothes from the eleven victims lying in a sea of blood and amiably divided the jewels they had found sewn into the hems of the grand duchesses' dresses for emergencies. They all staggered about as if thoroughly drunk.

Once this astonishing distribution concluded, the blood-soaked soldiers wrapped each crimson-lacquered corpse in old blankets and transported them by automobile to a nearby forest. They posted guards at the forest entrance, piled up the corpses, doused them with kerosene, and set them ablaze. By evening when the work was done, they doused what couldn't be burned away with sulfuric acid, and what even the acid couldn't erase they buried in pits along with the ashes.

Three days later, the Czechoslovak army entered Yekaterinburg.

While searching for the deposed emperor’s final resting place, they found a charred metal piece shaped like a medal within a forest pit. It was the remnants of a Maltese cross adorned with green gemstones. There were also buckles, corset stays, and similar items.

The German historian Perlman investigated the fates of 872 emperors who met extraordinary ends and compiled statistics in his wittily titled book *The Emperor’s Directory*. According to this data, the breakdown was as follows: deposition—364 (41%), assassination—350 (28.6%), death in battle—153 (17.5%), insanity-induced death—54 (6.2%), massacre—25 (2.9%), suicide—21 (2.4%), and execution—5 (0.6%). Yet the manner of their ends varied infinitely. One can see that even among those who met untimely deaths, there were varied nuances depending on fortune and misfortune.

The final moments of Louis XVI—condemned to death by a single vote and slumped upon the guillotine—were indeed startling, but that Hermanric, the virtuous old king of the Ostrogoths, had to end his life by his own blade at 110 years old profoundly evokes the impermanence of all things. When Emperor Hiliogaparas learned that barbarians were approaching, he lined the stairs of his high tower with golden plates embedded with pearls and slept nightly in the topmost room, intending to leap from the tower window should the castle fall. Yet when the crucial moment came, he failed to jump and ended up as rust upon a barbarian’s blade. Antiochus III, known as the Great King of Syria, attempted to steal the temple’s treasures during a drunken revelry but was mistaken for a thief and killed by the night watchman. King Enzoi of Sardinia was cornered by assassins and killed inside a roadside wine barrel—a death that, for a king nicknamed Bacchus I and known for his love of wine, could be said nothing if not fitting.

Just as some have sung of “human blood, human sin, the crystallization of karmic dreams,” the deaths of Catherine—Henry VIII’s queen beheaded at the Tower of London—and Edward V’s brothers evoke an eternal sorrow. Yet there is no anguish as crushing as that which marked the end of Nicholas II, massacred alongside his family in an exiled basement deep within the Ural Mountains.

When one looks at photographs of Nicholas II’s lonely yet beautiful countenance, his extraordinary circumstances and tragic end seem scarcely distinct—as though the shadow of an innate misfortune clings thickly to him.

The one who ascended to the throne following Alexander III was an emperor with chestnut hair and melancholic gray-green eyes—a man of sickly constitution whom the public immediately recognized as someone who, while not exactly morally rigid, seemed fundamentally incapable of indulging wholeheartedly in the debaucheries considered a nobleman’s privilege. Even during critical meetings, he would either listen with a fool’s indolence or sit silent with downcast eyes—a timid-seeming, gloomy figure who possessed education without wisdom, whose appearance held something faintly comical, and who utterly lacked dignity. At times he would speak, but his words tangled on the tip of his tongue—amusing yet often unintelligible.

Nicholas II’s (Nikolai Alexandrovich) childhood came to an end amidst a strict education. The supervisor of his studies was none other than his mother Maria Feodorovna—herself the Danish Princess Dagmar (a granddaughter of Queen Victoria)—who subjected him to strict discipline day and night without a moment’s respite. To this was added his father’s militaristic training regimen, leaving him utterly exhausted, trembling with anxiety, and prone to pitiful failures in everything he attempted.

“What a clown you are!” This was Alexander III’s stock phrase when reprimanding failures.

At the age of twenty, this timid Russian Crown Prince experienced the only love of his life. While he was enraptured by Kshesinskaya, the prima ballerina of the Mariinsky Theatre, a male child was born. This extraordinary incident caused a major scandal, but contrary to his usual timidity, he became as if possessed by a demon—confessing all details to his father the Emperor and hinting at a British-style morganatic marriage (where neither wife nor children could inherit status or property) to request permission for marriage. However, Alexander III had no intention of entertaining such an absurd proposal and sent Nicholas off on an Eastern voyage aboard a warship alongside his cousin Prince George of Greece.

Life aboard the warship was akin to imprisonment, and whenever they went ashore, Georg would follow closely wherever they went. In the end, Georg was effectively a supervisor acting on Alexander III’s orders. Nevertheless, Nicholas was able to receive a telegram from Kshesinskaya in Marseille. As he had anticipated, it was a tearful farewell message announcing eternal separation—the telegram read, “The birds have flown, the blossoms have fallen.” Kshesinskaya and her child were said to have gone to England or South America, but their subsequent whereabouts remain unknown.

Nicholas’s lifelong sincere endeavors thus met a tragic end, but in Japan, yet another misfortune lay in wait. When he made a short trip from Kyoto to Otsu, he was suddenly slashed by a half-mad guard policeman and sustained two wounds on his forehead measuring twenty-nine centimeters and seven centimeters. Ever since the assassination of his grandfather Alexander II by dynamite, the Russian Social Revolutionary Party’s terrorism had relentlessly continued—claiming Governor Bogdanovich of Ukha and Interior Minister Plehve—casting an unrelenting shadow of dark terror over Nicholas’s heart. Yet even having come to this Far Eastern extremity, he could only stare in dismay at the suffocating narrowness of his fate, which subjected him to violent assaults here too—a lingering thought that clung to his mind and would not depart.

James I of England, who spent his boyhood amidst assassinations and conspiracies, is said to have constantly been on guard against armed human terror and never removed a padded vest stuffed with horsehair to prevent being stabbed with a dagger—but after ascending the throne, Nicholas, haunted by delusions of assassination, rarely left the palace and even suffered agony akin to death when crossing Petergof’s gardens. Considering the possibility of assassins invading the palace, "secret passageways were created between the study and living room walls, allowing one to reach the Imperial Guard Battalion barracks through labyrinthine corridors." "In times of emergency, reliable arrangements had been made to depart via the Neva River aboard the imperial yacht *Standart* from there." (Grand Duke Konstantin, *The Court of the Nicholas II Era*)

Through the recommendation of Kaiser Bismarck, Nicholas married Alice of the House of Darmstadt, formerly of the Kingdom of Hesse in the Prussian Federation, and four grand duchesses were born. The Russian people had been fearing they would end without a Crown Prince when, in the tenth year, a male child was finally born. Churches across Russia rang their bells and sang Te Deums to celebrate the Crown Prince’s birth, but the child was born with an incurable affliction called hemophilia (Hémophilie).

The defining characteristic of this disease was that even minor wounds—ones that would naturally stop bleeding in ordinary humans—failed to clot, and events like tooth extractions could result in life-threatening hemorrhages. The exact cause remained unclear, but it was said to stem from congenital fragility of capillary walls and deficient blood coagulation. Bleeding occurred not only from wounds but also from joints, muscles, nasal mucosa, and gastric mucosa; in severe cases, this led directly to acute anemia and death, or caused systemic anemia resulting in fatigue, headaches, dizziness, and tinnitus. In Alexei’s case, the bleeding occurred from the knees; he had already twice in the past nearly lost all his blood and fallen into critical condition.

This malady had its hereditary connections proven and was considered a rarity in genetics due to differing transmission methods between males and females, but like color blindness, it passes through females to manifest exclusively in males. It is fortunate that this troublesome disease is not inherited by women who experience menstrual bleeding—for if it were, all women would become unable to survive once reaching maturity—but women do not contract the disease because they possess a specific X chromosome; even those who are carriers typically remain unaware of their status.

There existed the fact that Dr. Mishio, an eminent serologist, had saved Prince Henry’s eldest son from a hemophilia crisis in Kiel. The Hessian princesses—sisters of the Russian Empress born to Irene of Prussia, who married the Kaiser’s brother Grand Duke Henry—were all carriers of hemophilia; among the letters exchanged between Empress Alexandra and Princess Irene (those addressed from Irene to her sister... ) were those in which she poured out her lamentations as a mother—written through tears—over being a carrier of the dreadful disease that tormented her child. Also came the question: had Nicholas II known before his marriage that there were carriers of hemophilia in Alice’s lineage? Be that as it may, Alice herself—and indeed both the Kaiser and Bismarck who had recommended her—must have known this fact.

Because his father died earlier than expected, Nicholas ascended to the throne while still immature, yet he laid bare his inherently indecisive nature in full measure—often issuing orders in the morning only to retract them via official documents by evening. Despite his innocent and devout nature, he also possessed a certain gloomy stubbornness, and when the other party’s attitude displeased him, he would fall completely silent. There was not a single person who could be certain of having gained his trust; even ministers could not let down their guard. "Weary of advice that was never heeded, even the imperial family came to despise him more each day" (Kurlov, *Recollections of Nicholas II*).

On May 14, 1905, the Baltic Fleet was annihilated off Tsushima. This was more than a defeat; for Russia, it was nothing short of a calamity. Nicholas was holding a racket as he listened to the report, but after muttering, “What a terrible defeat,” he resumed his game.

Nicholas II’s diary entry for that day. “The unfortunate naval battle off Tsushima. Melancholic mood. Contradictory reports. Heard three different reports. Took a walk with Mama. Clear weather. Tea and dinner on the balcony.” This diary laid bare an indecisive man who had ascended to the throne through hereditary succession despite lacking any talent—one who sought to escape reality, wishing only for his family’s happiness. Yet Nicholas himself took such dangerous pride in his own superiority, fervently believing in the divine right of kings—that emperors were divinely ordained to rule and subjects to obey—and would deliver incomprehensible speeches at reception banquets, much to the amusement of courtiers and bureaucrats. Nicholas believed his eloquence and erudition were praised by his subjects, but unbeknownst to him, those he dealt with unfortunately lacked the magnanimity to listen respectfully to his foolish talk—and thus they became appalled and abandoned him.

The Crown Prince was a blundering failure, but the Empress who bore him was also a grave mistake. Nicholas retreated to the Tsarskoye Selo palace and devoted himself to caressing his Prussian-born Empress, but the Empress, for her part, grew weary of the monotonous life and began meddling in state affairs to alleviate her unbearable ennui. Alexandra developed a pathological infatuation—far beyond mere romantic love—with her lady-in-waiting Anna Vyrubova, the daughter of a court official, and wrote letters pleading, “For heaven’s sake, don’t call me ‘Your Majesty.’” She wrote letters saying things like, “How I wish I could convey how utterly infatuated I am with you,” yet Vyrubova, for her part, continued offering Alexandra dispassionate critiques regardless.

“While it’s commonly said that Her Majesty the Empress is a fool, from my perspective, I believe it would be more accurate to describe her as stubborn. When discussions grew complicated, no matter the issue at hand, she would bellow obstinately without considering the consequences; then, once her opponent fell silent in fear, she would conclude her opinion had been correct all along—thus never demonstrating even a trace of critical thinking or imagination.”

As Alexandra began to grasp some semblance of political intrigue, she devoted herself nightly to state affairs until late—drafting imperial decrees, appointing and dismissing ministers, interfering even in frontline troop deployments, frequently disrupting the General Staff’s operational plans at their core—but toward the Emperor she acquired unlimited influence, and a habit formed wherein Nicholas would silently approve whatever Alexandra said in any situation. Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna had long waged a gloomy struggle to rescue her son from his wife’s domination, but upon becoming estranged from him, she resignedly withdrew.

Be that as it may, Nicholas was not necessarily subservient to Alexandra; rather, he had entrusted the drudgery of state affairs to his wife and intended to devote himself solely to formulating global policy. Believing himself summoned to a great destiny by divine providence following his failure to encroach upon Manchuria and Korea, he had been envisioning a grand dream of expanding the borders southward to annex Tibet, India, Persia, and the Dardanelles Strait. Since only spiritualists who could sense the significance of a noble mission—not statesmen or bureaucrats—were entitled to participate in drafting this grand world policy, he consciously began gathering such individuals around himself. At first, Philippe the mystic served as his interlocutor in these councils, but before long, speculators and conspirators came to dominate as Nicholas’s favored courtiers. The deliberation of critical matters was to be conducted in the billiard room after supper; however, as long as one possessed even a modicum of spiritual sensitivity, they were qualified to join the billiard room council—and thus it was that Rasputin’s seat had already been prepared even before he himself had appeared in Petersburg.

In 1917, Kerensky’s Provisional Government conducted a tribunal for the Romanov family, during which Manasevich-Manuilov delivered his famous testimony titled “Seven Noble Ladies.” “Rasputin said the following: Back when I was still in Siberia, many female devotees came to me—among them seven noblewomen from distinguished families who held influence at court. Those women were absolutely determined to gain divine favor. Now, divine favor can only be obtained when one humiliates oneself as much as possible. So I took those women in their fine clothes to the bathhouse, stripped every last one of them naked, made them wash my body, and thoroughly humiliated them. Thanks to that, those women got to become close to God.”

Grigori Efimovich Rasputin was the son of a Siberian coachman—a thoroughgoing scoundrel who from youth indulged in drink, committed theft, assaulted women, and embodied the very image of a villain—but at twenty-one, under the pretext of a holy pilgrimage, he wandered from Constantinople to the outskirts of Smyrna, learning to exploit farmers’ ignorance and superstition to deceive them.

Rasputin’s countenance was a classic example of schizophrenia, with both his forehead and nose abnormally enlarged, his hair and beard left to grow wild and unkempt, giving him the air of a sinister beast. What stood out were his lustrous, panther-like blue eyes—their gaze appeared both vacant and cunning, seeming to fixate on something yet utterly empty, leaving those who met it with an ineffable sense of bewilderment.

Rasputin performed incredible miracles with the faith healing he had mastered during his pilgrimage to holy sites. He was adept at capturing people’s hearts, alternating between feigning innocence, acting arrogantly, and playing the saint—employing every conceivable scheme to amass money, building churches and monasteries to dazzle the masses, and ascending as the preposterous saint known as “Saint Grisha the Clairvoyant.”

The previous summer, triggered by strikes among workers in Ukraine and the Caucasus, a red stain spread across all of Russia as revolutionary songs surged like tidal waves up to the Winter Palace’s vicinity—but the nobility and bourgeoisie, insisting war was preferable to revolution, ultimately dragged Russia into the Russo-Japanese War. Now was the time to make a grand move. Rasputin began preparing for his entry into the capital and, on the morning of December 5th—when the Vladivostok Fleet had been sunk in Port Arthur—entered Petersburg as planned. Over two thousand citizens came out in a frenzy to welcome him at the station, and several women were trampled in their attempt to kiss the hem of Rasputin’s cassock.

When the mood struck him, Rasputin would blow on a handful of soil and transform it into a rose tree in full bloom; on Nevsky Street, he made a lame woman who had been wandering in a wheelchair stand and walk.

“The people are crowding and jostling to approach him. Everyone acknowledges his prophetic talents and miracles” (Okhrana newspaper, April 12, 1905).

Before long, through an introduction by Empress Alexandra’s close friend Madame Anna Vyrubova, Rasputin infiltrated the imperial court and would go on to play a remarkable role in aiding the collapse of Tsarist Russia while stirring up scandals involving the Empress. The circumstances of this period are exhaustively chronicled in Charles Onessa’s famous biography Rasputin.

When Joseph de Maistre, the French literary ambassador, was appointed to Petersburg in 1815, he wrote a famous letter to his friend in Paris.

“I wrote 1815, but this is entirely incorrect. In Russia, it should be 1515, right? Because I’m in the sixteenth century right now.”

Nicholas’s grandfather Alexander II had been a close friend of the world-renowned spiritualist Daniel Home, but the Russian court had long been a nest of superstitious minds across generations, where spells, séances, and spirit-medium games flourished. Nicholas II kept Dr. Philippe—the aforementioned French mystic—among his inner circle, while Empress Alexandra became engrossed in collecting reports on psychic phenomena and spirit manifestations. Though Rasputin was said to have gained the Empress’s trust by alleviating Tsarevich Alexei’s grave illness, even without such pretext, deceiving this credulous imperial couple would have posed little challenge for him. The scandal between Empress and Rasputin has since become historical canon—but had it been fact?

Putting aside such speculations, the Workers' and Peasants' Soviet had seized a considerable number of letters addressed from the Empress to Rasputin. (This was temporarily exhibited at the Moscow Revolutionary Museum) Beloved Grisha. You as you are—all of you—and you who are my everything. The joy of resting my head upon your chest and quietly attending upon you. That fleeting moment when all sorrows and worries vanish into nothingness. Could any happiness greater and more sacred than this exist in this world? May I never have to leave your side. I respect you and pray you never forget I believe in you alone. I embrace you and beg your blessing. Your daughter A

Last night I could not sleep until morning. Because you do not appear, I feel as though I will die of sorrow. Please come at once. I need you more than air. And yet why must you torment me so? You should well know that I love nothing in this world but you. Your daughter A

Beloved Master. After you returned, I was overcome with sorrow. Grisha, since the disputes that lingered between us were resolved, I believe we need never be parted again. If God says I should die with you, and if He would welcome me into the heaven you prepared—oh, what joy that would bring! A

In August 1914, the world war began. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich was appointed commander-in-chief to confront Ludendorff, but from its very outset proved a continuous series of blunders—within the first four months alone expending a massive two hundred thousand troops. It was around this time that divine inspiration began visiting Rasputin. While claiming it as "a voice from heaven," he clearly prophesied every battlefront's outcome—from technical aspects of battlefield maneuvers to engagements' final resolutions—with each prediction striking true. Encouraged by this celestial voice and guided by prophecy, Nicholas conceived ambitions to realign the fronts. As immediate measures, he elevated Rasputin to court councilor and bestowed upon him a solid gold cross engraved with the initials N II and Nicholas II.

“Was that truly divine inspiration?” When the Hessian princess married into Russia, instead of bringing German subordinates from her homeland, she maintained a private courier (official dispatch) known as Madame Quernel—a milliner with close ties to Berlin who constantly traveled between Berlin and Petersburg—thereby positioning herself to grasp the progress of Germany’s entire military operations faster than anyone else. Feeding Rasputin subtle hints about minor developments on less critical fronts would have been an easy task. (Gredel, “The Empress’s Betrayal”)

Proclamations fell in a dizzying flurry, becoming a downpour, and Nicholas began addressing Rasputin with the honorific Novy (Savior). Rasputin, for his part, referred to the Emperor as “Papa” or “Nicky” and the Empress as “Mama” or “Sanni” without any titles, established a residence on Grokhowaya Street near the Winter Palace, and came to receive exceptional treatment that allowed him to freely enter the palace at any hour—midnight or dawn—whenever inspiration struck.

“Maneilof’s Testimony” (“Interrogation de Maneilof 1917”)

“Rasputin also said such things: ‘Mama calls me Jésus-Christ (Christ). The embroidery on this rubashka was done by Mama herself. Nicky is a timid pushover. Alexei (the Tsarevich) is a living corpse—a victim of the Kaiser’s world domination, I suppose. Olga’s a poser. Tacha (Tatiana) resembles Mama and’s a beauty. Masha’s graceful and has good flavor. Anastasia’s just a kid.’”

The Siberian miracle-worker rose to become an undisputed magnate as Court Councilor, the Empress’s lover, and the Tsarevich’s tutor, and began meddling in all political machinations. Rasputin’s parlor swarmed with bureaucrats and retired generals, shady entrepreneurs and charlatans, excommunicated bishops, and the like. Protopopov became Minister of the Interior, Bark Minister of Finance, Tobolovsky Minister of Justice—and from Kokovtsov, Golmyekin, Stürmer to Golitsyn, who served as Imperial Russia’s last Prime Minister starting in 1911—nearly every one of these ministers had clawed their way into ministerial chairs through Rasputin’s backing.

In May 1915, Nicholas exiled the Grand Duke to the Turkish front, assumed the role of Commander-in-Chief, and settled into the Mogilev headquarters—whereupon divine providence began descending upon the place in rapid succession, as if lying in wait.

Letters from the Empress.

Dated September 3rd.

He states that for the time being, we should not achieve too much success in the south. If we are too successful in the south, the German forces in the north will naturally launch a major counterattack. He states that our striking in the south would mean bleeding for the allied northern front. He hopes that you will accept this advice. Ditto. Dated October 1st. Is it true that S’s corps has advanced two hundred versts from Libau? He says he cannot comprehend why they are rushing the attack in that direction.

Nicholas launched his plan with full confidence, but through some error in divine providence, August saw the unexpected development where the Twelfth Corps near Riga became largely entrapped in a pocket, while half a division narrowly avoided annihilation and tumbled across the Romanian border. The flood of heavenly voices manifested as the Russian army's catastrophic defeat. As for what devastating fate befell the Russian army after the Battle of Riga, it stands as the history of the Great War records.

Even among Oblomov-like Russians, there were serious individuals who could not overlook the foolish acts of the false messiah—acts so contemptible that even ordinary people would scorn them. When Grand Duke Boris, Grand Duke Dmitri, Prince Yusupov, Purishkevich, and others gathered, Grand Duke Dmitri declared his resolve with the phrase “Из одного теста” (“He’s made from the same dough”), prompting them to reach a tacit agreement to eliminate him through direct action. On December 15th [Russian calendar], they lured him to Prince Yusupov’s residence using a dancer named Karari as bait. After poisoning him with potassium cyanide, they fired round after round into his body, then fastened two pood weights to it and threw it through a hole in the Neva River’s ice. The body was recovered when a discarded slipper provided a clue, and following an inquiry, Purishkevich was deemed the mastermind and exiled to Persia by imperial decree.

Rasputin’s corpse was interred in the Romanov family cemetery at Tsarskoye Selo. Empress Alexandra attended the funeral with the grand duchesses and Madame Vyrubova, placed an icon inside the coffin, painted her name on the corpse’s chest with paint, and offered fervent prayers.

“Dear Martyr. I follow in your footsteps. The sad, terrifying path you walked... I too shall tread upon it. Heartfelt prayers for you. Alexandra.”

Russia was in the grip of a terrible famine; from October onward, not a single loaf of bread remained in the bakeries, and refugees staggered through the streets of Petrograd on the brink of starvation. Riots broke out in every district, and on March 10th, wage laborers simultaneously went on strike and began street fighting. Nicholas issued an order to the Imperial Guard to suppress the disturbances, but the army rejected the imperial decree and openly rebelled against the Emperor. Voices cursing the Emperor could be heard everywhere, and before long, what began as a chorus swelled into a shrieking uproar; the food riots began to show signs of developing into nationwide political turmoil.

Nicholas attempted to gloss over the crisis by establishing a provisional cabinet government with Prince Lvov as prime minister, but to no avail—he ended up being forced to abdicate by Princes Alexeev and Ruzsky. The Russian Emperor was a god to his people; he could exile even nobles or high officials to Siberia’s farthest reaches with a single administrative order, and though they might occasionally offer counsel or voice complaints, never once did they exercise a veto. Overwhelmed by the sheer novelty of the times, Nicholas had dazedly approved his abdication with the reservation of passing the throne to Tsarevich Alexei—but an emperor requiring a nurse, who could not even walk properly due to malignant hemorrhages in his knee joints, was deemed utterly unviable, and the proposal was swiftly rejected. Nicholas, fearing a vacancy, attempted to abdicate in favor of his uncle Grand Duke Nikolai; however, the Grand Duke rejected the imperial throne without parliamentary approval, forcing Nicholas to sign the abdication document while vacating the designated seat of the Russian Emperor.

The Romanov family was transferred to the detached palace at Tsarskoye Selo and, on May 15th, was brought before an inquiry conducted by the Petrograd Workers' and Soldiers' Council within the Peter and Paul Fortress, where they faced judgment in a people's tribunal. The Soviet enumerated the facts of slaughter and atrocities that Nicholas Romanov had inflicted upon the Russian people through his mercilessly brutal autocracy, demanding lifelong punitive confinement for Nicholas's clan. Justice Minister Kerensky had managed to barely avert an outbreak by noting Russia's constitution lacked provisions for punishing an emperor, but when news leaked roughly half a month later that the guard captain had carelessly disposed of correspondence to the Empress suggesting escape methods, the Petrograd Soviet grew furious and pressed the government to hand over custody of the Romanovs. At a provisional cabinet meeting, Kerensky stated that temporarily mollifying the Soviet's fury and preempting future disturbances required removing the Romanovs from Petrograd—a proposal the Provisional Government followed by deciding to transfer them to Tobolsk in Urals Province, announcing this in the July 29th edition of The Daily News. Nicholas expressed concerns about Siberian life and requested relocation to Crimea if possible—a plea ignored—then asked to bid farewell to the Empress Dowager, which too was rejected.

Late at night on August 1st, Imperial Guard cavalry lined both sides of the road from the detached palace gate to Tsarskoye Selo Station, while around the iron fence of the Alexander Palace, crowds formed layer upon layer of human walls hoping to witness the spectacle of the Romanov family and the last emperor being sent into exile. At 2:00 AM, Nicholas delivered an emotional farewell address to the Imperial Guard officers and soldiers from the grand entrance terrace before departing for the station with his family in an open automobile.

At 3:00 AM, a special train composed of seven cars—including a smoking room, dining car, and sleeping cars—departed from the covered walkway to transport the man who until a few months prior had reigned as emperor with supreme authority over the world’s most powerful nation, along with his family, to Siberia. In addition, within the freight car coupled to the front of the opulent special train rode members of the former Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party—men whom the Emperor had imprisoned and exiled without mercy or pity—now specially appointed by the Provisional Government to monitor the party. Nicholas promised the Imperial Guard officers and soldiers that he would return here once the war ended, but even after the Great War concluded, the Russian Emperor never did come back.

Part II: The Grand Duchess's Confession

A young man named Julian Remy, who worked at a small bookstore on Haussmann Street in Paris while working tirelessly to prepare for his high school teaching qualification exam, had fallen into severe melancholia born of poverty and loneliness. On his doctor’s advice, he temporarily suspended his studies, took leave from the bookstore, and began visiting the nearby Luxembourg Gardens daily like clockwork, sitting on a bench along a quiet path to gaze at the sky and flowers.

The park had become like a rest area for the defeated—sorrowful widows in mourning who spent their long spring days there, weary old men with nowhere left to turn, all familiar faces lining up in the same queue of poverty—but among them was a young man who particularly captured Remy’s attention. Nineteen or twenty. He couldn’t be older than that. He seemed sickly, appearing fragile at a glance, with a complexion so pale it was almost translucent. Perhaps due to his bad legs, he would come each morning at a fixed time from the direction of Bonaparte Street to sit on the bench next to Remy, supported by a woman who appeared to be his sister, around twenty-four or twenty-five. The sister, who seemed to have work, would embrace her brother with extraordinary affection before hurrying out of the park; come evening, nearly at the same hour, she would return at a brisk pace, hug him as she had that morning, then slowly walk home holding his hand. Except on Sundays and rainy days, this scene was repeated like clockwork.

The sister was a striking beauty in her own right, but the young man was a Beau Brummell who possessed an inexpressible beauty and gentleness unlike anything Remy had ever seen, felt, or imagined. What surprised Remy was not only that, but also how—aside from slight movements like tilting his face toward the sunlight or shifting his gaze to the cornflowers at his feet—he remained utterly motionless from morning until evening in the same position he had assumed upon sitting down. He stood transfixed at the plant-like stillness for the first two or three days, watching from the sidelines, but once he began wanting to pour his heart out to this youth who seemed incapable of happiness, the preoccupation consumed him until the surrounding scenery vanished from his sight.

About three days later, Remy finally seized the opportunity to speak. The young man—Georges D'Orsay, son of a Belgian-born doctor—had come to Paris with his sister Jeanne after their parents' death, living in a single basement room on Bonaparte Street. Unable to work due to his bad legs, he depended on his sister, who sold ladies' hats on Rue de Rivoli. After explaining this in an awkward manner and haltingly, he placed his hand affectionately on Remy's arm and gently asked back: "Hey, you—what brings you here?"

As was typical of an unsophisticated country boy starved for others’ affection, Remy—overwhelmed by joy—began stammering incoherently and, with tears in his eyes, spoke of how he endured wretched food each day, how he had no friends or solace, and how he lived a painful, lonely existence like an abandoned seashell. That day, when his sister Jeanne came to fetch him earlier than usual, they parted reluctantly; yet in the desolate heart of Paris, Remy grew intoxicated with the joy of having encountered an unexpectedly tender soul. He spent the night wide awake, laughing alone and speaking to Georges’ gentle visage that lingered in his mind like an apparition. That morning, when he went to the bench early and waited, Georges arrived as usual being led by his sister. Smiling beautifully at Remy, he introduced him to her: “The one I spoke with last night is this gentleman here.” Jeanne took Remy’s hand and said courteously that with such a good friend made, Georges wouldn’t be bored anymore, and she could work with peace of mind.

The conversation resumed yesterday’s topic of why there was so much misfortune in life，but as they spoke，a joyful emotion welled up in his chest—a desire to support this frail，sickly youth with all his strength—and overflowing with passion，he declared outright： “Whether it’s neuralgia or rheumatism，I’ll surely cure you through my friendship！” Georges blushed，stammering painfully as he uttered despairingly， “This is a hereditary disease called hemophilia—no matter what you do for me，there’s no hope of a cure.”

That night, Remy suffered alone, prayed aimlessly, and tried to imagine—by recalling every possible detail—what kind of affliction this hemophilia was that lay at the root of Georges’ misfortune. The next day was Sunday, when Georges did not go to the park, so he promptly went to the Arsenal Library to borrow genetics books. While investigating what hemophilia truly was, he found a detailed explanation of the genetic intermingling between the Russian imperial family and the House of Hesse—mediated through Alice, who had emerged from the German House of Hesse to become Nicholas II’s empress—along with inserted photographs of both families’ lineages. To his astonishment, through this research, Remy realized without difficulty that Georges—whom he met daily in the park—was none other than Tsarevich Alexei, and that his sister Jeanne was Grand Duchess Tatiana.

Remy’s expertise lay in empirical historiography, with a particular focus on the history of political thought; consequently, through his study of Russian imperial history, he knew well what kind of end Nicholas Romanov’s clan had met. That is to say, the Tsarevich and the three Grand Duchesses—Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia—had been transferred to Yekaterinburg three weeks after the group consisting of the Emperor, Empress, and the third Grand Duchess Maria. On the midnight of July 15th, they lay side by side with their parents and siblings, falling victim to brutal terrorism. At the time, there had been an announcement by the Petrograd Soviet regarding this matter; General Juderic had released detailed reports declaring that these were, "in fact," individuals who should no longer exist in this world.

Now, Remy knew that at the intersection of history and politics lay countless "facts" diametrically opposed to truth. For this reason, he was a man who had trained himself to trust not official historical records but the truths concealed within apocryphal accounts. He promptly examined the records and concluded there was a discrepancy in the three-week period between the four royals’ departure from Tobolsk and their arrival in Yekaterinburg—and with that, he halted his investigation.

Remy was born into a devout Breton family and had received the cultivation of virtue from an early age; he believed that using his own curiosity to expose the past that others sought to conceal was the most shameful act of all. Remy kept everything to himself and met Georges daily with an unaffected air, but thinking that even his meager salary might occasionally serve the unforeseen needs of the unfortunate pair, he mustered his energy and threw himself into his work—until one such evening, when he happened upon Jeanne returning from work at the Opéra metro entrance and rode the same line’s train back to Saint-Michel.

From then on, a custom developed between Remy and Jeanne of meeting at the metro entrance—one that persisted until late autumn.

On the evening of December 10th of that year, the first snow fell in Paris. Jeanne hurried home that day with unprecedented urgency, leaving Remy behind as she rushed off alone. But as Remy meagerly prepared dinner over an alcohol lamp, an unfamiliar girl arrived carrying a letter from Jeanne. The message stated that misfortune had occurred and requested his immediate presence.

Entering the arched gateway at the end of a cul-de-sac in an antiquated quarter of Bonaparte Street, then descending through a hole at the edge of the stone courtyard into the underground as instructed, he found himself in a dark, damp stone-walled room that had likely once been a wine cellar. On the desk stood a single bare candle, its light revealing Jeanne crouched on a chair with both hands covering her face. Against the back wall was a large bed, a rope hung from a bent nail in the ceiling above its rear, where Georges had achieved a masterful death by hanging.

Remy sat on the edge of the bed and waited in silence. Before long, Jeanne raised her face and spoke. “When the first snow falls in Paris, Georges becomes terribly weak and takes to his bed—for as short as half a month or as long as over two months, he can’t get up.” “I know the cause of his melancholy well, but since it’s a mental illness, there was nothing I could do but stay by his side and hold his hand.” “I had long feared something like this might happen, but my premonition proved correct.” “For my brother, life must have been a bit too painful to go on living, though...”

At that moment，about three drunkards came clattering down the stone steps with disordered footsteps，calling Jeanne’s name as they violently knocked on the door． Jeanne walked toward the door and said， “You know perfectly well I don’t take clients at night． “Why have you come at this hour？ “No matter what you say，I won’t let you in，so please don’t make a fuss and kindly go home，” she refused through the door． The drunkards shouted incoherently，stomped their feet，and kicked the door in their frenzy，but perhaps realizing it was futile，they gave up and left．

As Remy peered into the ever-deepening abyss of misfortune, his heart rending with unspeakable anguish, Jeanne returned to her chair and addressed him in a steady tone that carried a withered yet paradoxically bright clarity.

“I find it strange,” “How can this feeling of loving someone pass through my defiled body yet gush forth unstained and pure?” “I would sometimes move myself with that innocence—how I’d rush through my sordid work and dash breathlessly to meet you at the Opéra.” “Let us say goodbye.” “With my brother dead, I’m now released from the duties forced upon me until today—there’s no more need for me to remain in Paris.”

The next day, when Remy returned from work, a paper package and Jeanne’s letter were placed on his desk.

“This is my trifling memoir, but if such a thing could be sold even for a sou per character, please sell it and use the money to buy something you need. I wish to repay you for the kindness you showed Georges, but I have nothing worthy of giving. This alone is the only thing I can do.”

Paris, December 7, 1924

Tatiana Alexandrovich Nikolaevna My father was, as everyone says, a man of weak will, but I believe there was nothing about him as a human being that deserved hatred. He maintained an unassuming, calm disposition and was not indifferent to reforming Russia's politics. However, as the old powers surrounding him repeatedly suppressed the exercise of his free will, he became a passive man who discovered a unique way of life through patient endurance.

All Russian emperors since the nineteenth century met misfortune, but among them, my father’s fate was a calamity too dreadful to behold—akin to a Greek tragedy. I believe the origin of my father’s ill fortune lay in his being compelled to ascend a throne he neither desired nor was suited for by aptitude or strength, and in his union with a cold-hearted, ungovernably willful foreign woman whose national character and bloodline differed from our own.

As is well known, my mother was Alice of Hesse—recommended by Kaiser Wilhelm and Bismarck, and summoned to Petrograd by her sister Elisabeth, Grand Duchess of Hesse. Grandfather Alexander III had been greatly pleased and magnanimous, but since Father would absolutely not consent, even Alice’s much-anticipated presentation ultimately proved meaningless. When Alice was to return to Hesse, on the evening of her farewell banquet, she reportedly went to her grandmother Maria Feodorovna and—satirizing the miserable outcome of the failed engagement—spoke these words: “I found everything that occurred in Russia most amusing.” “When I return home, I intend to immediately put into practice what I have learned in Russia.”

At this, Grandmother reportedly said sympathetically, “I don’t know what you intend to do, dear, but there’s nothing for you to accomplish back home. If there’s something you wish to achieve, you should simply make Russia serve your purposes.” This became a magnificently prescient prophecy. For Grandfather had staged an elaborate deathbed scene at the Livadia Palace in Crimea where he convalesced, using his supposed final wish to coerce his weak-willed son into marrying Alice against his will—and Alice had indeed come storming into Russia “to bend it to her whims.”

Later, Grandmother came to deeply regret her actions and even grew to hate Father—who was being manipulated by Mother—saying things like, “That one [Nicholas] is a weakling yet lacks sensibility.” In a show of spite toward Father and Mother, she began doting on Uncle Mikhail (the Grand Duke), and as a result, his Grand Duchess was astonished to receive extravagant gifts from Grandmother. Amidst Grandmother’s and Father’s emotions grating against each other in this manner, among our relatives and kin emerged a faction called the Reminiscence Group that venerated the late Emperor. Furthermore, this split into two factions—the pro-French faction centered on the Russo-French Alliance, which included Grandmother, and the pro-German faction that harbored dissatisfaction with the alliance, which included Mother—resulting in a tremendous uproar. The relatives were all competitors vying for the imperial throne among themselves, yet cowards to the core. For instance, Grand Duke Alexis transferred his entire fortune of ten million rubles to foreign banks two days before the First Revolution, while Grand Duke Sergei kept horses harnessed to his carriage day and night and slept fully clothed for a month. On the day of the disturbance, not a single one came to the palace—only Father met with the councilors. Every last bit of turmoil came crashing down upon Father’s shoulders.

Those who approached Father with flattery were all seeking to seize benefits through such means. Without any allies of truth, not granted a single friend, unable to trust the bureaucrats, and with the terrorism of the Russian Socialist Party ceaselessly threatening his spirit. I think it was also inevitable that Father, tormented by fear and doubt, resorted to some unfathomable inspiration yearning for a great miracle. The claim that Rasputin healed Alexei’s illness was a lie. On the days that man was to come, Anna (Vyrubova) had merely secretly added calcium chloride to Alexei’s food beforehand.

Even so, Rasputin’s debut was a comical affair. "Here is a small box of matches," he said. "I declare that Empress Alexandra cannot lift it—for it weighs over a ton." When Mother timidly reached out and touched the matchbox, her hand stiffened and stopped moving. That man, emboldened, said, "Let the Emperor try too," but Father, of course, did not lift a finger. Because he performed with utmost seriousness what seemed like something a street circus or market magician would do, we couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

I wrote before that my mother was self-willed and showed not the slightest emotion toward anything except her own concerns. Father was tormented by Mother’s narrow-minded nature until his death, yet their relationship remained relatively good. And no wonder—Father never opposed Mother in anything, letting her say what she wished and do as she pleased. Even such a father once truly lost his temper.

It was September 1916. Among the Romanov family treasures stored in the Winter Palace Museum—the garnets from Empress Catherine the Great’s crown, the pearls from Ivan the Terrible’s crown, the blue diamonds from Alexander II’s crown, and other items such as wall-hung Gobelin tapestries—Count Tolstoy, Deputy Minister of Ceremonies, discovered they had been skillfully replaced with counterfeits at some point, and reported this to Father with appended expert verification documents. The safe could only be opened with a combination known to three individuals—Father, Mother, and the Deputy Minister of Ceremonies—meaning if not Father, it would be the Deputy Minister; if not those two, then Mother. Father had been tormented by agonizing suspicions toward Mother for three days when that afternoon, taking the verification documents to her sitting room, he stood beside her as she embroidered, silently read them aloud, then declared in an uncharacteristically firm tone: “I have grasped this conclusion,” staring directly into her face. Without pausing her needlework, Mother maintained an air of detached indifference: “What are you saying about jewels? “As long as we have Alexei,” she retorted, “what could such things possibly matter?”

Father’s face flushed crimson to his hairline. “Too much seems concealed. I wish to know the truth. “Well? Won’t you tell me?” he pressed in a tone that brooked no forgiveness that day. Mother retorted, “What do you mean?”—though her quivering voice made the words scarcely audible. As always in such crises, it fell to Anna to rescue Mother. She burst into the room shouting, “The Tsarevich is bleeding again!”

This commotion threw them into disarray, rescuing Mother from what had appeared a desperately trying position. Father never spoke of the jewels again after that day, but from this incident onward, his attitude toward Mother became one of mere courtesy—formal and empty of heartfelt warmth. The relationship between Father and Mother continued smoldering in this state throughout our time in Peterhof, through our confinement at Tsarskoye Selo’s Alexander Palace, and from Tobolsk until our final days in Yekaterinburg.

Around that time, I received a letter from my younger sister Maria, who had gone ahead to Yekaterinburg with Father and Mother. "Mama was in a bad mood all day, and whenever she opened her mouth, it was only to criticize Papa. Papa endures such a dreadful life with fortitude, and what a tremendous blessing it is that he can keep his family around him to care for them—he even says he wishes this life would continue forever. What a power of assimilation! Papa could harmonize equally with both palace life and Siberian life."

"I have happy news to share. In the darkness of Yekaterinburg station, a stranger passing by quietly pressed something into my hand. What do you suppose it was? Seventeen rubles and fifty kopeks... This has become my life's sole treasure—indeed, my entire fortune. The cold today compelled me to light the stove. As the firewood began crackling, I found myself recalling our snug little house in Tobolsk. Could you send me some face powder? Mine has all run out. By the time this letter reaches you, you'll likely be preparing to depart for here. —Masha"

Tobolsk was an unpleasant land where winters were cold and summers hot due to the water vapor rising from the gloomy marshland east of the town. More than half of the town’s buildings were nestled within the forest, but our house stood as a two-story red-brick structure with a basement, complete with a veranda and outer walls that enclosed a spacious courtyard behind high barriers. What could be seen from the windows was an undeniably Siberian, gloomy landscape, but two of them faced toward the town, and from there we would gaze at the townspeople’s lives. There were twelve rooms in total, with the second floor becoming our residence and the basement serving as the guards’ quarters. It was relatively well-made for living, but there was no running water, gas, electricity, bathroom, or laundry room, and the chambermaid assigned to the rooms had to fetch water from the neighboring well.

Outings were limited to temples, monasteries, and—with special permission twice a week—the town’s public bathhouse. And even those were under the surveillance of an officer leading guards. Even so, we and Alexei were still able to play freely. Alexei had been able to go outside and play freely in the town park as well, but after an alleged escape plan prompted a thorough search of the house—during which letters suggesting such plans were discovered in Grand Duke Dolgoruky’s room and 10,000 gold rubles were found in Mother’s quarters, followed by the arrest of numerous sympathizers in Tobolsk, Omsk, and Tomsk—security was abruptly tightened, putting an end to those freedoms.

Father made it his established routine to stretch out on the sofa after lunch, smoking a cigarette while reading the newspaper. I suggested that since it seemed like a good opportunity, he might as well write his memoirs, but Father adhered strictly to his principle of never speaking about himself, and so it never came to pass.

There were times when Father’s eyes would redden. Whether it was from lack of sleep or because he had been crying, even I could not tell. Father’s face always appeared calm, almost cold, but when he shut himself alone in his room, he would hunch his back, cover his face with both hands, and sink into prolonged brooding. When the corners of his lips twitched—a sign that a terrible storm raged within his heart—even then, his face remained as calm as ever.

Father once said to Count Fredericks.

“I don’t find this unfree life painful now,” Father said. “All my past days were a prisoner’s existence anyway. But this land’s cold and loneliness—they utterly consume me. Sunlight and flower colors... even those only sparingly.” His voice trailed off before resuming with fragile hope: “If they’d let me live in Crimea with my family—as a decent citizen of the Russian Republic—I’d pass my days quietly, happily…” Mother sequestered herself in her room, poring over religious texts brought from Tsarskoye Selo, bathing for hours in devotional ecstasy. Yet beneath this surface devotion churned neither peace nor resignation—only anger’s bitter seeds and stinging thorns that turned every reminiscence to venomous nostalgia. Still, faint glimmers of self-awareness pierced through; at times she’d murmur to empty air, “Had I only realized then... Had I known...”

"If only I had realized back then. If I had known..." she would sometimes murmur to herself. The root of Mother’s grievances lay in Father’s apathy and lack of fighting spirit— particularly in the attitude he had adopted at the time of his abdication.

"He should have fought harder." "If he lacked the strength to fight, he should have at least imposed strict conditions." "To grandly hand over the imperial throne to those revolutionaries without setting a single condition—it's madness!" "Nicholas is too much of a softhearted weakling." "Ah, if only I had been there... If only I had truly been present."

Then, just as suddenly, her vigor would vanish, and she would say to her lady-in-waiting, Countess Naryshkina, “We can no longer expect anything from anyone, can we? It seems Russia has no friends left at all.” Yet she clung to the hope of returning to Petersburg, declaring with an air of composure, “Everything will work out in time.”

The four of us—my older sister Olga, younger sister Anastasia, brother, and I—did not go to Yekaterinburg. On the morning of May 22nd, we were placed in a carriage and sent to Ukha, where Father and the others had been meant to go. I learned of Father’s murder through an official bulletin while in Ukha, though in truth, it only mentioned Nicholas Romanov and his family—our names were nowhere recorded. Who first put forth the claim that we went to Yekaterinburg and were killed alongside everyone else? I had read Juderick’s account as well, but I could not comprehend why the Soviet Government had not retracted it. Had they grown so indifferent to us that such things no longer mattered? Or was it more convenient for them to leave matters as they stood? It must be one or the other.

In the spring of 1922, when permission to leave Ukha was granted, the three of us discussed and decided that two would enter a monastery while one would care for Alexei until death—but the lot fell to me. Many reside in Paris, including my uncle Grand Duke Paul and Chinovniks (high-ranking officials) from the imperial era, but I came to Paris not to seek their protection—it was solely for conditions that might hasten the atonement I had resolved in my heart. The manner of my father and mother’s deaths was gruesome, but I do not believe that with that, the Romanovs’ sins came to an end. As long as even one Romanov survives, that one must continue to atone in some form until death. The path I chose was atonement through the Carmelite Order’s "shameful trade"—to be defiled and humiliated by as many people as possible. The only regrets are these two things—that during such times I could not help but feel pleasure, and that I used the money thus obtained to purchase life’s necessities—but I believe they were unavoidable.

For whom am I writing this memoir? I myself had never once considered leaving such writings behind. J.R., however I reflect upon it, this must ultimately be for you. We who carried this blood knew from youth that marriage would pass down to our children the same affliction as Alexei—even my youngest sister Anastasia had resolved in childhood never to wed through her lifetime. What we feared above all was precisely this: that somewhere we might encounter someone as artless as yourself and come to feel affection. Yet it proved merciful that the situation I dreaded arrived not before my atonement, but near its end.

The reason is this—had I felt love’s sweetness and tenderness permeate my being at that time, I would have forgotten both my duties and Alexei, fabricating excuses endlessly to pursue you until my very being burned away. For just as it was with Father, through me and Alexei too flows that nihilistic Russian blood which so passionately stirs melodramatic fantasies.

A reflection from Dostoevsky’s *Demons*: "Russians have grown weary of trying to comprehend where their nihilistic ideas come from. But it comes from nowhere. Nihilism has taken root among us because every Russian is a nihilist at the core of their soul."

This is the truth. I did not say it then, but Alexei's suicide had been his compassionate act to bind me more closely to you. This is the Russian way. How tragic it all was.

Alexei’s remains were buried in the affiliated cemetery of the Sobor (Russian Orthodox cathedral) on Rue Daru. By the way, I am preparing to depart for Yekaterinburg. I do not believe that my parents and Maria were killed there. I am going to seek I was supposed to spend with my father and the others.

My uncle, Grand Duke Konstantin—a poet recognized for his rich talents who had published several poetry collections under the pseudonym "K.R.," and the Romanovs' sole true free spirit—had his memoirs, compiled over thirty years until his death in 1917 and chronicling his observations of the court, in the possession of Grand Duke Bōru at Number 10 Rue Iéna. If you wish, you may sell this memoir along with it. T This memoir was published in 1925 by Paiyotto under the title *Mémoires*, combined with Grand Duke Konstantin's recollections.

Fragments of thought discovered on the desk in the living room of Yekaterinburg after Nicholas’s death were attached as the preface.

“Everyone—absolutely everyone—thinks of nothing but the Bolsheviks.” “Yet it is foreign nations that pull their strings.” “What an impossible time!” “When autocracy falls shall Russia’s might and glory perish.” “Even upon this window lingers such a vestige.” “Such tsurara (icicles) take shape.”