Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I: The Execution of the Emperor Beyond the marshy, snow-covered plain, the domed roofs and spires of St. Petersburg glistened, and the edge of the sky hung low toward Finland.

In November 1917, a detachment of Red Guards, their faces splattered with mud, passed through the gray archway of Tsarskoye Selo adorned with golden hieroglyphs and the imperial eagle, trudging heavily through accumulated snow as they marched down the boulevard. Artillery carriages hitched to ammunition wagons and trucks loaded with armed workers frantically crisscrossed while trenches were being dug in the fields flanking both sides of the boulevard. In Petrograd, though Mensheviks clashed with Bolsheviks in the streets, every theater remained packed to capacity; officers sporting dashing military uniforms struck billiard balls in hotel parlors, while noblewomen convened in salons to discuss in refined tones their desire for the Tsar's restoration or their hopes for swift German military intervention.

In March, Nicholas II, having abdicated, was at the Tobolsk detention facility in Siberia with Empress Alexandra, Tsarevich Alexei, and the four princesses—Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia. Faint rumors began circulating through various indirect channels. The imperial family was safe and sound, and it was said that the Tsar and others had actually become more vigorous after being transferred to Tobolsk.

By the end of that month, when the Bolsheviks overthrew the Kerensky government to establish their regime and formed the Cheka (Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution), Petrograd's appearance transformed completely, and all knowledge of the imperial family's movements utterly vanished. By the end of that year and into mid-May 1918, vague rumors began circulating that the Tsar had been transferred from Tobolsk to Yekaterinburg in the Ural Mountains—or was scheduled to be. This meant moving some hundred fifty miles closer to civilization—not necessarily a bad sign—but it remained mere speculation; whether they were living under any particular conditions, whether they were even alive or had already been killed—all such details remained as elusive as grasping at clouds.

Meanwhile, there was tremendous chaos here. When Vilicky became Chairman of the Cheka and issued a proclamation stating, "All former bourgeois men and women shall be appointed as grave diggers for the lower classes. Those who refuse this labor will be shot," the collective massacres of nobles, former high officials, and monarchists began from that very day, leaving the aristocratic societies of Petrograd and Moscow in circumstances where they seemed on the verge of transforming into graveyards. If one harbored recollections of the Tsar in their mind, these became perilous days when Cheka spies could discern it simply by the look in their eyes, rendering it impossible to dwell on memories of the deposed imperial family.

On July 17, the Workers' and Peasants' Soviet published an official announcement in Petrograd Izvestia stating that former Emperor Nicholas Alexandrovich and his family had been executed in Yekaterinburg. That was all that was published; there were no supplements or explanations whatsoever. While it merely stirred a vague sense of disgust in the hearts of exhausted royalty and high-ranking nobles who had been hounded by the Cheka, this announcement imparted an immeasurable impulse to countries beyond Russia. Foreign correspondents sprang into action like their hems were on fire to gather detailed reports, but with the Czech Army and Ural Corps engaged in ceaseless guerrilla warfare around the Urals—foreign travel being completely prohibited—they could not plunge into the scene of a political tragedy unparalleled in world history, leaving them no choice but to gloss over matters with speculative articles and tragic vignettes of Nicholas II.

Then, with the September assassination attempt on Lenin by Dora Kaplan as its catalyst, the Cheka's operations became a literal guillotine; their crimson-soaked leather gloves never had time to dry, and by the end of twenty years, they had slaughtered over two million people. Even the Cheka became overwhelmed, to the extent that they themselves proposed halting executions; but then came the relentless turmoil of Wrangel Army and Polish Army advances beginning their offensive, until the massacre of Nicholas II's family faded from people's memories like wind rising and mist dispersing—gone without anyone noticing when it happened.

In the spring of 1922, under the title “The Truth About the Atrocities Committed Against Nicholas II and His Family,” a detailed record spanning from the imperial family’s arrival in Yekaterinburg to their final moments was published in *the Journal* under the signature of General Duderick, stunning 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 was situated—a place steeped in revolutionary fervor, also known as "Red Yekaterinburg." The Ural Corps, workers, and peasants' representatives—who styled themselves as the vanguard of the Bolsheviks—felt discontent over Tobolsk's unilateral transfer of the deposed emperor while bypassing Yekaterinburg, and sent repeated letters and telegrams demanding his handover to Sverdlov, chairman of the Moscow Central Committee and a native of Yekaterinburg, but received no response whatsoever. Thus, when they dispatched investigators to Tobolsk to ascertain the circumstances, they discovered—contrary to expectations of no response—that the Central Executive Committee had decided to transfer the deposed emperor and his family to Ukha in the south, and that an executive committee member named Yakovlev, bearing the official order, had already arrived in Tobolsk.

There had been several prior conspiracies to rescue the deposed emperor, including an instance where a Greek-born nobleman named Gussavie arrived with forged transfer orders. For this reason, the three members of the Yekaterinburg Committee—Pierre Botrov, Zhidkovsky, and Abdiev—harbored suspicions about the current order documents. They deployed monitors at every junction station along the branch lines, agreed to violently suppress any signs of escape assistance, and resolved to detain the deposed emperor’s party there if necessary. Thus began their surveillance of the special train.

Yakovlev had thirty-five Red Guards escort the five light carriages carrying the deposed emperor's party, departing Tobolsk before dawn and arriving in Tyumen that afternoon. At Tyumen Station awaited a special sealed train for transferring the party. Having received intelligence about a Yekaterinburg plot to block the deposed emperor's transfer to Ukha, they concluded it safer to detour via Omsk; they wired Moscow to confirm this course but, upon receiving a reply deeming it unnecessary, reluctantly adhered to the planned route.

They arrived in Yekaterinburg close to midnight, but representatives from the Yekaterinburg City Committee switched the points to divert the sealed train onto a siding and demanded the handover of the imperial party on grounds of suspicious behavior. As soon as Yakovlev refused, the crowd waiting on the platform suddenly turned violent toward him. Seizing this opportunity, Zhidkovsky and Botrov pulled down the Emperor, Empress, and Maria into a car, while Abdiev boarded another vehicle; they then drove off through the late-night town in close succession.

Yakovlev presented the official order and protested to the City Committee, but the Red Guards escorting them disarmed every last one of them and threw them into prison. Grand Duke Dolgoruky, a chamberlain, was separated under the pretext of interrogation and conveniently killed in Alepafsk—such was their brutality that no meaningful discussion could occur. Yakovlev sent an urgent telegram to the Central Committee about the situation, but not even a protest came from Moscow, and the matter was ultimately hushed up. For the deposed emperor and his family’s exile, five rooms on the second floor of a townhouse belonging to a landowner named Ipatiev in the city were assigned. Two days later, the court physician and servants were permitted to live together, but guards worked in three shifts on both the balcony and corridors. Not only were they forbidden from taking even a single step beyond their second-floor section, but the outer window frames were painted white to distinguish them from other windows, while guards armed with submachine guns stood watch—such was the thoroughness of their measures.

Alexei and the three Princesses—Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia—were transferred from Tobolsk at the end of May, three weeks later. By this time, a log fence had been erected around the house. When Anastasia unknowingly opened a window to let in air for Alexei, who was gasping in the heat, a single precise shot suddenly rang out—one bullet grazing Anastasia's cheek and shattering a holy icon to pieces—serving as a decisive warning.

There were two meals a day: morning and evening. These consisted of horrific fare—maggot-infested ukola (dried salmon) and shchi (salted meat and cabbage soup)—that was nearly unbearable to put in one’s mouth. From the nearby Carmelite monastery, they occasionally sent milk, eggs, and such. That alone constituted meals fit for humans, but the guards were viciously rigid. Each time provisions arrived, they would march into the dining hall with mud-caked boots, thrust their hands into the plates while shouting "You lot are eating luxuriously!", kneading and mixing until no amount of ingenuity could make the food edible—this became routine.

Initially, the guards were good-natured workers taking shifts from nearby factories, but when a man named Rutmin was appointed full-time from the city’s revolutionary committee, all remaining decorum and discipline vanished at once. They brazenly made off with the deposed emperor’s personal belongings and imposed harsh regulations without reason, even prohibiting the princesses from knitting. The family remained confined to a drab, monotonous existence with no means of distraction beyond visiting each other’s five rooms, their sole comfort becoming the gathering in the deposed emperor’s chamber after supper to quietly sing hymns and Calvinist songs.

Nicholas maintained a humble demeanor even toward lower-ranking soldiers and lived out his days in quiet routine, while Empress Alexandra grew increasingly despondent, scattering swastikas across the walls of her room while muttering that they were symbols of good fortune. When moved by impulse, 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. While Alexei remained occupied fighting his illness—too busy to comprehend the meaning of his wretched circumstances, making him arguably the most fortunate among the seven—the four young princesses foresaw their bleak future and sank into profound despair. Their desperate efforts to maintain cheerful facades to avoid madness were misinterpreted by the Red Guards of worker origin as flirtatiousness, leading to horrific incidents where they would chase the princesses while making lewd jokes and waving pornographic images before them.

With July's arrival came sudden intensifying heat. What proved most agonizing was being denied baths; with no water provided for laundry let alone washing themselves, their undergarments and bedding became caked with grime and sweat, filling the sealed rooms with an indescribable stench that on humid days grew so thick one might suffocate. Alexei, exhausted by the heat and foul air, hardly slept, while the deposed emperor would sometimes carry him from room to room, pacing until morning. Fleas and lice multiplied ferociously, driving the deposed emperor to shear short the beard he'd cultivated for over twenty years. The princesses too fell victim to hair lice, shearing off their golden curls at the roots. (After being massacred, their hair would be discovered gathered into a clump inside the stove.)

As the family had visibly weakened, even Abdiev came to his senses somewhat and permitted them to stroll in the log-fenced courtyard for one hour each day—though this lasted only briefly, for when clockmaker Korvinsky of Yekaterinburg replaced him as chief supervisor, he promptly 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 into armed insurrection; Savinkov’s anti-Soviet conspiracy developed into foreign intervention; a 300,000-strong Czechoslovak army launched assaults across Siberia to crush Red Guard units; and with their position deteriorating, the Ural Communists grew anxious they might lose custody of the deposed emperor at any moment.

Korvinsky had grown impatient over handling the Nicholas family's disposition and had repeatedly pressured the Central Committee to carry out their execution—yet making no headway—until finally losing his patience; in mid-June, he convened an All-Ural Conference that resolved to execute the Nicholas family and appointed a worker named Petro Zabarovich as the execution committee member. According to Zabarovich’s opinion, it was necessary to leave no traces of the massacre; he devised an elaborate method of burning the corpses and then dissolving any remaining parts with sulfuric acid. They immediately set about collecting sulfuric acid in iron drums and lamp oil, completing this task by early July.

On July 15, the Vasiliev boy who had been playing with Tsarevich Alexei was scolded and told never to return again before being sent away at the entrance. On July 16th—midnight by Soviet reckoning extending into July 17th’s predawn hours—four committee members ascended to the second-floor wing where the family resided. All four men reeked of alcohol and clutched heavy Russian revolvers. Korvinsky first entered the bedroom and shook awake the deposed emperor.

“Before dawn, we received intelligence that Czechoslovak forces would launch an assault. It’s dangerous here if stray bullets hit—go wait in the basement.” The deposed emperor thanked Korvinsky and stood beside the empress, waiting for her preparations to be completed. When Demidova asked, “Should we bring our belongings?” Korvinsky curtly replied, “Just the mattresses will do,” and went into the adjoining dining room.

Soon, the Romanov family and their servants—eleven people in total—formed a line with the deposed emperor at the head and entered the dining room. The deposed emperor wore cavalry breeches with heeled boots and a faded khaki officer’s coat. Empress Alexandra led the Crown Prince by hand; the three princesses and Tatiana held her beloved dog; while maid Demidova carried the Crown Prince’s pillow. They were followed in order by Dr. Botchomkin, the court physician; Kemdorf, the chamberlain; and Sidney, the servant.

Soldiers holding lanterns led the way as the four committee members descended first to the basement. Tatiana supported Alexei, who struggled to walk, while the deposed emperor offered his arm to assist the Empress. Behind the procession trailed ten Red Guards armed with rifles. The lantern-lit basement revealed itself as a gloomy stone-walled storage room measuring seventeen shaku in width and sixteen in length, its sole illumination a crescent-shaped window high on one wall while a crude mural of Empress Alexandra engaged in sexual congress with Rasputin dominated another. Korvinsky, Murachiovsky, Metovich and ten soldiers formed a disorderly line near the basement's center as the imperial family pressed themselves against the wall.

After an indescribable moment of silence, Korvinsky produced the Central Executive Committee’s proclamation—arbitrarily created by Korvinsky and Goloshchyokin—with an impassive expression, then read it aloud by the light of the soldiers’ lanterns: “The Romanov family is sentenced to death. There exists no plea for clemency to the special tribunal. Execution is the only course.” That was all. Empress Alexandra covered her face with both hands, and the princesses collapsed where they stood to hastily cross themselves. The deposed emperor said, “Wasn’t it agreed that we would be taken to Uha?”—but before he could finish speaking, Korvinsky impulsively cocked his pistol’s hammer. The deposed emperor was shot through the center of his left ribcage and fell forward like a withered leaf. The Crown Prince and nine others were struck by successive rifle volleys; within less than five minutes of the proclamation being read, they had all become corpses. Demidova, the maid, fled down the stairs while shielding her chest with a pillow and screaming at the top of her lungs—only to be mercilessly gunned down there—while the youngest princess Anastasia, crying and shrieking uncontrollably, was struck in the skull with a rifle butt, thereby falling silent forever.

The Red Guard soldiers stripped clothes from eleven victims lying in a sea of blood, searched out jewels that had been sewn into hems by the princesses for emergencies, and amiably divided them among themselves. They all staggered about as if heavily drunk. When this remarkable distribution concluded, the blood-soaked soldiers wrapped each crimson-lacquered corpse in old blankets one by one 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 burned them. By evening, their work completed, they doused what wouldn't burn with sulfuric acid; what even the acid couldn't dissolve was buried in a pit along with the ashes.

Three days later, the Czechoslovak army entered Yekaterinburg. While searching for the deposed emperor's final resting place, they discovered a charred metal fragment shaped like a medal from a forest pit. It was the remnants of a Maltese Cross adorned with green gems. There were also buckles and corset metal frames among the findings. The German historian Perlman had investigated the final moments of 872 emperors who met extraordinary ends, compiling statistics in his wryly titled book The Emperor Registry. According to his findings, the breakdown showed depositions at 364 cases (41%), assassinations 350 (28.6%), battlefield deaths 153 (17.5%), deaths by madness 54 (6.2%), massacres 25 (2.9%), suicides 21 (2.4%), and executions merely 6 (0.6%)—each demise bearing infinite variations in circumstance. Even among those sharing equally violent ends, nuances of fortune and misfortune became discernible.

Though Louis XVI's end—sentenced to death by a single vote and collapsing upon the guillotine—may seem improbable, it was Hermanric, the virtuous aged king of the Ostrogoths compelled to end his life by his own blade at 110 years, that truly evoked life's impermanence. When Emperor Hiliogapalus learned barbarians were approaching, he laid gold plates studded with pearls along his high tower's staircase and slept nightly in the topmost chamber intending to leap from the window should the fortress fall—yet when the crucial moment came, he failed to jump and ended as rust upon a barbarian sword. Antiochus III, styled the Great King of Syria, attempted to steal temple treasures during a drunken revel but was mistaken for a thief and slain by the night watchman. King Enzoi of Sardinia was cornered by assassins and killed inside a roadside wine barrel—for a monarch nicknamed Bacchus I who reveled in drink, it proved an eminently fitting conclusion.

Just as some have extolled "the crystallization of human blood, human sin, and karmic dreams," the deaths of Catherine—Queen of Henry VIII—beheaded at the Tower of London’s execution ground, or Edward V and his brother, evoke eternal pathos. But none match the soul-crushing anguish of Nicholas II’s end: slaughtered alongside his entire family in a transient basement within the Ural Mountains.

When one gazes upon photographs of Nicholas II’s austere yet beautiful countenance, neither his extraordinary circumstances nor his tragic end seem particularly distinct; rather, one cannot help but feel as though an inborn shadow of misfortune clings thickly to him.

The sickly-looking emperor who succeeded Alexander III to the throne—with chestnut hair and melancholic gray-green eyes—was immediately perceived by all as someone who, though not exactly morally rigid, appeared fundamentally incapable of surrendering himself to the debauchery considered a noble's privilege. Even during crucial meetings, he would listen with a fool's negligent air or sit silent with downcast eyes—a timid and gloomy figure; educated yet lacking acuity, his appearance bearing something faintly ridiculous, devoid of any dignity. At times he would speak, but his words tangled on the tip of his tongue; though amusing, they often proved unintelligible.

Nicholas II (Nikolai Alexandrovich)'s childhood concluded under rigorous education. The overseer of his studies was his mother Maria Feodorovna herself—Princess Dagmar, daughter of Denmark's King Charles IX and granddaughter of Queen Victoria—who enforced strict discipline without respite day or night. Coupled with his father's militaristic training regimen, this left him utterly exhausted, transformed into a timid and nervous wreck who inevitably committed wretched failures in every undertaking.

“What a clown this one is!”

This was Alexander III’s stock phrase when rebuking failures. At twenty years old, this timid Russian Crown Prince experienced the only romantic affair of his life. While enthralled by Kshesinskaya—prima ballerina of the Mariinsky Theatre—a son was born. This scandalous incident provoked tremendous turmoil, yet defying his characteristic timidity as if demon-possessed, he confessed every detail to his father the Emperor. He entreated permission to marry through hints of a British-style morganatic union—where neither wife nor child could inherit status or property—but Alexander III would never countenance such preposterous entreaties. Instead, Nicholas found himself dispatched on an Eastern voyage aboard a warship alongside his cousin Prince Georg of Greece.

Life on the warship was akin to imprisonment; whenever they went ashore Georg would follow them everywhere without separation. In essence Georg was a de facto supervisor acting on Alexander III's orders. Nevertheless Nicholas managed to receive a telegram from Kshesinskaya in Marseille. As anticipated it was a tear-drenched farewell announcing eternal separation—the message reading: "Birds have flown away flowers have scattered." Kshesinskaya and her child were rumored to have gone to Britain or South America though their subsequent whereabouts remain unknown.

Nicholas's sincere lifelong endeavors had thus met with tragic ruin, but Japan held yet another misfortune in store for him. While making a brief excursion from Kyoto to Ōtsu, he was suddenly slashed by a deranged police guard, sustaining two wounds on his forehead measuring twenty-nine centimeters and seven centimeters.

Ever since his grandfather Alexander II had been assassinated with dynamite, the Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party's terrorism had persisted through Governor Bogdanovich of Ufa and Interior Minister Plehve, casting an unrelenting dark shadow of terror over Nicholas's heart; yet even having come to this far edge of the Far East, he could only stare in dismay at the suffocating narrowness of his own fate to suffer such blade-and-cudgel assaults, a sense of resignation taking root in his heart that would not leave him.

James I of England, who spent his youth amidst assassinations and conspiracies, was said to have constantly guarded against armed terror and never removed a horsehair-stuffed padded vest to prevent dagger stabbings; after ascending the throne, Nicholas became so consumed by assassination delusions that he rarely left the palace, even crossing Peterhof's gardens becoming an agony akin to death. Considering assassins might invade the palace, he had secret passageways built into the walls between study and drawing room, allowing access through labyrinthine corridors to the Imperial Guard battalion barracks. In emergencies, it had been securely arranged that one could reach the Neva River via the imperial yacht Standart from there. (Grand Duke Konstantin "The Court of Nicholas II's Era")

Through Kaiser Bismarck’s recommendation, Nicholas married Alice of the House of Darmstadt from the Kingdom of Hesse in the Prussian Federation, and four princesses were born. The Russian people were beginning to fear their empire might end without a Crown Prince when finally, in the tenth year, a male child was born. Churches across Russia rang their bells and sang the Te Deum to celebrate the Crown Prince’s birth, but the child was born with hemophilia (Hémophilie), an incurable malignant disease.

The defining characteristic of this disease was that even minor wounds—which would naturally stop bleeding in ordinary people—failed to clot, and in cases such as after tooth extraction, life-threatening hemorrhaging could occur. The exact cause remained unknown, 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 due to systemic anemia, caused fatigue, headaches, dizziness, tinnitus, and other symptoms. In Alexei's case, the bleeding occurred from the knees; he had already twice come perilously close to losing all the blood in his body and falling into critical condition.

This malignant disease had its hereditary connections proven and was considered rare in genetics due to differing transmission methods between sexes, but like color blindness, it passes through females to manifest solely in males. It is a relief that this pernicious disease is not inherited by women who experience menstrual bleeding—otherwise, all women would become unable to survive once reaching childbearing age. Women do not contract the illness because they possess a specific X chromosome; even those who are carriers of hemophilia typically remain unaware of their condition.

There existed the fact that Dr. Mishio, an eminent serologist, had saved the eldest son of Prince Henry from a hemophilia crisis in Kiel. The sisters of the Hessian princess—born to Irene of Prussia, who married Grand Duke Henry, brother of the Kaiser—and who became Empress of Russia were all carriers of hemophilia; this was evident in letters exchanged between Empress Alexandra and Princess Irene—those from Irene to her younger sister. Those confiscated in large numbers after the Revolution contained her tearful writings lamenting being a carrier of the malignant disease that tormented her child as a mother. Furthermore, whether Nicholas II had known before his marriage that Alice’s lineage carried hemophilia carriers remained unclear. Be that as it may, Alice naturally knew of this fact, as did the Kaiser and Bismarck who had recommended her.

Because his father died earlier than expected, Nicholas ascended to the throne while still immature; he laid bare his inherently indecisive nature, frequently issuing orders in the morning only to retract them in writing by evening. Though fundamentally innocent and devout, he harbored a gloomily obstinate streak and would fall silent whenever others' attitudes irritated him. Not one person could be certain of having earned his trust—even ministers had to remain guarded. "Weary of counsel that went forever unheeded, even the imperial family grew to despise him more with each passing 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 truly a disaster. Nicholas was holding a racket and listening to the report when he uttered, "What a dreadful defeat," and resumed his game.

Nicholas II's diary entry for that day.

"The unfortunate naval battle off Tsushima. A melancholic mood. Contradictory reports. Heard three different reports. Walked with Mama - just us two. Clear weather. Tea and dinner on the balcony."

This diary exposes an indecisive man who ascended to the imperial throne without natural aptitude due to hereditary succession—one who sought to escape reality and desired only his family's happiness. Yet Nicholas himself harbored such dangerously inflated pride in his own superiority that he devoutly believed in the divine right of kings—the doctrine that emperors were ordained by God to rule and subjects to obey—delivering nonsensical speeches at formal banquets that entertained courtiers and bureaucrats. Nicholas believed his eloquence and erudition were being praised by his subjects, but little did he know—those he engaged with unfortunately lacked the magnanimity to respectfully endure his foolish talk, leaving them exasperated until they ultimately abandoned him.

The Crown Prince was an utter failure, but the Empress who bore him was also a grave mistake. Nicholas withdrew to the Tsarskoye Selo palace and devoted himself to caressing his Prussian-born Empress, but she, growing weary of the monotonous life, began meddling in state affairs to distract from her unbearable ennui.

Alexandra developed a pathological infatuation beyond mere romance with Anna Vyrubova, her lady-in-waiting from the Empress's household, writing in one letter: "For mercy's sake, don't call me 'Your Majesty.' It pains me that I can't convey how utterly infatuated I am with you." Yet Vyrubova, disregarding these professions, offered calm criticism to Alexandra.

"While Her Majesty is widely reputed to be a fool, from my perspective, I believe it would be more accurate to describe her as eccentric." "When discussions grew complicated, regardless of the issue at hand, she would bellow loudly without considering the consequences, and once her opponents fell silent out of fear, she would conclude her opinion had been correct all along—thus never demonstrating a shred of critical thinking or imagination."

As Alexandra began to grasp some semblance of political intrigue, she applied herself diligently to state affairs late into every night—drafting imperial decrees, appointing and dismissing ministers, interfering in battlefront expansions and contractions, frequently disrupting the General Staff's operational plans at their foundation. Yet she gained boundless influence over the Emperor himself until Nicholas developed a habit of silently approving every matter whenever Alexandra spoke. Empress Dowager Maria Feodorovna had long waged a somber struggle to rescue her son from his wife's domination, but upon becoming estranged from him, she ultimately relinquished her efforts and withdrew.

That being said, Nicholas had not necessarily been subjugated by Alexandra; rather, he had entrusted the mundane affairs of state to his wife and intended to devote himself solely to formulating global policies. Believing himself called to a great destiny by divine providence ever since his failure to annex Manchuria and Korea, he had been envisioning a grandiose dream of expanding the borders southward to incorporate Tibet, India, Persia, and the Dardanelles Strait. The right to participate in drafting these grand world policies belonged not to statesmen or bureaucrats but solely to spiritualists capable of sensing the significance of a sacred mission—thus he consciously began gathering such individuals around himself. Initially, Philippe the mystic served as his interlocutor in council meetings, but before long, speculators and conspirators came to wield influence as Nicholas’s favored courtiers. Discussions of critical matters were to be held in the billiard room after supper; however, anyone qualified to join the billiard room council—provided they possessed even a modicum of spiritual sensitivity—found that Rasputin’s seat had already been prepared long before the man himself ever appeared in Petersburg.

In 1917, Kerensky's Provisional Government executed a tribunal for the Romanov family, and Manasevich-Manuilov made a famous statement known by the title “Seven Noble Ladies.” “Rasputin spoke as follows: ‘When I was still in Siberia, many female followers came to me, among whom were seven noblewomen from prestigious families who held influence at court. ‘Those women insisted they absolutely must obtain God’s favor. ‘Now, God’s favor can be obtained only when one humiliates oneself as much as possible. ‘So I took those women in their fine clothes to the bathhouse, stripped every single one of them naked, made them wash my body, and humiliated them to my heart’s content. ‘Thanks to that, the women were able to become close to God.’”

Grigori Efimovich Rasputin was the son of a Siberian horse-drawn carriage driver—from his youth, he indulged in drinking, committed theft, raped women, and was a thorough scoundrel embodying the very image of a villain; but at twenty-one, under the pretext of a pilgrimage to holy sites, he wandered from Constantinople to the vicinity of Smyrna, learning to exploit farmers' ignorance and superstition to deceive them. Rasputin’s countenance presented a textbook example of schizophrenia—his forehead and nose grotesquely enlarged, his hair and beard left wild and unkempt, evoking some feral beast of darkness. Most striking were his lustrous, panther-like blue eyes—their gaze appeared both guileless and cunning, as though fixated on something yet utterly vacant, leaving observers with an inexpressible sense of disorientation.

Rasputin performed tremendous miracles using the faith healing he had mastered during his pilgrimage to holy sites. He was masterful at captivating hearts—acting innocent one moment, haughty the next, playing the saint—employing every conceivable scheme to amass wealth. With churches and monasteries built to dazzle the masses, he ascended as the preposterous saint known as "Saint Grisha the Clairvoyant."

The previous summer, strikes by workers in Ukraine and the Caucasus had left red blights spreading across all of Russia, and revolutionary songs had swelled like tidal surges up to the Winter Palace's vicinity; yet nobles and bourgeoisie, proclaiming war preferable to revolution, finally hauled Russia into the Russo-Japanese War.

Now was the time to boldly set forth. Rasputin began preparations for his entry into the capital, and on the morning of December 5th, when the Vladivostok Fleet was sunk at Port Arthur, he arrived in Petersburg as scheduled. Over two thousand citizens enthusiastically welcomed him all the way to the station, and several women were trampled in their attempts to kiss the hem of Rasputin's cassock. Rasputin, whenever the mood struck him, would blow on a handful of soil to transform it into a blooming rose tree, and on Nevsky Street, he made a lame woman who had been wandering in a wheelchair rise and walk.

“The people are jostling each other to get close to him. “Everyone recognizes his prophetic talents and miracles” (April 12, 1905, Okhrana Newspaper). 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 Imperial Russia while stirring up scandals involving the Empress. The circumstances of this period are exhaustively described in Charles Omessa’s famous Biography of Rasputin.

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

"I wrote '1815,' but this is entirely incorrect. In Russia, it should be 1515. Because I am now in the 16th century."

Nicholas’s grandfather Alexander II had been close friends with the world-renowned spiritualist Daniel Home, but the Russian court had long been a nest of superstitious individuals across generations, where spells, séances, and spirit medium sessions flourished. Nicholas II kept Dr. Philippe, the aforementioned French mystic, among his close aides, while Empress Alexandra devoted herself to collecting reports on psychic phenomena and spiritualism. Though Rasputin was said to have gained the Empress’s trust by alleviating Tsarevich Alexei’s grave illness, even without such an achievement, deceiving this superstitious couple would have been trivial for him. The scandals between Empress and Rasputin have since become legendary lore—but were they rooted in fact? Be that as it may, the Workers' and Peasants' Soviet confiscated a considerable number of letters from the Empress addressed to Rasputin. (These had been temporarily exhibited at the Moscow Revolutionary Museum.)

Beloved Grisha. You who are my entirety as you exist, and you who constitute my everything. I rest my head upon your chest, finding joy in quietly attending you. That moment when all sorrows and afflictions vanish utterly. Could any happiness more grand and sacred than this exist in our world? May I never be parted from your side. I revere you and believe in you alone—do not forget this. I embrace you and entreat your blessing.

Your daughter A

Last night I could not sleep until morning. Because you do not come, I feel like dying from sorrow. Please come at once. I need you more than air. Yet why do you torment me so? I am certain you well know that I love nothing but you. Your daughter A

Beloved Master. Since your return, I have been plunged into profound sorrow. Grisha, now that the conflicts that had wandered lost between us are resolved, I believe we need never be parted again. Should God command me to die with you - should He then welcome me into the heaven you've prepared - what bliss that would bring! A

In August 1914, World War I began. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich, the Emperor’s uncle, was appointed Commander-in-Chief to confront Ludendorff, but from the very outset, blunders followed blunders, resulting in the loss of two hundred thousand troops within the first four months. Around that time, Rasputin began receiving divine inspiration. Rasputin claimed it was "a voice from heaven," but he prophesied with precision—from technical aspects of troop deployments to battle outcomes—and every prediction came true. Encouraged by this celestial voice and guided by prophecy, Nicholas conceived ambitions to reorganize the battlefronts. He promptly elevated Rasputin to palace 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 Princess of Hessen married into Russia, instead of bringing German retainers from her own country, she maintained a private courier (official messenger) known as Madame Quernel—a hat merchant with close ties to Berlin who constantly shuttled between Berlin and Petersburg—placing her in a position to grasp the progress of Germany’s entire military operations faster than anyone else. Feeding Rasputin subtle hints about the movements of certain less significant fronts would have been a simple matter.” (Gredel "The Empress's Betrayal")

Proclamations came down in rapid succession like a torrential downpour, and Nicholas began addressing Rasputin with the honorific title "Novy (Savior)." Rasputin, for his part, began receiving extraordinary treatment: addressing the Emperor as "Papa" or "Niki" and the Empress as "Mama" or "Sannii" without honorifics, establishing a residence on Grokhowaya Street near the Winter Palace, and freely entering the palace at any hour—midnight or dawn—whenever inspiration struck.

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

“Rasputin also made the following remarks: ‘Mama calls me Jésus-Christ (Christ).’ ‘Mama did this embroidery herself on my rubakha.’ ‘Niki’s just some timid pushover.’ ‘Alekha there – he’s nothing but walking dead meat.’ ‘Another casualty chasing Kaiser Wilhelm’s world domination?’ ‘Olga? All airs and graces.’ ‘Tacha – takes after Mama looks-wise – real beauty there.’ ‘Maria keeps sweet-natured and proper-like.’ ‘Anastasia? Still just some kid.’”

The Siberian miracle worker rose to become an undisputed magnate as a palace councilor, the Empress’s lover, and the Tsarevich’s tutor, and began meddling in all affairs of state. Rasputin's parlor teemed with veteran bureaucrats and generals, shady entrepreneurs and speculators, defrocked bishops and the like, while Protopopov became Interior Minister, Bark Finance Minister, Tobrovolsky Justice Minister—Kokovtsov, Gomleikin, Stürmer, and those ministers extending all the way from 1911 to Golitsyn, Imperial Russia's last Prime Minister—nearly every single one of them having clambered into ministerial chairs through Rasputin's backing.

In May 1915, Nicholas dispatched the Grand Duke to the Turkish front, assumed the role of Commander-in-Chief, and stationed himself at headquarters in Mogilev—whereupon divine will began visiting there one after another, as if lying in wait.

The Empress’s correspondence. Dated September 3rd. He advises that excessive success should not be pursued in the south for the time being. Should we gain too much ground there, German forces in the north would inevitably mount a major counteroffensive. He maintains that our southern offensives would hemorrhage our allies along the northern front. He earnestly hopes you will accept this counsel.

Ditto.

Dated October 1st. Is it true that S’s corps has advanced two hundred versts from Riga? He said he couldn’t understand why they were rushing the attack in that sector.

Nicholas embarked with full confidence, but through some divine miscalculation, August saw the Twelfth Corps before Riga become largely encircled in a pocket, half a division barely escaping annihilation to tumble across the Romanian border. The flood of heavenly voices manifested as the Russian Army's crushing defeat. As for what disastrous fate befell the Russian Army after the Battle of Riga, the history of the Great War makes it plain.

Even among Oblomov-like Russians, there were serious individuals who could not overlook the foolish acts of the false messiah. When Grand Duke Boris, Grand Duke Dmitri, Prince Yusupov, Purishkevich, and others had gathered, Grand Duke Dmitri demonstrated his resolve by declaring *Iz odnogo testa* (“He’s made from the same dough”), prompting them to form a silent pact for direct action. On December 15 (Old Style), they lured Rasputin to Prince Yusupov’s residence using a dancer named Karari as bait. After dosing him with cyanide and riddling him with bullets, they fastened two pood weights to his body and threw it through an ice hole into the Neva River. The body was recovered using a fallen slipper as a clue, and following an inquiry, Purishkevich was deemed the mastermind and exiled to Persia by imperial decree.

Rasputin's body was buried in the Romanov family cemetery at Tsarskoye Selo. Empress Alexandra attended the funeral with the princesses and Mrs. Vyrubova, placed an icon inside the coffin, wrote her name in paint on the corpse's chest, and offered earnest prayers.

“Dear Martyr, I follow in your footsteps. The sad, terrifying path you walked... I too shall tread upon it. I offer 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 Petersburg on the brink of starvation. Riots broke out in every district; on March 10th, wage laborers simultaneously went on strike and began urban warfare. Nicholas issued an order to the Imperial Guard to suppress the disturbances, but the military rejected the imperial decree and openly defied the Emperor. Voices cursing the Emperor could be heard everywhere, and before long what had been a chorus escalated into a great clamor; signs emerged that the food riots were developing into nationwide political turmoil.

Nicholas attempted to paper over the crisis by establishing a provisional cabinet government with Prince Lvov as prime minister, but to no avail—he found himself compelled to abdicate by Princes Alexeev and Ruzsky. The Russian Emperor was a god to his people, able to banish even nobles and high officials to the farthest reaches of Siberia with a single administrative order; though they might occasionally offer counsel or voice grievances, never once did they exercise any right of veto. Overwhelmed by the sheer novelty of the political situation, Nicholas dazedly approved his abdication with reservations about having Tsarevich Alexei inherit the throne, but a nurse-attended Emperor who could barely walk due to malignant hemorrhages in his knee joints amounted to nothing substantial, and the proposal was summarily dismissed. Nicholas, fearing a vacancy in succession, attempted to abdicate in favor of his uncle Grand Duke Nikolai; however, the Grand Duke spurned the throne that had not received parliamentary approval, forcing Nicholas to sign the instrument of abdication while vacating the designated seat of the Russian Emperor.

The Romanov family was transferred to the Tsarskoye Selo palace and, on May 15th, was brought before the Petrograd Workers' and Soldiers' Soviet inquiry conducted within the Peter and Paul Fortress to face judgment in a people's court. The Soviet enumerated the acts of slaughter and tyranny that Nicholas Romanov had inflicted upon the Russian people through his cruel and brutal autocracy, and demanded lifelong punitive confinement for the Nicholas clan. Justice Minister Kerensky managed to narrowly avert an outbreak by pointing out that the Russian constitution contained no provisions for applying criminal penalties to the emperor, but half a month later, it leaked that the head guard had disposed of correspondence addressed to the Empress suggesting methods of escape, prompting the Petrograd Soviet to furiously demand that the government hand over custody of the Romanov clan. At a provisional cabinet meeting, Kerensky presented his opinion that there was no better option than to remove the Romanovs from Petrograd for the time being to mitigate the Soviet’s anger and prevent future disturbances in advance. Following this proposal, the provisional government decided to relocate the Romanov clan to Tobolsk in Ural Province and announced it in The Daily on July 29th. Nicholas expressed concern about life in Siberia and said he would prefer to go to the Crimean Peninsula if possible, but this was not heeded; he then requested to bid farewell to the Dowager Empress, but this too was rejected.

On the late night of August 1st, cavalry of the Imperial Guard 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 a.m., Nicholas delivered an emotional farewell address to the officers and soldiers of the Imperial Guard from the terrace of the main entrance and proceeded to the station with his family in an open automobile.

At three o'clock in the morning, the special train—a seven-car formation including a smoking compartment, dining car, and sleeping berths—glided out from the covered walkway to transport to Siberia the man who until a few months prior had reigned as Emperor with supreme authority over what was then the world's mightiest nation, along with his family. Moreover, in the freight car coupled to the front of the opulent special train rode former members of the Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party—those whom the Emperor had imprisoned and exiled without mercy or compassion—specially appointed by the provisional government to monitor the convoy. Nicholas had promised the Imperial Guard that he would return once the war ended, but even after the Great War concluded, the Russian Emperor never came back.

Part II: The Princess's Confession

While working at a small bookstore on Boulevard Haussmann in Paris and preparing sleeplessly for the higher secondary school teacher qualification exam, a young man named Julian Remy had fallen into severe melancholia born from the conflict between poverty and loneliness. On his doctor’s advice, he temporarily halted his studies, took leave from the bookstore, and began visiting the nearby Luxembourg Gardens each day as if performing a duty, where he would sit on a bench along a tranquil path and gaze at the sky and flowers.

The park had become like a rest area for the defeated, where Remy grew familiar with faces lining up in poverty's ranks—widows in mournful black spending their long spring days there, old men exhausted by life with nowhere left to go. Yet among them was one particular young man who drew his attention. Nineteen or twenty years old. He couldn't have been older. Frail-looking and seemingly ill, his translucent-pale complexion suggesting poor health, he arrived each morning at a fixed time from Bonaparte Street—supported by a woman who appeared to be his twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old sister—to occupy the bench beside Remy. The sister, who seemed employed elsewhere, would embrace her brother with extraordinary tenderness before hurrying from the park. Come evening, nearly at the same hour, she'd return at a brisk pace to clasp him again as she had that morning, then lead him slowly homeward by hand. This scene repeated itself with mechanical precision every day except Sundays and rainy days.

While his sister possessed striking beauty that lingered in one's memory, the young man was a Beau Brummell of sorts endowed with an indescribable loveliness and tenderness that Remy had never before seen, felt, or even imagined. What surprised Remy wasn’t just that, but also how, aside from occasional movements like tilting his face upward toward the sunlight or shifting his gaze to the cornflowers at his feet, he remained in the exact same position from morning until evening without moving a muscle. With a plant-like stillness and tranquility, Remy had watched from the side in awed silence for the first two or three days, but once the thought took hold that he wanted to pour out his heart to this young man who seemed incapable of happiness, it began to preoccupy him so completely that the surrounding scenery faded from his view.

About three days later, Remy finally seized the opportunity to speak. The young man—Georges Dorsay, son of a Belgian-born doctor—haltingly explained in awkward phrasing how after his parents' death, he had come to Paris with his sister Jeanne to live in a basement room of an apartment building on Rue Bonaparte; how his bad legs left him unable to work; how he depended on his sister who worked as a salesgirl at a Rue de Rivoli milliner's; then, clinging affectionately to Remy's arm, he gently asked in return: "Well now, you—what brings you here?"

True to form for a love-starved country bumpkin unaccustomed to city life, Remy became utterly flustered from sheer joy and, with tears welling in his eyes, spoke of how he endured terrible food each day, lived through painful, lonely days without friends or comfort—like an abandoned seashell. That day, as his sister Jeanne had come to pick him up earlier than usual, they parted with lingering regret; but intoxicated by the joy of having encountered a tender disposition he never expected to find in the heart of desolate Paris, Remy spoke to the phantom image of Georges that remained in his mind, laughed alone, and stayed wide awake through the night. That morning, when he went early to the bench and waited, Georges came as usual being led by his sister, but while bestowing a beautiful smile upon Remy, introduced him to her: “The person I spoke with last night is this one.” While holding Remy’s hand, Jeanne remarked courteously that with him having made a good friend, Georges wouldn’t be bored anymore, and she too could work with peace of mind.

The conversation resumed yesterday’s theme of why life contained so much misfortune. As we spoke, a joyful emotion swelled in my chest—this fervent desire to support the frail, sickly youth with all my strength. In the surge of passion, I declared outright that whether it was neuralgia or rheumatism, my friendship would surely cure him. Georges flushed crimson and, stammering painfully, uttered despairingly, “This is a hereditary disease called hemophilia—there’s no hope of a cure no matter what you do.”

That night, Remy suffered alone, prayed aimlessly, and tried to imagine—recalling every possible condition—the nature of the hemophilia that was caused Georges’ misfortune. The next day was Sunday—Georges’s day off from park visits—so Remy promptly went to the Arsenal Library to borrow books on genetics. 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 through Alice (who had emerged from the German House of Hesse to become Nicholas II’s empress), complete with photographs of both families’ lineages inserted there. To his astonishment, through this investigation 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 specialized in empirical historiography and focused particularly on researching political thought; consequently, through his study of Russian imperial history, he was intimately familiar with how Nicholas Romanov's family met their demise. That is to say, the Tsarevich and the three princesses—Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia—were transferred to Yekaterinburg three weeks after the party consisting of the Emperor, Empress, and third princess Maria; on the midnight of July 15th, they became victims of brutal terrorism alongside their parents and siblings, lying side by side. Regarding this matter, there had been an announcement by the Petrograd Soviet at the time, with detailed reports issued by General Juderic; these were personages who "in fact" should no longer have existed in this world.

Now, Julian Remy knew that at the intersection of history and politics lay numerous "facts" diametrically opposed to truth—a man having trained himself to trust facts concealed behind unofficial histories more than official records. He promptly examined the documents, determined there existed discrepancies in the three-week period between the four royals' departure from Tobolsk and arrival in Yekaterinburg, and consequently terminated his investigation.

Remy had been born into a devout Breton household where he had imperceptibly received the cultivation of moral character, for he believed there was no act more shameful than using his own curiosity to expose the past that others sought to conceal. Remy kept everything locked within his heart and met Georges daily with an unaffected demeanor, 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 work; then one evening at the Opéra metro entrance, he happened to encounter Jeanne returning from work and rode the same line's train back to Saint-Michel with her. From then on, a custom developed between Remy and Jeanne of meeting at the metro entrance, which continued until late autumn.

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

Entering the arched gateway at the dead end of an alley in Bonaparte Street's antiquated quarter, descending through the hole at the edge of the stone courtyard as instructed into the underground, there in a dark, damp stone-walled room that had likely once been a wine cellar—with one bare candle standing on the desk—Jeanne crouched on a chair, both hands covering her face. Against the back wall stood a large bed, and from a bent nail in the ceiling above its rear, Georges had hanged himself with grim efficacy.

Remy sat in silence on the edge of the bed until Jeanne finally raised her face. "Whenever the first snow falls in Paris, Georges becomes terribly weak and takes to bed, unable to rise for as little as half a month or as long as over two months." "I understand the root of his melancholia well enough, but being an affliction of the mind, there's nothing to be done save staying by his side and holding his hand." "I had long feared it might come to this someday—my premonition proved accurate." "For my brother, life must have been too cruel to endure."

At that moment, about three drunken men came clattering down the stone steps with unsteady footsteps and began violently pounding on the door while calling Jeanne's name. Jeanne walked toward the door and said, “You know very well we don’t take clients at night. Why have you come at such an hour? No matter what you say, I won’t let you in, so please stop making a fuss and go home,” she refused through the door. The drunkards shouted incoherently, stomped their feet, kicked the door, and caused a commotion, but perhaps realizing it was pointless, they gave up and left.

As Remy peered into the ever-deepening abyss of misfortune, his heart torn by unspeakable anguish, Jeanne returned to her chair and addressed him in an unwavering tone that carried a drained yet paradoxically bright clarity.

“I find it strange. “Though it flows through this defiled body of mine, how does this feeling of loving someone surge forth unstained, remaining pure? “Even I would occasionally feel moved by that innocence – hastily concluding my sordid trade to meet you, rushing breathlessly all the way to the Opéra. “Let us bid farewell now. “With my brother’s death, I am released from the duties imposed until today, and have no further need to remain in Paris.”

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

“This is my trivial memoir, but if these words could be sold for even a sou per character, please sell them and use the proceeds to buy something you need. I wish to repay the kindness you showed Georges, but I have nothing to offer. This is the only thing I can do.”

Paris, July 12, 1924

Tatiana Alexandrovna Nikolaevna

Father was, as everyone says, a weak-willed man, but I do not believe he possessed qualities deserving hatred as a human being. He had a simple, gentle disposition and was not indifferent to reforming Russia's politics; however, his free will was repeatedly suppressed by the old forces surrounding him until he became a passive man who found his unique way of life in patient endurance. While all Russian Emperors since the nineteenth century met unfortunate ends, my Father's fate stood apart among them—a devastation too horrific to behold, akin to Greek tragedy. I believe the origins of Father's tragic fate lay in being compelled to ascend an imperial throne he neither desired nor was equipped for in aptitude or strength, coupled with being bound in union to a cold-hearted foreign woman of uncontrollable self-will who differed in national character and bloodline.

As you are aware, my mother was Alice of Hesse, but it was Kaiser and Bismarck who recommended her, and it was her sister Elisabeth, Grand Duchess Georgievna, who summoned her to Petrograd. Grandfather (Alexander III) was greatly pleased and magnanimous in spirit, but since Father absolutely would not consent, even Alice’s carefully arranged formal presentation ended up being rendered meaningless. Alice was to return to Hesse, and on the evening of the farewell soirée, she went to her grandmother (Maria Feodorovna)’s side and, satirizing the miserable outcome of the failed engagement, reportedly said these words: “Everything that occurred in Russia was most fascinating.” “As soon as I return home, I intend to immediately put into practice what I learned in Russia.” Then Grandmother responded pityingly, “I don’t know what you intend to do, but there’s nothing you need to accomplish by returning to your homeland. If there’s something you wish to achieve, you should make good use of Russia as you please”—a statement that became a brilliantly accurate prophecy. The reason being that Grandfather, at the Livadia Palace in Crimea where he had relocated for convalescence, staged an elaborate performance of being at death’s door; using this supposed deathbed wish to pressure my weak-willed father into forcibly binding himself to Alice—who then came to Russia “to wield it as she pleased.” This was because she had come into Russia.

Grandmother later came to deeply regret her actions, even growing to hate Father—who was being manipulated by Mother—for "being a coward yet lacking sensitivity," and as a spiteful gesture toward both parents, she began doting on Uncle Mikhail, the Grand Duke (the Emperor's brother). Consequently, Uncle's Grand Duchess found herself astonished by the extravagant gifts she received from Grandmother. Amidst this clash of emotions between Grandmother and Father, among our relatives and kin emerged a faction called the Reminiscence faction that venerated the late Emperor; furthermore, the family split into two great factions—the pro-French faction centered around the Russo-French Alliance that included Grandmother, and the pro-German faction that included Mother, who harbored dissatisfaction with the alliance—creating tremendous turmoil. The relatives were all competitors vying against one another for the imperial throne, yet at their core remained utter cowards; my uncle Grand Duke Alexei had fled all his assets of ten million rubles to foreign banks two days before the First Revolution, while Grand Duke Sergei kept his carriage horses perpetually hitched day and night, sleeping fully clothed for a month—such was the state of affairs that on the day of turmoil, not a single soul appeared at court, and Father alone met with the councilors. All turmoils came avalanching down upon Father's shoulders.

Those who approached Father with flattery were all aiming to seize benefits through such means. He had no true allies, was granted not a single friend; bureaucrats could not be trusted, and Russian Socialist terrorism perpetually threatened his psyche. I think it was also inevitable that Father, tormented by terror and doubt, turned to some inexplicable inspiration while hoping for a great miracle.

The claim that Rasputin cured Alexei's illness was a lie. On days when that man came, Anna Vyrubova had merely secretly added calcium chloride to Alexei's food beforehand. Nevertheless, Rasputin's antics were comical. “Here lies a small box of matches,” he declared. “I state that Her Majesty Empress Alexandra cannot lift it.” “Why, you ask? Because it weighs over a ton.”

When Mother timidly reached out and touched the matchbox, her hand stiffened and became immobile. That man, growing bolder, said, "Your Majesty the Emperor should try as well," but of course Father did not lift a finger. The way he performed with dead seriousness what might be expected from a downmarket circus act or a market magician made us burst into laughter despite ourselves. I wrote previously that Mother was strong-willed and never showed the slightest emotion toward anything other than her own affairs. Father was tormented by Mother’s narrow-minded disposition until his death, yet their relationship remained relatively harmonious. And that was only natural, for Father never opposed Mother in any way, letting her say what she wished and do as she pleased.

Even such a Father, there was one time when he truly became angry.

It was September of the sixteenth year. Among the Romanov family treasures stored in the Winter Palace's affiliated museum—the garnet from Empress Catherine the Great's crown, the pearls from Ivan the Terrible's crown, the blue diamond from Alexander II's crown, along with wall-hung Gobelin tapestries and other items—Count Tolstoy, Deputy Minister of Ceremonies, discovered they had been skillfully replaced with counterfeits at some unknown time, and reported this to Father with appended expert verification documents. Since the safe could only be opened with a code combination known to three individuals—Father, Mother, and the Deputy Minister of Ceremonies—it had to be either the Deputy Minister if not Father, or Mother if not both of them. Father had been tormented by agonizing suspicions toward Mother for about three days when, that afternoon, he took the verification documents to her sitting room. Standing beside Mother as she embroidered, he silently read the documents aloud. Then, in an uncharacteristically firm tone, he stated, “I have reached this conclusion,” and stared directly into her face. Mother continued her embroidery without pause, her face as indifferent as if discussing someone else’s affairs. “What are you talking about regarding jewels? As long as we have Alexei, what does any of that matter?” she retorted. Father flushed crimson up to his hairline. “Too many things seem concealed. I want the truth.” He pressed in a tone that offered no forgiveness today: “Well? Won’t you tell me?” To this Mother retorted, “What are you talking about?” though her voice trembled so badly it was barely audible. In such situations, it was always Anna who rescued Mother from peril, and this time was no exception: she suddenly burst into the room shouting loudly, “The Tsarevich is bleeding again!”

This commotion saved Mother from what appeared to be an excruciatingly difficult position. Father never spoke of the jewels again, but from that point onward, his attitude toward Mother became one of mere formality—courteous yet devoid of heartfelt sincerity. The relationship between Father and Mother continued smoldering in this state throughout their time in Peterhof, through their confinement at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, and from Tobolsk until their final days in Yekaterinburg.

Around that time, I received this letter from my sister Maria, who had gone ahead to Yekaterinburg with Father and Mother.

“Mother remained cross all day, opening her mouth only to censure Papa. “Yet Papa bore that wretched existence with fortitude—keeping us gathered about him, caring for us all. ‘What tremendous grace,’ he’d say, ‘if only this life could endure forever.’” “Such assimilative power! Papa could harmonize equally with palace splendor and Siberian privation. “Let me share glad tidings. In Yekaterinburg station’s darkness, some unknown soul slipped something into my hand as they passed. What think you it was? Seventeen rubles and fifty kopeks… My life’s sole treasure now comprises my entire fortune. Today’s chill compelled us to light the stove. As firewood crackled, memories surfaced of our snug Tobolsk house. Pray send me face powder—mine’s quite spent. When this letter finds you, you’ll likely be departing hither. Masha”

Tobolsk was an unpleasant land where winters turned bitterly cold and summers sweltered hot due to vapors rising from the gloomy marshland stretching across the town's eastern flank. Half or more of the town’s buildings were located within the forest, but our house was a two-story red-brick structure with a basement, featuring a veranda and an outer wall, and had a spacious courtyard enclosed by a high fence. The view from the windows was a thoroughly Siberian gloomy landscape, though only two of them faced toward the town, and from there we would gaze upon the townspeople’s lives. There were twelve rooms in total, with the second floor serving as our residence and the basement as the guards' quarters. It was relatively well-made for living, but there was no water supply, gas, electricity, bathroom, or laundry room, and the chambermaids assigned to each room had to fetch water from the neighboring well.

Our outings were limited to temples and monasteries, with only two weekly exceptions when we were granted special permission to visit the town's public bathhouse. These excursions too came under the watchful eyes of guards commanded by an officer. Still, Alexei and I could play freely enough within these constraints. He had initially been allowed outdoor excursions to play in the town park as he pleased, but after authorities conducted a full house search prompted by escape plot suspicions—unearthing incriminating letters in Grand Duke Dolgoruky's quarters and 10,000 gold rubles in Mother's room, followed by mass arrests of sympathizers across Tobolsk, Omsk and Tomsk—security measures intensified abruptly, putting an end to such liberties.

Father had made it his rule after lunch to stretch out on the sofa, smoke a cigarette, and read the newspaper. I suggested that since it was an opportune moment, he should write his memoirs, but Father adhered strictly to his principle of never speaking about himself, so it never came to pass. There were times when Father’s eyes would turn red. Whether it was from lack of sleep or because he had been crying, I couldn’t tell either. 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, it meant a tempest was raging within his heart, yet even then, his face remained as calm as ever.

Father once said to Count Frederick: "I don't find this unfree life painful now." "My entire past existence was that of a prisoner." "But this land's cold and loneliness utterly overwhelm me." "Sunlight and flower colors... even those just faintly." "If they would permit me to live in Crimea with my family, I'd dwell happily and quietly as a decent citizen of the Russian Republic."

Mother would shut herself in her room to read religious books brought from Tsarskoye Selo, immersing herself in ecstasy for hours on end. Yet her heart held neither peace nor resignation—everything became seeds of anger and sharp stings of wounded pride—so whenever Mother spoke, it was always reminiscences of better days gone by. Even so, she seemed to have recognized her own mistakes at least partially. "If only I'd realized back then." "...If only I'd known," she would sometimes murmur to herself.

The source of Mother’s complaints was Father’s listlessness and lack of fighting spirit—particularly regarding the attitude he had maintained during his abdication. “He should have fought harder,” she would say. “If he lacked the strength to fight, he should have at least imposed conditions—numerous conditions. To hand over the imperial throne to those revolutionaries without setting a single term... it’s madness. Nicholas is too kind-hearted. Too weak.” Then her voice would drop to a whisper: “Ah, if only I had been there... If I’d truly been present—”

No sooner would she say such things than she suddenly deflated, telling her lady-in-waiting Countess Naryshkina, “It seems we can no longer expect any help. Russia has no friends left.” Yet she still clung to hopes of returning to Petersburg, declaring with composed face, “Everything will work out in time.”

The four of us—my elder sister Olga, younger sister Anastasia, younger 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 Mother had originally been meant to go. I learned through an official bulletin while in Ukha that Father and the others had been killed, though in fact it only stated "Nicholas Romanov and his family," without listing any of our names. Who first propagated the notion that we went to Yekaterinburg and were all killed together? I have read Juderick's records too, yet I cannot comprehend why the Soviet government doesn't retract them. Have they grown so indifferent to such matters that it no longer concerns them? Or does maintaining this falsehood better serve their purposes? It must be one or the other.

In the spring of 1922, when permission to depart was granted in Ukha, we three deliberated and decided two would enter a monastery while one would care for Alexei until his death—the lot fell to me. In Paris dwell many like my uncle Grand Duke Paul and Chinovniks (high officials) from imperial times, yet I came not to seek their protection but solely to fulfill conditions allowing the atonement I resolved in my heart to be completed swiftly. Though Father and Mother perished gruesomely, I cannot believe this ended the Romanovs' sins. So long as one Romanov survives, that one must persist in atonement through some form until death. What I chose was expiation through the Carmelites' "shameful work"—to be defiled and humiliated by multitudes. My sole regrets are these two: that I inevitably felt pleasure during those acts, and that I used the gained money to buy survival's sustenance—yet I deem both unavoidable.

For whom am I writing this memoir? I myself had never once considered leaving behind something like this in writing. J.R., by any measure, it appears to be for your sake. We who carried this blood knew from the beginning that marriage would force us to pass on to our children the same afflictions as Alexei - which is why even my youngest sister Anastasia had resolved from childhood never to wed in her lifetime. What we feared above all was encountering someone pure-hearted like you somewhere and developing feelings of love. Yet it was merciful that the situation I dreaded arrived not before my atonement, but near its conclusion.

The reason is that had I been at an age when love's sweetness and tenderness could permeate my being, I would have forgotten both my obligations and Alexei, ceaselessly devising pretexts to pursue you until my very self burned away. Just as Father did, both Alexei and I carry within us this nihilistic Russian blood that so fervently stirs melodramatic fantasies.

An essay from Dostoevsky's *Demons*. "Russians are exhausted from trying to comprehend where nihilistic thought comes from. But it does not come from anywhere. The reason nihilism has taken root among us is that every Russian is a nihilist at the core of their soul."

This is a fact.

At that time I did not say it,but Alexei’s suicide was his act of consideration to bind me more closely to you.This was how Russians did things.What a pitiful thing this was.I buried Alexei’s remains at Sopole’s attached cemetery on Rue Daru,the Russian church grounds.I was preparing then to depart for Yekaterinburg.I never believed Mother and Father—nor Maria—were killed there.I went seeking ,that span from our shared past I should have spent with Father and them.My uncle Grand Duke Konstantin had published poetry collections under K.R.,a pseudonym marking him both poet of rich talent and Romanovs’ sole true free spirit.His memoirs—three decades of court observations till his death in ’17—remained with Grand Duke Bōru at Jena Street No10.If you wish,sell these notes alongside them.

T

This memoir was published in 1925 by Paiotto under the title Mémoires, combined with Grand Duke Konstantin's recollections. Following Nicholas's death, fragmentary musings discovered from the desk in the Yekaterinburg living quarters were included as the preface. "Everyone thinks only of the Bolsheviks. Yet foreign hands manipulate them. What trying times! When autocracy ends, Russia's power and glory perish. This window too bears such traces. Such icicles take shape."