For a week I mourned at the grave every day, wondering how the chick looked after its journey to heaven. Finally, I dug up the box. I opened the cover expecting that the little angel had flown away, but instead I ran to Mother to tell her the worms were eating my pet. Mother explained that the box contained the shell of the chick, the soul was already flown away, now nature was destroying only the shell.
I was quite socially inclined, and made calls on anyone staying in the palace. I chatted with all on various subjects. “If Olga and Tatiana ever marry, will they leave us? Olga squeezed an orange peel yesterday and it squirted right into my eye. Do you know that Mashka (Marie) put on her underwear wrong side out and refused to change it, it is very bad luck. Did you hear that “baby” (Alexei) painted a droopy mustache on his face with a crayon? Olga says, he looks like the Cossack in Riepin’s painting. Do you know that painting? Why do you think Marie did not take her cold bath this morning? Olga says that mother kangaroos hide their babies in a sack on their bodies and the babies poke their heads out to see where they are going. Why doesn’t papa get cribs for the kangarooshkas?” These ideas or others like them were expressed to all in five to ten minutes of social visits. Sometimes I asked them to tell me stories like the Golden Apple and the Princess. I clapped my hands and thanked them for the most delicious story. If anyone was not well, I was ready to play nurse. My one cure for the indisposed was always a wet towel on the forehead.
Some of my most pleasant early memories about Mother were the times when she told us stories. There was one favorite she was asked to repeat over and over. One day she changed the words slightly and I burst into tears, saying: “But, Mommy, I like the old story better.”
When I was older, Mother read to me an American book called Ramona. As much as I could understand, it was a fascinating story about an Indian girl. It made a big impression on me, and left me with the most tender feeling of affection for the Indian girl. Several years later, when I heard that an American gentleman was coming to see Mother, I begged to be allowed to meet him. I remember that I wore my best new dress, of white silk, a recent gift from Queen Alexandra of England. This frock had smocking at the waist. I was told it came from Liberty’s of London. I kept this dress until the war, at which time I gave it to an orphanage.
At the time of this American’s visit, the nurse was supposed to bring me downstairs when Mother rang the bell. But, when I heard the signal, I ran ahead, and flew down the spiral stairway as fast as my feet could carry me, and burst breathlessly into the room. A tall handsome gentleman arose and politely kissed my hand as we were introduced. Distressed, and almost in tears, I looked sideways up to him as I cried out in surprise: “Mother, this gentleman is not an American because he does not have his feather hat or his blanket.” The poor man, whoever he was, tried his best to explain, but to me, he still was not an American.
Mashka (Marie) had the most wonderful disposition, but I often got her into trouble. We used to practice on the piano in a room above Mother’s boudoir where she could hear us. When the instructor, Mr. Konrad, happened to step out for a minute, we began to roughhouse. Soon the telephone rang and we knew it was Mother to remind us to attend to our practice and not to fool around.
Mother realized that we missed having friends of our age, and she made up for it by forming a closer knit family of our own. Occasionally we saw the Tolstoy girls or the children of General Hesse, once Father’s aide-de-camp. We took some lessons, danced and played with them: two boys and a girl about the age of my sister Olga. But no intimacy whatever was allowed. We also enjoyed our cousins, Aunt Xenia’s children, when they were at home.
When Alexei was about seven years old, he had a nurse named Maria Vishniakova. She disturbed Olga and made her cry. Vishniakova told Mother that the muzhik Rasputin had been upstairs in our apartments and conducted himself improperly. According to the tradition of the Russian court, no men were allowed in the girls’ rooms except the two Negro doormen, Apty and Jim. Father became so upset by the report that he personally questioned Vishniakova. She was evasive, and gave one date, then another. When Father told her that Rasputin according to the report was nowhere near St. Petersburg during those dates, she admitted her whole story was a fabrication and that it was a malicious relative of the Imperial family who had had her say what she did. She then burst out crying and of course she was discharged. It was then that the attack on Rasputin began.
Another incident which caused a great deal of confusion some years before the war involved our governess, Mlle. Tutcheva, a native of Moscow. She spoke various languages, but no English. Aunt Ella (the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna), Mother’s sister, had recommended her for this important position. Tutcheva was a cultured woman and came from a fine family, but at the same time was unpleasantly outspoken and domineering. She hated the English so that she would not allow the English language to be spoken in her presence, and often criticized the English, especially when we went through our albums of our trips. She even complained to us about our own Mother, that she was English and not a Russian, and constantly exchanged sharp words with Mlle. Butsova, Mother’s favorite lady-in-waiting, addressing her in an abusive manner, but Mlle. Butsova spared no words for her either. All this made us children excited and nervous. Mlle. Tutcheva was also in continual conflict with others in the palace. To our dismay she also spoke unkindly of Princess Maria Bariatinsky. Later she told Aunt Ella that Rasputin visited our apartments although at no time had any of us sisters seen the man in the upper quarters.
Aunt Ella made a special trip to Tsarskoe Selo from Moscow to inform Mother of this gossip. This incident also came to Father’s notice and he came to our rooms to ask about it. We all said we had not seen the peasant in our apartments at any time. Then the police records showed that he was away on those days. Tutcheva finally admitted that the story was untrue and that she had never in her life seen Rasputin. She was dismissed.