The Emperor reading his throne speech
as he stood before the prelates of the church to receive the holy blessing. He drew out a small blue-tinted handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then for the first time he fairly raised his head to survey the assemblage about him. Surely the strangest phalanxes ever monarch walked between were those on his either side. To his left was massed all the brilliance and pomp of empire. To his right the plainest body of men ever got together on this planet to deliberate the destiny of a nation. France, in her most radical days, adhered less rigidly to the forms and appearances of democracy.
The ceremonials of the church lasted a short twenty minutes. Yet each Te Deum seemed an agony of protracted suspense; and royalty suffered. Several times I heard a clucking sound in the throat of the Emperor as he fought hard with terrible nervousness. Thrice he wiped his eyes. His left hand, which was gloved, was held before him and his fingers twitched incessantly. The Empress and Dowager-Empress alone in all the cortège gave no sign of strain. Theirs was supreme poise. The grand dukes, who stood in the ranks next behind, throughout the ceremonial continued to cross themselves with most extraordinary determination. Their vigorous piety far exceeded that of the gold-mantled ecclesiastics themselves. When the last chant was sung, and the last blessing bestowed, the royal suite took its place, the ladies to the left of the throne, the men close to the representatives of the army. The Czar remained standing in the center of the room. A single silhouette against an infinite skyline could not be more solitary. Again his breast heaved and his shoulders twitched—more noticeable now than at any previous time. This was the final effort for self-command in the supreme trial which he now faced. The effort was successful. From that moment until the end the Czar looked, acted, and spoke with a degree of manliness, even kingliness.
When all were in place and at rest, he stepped forward.
Witte, towering above all who stood near him, swayed indifferently backward and forward in the front row of the bureaucrats. His shrewd face was touched with a supercilious smile as the Czar walked past him—not two yards away. Seven steps approached the throne. These the Emperor ascended lightly, but with rare dignity. A mantle of ermine lay across the throne, draped with careful carelessness. With tolerable ease the Emperor sat briefly on his throne. Four stools stood near the four corners of the dais. On those to the Emperor’s right hand were the crown and orb; to his left, the scepter and seal of state.
An aide advanced and handed him his speech—a single broad page, pasted on cardboard. This he took standing. Quietly and firmly he assumed position, left foot slightly forward, the paper held easily with both hands.
There was naught of haste in his actions. His head lifted, but not for speech. He merely looked over the throng. The positions of the respective sides were now reversed. The bureaucracy was to the right, and the Duma to his left. Nearest the throne, to the right, the Empresses, grand duchesses and other grand ladies of the court. Then followed in successive groups, whose stations were indicated by crimson palings, the several classes of court, official, military, and naval dignitaries. Next to the ladies were the senators, ministers, and members of the Council of the Empire in emblazoned uniforms of scarlet and gold. Below them, adjutant ministers, dignitaries from other cities, and the second rank of the court officials. Then the Emperor’s aides-de-camp and personal attendants. Next, the most gorgeous group of all—the army and navy. Stout old generals with twenty and even twenty-five medals bedecking their breasts; broad sashes of scarlet, light blue and cardinal, some worn over the left shoulder, others over the right—as if the wonderful uniforms of every blazing color known to fabric makers were not in themselves sufficiently striking. The slightly quieter, though equally magnificent, uniforms of the admirals alternated with the army. There were Cossack commanders in Circassian dress of cassock effect, and stately hussars with fur-burdened capes, and yards of gold and silver cord, draped and tasseled—uniforms as fantastic as dazzling. Last of all, in the section farthest from the throne, the foreign ambassadors. Not the diplomatic corps—only the ambassadors, for each individual standing-place was at a premium. The throne was the only chair in the room; the Emperor the only one permitted even momentary repose. These bureaucratic groups were solidly packed. The space seemed to have been measured off to the inch, and invitations issued accordingly. On the opposite side of the salon, in looser order, stood the Duma. Contrast of contrasts! No gilt or tinsel there. Simply men. Men from the workaday world. The Roman Catholic bishop elected from Vilna wore his ecclesiastic robes of purple and the Greek priests wore theirs of dark, coarse stuffs. The Mussulmen were turbaned, and the Polish peasants wore their national cloaks of homespun white, traced with homely embroidery in red and black. Some of the university professors wore regulation evening clothes, and some of the lawyers appeared in ordinary frock coats. The working-men wore short jackets, while the peasants were in their simple peasant dress—long, blue coats of coarse material, and boots knee-high. A few had pinned on war-medals, indicating that they had served their country on the battlefield. The mud and dust of the fields still clung to their boots.