This little creature had a tragic history. Curiously enough many people said that “Jimmi” seemed an unlucky dog; but he was a sweet little creature, whose tiny legs were so short that he could not walk up or down stairs. The Grand Duchess Anastasie always carried him, and “Jimmi” lavished a Pekinese devotion on her and her sisters.
“Jimmi” went with the family to Tobolsk, and he is now identified in history with their fate. According to one account, his corpse was found, preserved in ice, at the top of the disused mine shaft; another writer has it that “Jimmi” defended his friends in the cellar at Ekaterinburg, barking defiance at the murderers, and guarding Tatiana’s fainting body until they were both killed. His skeleton is said to have been discovered later in a clump of undergrowth, and subsequently identified by its size and by a bullet hole in the skull.
He was a dear little dog, and probably, could he have spoken, he would have desired no better fate than to perish with those in whose fortunes and affections he had equally participated.
The Emperor greatly resembled King George V in appearance, but his eyes were unforgettable; and those of his cousin, although fine, do not possess the expression peculiar to the eyes of the Emperor. It was a combination of melancholy, sweetness, resignation and tragedy: Nicholas II seemed as if he saw into the tragic future, but he also seemed to see the Heaven that lies beyond this earth. He was “God’s good man.” I can give no higher praise, render him no more fitting homage.
He was essentially charming: when you were with him you forgot the Emperor in the individual; he made formality impossible. He loved to tease people, and I came in for my full share of this propensity. One day when I was out walking at Livadia, several carriages passed me, but I did not especially notice their occupants. The next evening when I was dining at the Palace, the Emperor addressed me in grave tones: “Lili—ce n’est pas bien, vous comprenez, mais ne pas reconnaitre vos amis.”
“Mais, Votre Majesté, qu’est que vous voulez dire?”
“Well,” said the Emperor, “you cut me yesterday.”
“Votre Majesté, it’s impossible!”
“Ah ... it’s quite possible, Lili. I drove past you, and bowed to you many times, but you wouldn’t recognise me. Tell me in what I’ve offended you.” And he continued to tease me until I felt ready to die with confusion. He loved his wife: no one has ever dared dispute the quality of the affection which existed between them; theirs was an ideal love-marriage, and when their love was tried in the furnace of affliction it was not found wanting.
Nicholas II had been reproached for his weakness of character, but this weakness was not weakness in the literal sense. The Empress, who was fully aware of what was said concerning the Emperor and herself, once told me how utterly people misunderstood her husband. “He is accused of weakness,” she said bitterly. “He is the strongest—not the weakest. I assure you, Lili, that it cost the Emperor a tremendous effort to subdue the attacks of rage to which the Romanoffs are subject. He has learnt the hard lesson of self-control, only to be called weak; people forget that the greatest conqueror is he who conquers himself.”