“His Majesty’s,” answered Baron Stackelberg coldly.
Rousky snatched the telegrams from Baron Stackelberg, and put them in his pocket, remarking as he did so, “Useless!” So Rodziansko never received the Emperor’s telegrams, and Baron Stackelberg, who is now in Finland, can confirm the truth of the story. M. Voeikoff and the Baron looked at each other, neither spoke, but each read in the other’s eyes the unspoken thought—to kill Rousky then and there, and so avenge the insult to the Emperor. But Rousky had disappeared—the moment for righteous murder had passed!
. . . . .
Life at first went on much as usual after the Emperor’s return: he always insisted upon reading the daily papers, but the filth of the gutter press sickened and pained him. One evening I happened to come into the library where the Emperor was reading a newspaper: his expression showed that something had seriously displeased him. “Just look here, Lili,” he said, showing me the portraits of the new Cabinet. “Look at these men.... Their faces are the real criminal type. And yet I was asked to approve of this Cabinet, and to agree to the Constitution,” he added with a touch of bitterness.
My time was now fully occupied. The Grand Duchess Marie was seriously ill, and I relieved the Empress in nursing her.... I had taken upon myself the task, formerly performed by the Empress, of sponging poor Marie’s body, and, when the child was conscious, she liked me to brush and comb her lovely hair, which became sadly tangled as she tossed to and fro in her delirium. Marie was the first unmarried Grand Duchess to sleep on a “real” bed of her own, but, as she was so ill, we moved her from the narrow camp-bed to a more comfortable resting-place.
The Empress was a skilful nurse; she was especially expert in changing sheets and night-clothes in a few minutes without disturbing the patients. When I showed my surprise, she said quite simply: “I learnt to do useful things in England.... I’ve never forgotten what I owe to my English upbringing.”
One day my cousin, Kotzebue, told me that an English gentleman, Mr. A. Stopford,[11] a friend of the Grand Duchess Marie Paul, was desirous of being of use to the Empress. He had, it appeared, a cult for the Imperial Family, and, as he was about to return to England, he asked Kotzebue whether the Empress would not like to send some letters by him to her relations. I told the Empress at once. It seemed such a wonderful chance.... Her first cousin, King George V, and his devoted consort, would surely welcome news from the Imperial Family!
The Empress was deeply touched by Mr. Stopford’s offer. “I’ll think about it, Lili,” she said. But the next day she told me that she had decided not to communicate with King George and the Queen. “I can’t write. What can I say? I’m too hurt and wounded by my country’s behaviour.... But even with this I can’t speak against Russia.... Besides, the Emperor is more worried than ever; he is so fearful that his abdication, and the unrest, may spoil the Great Offensive.... No ... we can’t communicate with our cousins.”
Both the Emperor and the Empress constantly referred to England. The first idea of the Duma had been to induce the Imperial Family to go to England, but certain powers there were antagonistic to the proposition, as it was considered likely to be unfavourably received by the Labour Party. But those who were fearful of sheltering a defenceless family, whose only crime consisted in being defenceless, need have had no apprehensions.
The Emperor and the Empress did not wish to leave Russia. “I’d rather go to the uttermost ends of Siberia,” said the Emperor. Neither he nor the Empress could face the prospect of wandering about the Continent, and living at Swiss hotels as ex-Royalties, snapshotted and paragraphed by representatives of the picture papers, and interviewed by amazing American journalists. Their retiring spirits shrank from cheap publicity; they considered that it was the duty of every Russian to stand by Russia, and face the common danger together.