The Romanov Bride Read online

  Without replying yea or nay, he turned to leave, then almost as quickly spun back, bowing deeply and firmly grasping both of my hands in his.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, kissing my fingers.

  “Thank you for caring for my wife and… and thank you for the fruits you fed her.”

  “It was both my pleasure and my solemn duty. As for the grapes, though, please do not thank me. This batch is from my sister, sent to us here out of concern and mercy for these suffering women.”

  “Your sister… the Empress… she sent the… the fruits?” he gasped, unable to hide his shock.

  “Yes.”

  His face quickly reddening with rage or embarrassment or shock-I couldn’t tell which-he quickly turned and made for the door. Just as quickly, he stopped.

  Looking over his shoulder, he quietly confessed, “I would not have become a Communist if I had met your kind before.”

  “Please, just don’t forget this afternoon’s Psalter,” I said.

  Without replying, he fled out the door, whence I did not doubt he disappeared into the Khitrovka, the worst slums of any city quite round the globe.

  As I suspected, the man did not return for prayers over his wife’s coffin. The reasons were of no importance, all that mattered was that ordinance be followed, so later that afternoon, dressed in a fresh white dress free of any contagion, I went to the church. And there I took it upon myself as duty to read the Psalms over the woman’s open casket, thereby aiding her soul as it passed through mitarstva, the toll gates.

  Work on my community continued apace, and with great excitement too. I gathered every book relevant to my scheme, reading in English, German, and French about foundations where prayer and work were braided as one. In my native Germany I visited the fine Kaiserwerth Diakonissen training schools, where nurses and teachers were instructed in the care of young and old. Upon my visit to England, my sister Victoria led me to both the Convent of the Sisters of Bethany and, of course, the Little Sisters of the Poor. By studying these good institutions I was able to more finely perceive what was being asked of me and how I might improve its birth. In short, I understood that I was meant to reawaken a slightly modified order of deaconesses whose goal so closely matched mine, which was to aid the sick and the poor. To me the concept seemed simple and pure, but it came as quite a revolution within our Orthodoxy.

  With the sale of my personal things and also an estate in Poltava, which had been left to my husband for the purposes of charity, I raised considerable sums. And with these moneys I was not only able to purchase a proper site but also to hire the artist Nesterov, whom Sergei so liked, and, upon Nesterov’s own suggestion, the architect Aleksei Shchusev. It soon became clear that we would be able to remake four of the original buildings on the property and plan for a church, tying all together with a beautiful whitewashed wall that would be covered with vines. At the center of my complex we planned a quiet, peaceful garden that would be planted with white lilies-my favorite-and sweet peas, lilacs, and fruit trees, too. To Nesterov I assigned the eventual task of painting the interior frescoes of the church, along with some icons, while Shchusev proposed a most beautiful white church that artfully blended the beauty of old Russia-complete with onion domes-with a hint of Style Moderne. Both my beloved Kostya and even Nicky dear, along with a host of others, certainly, came to the laying of the cornerstone of the Church of the Protection of the Most Holy Mother of God. Even the fearfully holy icon, The Iverian Virgin, was brought down from the Kremlin by old carriage for the ceremony. It was a very powerful day.

  By midwinter of 1909, even though work on the church continued, enough was otherwise done that I was able to move into my house, one of the little buildings that had been remade and incorporated into the plan for my obitel. In all I had three rooms there, airy and cozy, so summerlike, and all who saw them were enchanted. In my sitting room I placed summer furniture of English willow covered with blue chintz, and a desk too. There was my prayer room, the walls of which I covered respectfully with many icons, and also my simple bedroom, in which was placed only a few things, chiefly a plain wooden bed with no mattress or pillow, only planks. In truth, I was sleeping less and less, usually only some three hours, for I was often called either to prayers or to the bedside of the sick.

  And yet I had by this time not received the veil, and because of this we few who were there in the early days were required to begin our operation under the guidance of our spiritual father, Father Mitrofan, the kindest and most devoted of confessors, and a real presence with his long hair, big beard, and broad forehead.

  Still I pressed on, and after much time and deliberation I conceived a formal plan for the formation of my order, a plan that I in turn submitted to the Holy Synod. I knew this would be no easy feat. Since centuries Russia had operated her centers of religion under the Basilian Laws whereby nuns lived a most cloistered life, all but permanently shut away from the world around them; they lived a life of prayer and contemplation, venturing beyond the walls of the monastery only in extreme cases, to beg for alms, for example, and then only with a bishop’s permission. But I wished for more than that. I envisioned that my sisters should reach out to a community in need, for despite my great respect for such cloistered institutions of prayer and devotion, I saw a different need and felt a different calling.

  Appearing before the Holy Synod, I was faced with many heavy faces, a panel of men in great vestments who took great umbrage at my request.

  Hermongen, Bishop of Saratov, clearly disliked my proposal, saying, “I’m afraid your request is quite contrary to our canons. The order of deaconesses was done away with by decree centuries and centuries ago, and that decree was quite definitive.”

  “If Her Imperial Highness finds herself in need of a religious vocation,” voiced the most stern Metropolitan of St. Peterburg, “I would suggest that all must be based on our strict Basilian laws.”

  “Yes, either that or submit yourself to any other of our fine women’s monasteries, of which Russia possesses a great number, ” suggested another of these religious leaders.

  I understood immediately where this was headed, and I knew I was completely done for the moment Hermongen began mumbling that my plan for a group of active sisters smacked of “Protestant leaven.” These words, craftily chosen, lit the fire of opposition under still others, and there came grumblings that the whole idea was not Orthodox enough, simply too Western, and these complaints even drowned out the support I had from the powerful Metropolitan Vladimir of Moscow. In short, it was a complete rout, and I and my petition were summarily dismissed as near-blasphemy.

  I was vexed, there was no doubt of it, and discouraged, too, but I set right about reworking my rules.

  I spent the ensuing months studying my books, and with the consult of important clergy, from Vladimir ’s own suffragan to others, I altered my plan, borrowing much from St. Vincent de Paul. Quite some time later I was back before the members of the Holy Synod with a different proposal. Once again, I was met with doubt and dismiss, and they questioned much, and did so without hiding their displeasure, either. Long had I known the obstacles of Russia, but I was determined to both innovate and invigorate, drawing inspiration from my own mother and all the daring good she had done for her people, from hospitals to clean bathing water.

  Upon the second visit to the Synod, one of the first questions asked of me was: “Our Orthodox sisters have always worn square-toed boots, robes of black, and a klobuk upon their heads, not to mention a long black veil. Why is it, then, that you wish for this… this combination, a pale-gray habit and no head gear excepting a mere veil?”

  Looking calmly at the Metropolitans and Bishops alike, I replied, “It is my intention that my sisters will be active in hospital work, busy with caring from morning into the night. With this in mind, I have proposed garments that would be more suitable for this busy work. My sisters will need to move quickly and ably without being constrained.”

  Hermongen groa
ned with suspicion, then stared upon me, demanding, “But why meat? All of our true Orthodox sisters have always gone without such. True, from time to time they are offered fish, perhaps, but never meat-never.”

  “Please understand,” I began, for I had expected this question and prepared for it, too, “that since years I myself have not eaten meat of any sort, not even fish. Only milk and vegetables have served me. But I intend for my sisters to be young and full of energy. I wish them to eat a healthy diet, including meat, so that they may be better able to serve those in need. It is for their strength. You see, I feel that work is the foundation of one’s religious life-to give one’s whole strength to God-and prayer and contemplation its final reward.”

  On and on the questions went, and I had to explain so much, why I proposed taking only sisters between the ages of twenty-one and forty-“So that they will be full of energy”-and why I would require all to take an annual holiday-“For their refreshment.”

  Again, Hermongen threw an unkind remark here and there, such a pity for he had not seen our place and the good we were already doing. And again it was implied that my Order sought to imitate Protestantism, which was completely unjust. Really, it came as no surprise that the Holy Synod refused me again.

  All would have been lost, too, had my brother-in-law not soon stepped forward. Nicky and I corresponded at length, I took his consult to heart, he understood my intent, and finally by Imperial Decree he established the Order of Saints Martha and Mary. With one swoop the whole thing was done.

  And what joy it was when my new life in the church began. It was as if bidding goodbye to the past with all its faults and sins, all with the hope of a higher goal and a purer existence. As the official day approached I wrote Nicky dear, asking him to pray for me, for taking my vows was even more serious than when a young girl marries. How interesting it all was, what turns my life had taken. I had come to a dazzling court in a new land as the young bride of a mighty Romanov, and now I was espousing Christ and His cause, hoping to give all I could to Him and our neighbors.

  Finally and at long last by 1910 all was scheduled, and the night before the ceremony an all-night vigil was held there on our territories. Just after sunrise, as the early spring sun began to show its bashful face, I gathered my sixteen sisters about me there in the garden. How eager they were, how earnest and yearning of good deed. Collected, I surveyed them with pride, noting there were sisters of every walk, from nobility to the lowest rung, and yet we were of one now. Especially eager to join was Varya, my young lady’s maid, who of her own accord had chosen to follow me from the Palace and down this profound path of self-denial. Soon to be known as Nun Varvara, she would serve the community and Him with as much devotion, I was sure, as she had once served me at Court.

  To all these beautiful faces, I said, “I am about to leave the brilliant world in which it fell to me to occupy a brilliant position, but together with you I am about to enter a much greater world-that of the poor and afflicted.”

  We were then led into our chapel where Bishop Tryphon tonsured us all, shaving the tops of our heads during a liturgy written especially for us. And finally we were offered the veil.

  And, with a booming voice, Bishop Tryphon proclaimed, “This veil will hide you from the world, and the world will be hidden from you, but it will be at the same time a witness of your work of charity, which will resound before the Lord to His glory.”

  The very next day, Metropolitan Vladimir of Moscow, who had always been my supporter, came, and during Divine Liturgy he elevated me to the position of Abbess. From that day on I was known to all as Matushka Yelisaveta-Mother Elisabeth.

  And our community flourished.

  Chapter 30 PAVEL

  We finally got rid of this Mr. Minister Stolypin, but the truth, we soon realized, was that killing him really didn’t help the Organization or the cause. By then it was too late, and I have forever felt guilty for this, that I didn’t try to kill him with my own bare hands that day he survived the bombing of his dacha. Simply, by the time one of ours shot him at the Kiev Opera, Mr. Bloodsucking Minister had already killed too many of us, some said as many as two or three thousand revolutionaries strung up all across the country. In that way, by the year 1911 we had become an army with not enough soldiers.

  But what was strange, what bothered me most, was how quiet things had got. In short, the anger of the people was not like it used to be. The strikes had stopped. There were no more marches. And the people were no longer screaming for food. It turned out that the so-called reforms of this Mr. Minister had begun to work. I heard more and more about peasants even way out there in the back of beyond who owned land for the very first time, and I even heard about a new kind of peasant, the kulak, who not only owned big tracts but could afford to hire people to work for him. In the cities, too, you could see the prosperity, and not just on the street where merchants were driving carriages with four horses, just like real nobles. No, you could see it in the air, too, smell it even, for the factories were belching smoke day and night. Sure, Russia was booming in a way no one had ever seen, which meant, much to our horror, Mr. Minister Stolypin had done it, defeated the oppressed and saved Russia for the capitalist hounds. He and he alone had relieved the pressure, for he had successfully let the steam out of that boiling cauldron which had been so ripe and ready to explode.

  Poor Russian slobs, they were happy with so little. They had been thirsty and Stolypin had seen to it that they got a drop, and this single drop had been enough to satisfy them. Who would have guessed that in the end the beaten-down peasant could be so loyal to the Tsar?

  I know my comrades had wanted to bypass capitalism altogether, to go straight from the chains of autocracy to the freedoms of socialism and even all the way to Communism in one single leap. That was the goal. Now, however, they licked their wounds by saying perhaps it would be necessary to pass first through the hellish fires of capitalism before true Communism could be built, such was the natural progression.

  All I knew was that within a few short years my comrades were either dead, sent off to prison in Siberia, or packing their bags and heading abroad. One of my last comrades, an educated guy who had in his day killed seven or eight government officials and blown up three banks, packed up and took a boat all the way to America.

  The last I heard he had changed his name and was teaching mathematics at a university in some northern city called Dakota.

  Chapter 31 ELLA

  All were surprised at how quickly we grew-all except me, for I had long sensed the need to reach out and knew how well we would be received. There was much suffering in Moscow and so many who needed our help, which my sisters gave with boundless joy and love. I had long felt that Moscow was the hope of Russia, and wealthy Muscovites, long wanting to help, opened up their hearts to us, giving of money and materials to a most generous extent. Yes, our success spawned more success, and was felt by all, for while my community was part of the old Russia, we belonged at the same time to the new Russia, with our new interests and new ideals, not to mention our young sisters, who were so full of energy and strength.

  Such was the need that soon my obitel quickly grew to thirty sisters, and within three years’ time there were 97 of us serving in many obediences. Some were employed at the apothecary shop that provided free medicaments to the poor, others at our hospital that had an operating theater and twenty-two beds and which itself was served by thirty-four doctors who could be called at a moment’s notice, still others could be found in the kitchen, bakery, refectory, or the administrative office, and in many other areas as well. Each and every day we served over 300 meals to poor working mothers, and, too, there was my orphanage for girls. Also, I had recently established a home for beggar boys, where they were bathed and clothed and fed, and then apprenticed as messenger boys-these little chaps with red bands around their caps could be seen delivering letters all about town or standing outside Moscow’s best stores, taking parcels from fine ladies and delivering th
em to their homes. I was most proud of them and hoped so dearly for their bright futures. We taught them how to read and kept close attention to their development so as not to lose their souls.

  In short, we grew tremendously, our operating theater became known as the best in the city, and every day my community was full of useful activity. I was determined that though I and my sisters had taken the veil, we would not be dead to the world, and in 1913 alone we saw almost 11,000 patients in our outpatient clinic, and more than 12,000 petitions came across my desk. I personally went over each and every petition, of course, and with my work at the hospital and elsewhere, not to mention prayers, I found not much time or need for sleep.

  We had then at our hospital a most horridly burned cook, injured when an oil stove had spilt all over her. From head to foot nearly her entire body was covered with burns, and gangrene had set in by the time she reached us-that such a dire case was brought to us wasn’t surprising since we were often given the most hopeless cases. I knew that there were those who quietly said it might be better if the poor suffering woman passed from this world, but my reply to that was, “God willing, she will not die here.” So determined was I that I personally changed her bandages twice a day, which took well over two hours each time. Oh, the poor creature, she really was in such pain. The change of bandaging was hideously uncomfortable for her, and she cried out at the slightest touch, yet we dared not chloroform her, so close to death was she. Too, the stench of gangrene was unbearable for nearly all, so penetrating that after each session I had to remove my garments and have them aired.

  I had just changed into fresh robes after one such session when Nun Varvara came to me, quietly saying, “Matushka, there is a woman from America to see you.”

  “Ah, yes, that would be Mrs. Dorr, the journalist.”

  “A woman working as a journalist?” asked Nun Varvara, unable to hide her surprise.