The Right To Rule Chapter 1 March, 1881 Nicholas Romanov knew the successive explosions that shook the windows of the Winter Palace meant pain and suffering for him and his family. He could not explain how he knew, he just knew. He did not have long to wait before his fears were confirmed. A pair of uniformed Cossacks brought a litter bearing the bloodied body of his grandfather, Alexander Nicholaevich Romanov, Tsar of all the Russias, into the study and laid it gently on the marble floor at his wife’s feet. The Tsar’s morganatic wife, Princess Yourievsky, blanched at the sight but kept her composure. She sent for a messenger to retrieve the Tsarevich, Alexander's eldest son and heir, Alexander Alexandrovich, and a doctor. When the runners had left on their errands, she called for bandages and water. The glance the Princess shared with Nicholas’ mother conveyed her belief that medical ministrations would prove futile. As news of the tragedy spread, the sounds of mourning began to drift through the halls of the Winter Palace. The cries of grief reverberated off the gilded walls and suddenly crowded passageways as servants and retainers scrambled about in a panic. Nicholas, oblivious to the lamentation of his household, stared in shock and horror at the mutilated body of his grandfather, Tsar Alexander II. The state of the Tsar’s body held him transfixed. An assassin’s bomb had blown one leg apart, nearly severing it cleanly from the thigh at the knee. The exposed tissue and tendons gleamed in the low light streaming through the windows of the study where the Tsar once managed the affairs of the empire. Most gruesome and fascinating to Nicholas was the Tsar’s face: blood streamed down his bearded cheeks from a deep gash in his scalp, and his left eye dangled out of its socket, resting against the shattered cheek. His morbid examination of his grandfather’s mutilation was interrupted when gentle yet insistent hands moved Nicholas aside. The doctor had arrived to attend the Tsar. Doing as he was bade, but with no conscious effort, Nicholas watched his grandfather’s wounds being bandaged – his shattered leg was wrapped in gauze, the blood wiped from his face, the attendant, appearing on the verge of vomiting, carefully avoiding the protruding eye. Princess Yourievsky began winding the bandages around the destroyed leg personally. Weeping while she secured the angry wound, she muttered a prayer for the Tsar’s soul. Nicholas wondered if Grandma Maria, God rest her soul, could have performed such demanding work as deftly as the Princess. He remembered his grandmother as a frail and sickly woman, surly to her servants but sweet as honey to her grandchildren. He doubted she would have been equal to the task. Before Nicholas could speculate further, he heard a weak voice calling out for the Princess. She ceased bandaging and bent her ear closer to the Tsar’s mouth. Exhausted, the Tsar fell silent a moment later. With tears in her eyes, Princess Yourievsky rose and explained, “He wishes to speak to his children.” The Tsar’s message delivered, she moved away from her dying husband. Nicholas watched the proceedings with a sense of detached dread. He noticed a different kind of pain in the woman’s eyes as she turned away from her husband. He did not know what it was exactly, but he sensed it was related to the Tsar’s last statement. Watching the Princess as she stared out the windows at the gray spring morning, he received no further insight. His at attention was diverted when the Tsar’s third son, Grand Duke Vladimir, stepped forward and knelt beside his father. He leaned close to hear the Tsar’s words. Vladimir’s face came ashen as his father spoke. After less than a minute, he rose and moved to the far side of the room, allowing the doctors to continue their fruitless ministrations. For the first time, Nicholas noticed someone weeping in the crowded room. Princess Yourievsky, her back turned to him, wept softly as his mother attempted to console her. Nicholas scanned the room. A number of servants, on hand in case they were needed to fetch supplies or further medical personnel, dabbed their eyes with the sleeves of their uniforms, sniffing back their tears. Curiously, Nicholas had yet to shed a single tear. It was not that he was incapable of crying. He could feel his grief like a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He could taste the fear the brutality of the attack inspired within him. The shock of the incident had numbed him, isolated him from his emotions. He knew the tears were there, he just refused to allow them to flow. Given his position as second in line for the throne of Russia, he believed it was his duty to show strength, not to hide behind his mother’s dress. If he learned one thing from his father and grandfather, it was that the Russian people needed strong monarchs. For his grandfather he would be strong now. Where is Father? he wondered. He should be here by now. Nicholas took two steps forward, coming up next to the stretcher on which the Tsar lay, and reached out to take the dying man’s bloody hand in his own small hand. Though he had not been called, he felt compelled to make his presence known, to comfort his grandfather in any way possible. “I’m here, Mushka,” he began. “Sasha’s here. Can you hear me?” His voice sounded weak and insubstantial in his own ears; he was uncertain whether his grandfather heard him through the pain. When the elder man’s gray eyes turned toward him and a spark of recognition lit within, Nicholas knew he had been heard. “Sasha.” The word was more of a breath than a true word. “Dear boy.” Alexander smiled, the movement of the muscles in his face causing the wounds to bleed anew, and attempted to lift his hand up to stroke Nicholas’ cheek. Weakened from blood loss, he only raised his a few inches before it fell back to his side. That his grandfather, strong and able-bodied for a man of sixty-two, was unable to perform that simple act somehow broke through Nicholas’ defenses where the tears of his family and the bloody wounds marring his grandfather’s face had not. Nicholas began to weep. Silent sobs shook his narrow shoulders as tears streamed down his face. Tsarevna Maria, having done all she could to console the Tsar’s wife, moved to her son’s side and wrapped a thin arm around his shoulders. “Come, Nicky,” she steered him toward the sofa across from Grand Duke Vladimir’s position along the far wall. Maria sat with him on the sofa and enfolded him in her arms, allowing him to vent his grief against her shoulder. “My little darling. God knows your pain. Let your tears cleanse your soul.” His shoulders shaking from continued sobs, Nicholas clung to his mother, fear and anger warring within him. He knew if his grandfather died and, judging from the wounds he received, all indications were that he would, his father, Alexander Alexandrovich would become Tsar. Nicholas would move one step closer to the throne in the process. Had his uncle, the Tsarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich, not died before Nicholas was born, he would have become Tsar instead. And Nicholas would not be here to witness this gruesome display. His father had told him once that he had been named after his Uncle Nicholas, who had died unexpectedly. On his deathbed, Uncle Nicholas had requested that his younger brother, Alexander, who would become Tsarevich upon Nicholas’ death, take his fiancée, Princess Dagmar of Denmark, as his wife. Alexander agreed and the two were married the following year. Princess Dagmar of Denmark then became Maria Feodorovna Now, with the full force of his grief confronting him, Nicholas wished his uncle had lived. As Nicholas continued to weep into the fabric of his mother’s dress, a third, much closer explosion sounded. The windows of the Winter Palace rattled with more force than previously. The people in the room let out cries of terror and surprise. Nicholas jerked away from his mother and turned toward the sound, his tears forgotten. Through the window above the litter on which his grandfather lay dying, he could see a cloud of white-gray smoke rising from the direction of Nevski Prospekt, just beyond the Neva River. Though the implications were quite clear, nobody dared voice their fears. None of those present had forgotten the attempted assassination of the Tsar the previous year. Revolutionaries posing as workers detonated a bomb under the floor of the Grand Dining Hall, killing dozens guards and servants and wounding a score more. If not for the tardiness of Prince Alexander of Bulgaria, the honored guest that evening, the Tsar, the Tsarevich and his wife, as well as the Prince and Princess of Edinburgh, would have all perished. The proximity of the explosion stirred fresh memories in the minds of everyone present, preventing any of them from venturing forth to investigate. A moment later, their caution was rewarded. Four Cossack guards strode in through the doors of the study, a litter bearing a mangled heap of humanity between them. It took only a second for the Tsarevna Maria recognize her husband’s balding head and bushy beard. Recognition dawned on Nicholas a split-second later. He turned to his mother, who had separated from Nicholas and was moving toward the apparent corpse of her husband. Releasing a wail that would haunt every person present for the remainder of their lives, the Tsarevna rushed to her husband and, after ordering his litter to be lowered to the ground, draped her small body over the battered and bloodied corpse. “Please, God, no. Please, god, no.” Nicholas, truly seeing the carnage assembled in the room for the first time, and recognizing the implications of these tragic deaths. He made the sign of the cross and issued a prayer of his own under his breath. “Please, Lord, take this chalice from my lips.” Grand Duke Vladimir, the Tsarevich's younger brother, shaken but still in control of his faculties, came forward from his position in the far corner of the study. “How did this happen?” he demanded of the nearest Cossack guard. “Your Highness, a messenger arrived to tell the Tsarevich the news of the attempt on the Tsar’s life. His Highness was en route to the palace when a man appeared from out of nowhere and hurled a bomb through the carriage window. Before we could react, the man dove into the Neva and disappeared. The next moment, as the Tsarevich was attempting to exit the carriage, the bomb exploded.” He held his hands out, palms up. “There was nothing to be done.” “Nothing to be done!” the Grand Duke yelled. “You were assigned to protect him! With your lives if necessary!” He directed his gaze at each Cossack in turn. Each man lowered his gaze, afraid of the vehement anger and accusation in the Grand Duke’s tone. “You have failed in your duties. For that your lives are forfeit.” Vladimir, having spent some of his ire, regained control of his temper. He scanned the room, pausing to consider his next words. His eyes glided over his brother’s torn remains, saddened by the sight of his sister-in-law's grieving form clinging to it. He took in the person of his father and the doctors diligently working to sustain his life. The bandages, already soaked through with blood, were illuminated by the pale light shining through the window above the stretcher. For a brief moment, Vladimir entertained the idea that his father would survive, albeit as a cripple with one leg and severely disfigured through the face. As he watched the grim expressions on the doctors’ faces, that idea soon crumbled. Vladimir’s eyes came to rest on his twelve-year-old nephew. Short, slight of frame but possessing a sharp intellect and a passion for history, Nicholas was the polar opposite of his father, whose robust frame, hearty laugh and love of the common people made him appear, more often than not, a peasant himself rather than the Tsarevich and heir to the throne. At that particular moment, despite his station, Vladimir thought Nicholas resembled nothing more than a frightened little boy. Vladimir’s sympathies went out to the young man. The Grand Duke was a realist. He recognized the blow the monarchy had just suffered: after seven attempts on his father’s life, the terrorists, under the whimsical name The Will of the People, succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. The Tsar and the Tsarevich assassinated on the same afternoon! An unprecedented act of treason. One that leaves Russia without a leader, Vladimir realized. His eyes strayed from Nicholas to his dead brother, then to his dying father. Vladimir returned his attention to the Cossacks who stood, heads bowed in shame, awaiting the Grand Duke’s orders. With the carnage around him fresh in his mind, Vladimir decided enough blood had been spilled. An execution of these loyal men would serve no useful purpose. “Return to your posts,” he ordered them in a subdued voice. For their part, the Cossacks took the news with measured surprise. “Yes, Your Highness,” they answered in unison. Turning on their heels, they exited the study in single file. A servant closed the door behind them, allowing the family to grieve in private. Vladimir turned to Nicholas as the doors clicked shut. “Today . . . is a dark day, lad. Russia is without a Tsar. And the House of Romanov is without a leader.” Vladimir paused, judged Nicholas' reaction to his words. Nicholas appeared stunned, shocked by the days events. “Darker days are ahead, I can assure you,” he continued, placing a hand on his nephew's thin shoulder. “But we shall face them with the stoicism and courage gave granted Job.” As Nicholas was born on the day of Job, the 6th of May, he found this an especially portentous comment. “Yes, Uncle,” Nicholas answered, uncertain whether a reply was needed, but feeling the need to speak, to show that he was strong, that this incident had not robbed him of his sensibilities. “Russia will survive as it has always survived,” Vladimir continued. “A new Tsar will be crowned and the Dynasty will continue. We will erect monuments to the fallen, and revere their memories.” Nicholas nodded his approval of this course. He would forever revere his father, a gregarious, affectionate bear of a man who died too young to make his true mark on history. Nicholas, Vladimir reasoned, is much too young to rule an empire as vast as Russia. He is unschooled, has no military training, no idea of the world beyond Russia’s borders. Under the tutelage of the right regent, with the proper training and encouragement, he might make a fine Tsar . . . in time. With the blood of the Tsar Liberator and the martyred Tsarevich Alexander Alexandrovich, the boy could be a great ruler, a ruler for the ages. Yes, Vladimir agreed. In time. Two hours after the explosion that mortally wounded Tsar Alexander the Liberator, and an hour and a half after a fleeing terrorist hurled his bomb into the Tsarevich Alexander’s carriage, killing him instantly, the Grand Duke Vladimir, turned to Nicholas, who sat on the sofa in the parlor where Tsar Alexander and his heir lay. “The people have gathered before the palace. They will want to know who leads them, whether the Tsar Liberator or his heir. I will go before them and tell them that neither man rules Russia. That the empire is without a leader.” Nicholas' eyes widened at his uncle's statement. Russia without a leader? He had not thought about it in those terms. He naturally assumed he was the leader, as the heir's heir. Was that not the case? We wondered. “Wish me luck.” Vladimir exited the room before his nephew could do so. Grand Duke Vladimir announced the tragic news to the crowd that had gathered outside the gates of the Winter Palace. In a loud and clear voice, the words “Godusar Imperator Vam Prikazal Dolga Jit!” rang out to the throng twice. A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. They knew of the previous attempts on the Tsar’s life; no attempts were made to conceal the truth from them. On the contrary, the police, in their efforts to find those responsible for the violence, decreed that such acts of terror would incur swift justice: incarceration, conviction and execution. Confusion as to the reason for the successive bombings was not immediately clear. Though the third explosion had been heard by many and the news of its occurrence spread quickly throughout the capitol. When the bewilderment subsided, and the significance of the event became apparent, the assembled peasants and workers moaned and lamented Russia’s loss. Talk amongst them was frightened, uncertain. Would the monarchy survive? Who would sit the throne now that the Tsarevich was dead? Would the empire have a capable leader on the throne or a despot? Their uncertainty made the rabble excitable. Was this the revolution the students and anarchist foretold? Was this the end of the Russian Empire? When the police arrived to disburse the crowd, their lamentation could be heard all along Nevski Prospekt to the Anichkov Palace. Chapter 2 The family was subdued as they gathered in the mortuary chapel of the Winter Palace to view the bodies of the Tsar and Tsarevich. The customary mourning period had begun and would last for the better part of a year. After which, Grand Duke Vladimir believed the Council of Ministers would name him Tsar Vladimir IV Alexandrovich. Though he grieved for his father and brother, he felt better prepared to be Tsar than was Alexander. His brother was a peasant at heart: he dressed like a peasant, wearing his clothes until they were shabby and threadbare, and he was uncouth, with a vulgar sense of humor, without a single shred of refinement or culture. Vladimir focused his attention on the corpse of his brother. He was never meant to be Tsar anyway, Vladimir told himself. Nicholas had been the eldest, the heir. If not for his death, Alexander would never have been Tsarevich. By tradition, the caskets would remain open in the palace for a period of two weeks before being transported to the Cathedral at the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul for burial. Given the state of both corpses, he believed the ritual period should be waived in this instance. To his consternation, Tsarevna Maria and Princess Yourievsky both insisted the customary rites be observed. Maria, he believed, had a legitimate right to insist, but his stepmother, was essentially an outsider, and an unwelcome one at that. Nevertheless, the Tsar had loved her, had married her in secret shortly after his mother’s death – a move that created a rift between the monarch and his children. Vladimir could not recall seeing her attend her husband’s casket even once in the three days since the assassinations. His sister-in-law, the Tsarevna Maria, had dutifully attended for several hours each day, leaving only after Nicholas had insisted she eat something, if for no other reason, than to keep up her strength for the vigil. She ate sparingly – a crust of black bread and a small portion of borscht – then returned to her husband’s side and remained there until she fell asleep holding his cold, disfigured hand. Constantine Pobedonostsev, Nicholas’ tutor and Procurator of the Holy Synod, entered the chapel and made his way over to the family. Nicholas looked up from regarding his father’s mutilated countenance, tears welling in his eyes. Vladimir respected the boy’s courage under these circumstances: he was putting on a brave face for his mother and siblings, no doubt. Vladimir would have bet that, alone in his room at night, the boy cried himself to sleep. Procurator Pobedonostsev leaned toward Maria and whispered in her ear. “Majesty, the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh have arrived. They request an audience with Your Majesty and the Tsarevich.” Nicholas, seated next to his mother, upon hearing this message, turned his head to regard the messenger. His face registered his surprise at the news. Maria, deep in her grief, barely reacted, except to nod slightly. As the Procurator turned to leave, Nicholas laid a small hand on his arm. “Father, has Uncle Alexei returned from Greece yet?” “Not yet, Highness,” the tutor answered, appearing crestfallen. “Word has preceded His Highness that the railroad tracks impassable. Crews have been dispatched and should arrive soon. I’m certain the Grand Duke will arrive as soon as possible.” Nicholas was not convinced. Grand Duke Alexei was his favorite uncle by far. Ten years Vladimir’s junior, Alexei was adventurous, and witty, always ready to indulge his nephews and nieces in a caper. Unlike Vladimir, he seemed to relish the moments of levity he could snatch whenever possible. Prior to the Tsar’s death, Grand Duke Alexei was on holiday in Greece with his brother, Grand Duke Paul. Word had been sent via telegram for the Grand Dukes to return immediately. Transport from Greece, through the Balkans to the Crimea was efficient. Travel across Russia was hampered due to unusually severe winter storms the previous month. Trains were often delayed for days while Work crews removed snow from the tracks. Given the vast openness of the Russian plains, these crews often had to be dispatched from towns fifty kilometers or more distant, further adding to the delays. Nicholas hoped Alexei would arrive soon. He desperately wished for his uncle’s council and presence. Apparently having no more news to share with the family, Pobedonostsev exited the chapel. As he disappeared into the bowels of the Palace, Vladimir made his way over to the grieving widow and her children. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Has something else happened?” “No, Misha. Nothing is wrong.” Maria pasted on a forced, but sweet smile. “Alexei and Paul haven’t arrived yet. That’s all.” Vladimir nodded his understanding. Though there was still eleven days before the interment would take place, the ceremony could not commence until all of the late Tsar’s children were present. “Have faith. God will see them home safely.” Maria smiled, “Yes. God is good.” Nicholas was not convinced. Recent events had placed him in a pessimistic frame of mind. The people had assassinated his father and grandfather. News coming in from Moscow and southern cities spoke of unrest, of growing disaffection with the monarchy and its policies. Even young and unaware of the ways of the world, as Nicholas was, he could sense trouble was brewing. The winds of change were blowing within his beloved Mother Russia. And he feared those winds might sweep them all away. His grandfather had been the sternest, yet most liberal-minded ruler Russia had seen in a century. His reforms had greatly benefited the peasantry and they killed him like a dog in the street. Could he, a mere boy, contend with such hostility? Could his uncles? Nicholas had his doubts. Vladimir left the chapel without saying anything more. Maria ushered her children out a few minutes later. Pobedonostsev reentered the chapel close to midnight, after the Tsarevna and the children had gone to bed, to close it up for the night. He saw the Princess Yourievsky prostrated over the corpse of the late Tsar, sobbing. Beside her, holding her quivering shoulders was her eldest child, Prince George. Seated on the same couch Tsarevna Maria and her children had occupied earlier were the Princesses Olga and Catherine, huddling together, sharing in each others’ grief. To the Procurator, they appeared small and fragile in their fear. Quietly backing out of the chapel, the Procurator allowed the Tsar’s second family their time to say farewell. The Grand Dukes Alexei and Paul arrived in St. Petersburg one week after the assassinations. Carriages were waiting for their train as it arrived to rush them to the Winter Palace. Nicholas was in the chapel alone, praying for the souls of the departed, when Alexei and Paul entered. Seeing his favorite uncle enter, Nicholas popped up off the sofa and rushed forward to embrace him. Alexei returned the embrace, caught off guard by the depth of the boy's affection. Alexei did not know what to say to the boy. Words seemed so hollow during times like these. Yet, he felt compelled to say something, anything. “There, there, Nicky. Everything will be all right. It is the will of God, and God is good. You must trust that.” Nicholas, his face pressed into the fabric of Alexei's great coat, nodded weakly. He disengaged from his uncle and, tears glistening in his gray eyes, stood straighter, wiped the tears away with the back of his tunic sleeve, and gave the Grand Duke a crisper, more resolute nod. “Yes, God is good,” he repeated. Grand Duke Paul, a tall, lanky man eight years Nicholas' senior, stepped forward and offered Nicholas his hand. “We are all mourning with you, Nicky. All of Russia is mourning with you.” “You're right, Uncle. I'm being selfish. Please forgive my tears.” “There is nothing to forgive. Tears are the soul's way of cleansing itself. Never be ashamed of your tears,” Paul advised. A comfortable silence followed, lasting a moment only. Nicholas was first to break the silence. “You've come to pay your respects?” It was an inane question, he knew, but he could not think of anything else to say. Alexei smiled at his innocence. “Yes, Nicky. You are welcome to remain if you wish. I have no desire to disrupt your prayers.” “I'm finished. Anyway, I was just waiting for you.” Nicholas admitted. Alexei patted him on the shoulder, understanding the boy's need to feel connected during such times. For his part, Alexei was fond of Nicholas as well. He saw in the boy a great man yearning to emerge. “I missed you too, Nicky. “Now run along. I'm certain your mother could use your strength right now.” “Yes, Uncle,” Nicholas said. As he left the room, Alexei and Paul were advancing toward the caskets side-by-side. Chapter 3 When Nicholas received the news that he was to be the next Tsar of all the Russias, he could barely believe it. He knew that the line of succession dictated that he should become Tsar but, given the circumstances – that his father had died before being crowned – he was certain uncle Vladimir would be the next Tsar. With experience in administration and as oldest of his surviving uncles, common sense would dictate that he would be the logical choice. His voiced his concerns to his tutor later that day. “Why me, Father? Why did they choose me to be Tsar?” Nicholas paced back and forth across the study, the day’s lecture forgotten. Even before this latest development, Nicholas had not been able to concentrate on his studies. Too much had happened too quickly for him to completely process everything. He had no end of questions, foremost of which was: how was he supposed to be Tsar of all the Russias when he did not have the faintest inclination of what it meant to be Tsar? “As the son of your father,” Procurator Pobedonostsev began, “you are next in line for the throne. Regardless of whether your father was ever crowned, as the eldest son, you are the Tsarevich. Barring another tragedy, you will be Tsar. Your uncle Alexei, as your regent, will guide you until you are of sufficient age and experience to rule on your own. Until then, he will make policy, approve appointments, and administer the empire.” Upon hearing he would not be expected to make such momentous decisions alone, a fraction of the anxiety gnawing at Nicholas subsided. “What will I do while Alexei is administering the empire?” Pobedonostsev considered his words for a moment before answering. His gray eyes searched the face of the boy who would soon be Tsar, searching for the correct manner in which to phrase the truth that he knew the boy must know. “Your job will be to learn: to learn about your land and its people, and the larger world of which the empire is a part. You will have to learn all that you can. Knowledge is power, Your Majesty: the more you know, the more powerful you will be. And you will be more likely to make informed decisions, decisions that will benefit your empire and its people.” To Nicholas it seemed strange for this aged and wise holy man to be addressing his as 'Majesty'. That title had belongs to his grandfather for as long as he had been alive. Now, though, Nicholas would wear the title. Rather than dwell on it, Nicholas scanned the portraits adorning the walls of the study. Surrounded by the images of over two-and-a-half centuries’ worth of Romanov Tsars, he considered his tutor’s words. Where will I fit in, among these great rulers? Will I be remembered as another Tsar amongst a dynasty of Tsars? Or will I be forgotten, a minor ruler who was swallowed up by the vastness of Russia? Nicholas could not help but wonder. Nicholas' eyes fell on the portrait of his grandfather, painted the previous year. Gazing into the eyes of the Tsar-Liberator, a question he could not contain formed in his mind. He turned his tutor, worry and fear making him look even younger than his twelve years. “Father, will I be killed like Papa and Mushka?” The question caught the older man off guard. He had prepared himself to provide what answers he could for his charge, but he had not prepared to answer that particular question. Cursing himself for not having anticipated it, he searched within himself for an answer that would not frighten the boy further but would not lead him to believe that the possibility did not exist. As he struggled to find the words, Nicholas, nodded his head, looking suddenly much older than his years – older and sadder than a twelve-year-old boy had any right to appear. “Never mind. It does not matter. It is in God’s hands now.” The note of fatalism the Procurator detected in Nicholas’ voice concerned him. If not countered by confidence and optimism, he could clearly see the boy becoming melancholy. He vowed to speak to Grand Duke Alexei about these concerns. * * * The Winter Palace hosted scores of mourners over the next week. Dignitaries, relatives and celebrities filed in to view the decomposing bodies of the Tsar and Tsarevich as they lay in state. Count Leo Tolstoy, one of the late Tsar's favorite authors, made a brief appearance, as did Feodor Dostoevsky. King Christian X of Denmark arrived to provide solace to his daughter, the grieving Tsarevna. The sheer volume of visitors was a security nightmare and the palace guards all appeared anxious at their posts. Vladimir assured them that there was little or no risk of an attempt on the family or its guests as the successful attempt on the Tsar and Tsarevich had resulted in the incarceration of the majority of the revolutionaries involved. Those who escaped were in hiding. They knew there would be repercussions for their actions and they were on the run, enjoying their success while they still had time. The guards were not convinced; they remained on their guard, vigilant in their duties, until the guests were all escorted safely out of the palace and into their carriages, bound either for their homes or for the Anichkov Palace, which had been opened to the visiting dignitaries. The French ambassador to Russia, Maurice Paléologue, visited the palace to express his condolences to the family. Emotionally taxed by the constant influx of mourners and well-wishers, and the constant reminder of one possible future that lay in store for him as Tsar, Nicholas decided to retire to the parlor for some peace and quiet. Ambassador Paléologue, after conferring briefly with the Tsarevna Maria, sought Nicholas out. The boy was seated on a Louis XIV divan against the west wall, staring absently at the intricate patterns sculpted into the pale green walls. “May I have a word with you, Your Majesty?” Nicholas turned in his seat to regard the diplomat. “Of course. Please, sit.” He indicated a splendidly ornate companion chair to the divan directly across from him. As Paléologue took his seat, Nicholas, looking tired, asked, “What can I do for you?” “I require nothing, Your Majesty. I simply wished to speak to you for a moment, away from the grief and gloom of the chapel.” The ambassador paused, collecting his thoughts. “I respected your grandfather,” he explained to Nicholas. “He had vision and drive. Despite the setbacks caused by the Crimean War, he made significant progress toward developing Russia into a modern industrial power. Unfortunately, he created turmoil among the peasants and lesser nobility in the process.” “Yes,” Nicholas agreed. “I've heard about the problems the peasants face. I hope I can do something to ease their suffering . . . when I'm able. For now, I think Uncle Alexei will do what he can for them.” “I’m certain he will. Just as I'm certain you will do what is within your power when the time is right.” The Frenchman paused, wondering how best to phrase his next words. “Might I make a suggestion, Your Majesty?” “By all means,” Nicholas replied, sitting forward on the divan, his attention undivided. “Any advice you can offer is welcome, sir.” Nicholas loosed a mirthless laugh. Ambassador Paléologue continued. “Beware of providing too much freedom in too short a time. The suddenness of the change could overwhelm those you hope to help and create a dangerous backlash. Believe me, we French know of what we speak.” He laughed at the obvious truth of the statement and Nicholas joined him, his laughter more sincere this time. “Your grandfather, God rest his soul, granted the serfs their freedom, they did not have to take it, as we French did. As a result, they do not appreciate that freedom. They take it for granted and seek to gain further freedoms. But they still do not believe themselves free: they resent that the government continues to control their destinies.” “But they have more freedom now than before my grandfather freed the serfs. How could they have anything but love for the monarchy?” The innocence inherent in the question was almost painful for the ambassador. This young boy, who would soon occupy the throne, was a sensitive, caring child. One day, he would feel great compassion for the plight of his people . . . if he survived to do so. “The liberator’s job is a dangerous one, Majesty. As is that of his successor, apparently. All the strife and confusion brewing since their world has irrevocably altered, will find release on those whom they see as the cause: he who holds the reins of power. As Tsar, you, and your regent, will hold those reins. Beware that your regent does not attempt to take long strides too soon. Caution is the better part of valor, as they say.” Nicholas was silent for a few moments, absorbing the advice this skilled and respected politician offered. Much of it made no sense to his young mind. Some of it made perfect sense, though. He believed the diplomat was sincere in his warnings. “I thank you, Ambassador. I'll take your advice to heart and hope God will allow this danger to be avoided.” The ambassador nodded his thanks and understanding. “You honor me, Majesty.” “No, Ambassador,” Nicholas rose and his guest rose with him. “You honor Russia with your concern for her people. And by talking plainly to me. I appreciate your honesty. Thank you.” His guest bowed deeply. “It has been an honor speaking with you, Majesty. I thank you for your time.” Nicholas nodded, dismissing his guest. Nicholas regained his seat as a servant closed the parlor doors behind the ambassador. With more weighing on his mind than he had a few minutes prior, Nicholas sighed. Soon enough he would learn whether the man's advice was to be heeded.
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