Alexander II_ The Last Great Tsar - Edvard Radzinsky [67]
The second telegram was possibly connected with the first. In Siberia, in the village of Pokrovskoe, Grigory Rasputin had been severely wounded. A former admirer, Fyonia Guseva, had attacked him with a knife. Rasputin was a supporter of the German party, an active enemy of war with Germany.
So, simultaneously, grounds appeared for the future war, and the only person who had any influence over the tsar and who might have attempted to avert it was eliminated. Now Alix was helpless. When the yacht moored at Peterhof, she quickly proceeded to the palace. Locking herself in her study, the empress wept.
What was this? Coincidence? Or a game of the secret police, be it Russian (many in the camarilla wanted this war; actually, so did Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich) or German (bellicose Uncle Willy had long dreamed of this war).
In July 1914, French President Raymond Poincaré approached Russian shores aboard the battleship France. The president had come to negotiate an alliance in the impending war.
A reception was in progress in the palace at Peterhof. The most brilliant court in Europe was greeting the French president.
The ladies’ toilettes were a stream of jewels. The French president’s black suit stood out among the uniforms of the imperial suite. The minister of the court, magnificent old Count Fredericks, who even now had a captivating bearing and noble features; the chief marshal of the court, Prince Vasily Dolgorukov, a tall man with the elegant manners of the old aristocracy; the polished marshal of the court, Count Benckendorff—they made an amazing trio, reminding the French president of the magnificence of the court of the various Louises.
During this noisy reception, French Ambassador Paléologue, who was seated across from Alix, observed with astonishment the strange scene, which he recorded in detail in his diary: “In the course of the dinner I observed Alexandra Feodorovna.… Her head gleaming with diamonds and her figure in a décolleté dress of white brocade were still quite beautiful.… She was trying to engage Poincaré, seated to her right, in conversation, but quickly her smile became convulsive, her cheeks covered in spots. She kept biting her lips, and her feverish breathing infused the diamond net covering her breast with flames. While the dinner, which went on for a long time, was in progress, the poor woman evidently struggled with an attack of hysterics. Her features suddenly smoothed out when the emperor stood to pronounce a toast.”
Poor Alix. She knew that the president’s arrival meant war.
Everyone knew it. At a dinner in the home of Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, his wife, the Montenegrin Princess Stana, kept exclaiming as if inspired: “Before the end of the month we will have war. Our armies will meet in Berlin. Germany will be destroyed.” Only a look from the tsar interrupted this prophecy.
War. This was her trap. Now Alix constantly had to demonstrate her patriotism and her hatred for Uncle Willy and Germany.
Her brother Ernie lived in Germany, though, and he was going to have to fight her husband. Her homeland would send its sons to fight her new country. And of course, war would give her enemies, her many enemies, a terrible ace. She was already hearing the future whisper “German!” behind her back. But all this was in the inmost recesses of her soul. The only person who could read her soul was the Siberian muzhik, who understood immediately. He was the chief opponent of war with Germany. Over and over again he repeated the