I thought of this sad lesson often in the days after my venture beyond the Kremlin walls. I thought of it often due to the great disharmony I had seen on the streets and the fear that that poor wounded girl had expressed toward us members of the Ruling House. Alicky had only barely repaired her image and reputation, but I sensed Nicky’s present situation to be poor at best, and his future prospects dim.

Hoping to prove myself wrong, I forced the issue with the wounded officers at my hospital, begging them to overlook my high rank and speak truly, and I gathered word of the street from others as well, and as far as I could tell these things were passed to me without corruption. In short time it was perfectly clear that Nicky had lost completely the affection of his people, and this broke my heart. And while Alicky had in some ways improved her situation with the birth of the Heir Tsarevich, I knew only too well that love for an emperor once lost—worse yet, betrayed and shattered—was almost impossible to reclaim. And yet the power of Nicky’s Throne was based upon this, upon love of God and Tsar, and without this what would happen, what fate awaited us all? Without a tsar to keep this vast nation glued together, then what?

Among other things, whatever the future had in store for the Dynasty I sadly had to accept that Nicky and Alicky would never again be safe in the midst of their people. There would henceforth be a far greater fear of assassin’s bullet or bomb, and ultimately, one had to admit, there would likely be a bloody deed once again, for I knew only too well that our simple people could be sweet and kind one moment but so very cruel and violent the next. I had heard tell that there had been no fewer than ten attempts upon Nicky’s grandfather, Aleksander II, before that hideous success, and God only knew how many attempts had been made against my beloved Sergei before he too was taken.

Oh, I cried and I prayed as much for my dear sister and her huzzy as I did—no, I prayed even more—for my beloved adopted homeland. What path had we gone down? Were we forever lost? God help and guide us—that was my prayer morning, noon, and night. How had this hateful current sweeping across the country been awakened? Could prayer and love actually soothe its tempest, or were we doomed? No, I told myself over and over, God would not forsake this wonderful land.

Throughout all these dark days I heard regularly from my sister, who wrote me at length several times each and every day. Nicky and she dared not leave Tsarskoye, she told me, and so in essence they continued to be trapped there behind the great gates of the Palace. Simply unimaginable and what a disgrace! Alas, because of the disruptions I received her letters only with difficulty; they were brought to me not by post, which had ceased to function, but by one of my countesses, who somehow managed to travel back and forth between our two great cities, this despite the railway strikes and the many dangers en route.

From Alicky I learned that through all of those trying days, Nicky met constantly with Count Witte, whose past policies had encouraged the industrialization of Russia and brought such explosive economic growth. Too, Witte, a large, gruff man, had just been sent to America to negotiate the peace with Japan, and he had done such an admirable job that he made our defeat nearly tolerable. Because of these successes, Nicky had him fetched to the Palace each and every day to discuss and, God willing, find a solution to the quagmire in which Russia was now stuck. They met not in Nicky’s New Study, decorated in the Style Moderne, but in the Working Study just next door. Nicky, I knew since years, preferred meeting his ministers and councillors in this smaller room, with its dark-wood paneling and Nicky’s L-shaped desk, covered with family photos, appointment diaries, and folders. And Alicky, trying to comprehend what was happening to our world, recounted me at length of their meetings.

“Sire, it seems that there are only two ways open,” said Witte, who was seated not on the nearby large divan but on the wooden chair in front of the desk. “The first would be to find a soldier with an iron fist who could and would crush the rebellion with sheer force. If this is the course you choose, perhaps your uncle, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich, would be the right person. He has always enjoyed great respect amongst the soldiery.”

Nicky clearly understood all that this meant, and replied, “By this you mean essentially establishing a dictatorship?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I’m afraid so.”

“That would entail rivers of blood, and in the end we would be where we had started.” Nicky sighed and glanced over to the wall at a portrait of his father, Aleksander III. “If Papa were still alive, that is of course the path that he would follow. And there are many members of my family who would encourage me to do so as well, to hang each and every revolutionary.”

With a sad shrug, Witte replied, “Unfortunately, the unrest is so widespread that to hang them all would require many lampposts—more, I would venture, than would be tolerable. Perhaps even more than exist in the whole of both Sankt Peterburg and Moscow.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you are correct on that. Of course, the other way out would be to give to the people their civil rights—the freedom of speech and press and so on. This is what is being asked of me . . . and, as you know, some are demanding such things even for the Jews.”

“This I understand all too well. And virtually every faction is demanding that all new laws be conformed by the new State Duma, which Your Majesty has promised to convene.”

Just that past August, of course, Nicky had issued an Imperial ukaz declaring that a State Duma, a kind of parliament, be organized. And while that had been well received amongst many, many others agitated that it wasn’t enough. In short, Nicky’s manifesto hadn’t been sufficient to quell the unrest. The people wanted more. They wanted this Duma to have real power, real oversight, which, of course, would mean the complete finality of autocracy in Russia.

“In essence,” said Nicky, “we are talking about a constitution. ”

Witte bowed his head. “Most definitely. And this is a path I defend most energetically. As I have said, if this is agreed to and my actions are not interfered with, then, Sire, I will be pleased to accept the Presidency of the Council of Ministers.”

But of course a constitution was quite intolerable to both Nicky and Alicky. It was not simply a matter of the giving up of power, for I knew for a fact that Nicky would have been only too glad to walk away from this business of ruling. A farm or an estate in a distant province, that was his sincerest wish. But God had laid upon Nicky’s shoulders the heavy burden of Throne, and a constitution would mean the abandonment of the pledge he had sworn to the Almighty. And if the Tsar abandoned God, would not God abandon him? And what, then, of the Heir Tsarevich, who was so in need of a miracle? Even worse, would God next not abandon Russia as well? Most of all, Nicky and Alicky feared what would happen to their subjects if he turned his back on God, for Nicky had solemnly sworn to protect and lord over his people and lead them to prosperity. That was his oath, sworn to before God and man at his coronation. So many criticized Nicky this way and that, but I knew firsthand what others might not, that there was no one more dedicated to the Motherland.

In all her letters, Alicky was so concerned, so worried for the future of her country, so distraught at the thought of handing over a weakened Empire to her son, this boy who was the hope of the Dynasty yet who himself was not of strong health. And yet she wrote me that there were only two who tried to convince Nicky to hold steadfast the Throne and not bow to pressure—and these two were Count Ignatiev and Court Minister Fredericks, the dear old sweet. All the others whom Nicky consulted were of the same opinion, that there was no other course. Within the family I even heard it said that Nikolasha—Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich—threatened to blow his brains out with a revolver if Nicky did not sign. For days on end Nicky and Witte discussed every option at great length, and in the end, invoking God’s help, Nicky signed. It was, I knew in my depths, a difficult decision for Nicky, one that he nevertheless took quite consciously.

“In the end,” he later told me, “I had no other way out but to cross myself and give what everyone was asking for.”

Yes, quite. And with a single signature the autocracy, which Holy Mother Russia had known for time on end, had capitulated.

But Nicky’s ukaz, granting liberties of speech and gathering and press, not to mention rights to the Duma itself, seemed to satisfy no one. In short time a handful of Grand Dukes and nobles started grumbling, saying they continued to believe in the autocratic principle, and claiming over and over that the peasant masses needed a master to rule over them, that Russia was far too backward and uneducated for such drastic reforms. Sadly, most everyone else felt the Tsar hadn’t gone far enough, some spouting for a republic, others saying we needed a constitutional monarchy modeled on that of England. To everyone’s surprise, the workers were like greedy children, the more they got, the more they wanted. Indeed, these new freedoms seemed to do nothing but make matters worse, for the common people, so naïve and ready to believe anything, began clustering here and there at will, listening to the revolutionaries, who were speaking any number of provocative and disgraceful things. As if this weren’t enough, telegrams began arriving from across the Empire about attacks upon the Jews. Just appalling, and it was no wonder that word came around, too, that many of them were taking their few possessions and fleeing to America.

May God bless Russia and send her peace, that was the prayer we uttered with every breath. It was anyone’s guess what the future would bring. One could only hope that the Lord had not and would not abandon us. I was only happy that my Sergei was at peace near God and had been spared this awful time.

Towards December, when the revolutionaries grew particularly violent and began setting up barricade after barricade, it became perfectly obvious that Nicky’s government was teetering on the verge of total collapse. Finally, our troops began appearing in the streets, and though at first we all feared that they would cross over to the other side, they were somehow rallied and fought back with great force, even using machine guns and artillery. Still, the outcome was anything but certain. As the days fell one darker than the last, as the sounds of bullets shattered the moments and our nerves, it seemed that nothing could forestall the gathering storm, and the revolutionaries abandoned any pretense and began calling openly for total revolt. The cry for blood could be heard everywhere.

Only those who were there know the horrors through which we lived. How the Empire managed to survive was anyone’s guess.

And yet for me there was one bright spot that burned brighter and brighter with divine clarity. This idea of mine, which had, I supposed, been brewing for quite some time, years even, burst forth with great intensity soon after the death of Sergei and became completely clear by the end of that year. Yes, I had longed to do good for people, but it was true I had long been constrained as much by my husband as by my high position. The tragedy of the past year, however, had torn my reality to shreds, freed me for a truer calling, and in this way my duty and my future were more easily seen than ever before. My plans occupied my every waking moment.

One day I beckoned Varya, who had become my most devoted lady’s maid, requesting simply, “Please see to it that virtually every one of my jewels is brought into my boudoir.”

Varya, a kind soul, not tall of stature and of plain face, hesitated, and then asked, “Your Highness, what . . . ? I mean, is there a particular piece that Your Highness is searching for? Perhaps your Mistress of the Robes could be more helpful in this matter than I. I could fetch her, if you like.”

I smiled gently. Those closest to me had expressed such kind concern these past months, worried by the sad look in my eyes, the way I seemed detached and uninterested in my customary doings. I could see on their faces their misgivings for me, and I was aware to a degree how my people had been watching out for me and trying to cushion me from the difficult events beyond the Kremlin walls. It was true, my thinking had not been entirely logical since the death of my husband. However, in the decision I was about to make I was entirely certain, and in a most odd way there were but few whom I trusted more than this maid, whose modest soul, I knew, was of complete purity and honesty. Indeed, she was one of a handful I gladly kept on, for in recent months I had greatly reduced my quantity of servants and the size of my court, kindly pleading to most of my ladies that their services were no longer required.

I repeated, “I would like all of my jewelry brought from the glass-topped cabinets of my dressing room. Please bring these things into my boudoir and open the cases and the velvet bags in which they lie. And please do not be alarmed, Varya, this is all of good intention.”

“Da-s, Your Highness,” she said with a polite curtsey.

It was no secret in proper society—let alone amongst the petty dish rags—that with the death of Sergei, I was now the richest Grand Duchess in the Empire, for I had been Sergei’s sole legatee. Of course, I still had use of the 100 million gold rubles that upon my marriage Alexander III had placed on deposit for my use, but now I had inherited so much more—when presented with the figures, even I found them staggering. But in truth I did not see myself as owner of so many grand palaces, or these vast estates with their villages and thousands of peasants, or the priceless works of art and so on. No, I viewed myself a steward. And now I was a steward with a calling. It was odd. Once I had cared for nothing more than fine gowns and jewels, fancy balls and extravagant entertainments, not to mention the admiring eyes that followed me—more than once it came to my ears that the two most beautiful women in Europe were the two Elisabeths, myself and Sisi, the Empress Elisabeth of Austria-Hungary. However, costume and dress and dance, for which I had been so well known in the best society all across the Continent, were gone from me now, things virtually not of interest, not any more. Where once I had found joy in merriments that lasted until dawn, now at sunrest I found complete and utter peace there on my knees and at prayer before an icon. Yes, at the end of my day I longed for nothing more than to pop into the chapel to bid Sergei good night.

In an hour’s time my devoted Varya informed me that all had been done as requested, and it was with a rush of excitement that I made for my boudoir. Over time I had come to understand what my Grandmama had not, that the jewels of Russian women were not prideful decoration alone but also a symbol, an emblem, of the power and riches of our great Empire. In short word, nowhere on earth was there a more lavish display of gem than here. Of course Alicky had a collection be fitting the Empress of Russia, and the jewels of Minnie, the Widow Empress, were equally blinding. My collection followed soon thereafter, perhaps just after Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, the senior, who herself ranked third of ladies in the Empire. In any case, Sergei had built my collection quite admirably, taking as much pride in their beauty as he did in knowing that my jewels were famous beyond our borders.

And while I had always loved my accessories, opening my chamber doors now and seeing the sheer quantity of jewels laid out before me, I was filled with a kind of joy I had never experienced. My bed, my bureaus, the chairs and divan were covered with sparkling and glistening goods, more than I realized or could have imagined, and certainly enough to fill the entire inventory of the finest London jewelry store. Upon the bed sat a handful of tiaras, one of white gold set with 250 diamonds of the first water, another of platinum from Cartier set with perfectly matched freshwater pearls and 15 diamonds each of 15-carats, another with seven large emerald cabochons, and on and on, a blaze of wealth that even I found astounding. In one glance to the left I saw a stunning necklace of magnificent sapphires and cut diamonds, a diamond choker and earrings in the fashion of rose petals, a complete parure of aquamarines and diamonds, a stunning ruby brooch of 110-carats surrounded by white diamonds, and ropes of pearls measuring several arms in length. Turning the other way, I saw diamond clasps, pearl buttons, a number of stunning brooches by that Swedish jeweler Bolin, one a 60-carat emerald brooch surrounded by rose-cut brilliants, another a butterfly of rubies and diamonds and sapphires. Pearl-drop pendants in white gold, bowknot brooches, diamond-studded posy holders, stomachers, chokers, hairpins—they were all spread out before me, a simply dazzling and near-priceless array of the very finest jewels.

My eyes lit up and my physical self surged with a kind of energy that I had not felt in month upon month. For the first time ever I saw these treasures not in terms of their beauty and show, but in value of gold rubles and pound sterling—a veritable fortune!—and never had I appreciated them more. Oh, what plans I had!

“Varya,” I said, “also fetch my Fabergé pieces—the frames with diamonds, the golden egg with sapphires, and anything else of significance. Search everywhere, high and low, at once.”

“Yes, Your Highness, but—”

“At once!”

I had been named after one of my ancestresses, Saint Elisabeth of Turingen and Hungary, known for her humility, her piousness, and her dedication to the poor. Upon the death of her husband, she had been cruelly forced from her royal home, whereupon she led the life of a wanderer yet remained ever true to her charitable intentions. And it was from my mother as well as this namesake that I had always taken good intention. Now from the both of them I drew not simply strength and determination but great conviction. Further, I had to admit that somewhere inside I also felt a keen desire to make right, if possible, some of my Sergei’s transgressions—his impatience not only with me but others, his intolerance of those not pure Russian, and his inability to reach down to those in need.

Oh, I thought then and there with this great fortune of jewels glittering before me, it was hard to believe that I alone, without any outer influence, had decided these steps, which I was sure many would think an unbearable cross. Perhaps one day I would either regret this, throw over, or break down under, but I would try and I knew that He would forgive me my mistakes. In my life I had had so much joy—and in my sorrows such boundless comfort that I longed to give a little of that to others. Oh, this was not a new feeling, this was an old one which had always been with me. Simply, I longed to thank Him.

To this pile of jewels Varya brought in tray after tray of Faberg é bric-a-brac, bejeweled knitting needles, guilloche pens, gold frames, and the such, all glorious and precious items. As she did this, I surveyed everything. Yes, I knew from whence came each and every gem—that large sapphire and diamond brooch from Sasha and Minnie upon my engagement, that stunning diamond and emerald tiara for our wedding. Yes, and that Siberian amethyst brooch from Sergei for our anniversary, and those gorgeous emerald-and-diamond earrings had belonged to Sergei’s mother, and that lovely 50-carat ruby brooch was a present from dear Kostya, and . . . and . . . and . . .

Sometime later I looked up and saw dear Varya still staring upon me, awaiting further command.

It was true, I was almost in a state of delirium, or so it felt, and to Varya, who was by chance the first person I was to tell, I confessed, “I will keep Ilyinskoye for my purposes of rest and replenishment, but all of my other palaces and properties I will give to Dmitri, just as Sergei would have wished. As for Maria, I will build an appropriate dowry—I will see to it that she will have no concerns for the rest of her life. As for all of these jewels before me now, I mean to divide them into three unequal parts. Those things that were presents from the Imperial Family will be returned to them and, where appropriate, to the State Treasury. A second lot, a much smaller one, shall be collected for gifts to my dearest ones—perhaps the emeralds to my brother and sisters abroad. And the third part, the largest, I shall sell.”

“Oh, my!” gasped Varya, clapping a hand to her mouth. “But, Your Highness, all . . . all of it?”

“Yes,” I said, with a surge of joy that filled my heart. “Absolutely all of it!”

But there was one more piece of fine jewelry not laid out. Looking down at my own slender hand, I saw that in the months since Sergei’s death my skin, neglected, had grown drier, and my nails were no longer those of a fashionable lady. And yet glistening on that hand was something quite gorgeous of platinum and brillianti, the thing that had bound me in holy pledge to my husband: my wedding ring.

Oh, it was time, and I was eager to leave those dazzling days behind, for my new calling was ever so much more important . . .

I hesitated not a moment, for I knew that the value of this single item alone could accomplish much. In a rapturous moment, I pulled from my finger the ring I had worn for more than twenty years, setting it firmly on my bed.

And with the joy of both liberation and anticipation, I proclaimed, “Yes, I will sell everything that I possess, for I have the absolute conviction to follow Christ’s Commandment: ‘Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor.’ Further, I have decided that I will pension off my servants and close entirely my court. You must help me sort these things, Varya, for I intend to dispose of every last one of these jewels, and with the proceeds to realize my great dream. On the other side of the Moscow River, down along Bolshaya Ordinka, I have found an impressive piece of property. It is upon these premises that I intend to build an obitel—that’s right, a cloister, a women’s monastery—dedicated to prayer, labor, and charity.”