— Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Turgenev — even though they frequently quarrelled with and contradicted each other, and all the diverse tendencies of Russian philosophical thought agreed on one idea: that it was only the common people, destitute, illiterate, downtrodden, who possessed a kind of hidden truth. It was only in the gloom of their wretched huts that the true spirit of Christ survived, preserved through their constant suffering. It was to the folk that one should turn to study a wise and Christian life.
And an amusing thing happened: the Russian tsar confessed then to the very same ideas. That shy tsar of short stature and most un-tsarlike appearance who felt awkward at balls and meetings and in the company of courtiers and ministers, where, it seemed to him, they were always comparing him to his dead giant of a father. How much happier he was with the common people in an atmosphere of adoration and worship.
And there emerged this paradox. The tsar started to seek a connection with the simple folk, and they began to appear at the palace one after another — emissaries of the people. They were found by the Montenegrin princesses. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich told Nicholas of a minor official named Klopov. Klopov was eager to bring the truth of the people to the tsar. He had written endless letters to the grand duke about the embezzlement of public funds in the flour-milling business. And the letters were brought to the tsar by the Montenegrins and read with delight by Alix and Nicky. And the voice of a simple man of the people was heard, and Klopov was summoned to the palace. After a conversation with Klopov, the tsar sent him off with the broadest sort of secret plenary powers to scour Russia and bring back the people’s truth about abuses by high officials. But that initial experience of a meeting with a people’s emissary ended in confusion. The poor Klopov unfortunately had no understanding of anything except his flour-milling business.
But a beginning had been made. Alix, the daughter of an English princess, and Nicky, the son of a Danish one, were infatuated with the noble idea of unity with the simple Russian people.
At the time Alix had been giving birth to girls — one after another they came into the world, three grand duchesses. But the chief thing, giving birth to a boy who was meant for the divine crown, was something the religious Alix simply could not accomplish. Seeking help she met theMontenegrins and listened to Militsa’s stories about the people of God and the elders to whom God had given a special, great power.
Zhukovskaya wrote that Militsa’s face ‘with its large oblong black eyes, weary and proud, seemed lifeless, like the face of an old-fashioned portrait. She was somehow unnaturally pale.’ Militsa generously revealed to Alix a world of miracles that amazed the granddaughter of the sceptical Queen Victoria. All kinds of things were mixed up in it — Persian literature, the mysteries of Zarathustra, the pagan world of Militsa’s native Montenegro in whose forest-covered mountains lived sorcerers to whom it was even given to speak to the dead, and the miracles of the great Orthodox elders from Russia’s monasteries. Militsa had created an astonishing synthesis of mutually exclusive elements, united by only one thing — the alluring power of the miracles created in her magical world by the common people, by those who knew nothing of the vainness of the court, of that pitiful Vanity Fair.
The File, from the testimony of Vyrubova: ‘Militsa Nikolaevna and Anastasia Nikolaevna, especially the former…in the beginning enjoyed great influence over the royal family, and had, so to speak, a mystical influence. Exceptionally well read in mystical literature and having even studied the Persian language in order to acquaint herself with the Persian mystics in the original, [Militsa] was almost considered a prophetess.’
Alix knew how to make friends and, most importantly, she knew how
And an amusing thing happened: the Russian tsar confessed then to the very same ideas. That shy tsar of short stature and most un-tsarlike appearance who felt awkward at balls and meetings and in the company of courtiers and ministers, where, it seemed to him, they were always comparing him to his dead giant of a father. How much happier he was with the common people in an atmosphere of adoration and worship.
And there emerged this paradox. The tsar started to seek a connection with the simple folk, and they began to appear at the palace one after another — emissaries of the people. They were found by the Montenegrin princesses. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich told Nicholas of a minor official named Klopov. Klopov was eager to bring the truth of the people to the tsar. He had written endless letters to the grand duke about the embezzlement of public funds in the flour-milling business. And the letters were brought to the tsar by the Montenegrins and read with delight by Alix and Nicky. And the voice of a simple man of the people was heard, and Klopov was summoned to the palace. After a conversation with Klopov, the tsar sent him off with the broadest sort of secret plenary powers to scour Russia and bring back the people’s truth about abuses by high officials. But that initial experience of a meeting with a people’s emissary ended in confusion. The poor Klopov unfortunately had no understanding of anything except his flour-milling business.
But a beginning had been made. Alix, the daughter of an English princess, and Nicky, the son of a Danish one, were infatuated with the noble idea of unity with the simple Russian people.
At the time Alix had been giving birth to girls — one after another they came into the world, three grand duchesses. But the chief thing, giving birth to a boy who was meant for the divine crown, was something the religious Alix simply could not accomplish. Seeking help she met theMontenegrins and listened to Militsa’s stories about the people of God and the elders to whom God had given a special, great power.
Zhukovskaya wrote that Militsa’s face ‘with its large oblong black eyes, weary and proud, seemed lifeless, like the face of an old-fashioned portrait. She was somehow unnaturally pale.’ Militsa generously revealed to Alix a world of miracles that amazed the granddaughter of the sceptical Queen Victoria. All kinds of things were mixed up in it — Persian literature, the mysteries of Zarathustra, the pagan world of Militsa’s native Montenegro in whose forest-covered mountains lived sorcerers to whom it was even given to speak to the dead, and the miracles of the great Orthodox elders from Russia’s monasteries. Militsa had created an astonishing synthesis of mutually exclusive elements, united by only one thing — the alluring power of the miracles created in her magical world by the common people, by those who knew nothing of the vainness of the court, of that pitiful Vanity Fair.
The File, from the testimony of Vyrubova: ‘Militsa Nikolaevna and Anastasia Nikolaevna, especially the former…in the beginning enjoyed great influence over the royal family, and had, so to speak, a mystical influence. Exceptionally well read in mystical literature and having even studied the Persian language in order to acquaint herself with the Persian mystics in the original, [Militsa] was almost considered a prophetess.’
Alix knew how to make friends and, most importantly, she knew how
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