Word from the outside world was sparse at best, and though I sent letter after letter to Alicky, I doubted that any of them reached her, and certainly I received not a word from her. Yes, it was perfectly clear we were in the revolution again, right where we had been in 1905.
When the chaos late in the month was at its height, Countess Tarlova, one of my ladies from days past, somehow managed to make her way to my community, not arriving by carriage or motorcar but on foot and in simplest dress. I knew she had been in Petrograd and yet she had somehow managed her way here, despite the railways having halted.
It was she who brought the monumental news, she who delivered the blow.
“Well, what of it?” I desperately asked, rising to my feet when this faithful woman was shown into my reception room. “Did you see my sister? Is there any news of Nicky?”
In that instant, tears bloomed in her eyes, and in French she muttered but a single word: “Abdiqué!”
It was a knife to my heart-Nicky had abdicated!-and instantly I began weeping. “But… but…”
I could not walk, could speak no more, and were it not for this good Countess I certainly would have fallen. My confusion was immense. How could Nicky have been pulled from the Throne? What trials had the Lord Himself hurled upon poor Russia? For a good long while I could find no wisdom, no understanding, and my lady held me tightly, steadying me as my tears came aplenty, whereupon I somehow managed my way to my private chapel. Sinking to my knees, I fell to the floor and bowed before the altar and my icons, pressing my head down upon the stone. Even in my prayers I could not restrain my tears, and there I stayed well into the depths of the night, chanting and bowing and searching for the wisdom of the God Almighty. My sorrow knew no depth-what lay ahead for my dear, dear Russia?-and I took relief only in the Jesus Prayer, chanting it over and over, some three or four hundred times, in Church Slavonic: “Gospodi Isusye Xristye Siin Bozhii pomiloi mnye greshnuyuu.” Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Yes, as I had been taught, I prayed without ceasing, hoping to find humility, hoping to bring my mind into my heart, hoping to reach a greater understanding.
Sleep came eventually but reluctantly, and I rested a mere hour, perhaps two at most. The monumental news of Nicky’s fall reached the city the following day, but instead of bringing appeasement it only accelerated the chaos. There were reports of palaces and homes of every sort being plundered and burned, and all around us I could see it, too, gray plumes of smoke rising into the wintry sky. Desperate word came round as well of murders of every sort, that merchant so-and-so had been gunned down and his clothing store plundered, that sundry princes and even princesses had been butchered in their own homes, and, unbelievably, that almost all our faithful soldiers had mutinied and shot officers here and there all about the city. My heart was breaking, and I sent telegram after telegram to my sister, but they all came back, not one delivered, and it would be some time before I learned that Kerensky, head of the Provisional Government, had placed Nicky and she and all the children under arrest there at Tsarskoye, their own home having become their own prison. Russia it seemed had come right to the edge of a dangerous precipice and not turned away but thrown herself head over heels into the dark waters below. For months thereafter I could not speak of my sister without weeping.
And while for days I could take no food save tea, I soon forced myself to find strength, for I had my sisters and our sick ones to watch over, and to all of them I repeated, “There is nothing to fear. The Lord watches over us, and no harm will come our way unless it is His will.”
But such harm did in fact come to us, passing right through our very own gates.
I was out in our garden, standing in the shallow snow and enjoying the light of the morning and, too, a kind of quiet we had not experienced in weeks. God willing, perhaps the blood-letting of the revolution had passed, perhaps in the spring months ahead our country, like the wondrous lilacs and laburnums of my garden, would wake from its dark sleep and bloom once again in splendor. Indeed, in the distance I heard not the sound of gunfire but of singing. At first my heart filled with both joy and relief-perhaps we could all get down to what Nicky himself had only wanted, the lifting of his people to a better life-but then the voices came closer and louder, louder and closer. It was then that I recognized the tune being sung: the “Internationale.” My spine tensed, for I was quite sure where those voices were headed. Hearing the determined song as well as the sound of approaching motor vehicles, a handful of sisters came scurrying outside, for despite my best efforts they had all become so protective of me.
“Matushka,” ventured my Nun Varvara, breaching protocol that it was I who knew best, “perhaps you should retire to your reception room.”
“No, my children, I shall handle this alone,” I said as not one but two motor lorries sped right up to our front gates. “I will directly meet whatever fate awaits me. Now all of you inside-be gone this moment!”
“We will pray for you in the church, Matushka!” called Nun Varvara as she and the others hurried off.
“Pray for us all!” I replied.
I wanted to beseech my sisters with the words of the Gospeclass="underline" “Ye shall be hated of all men for My Name’s sake.” There was no time, though, for the lorries had come to a halt, and rather than have them start back up and barge through our premises and cause any sort of trouble, I went directly to the large main gates and pulled them open. Looking out, I saw that in the backs of the two vehicles stood thirty or forty dispirited souls, singing and shouting, laughing and smoking. Like our previous visitors, most of them were men and they had red ribbons pinned to their coats and many were waving red banners-Freedom and Bread! Peace and Land! All Power to the Soviets! Practically each and every one of them had a rifle hanging from his shoulder and a coarse cigarette dangling from his lips. Upon seeing me standing humbly there in my gray robes, their craggy music all but faded away.
As an odd silence settled upon us, I gently asked, “How is it that I may help you?”
“We’re here to arrest the Matushka!” shouted one, the apparent leader, who wore a large mustache. “Where is she?”
“Right before you,” I replied, with a bow of my head. “I am she, the Abbess of the Marfo-Marinski Obitel.”
“And just what is it that you do here? Now that you’re no longer ‘Her Imperial Highness,’ who are you, eh?”