The three-day journey on the imperial train was stifling. Travelling due south from St Petersburg to Sarov, the entire Romanov family, except the little Grand Duchesses, plus their entourages, had packed themselves in to the airless carriages to attend the Canonisation of Seraphim in Tambov. And the atmosphere on the train was not that of a joyous excursion to celebrate a saint, but was more like a funeral, redolent with a muttering, mumbling, pious fervour that Alix and her sister Ella were particularly adept at. Metropolitan Anthony, the Moscow head of the Orthodox faith, accompanied the royal party. He spent most of the journey walking the length of the train, a trail of incense and prayer billowing in his black-cloaked wake. Everyone else was more or less confined to quarters, drinking endless cups of weak tea, playing interminable rounds of bezique. Militza and Stana shared a cabin. Needless to say, George had declined to come on the journey, citing some business in France, and it was by far the simplest way, Militza decided, to keep an eye on her sister. The brothers did the same and although Peter was not yet privy to his brother’s blossoming relationship with his sister-in-law, he had been keen on the sleeping arrangements, delighted to be able to spend some time with his older brother.
Alix had been the driving force behind the canonization. Even if Philippe had failed in his bid to give her an heir, his promise that she should have a son, in the event of Seraphim’s canonization, was something she clung on to. And no matter how many times the members of the church hierarchy tentatively suggested that Seraphim was not a suitable candidate for sainthood, Alix remained determined. There were rules to making someone a saint and, frankly, Seraphim failed to pass any of the tests. Firstly, despite being dead for over seventy years there were few miracles directly attributed to him. And secondly – and most importantly – they did not find a perfectly preserved body upon opening the coffin as is expected of a future saint. What remained of Seraphim was only a pile of bones and the remnants of his leather lestovka. But Alix was steadfast, as she always was. And once Alix decided on something, it was almost impossible to dissuade her otherwise. As for the Emperor, he just wanted to keep her happy. So, against the advice of all concerned, the service was to go ahead. The knowledge of his prediction, ‘A Nicholas and Alexandra would rule over Russia and he would be canonized during their reign,’ only strengthened Alix’s resolve. The other of his predictions that ‘terrible future insurrections that will exceed all imagination and… rivers of blood would flow during their reign,’ was quietly overlooked.
But as they stepped off the train that searing hot afternoon, nothing could have prepared them for the spectacle before them. The station, the platforms and the road leading towards the white cupola cathedral and the walled monastery, where the imperial entourage were to collect the disinterred body of Seraphim and rebury him as a saint, were awash with people. They were everywhere. Four or five deep along the road, hanging out of windows, up in the trees, every balcony and wall was crammed to jostling room only. They were chattering, excited, but as the Royal party approached they all simply fell silent and stared. Through the heat and the dust, all that was visible was row upon row of faces.
Militza was exhilarated, but Stana was overwhelmed. Three days spent locked in the claustrophobic confines of the imperial train, so close to her lover, unable to make true physical contact or properly converse, permitted only polite conversation about religious relics, Old Believers and the fascinating lot of the Russian peasant whom they viewed, fleetingly, out the carriage window, had taken their toll. Desperate for shade and respite from the constant cloying smell of incense and the low murmur of prayer, she felt herself swoon.
‘Milly,’ she whispered from under her white, broad-brimmed hat. ‘Help me!’
Militza’s grip was swift and strong. ‘Here,’ she said as she riffled in the folds of her white chiffon skirt. ‘Have some of my elixir – it will help.’
She slipped the red glass pipette between her sister’s parched lips.
‘Cocaine. Everyone should take a little of that every day,’ whispered Nicky as he stood next to her, holding her up by the elbows. ‘It will make everything appear much brighter.’
However, Alix didn’t need any such help. The crowds, the heaving multitude, and the magnificent sight of some 200 or so priests clustered outside the entrance to the church, with their long beards, flowing black robes, their waists encircled with belts of golden rope, assured her of one thing. She had been right all along. No matter what the higher echelons of the church said. No matter what the mealy-mouthed aristocrats of St Petersburg spluttered and spat about in their gilded drawing rooms, she, Alix, spoke for Russia. She was Little Mother Russia. And here she was with the people. And the people loved her.
Forgotten was the sciatica that had been plaguing her on the train, forgotten too was her rosacea and her overwhelming shyness in front of an inquisitive public. Taking up her white skirts, a hand on her hat covered in white silk flowers, Alix started to walk. Despite the heat of the day and the clouds of dust churned up by tens of thousands of pilgrims, she walked from the station to the church. Cossacks lined the route, but interspersed between them were the ill and the infirm. There were men bent over walking sticks, women clutching children, a one-armed man who couldn’t see, another horizontal in a wheelbarrow, a labourer with no legs who propelled himself forward using two metal irons in his hands. But Alix was not distracted by the pilgrims. In fact, she felt as if she were walking with them, for along with the thousands of ill, lame or deformed, she too had come to Sarov hoping to be healed.
It was late afternoon by the time the disinterred body of Seraphim arrived in the church in a new cypress coffin supplied by the Tsar. The coffin’s procession through the streets, carried by Nicky and other members of the royal family, escorted by some seven hundred priests, all dressed in their golden ceremonial robes, holding aloft golden crucifixes that glittered in the sun, had moved Alix to tears. But inside the church she was inconsolable. The singing, the heat, the constant standing and the tremendous expectation that all her maladies were about to be cured, made her weep continuously for herself, her lost daughter and most especially for the son she did not have. Militza stood next to her. She was conscious of the eyes of the Vladimirs upon them. The trial of being forced to travel to the desolate Tambov steppes, plus the tedium of the day, had not endeared Alix to them. This had been her idea and they were less than delighted at having to attend. The Grand Duchess Vladimir repeatedly flapped her fan and her gloves throughout the service, constantly sighing and checking her watch. The Tsar’s sisters, the Grand Duchesses Olga and Xenia, also looked visibly bored. Only Ella, standing next to her husband, Sergei, really mirrored the religious ecstasy so felt by her younger sister.
The church bells rang at six o’clock, announcing the beginning of the all-night vigil and the procession of pilgrims inside to view the relics of the new saint. The effect of some 300,000 souls, all holding candles and gently singing, was mesmerizing.
‘All you can hear is music,’ whispered Alix, taking hold of Militza with her damp, shaking hand. ‘It’s as if the voices are coming from Heaven itself.’
As dusk fell, the royal party dined in the town hall with the local mayor dancing attendance. Militza sat in silence, forking her cold mutton stew with disinterest while the mayor talked of his plans to build around the cathedral and how long it had taken to build the shrine created in St Seraphim’s honour. He was most probably angling for more money, but Militza was only half listening.