Browse Subject Headings
Tattered Banners : An Autobiography
Tattered Banners : An Autobiography
Click to enlarge
Author(s): Rodzianko, Paul
ISBN No.: 9781589881259
Pages: 194
Year: 202410
Format: Trade Paper
Price: $ 36.37
Dispatch delay: Dispatched between 7 to 15 days
Status: Available

Chapter 1: The Small Cloud Long before dawn we were up, carefully trying on our black-and-gold tunics and our shining helmets topped with white horses'' tails and the golden double eagle. Before the sky grew even faintly grey I and many other boys were struggling into our state uniforms, fastening the stiff red collars, pulling on polished boots and trying not to get our white trousers dirty. We thought only of ourselves and of our own small reflections, stiff and impressive in the half light; but what were the other visions, strange and wonderful, held by a thousand mirrors that May morning? For the proudest names of a proud country were gathered here. Swords and spurs were clattering and beautiful jeweled women, in flowing court dress, were already up and waiting when at last the sun rose, gilding the domes of the sacred city of Moscow. In the Kremlin, in the dark old rooms, one mirror''s depths must still hold the imprint of a white face and lips that murmured "as Tzar and Judge of the Russian Empire, at the Judgement Day I may answer without shame." For Nicolas the Little Father of Russia on this day was to receive his crown. I had been among those elected from the Corps des Pages of His Majesty to attend the ceremony. How many rehearsals took place within the old Kremlin walls, how many hours we stood to attention preparing for the great hour that had now arrived! Like a small walled city, the Fortress held two cathedrals, palaces, a museum and buildings of all ages.


A nervous little boy of thirteen, helmet pulled down over nose and careful to salute all Generals, I stood among the glittering throng that filled the Kremlin as gold dust might fill an earthen box. The dark old Archangelski Sobor, tomb of ancient Tzars, stood unsmiling by the Uspensky Sobor, Cathedral of the Virgin''s Falling to Sleep, where for many centuries the Romanovs had been crowned. Here, only ninety years before, Napoleon had dared stable his horses; horses in our sanctuary that Russians thought beautiful as the skirts of God! But now rows of captured French guns lined the inside of Kremlin''s red stone walls! A long procession of Marshals and Generals began to stream down the Palace steps and along the raised platform which led to the Uspensky Sobor. Troops presented arms and every one sang the National Anthem as Nicolas II and his Empress appeared and walked slowly towards the Cathedral, followed by the Grand Dukes, foreign royalties and the Court. We pages stood hot and rigid, watching them vanish into the golden magnificence of the Uspensky. The ceremony seemed to last for hours. Bursts of singing emanated to us without, while in a cloud of incense Nicolas knelt before the jeweled sanctuary, following the rites which owed their origin to the ancient Byzantine Empire. Noon had passed when the Emperor and Empress came out of the Cathedral with great diamond crowns on their heads.


Amid the pealing of bells a mighty shout arose from the waiting city. Carrying scepters and weighted by their robes the monarchs walked slowly across the wide courtyard to the Kremlin Palace. The sun blazed down, and the long procession following them seemed to turn into a molten river of gold cloth and precious stones. Looking towards the Palace I saw two small figures ascend the ancient Red Steps, but despite their gorgeous symbolic apparel and regal bearing they walked as if bearing heavy burdens as well as crowns. At the top of the steps they turned to bow many times and the shouting grew in intensity. I could not take my eyes from Nicolas, Emperor of All the Russias, at whose feet the love of a vast nation seemed to surge. Our duties done by late afternoon, we pages were allowed to wander about the town. Towards dusk I saw a group of frenzied people rushing along, a strange sound coming from their throats, a kind of stifled moan of misery and terror; then a huge peasant bumped against me, his face white and set, his great hands clasped as if beseeching God as he ran.


A flood of hysterical people seemed to be flowing past us and we ran on feverishly hoping for excitement. Then we met the carts, looking quite ordinary from a distance, just carts covered with tarpaulins, but drawing near we saw they carried loads of human bodies with stiffened arms and legs protruding grotesquely. Then came more carts, some without covers, and we ran on in the direction of the Khodinski Fields from which they came. With the incredible callousness of youth we stared at bleeding heaps of peasants. I saw a child, its little dead face distorted with pain, still clinging to what had been a woman. We enquired of distressed passers-by what had happened, but they pushed us away and we were too weary to be really curious. The incredible tragedy of the Khodinski Fields seems like an evil portent. The authorities had arranged for thousands of souvenir Coronation mugs attractively stamped with the Imperial Monogram to be given away on the outskirts of Moscow.


Large wedge-shaped structures were built with narrow openings at which the mugs could be slowly and methodically dealt out. The overwhelming crowds, surpassing prevision, pushed too eagerly into the V-shaped stands and became jammed. Unaware of this, the back ranks drove greedily forward, pressing heavily on those caught against the bottle-necked barriers. The few who got through the turnstiles might be compared to water dropping slowly from a large cistern. Pandemonium broke loose when those crushed against the stands fell and were trampled under-foot as the pressure increased. Screams filled the air. Women and children fainted and died with desperate cries stifled in their throats. In an hour two thousand were crushed and stamped to death.


The Emperor and Empress, hardly out of their Coronation robes, were greeted with this terrible news. Their reign had begun as it was to end, in ghastly suffering which they, kindly well-meaning people, were powerless to avert. After a sleepless night they had to drive through the festooned city and, tough loudly acclaimed, their faces showed only forced, joyless smiles. Enquiries were made. Who was responsible for the wedge-shaped stands with small outlets? Each official blamed another. The Emperor gave large sums of money to the bereaved and injured, but the dead do not come back to life, and the ever-superstitious Russians were filled with gloomy forebodings. The double eagle seemed to have spread black wings of evil omen over this reign which had hardly begun. That night Mother came to see me in bed.


She still wore her tiara and regulation court dress with red velvet sleeves. Her black hair sparkled with diamonds. "My own," she said, using my special Russian pet name. "Do not forget this day.".


To be able to view the table of contents for this publication then please subscribe by clicking the button below...
To be able to view the full description for this publication then please subscribe by clicking the button below...
Browse Subject Headings