Memories of Emperor Alexander III by Nicholas Velyaminov, Part III
Translated and annotated by Greg King
In this third part of the memoirs of Dr. Nicholas Velyaminov, he picks up his tale in autumn 1894, when he is summoned to Crimea to treat a dying Alexander III.
Velyaminov’s Memoirs:
On September 27, Baron Vladimir Freedericksz1 greeted me with the words: “This morning I received a telegram from Count Vorontsov2 in which he says that the Sovereign wants you to immediately go to Livadia. I advise you to call on General-Adjutant Otton Richter3 and come to an agreement with him, since he is also going today, and a special train carriage has been ordered for him. It will be better for you to go with him. I can’t tell you anything more, but I warn you that you are probably leaving for a long time, for it seems the Sovereign is going abroad.”
I reported to the Baron that it would be very difficult for me to leave that day, since I had three hospitals and a school under my direction. It would be necessary to hand over all of the cases and classes.
“Well, that is your business,” the Baron said rather dryly to me. “I am giving you the highest command, and the rest does not concern me. Consult with General Richter, who will be in charge.”
I went to the Court office, received 1,000 rubles for the trip and went to see O. B. Richter. The latter understood my predicament and advised me to urgently telegraph Count Vorontsov. I immediately wrote a telegram to Count Vorontsov in approximately the following terms: “It is necessary to transfer my cases to others. Can I postpone my departure until tomorrow?”
In the evening I received an answer: “You can take your time. Count Vorontsov.”
However, the next day, on the evening of September 28, I left and by the morning of October 1 I was in Sevastopol. In the evening, having ridden on horseback through the Baidar Gates.4 I arrived at 8 o'clock in the evening in Livadia.
Immediately upon arrival, I was invited to dine at the retinue’s table. Here I found General-Adjutant P. A. Cherevin5, O. B. Richter, Prince N. D. Obolensky6, Admiral N. N. Lomen7, artist Zichy8, Dr. Popov9, and two tutors of Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, an Englishman10 and the Swiss Thormeyer.11
Of the ladies in Livadia there were: Princess A. A. Obolenskaya12, E. S. Ozerova13, and Countess Kutuzova.14
From the retinue I learned the following: Count Vorontsov, in a strange decision, did not live in Livadia but, about 10 versts away, on his estate. He arrived there at 2 in the morning and was often gone.
The Emperor was very ill. He lived in a small palace, where he had inhabited as heir; in the same place, in addition to the Empress, Tsesarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich and Grand Duke George Alexandrovich lived here; the two youngest children, Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna occupied another house nearby.
The Sovereign took daily rides with the Empress in an open carriage along hidden roads, so that no one would see him, and he did not receive anyone, even Count Vorontsov, who visited only the Empress. A trip was planned to Greece, to the island of Corfu15, where Marshal of the Imperial Court Count Benckendorff16 had already been sent to prepare a residence for the Emperor.
I learned very little about the Sovereign's illness. The main information was that he was very ill, but how ill no one could tell me; I learned no more about the result of the consultation between Zakharyin17 and Leyden.18 Only P. A. Cherevin did not conceal from me that the situation was almost hopeless. At dinner I made the acquaintance of Popov, but he was very dry with me, and for the time being I did not find it necessary to ask him anything. Apparently, he did not enjoy much sympathy with those at Livadia.
Immediately after dinner I went to Princess A. A. Obolenskaya, the closest friend of the Empress. From her, as I expected, I learned more than from others. The state of the Sovereign was getting worse. In recent days his pulse was very rapid, about 100 beats a minute; his legs were swollen. At night he suffered from insomnia and during the day was very drowsy. He had a painful pressure in his chest, was very weak, and found it difficult to lay down. He could hardly walk. Since his arrival in Livadia, except for the Empress and children, no one saw him.
Count Vorontsov kept himself completely aloof and did nothing. Popov visited the Sovereign two times a day and made recommendations which were ignored. The Sovereign was stubborn and obeyed no one. There was no one to care for the patient…. The Empress was exhausted and helpless. She did not like Popov very much because of his bad manners and inability to present himself correctly. The Sovereign tolerated him, but in reality, his advice was not considered.
As a result of all of this, the patient was essentially abandoned, lived according to his own discretion, and depended only on the care of the Empress. No regimen was established and there was no medical guidance and treatment plan. The Emperor, of course, could not work, but nevertheless he tried to do it and only tired himself. All this should have been put to an end, because it only made the patient’s death inevitable. From all this, I concluded that the Russian Emperor was treated as badly as any of his humble subjects, even in the worst hospital.
I learned about myself: already in Spala, the Empress wished to have her man with the sick person and ordered Count Vorontsov to call me, but he did not do this, saying that he “forgot.” Then, when already in Livadia he received my telegram asking if I could postpone my departure for one day to transfer business, he told the Empress that I was very busy, I couldn’t come earlier, and finally that I could not come. The Empress expressed her surprise to Princess Obolenskaya, who explained that Count Vorontsov simply did not want my presence there. “The Empress herself called you,” the Princess told me, “because the Sovereign expressed a desire to see you, but the Count and Popov do not like this. I will not hide from you that your situation will be very difficult.”
Of course, I perfectly understood what was expected of me and how difficult it would be for me to be useful to the patient, so I immediately outlined to the princess the program that I had drawn for myself for the time being; among other things, I pointed out that it was necessary to select one doctor, whom the Sovereign and Empress considered trustworthy, who would then organize the care of the patient, keep a history of the course of the disease, monitor the fulfillment of the appointment of consultants, give whoever needs information about the patient’s condition – in a word, he would really be the Emperor's family doctor. Further, it was necessary to notify the population of Russia about the state of the Emperor’s health, about what was being done, and which of the doctors treated the Emperor. It could not be forgotten that this was not an ordinary mortal, but the Russian Emperor, who was still very popular among the people, and that the people had the right to ask for an account of what was done to save his life.
It must not be forgotten that the whole world was looking at Livadia. It was necessary to keep with the patient at least one reputable physician, either Zakharyin or Leyden, although one could not lose sight of the fact that the latter was a foreigner. Finally, it was extremely necessary to relieve the Sovereign of affairs of state, in which dignitaries should help, for one could not expect a seriously ill Sovereign to dispose of these tasks.
I asked the Princess to convey all this to the Empress. At the same time, it was decided that I should discuss all this with General Richter, as a very balanced and calm person and sincerely devoted to the Sovereign, far from any court intrigues. From Princess Obolenskaya, I went on the same day to General Richter and gave him my opinion in detail and quite frankly. Otton Borisovich completely agreed with me and promised his support; by the way, I learned from him that there was complete stagnation in state affairs: seven official couriers were sitting there waiting. They could not leave without decisions, and since the Sovereign was not working, there were no decisions. All of this threw the ministries into complete despondency. The Heir was very passive and said nothing.
“It is necessary to act,” I told Richter, “and now is the time. If everything I hear is true, then a trip to Corfu is out of the question. You can expect anything to happen on the road or there in a foreign land. What will Russia say then?”
We decided to have a talk with Count Vorontsov the next day.
On the morning of October 2, I saw [a] medical assistant, who, in essence, was the only one who visited the Emperor more often and had to fulfill the doctors' orders, but, of course, he did not have any influence. He confirmed to me that the Sovereign was in a very bad state, showed me the tests and reported that the Sovereign refused to do what the doctors prescribed, but instead acted in his own way.
At 10 o'clock I went to Count Vorontsov. He received me politely but very dryly. Wanting him to be frank, I accordingly directed the conversation and first of all asked him by whom and for what I had been summoned.
“You were ‘disturbed’ under the pretext that Hirsch is not here to entrust with duties, but in fact the Empress simply wants you to be here. I myself do not know what you, as a surgeon, are to do here.”
I explained to the Count how I understood my future role, as a doctor known to Their Majesties: to see the Sovereign and be a competent witness to what was being done in medical terms, for the Sovereign was surrounded by strangers, and leaving the monarch in the care of Popov, unknown to Russia, was very awkward. Russia was worried and surprised that the Emperor was seriously ill; there was not a single doctor attached to him who was treating him; the doctors were silent, as if they were hiding something; and responsibility was being placed on those closest to the Emperor personally, i.e., his family.
Then I set forth everything that had already been said by Princess Obolenskaya and General Richter.
The Count replied: “I can’t write bulletins. They must be shown to the Sovereign, and he himself reads newspapers. I printed a short message about what the Sovereign is doing, that is, that he is walking, but I can do nothing more.”
Our further conversation was interrupted, for Popov came with a report. The essence of his report was: the Emperor’s pulse was holding steady, but his strength was failing. His insomnia seemed to be better, but in general his situation was worse. Popov didn’t even look at me and ignored my presence. I stood aside, listening and watching.
Popov was tall, a hefty man, around thirty years old, and healthy as a bull. He was dressed in the Moscow style: a black jacket and a white silk tie in a sailor’s knot. In behavior he was very self-confident, though poor education, and having been spoiled by the fashionable merchants of Moscow he considered himself a demigod. In essence, he was a man of very little sympathy, knowing little and inspiring, in my opinion, very little confidence. He did not give the impression of an intellectual; it was easy to see that he adopted the tone of an infallible, fashionable, Moscow celebrity who came to court. As I said above, such people – rude, poorly educated, self-confident to the point of impudence, and plebeian by nature – always made an impression on Count Vorontsov, and in his relations with Popov, he was not only courteous and benevolent but also subservient. When they spoke, one got the impression that Count Vorontsov was afraid to admit his medical ignorance for fear that he would lower himself in the eyes of his interlocutor. I had long recognized this trait in Count Vorontsov: this is how he spoke with Alyshevsky19 and other people, and with those officials in the Ministry of the Imperial Court, who were mainly selected for their obsequious manners.
I left the Minister of the Court very dissatisfied with our conversation and even more convinced that it would be very difficult to get out of the position in which I found myself.
After luncheon at the Marshal's table in the large dining room of the palace, where there were already quite a lot of people, I went to drink coffee and smoke on the covered porch overlooking the terrace.
Count Vorontsov, holding a cup of coffee in his hands, graciously approached me and started a conversation. So that no one could hear us, we went out into the garden, without caps and with cups in our hands; soon it began to rain, and everyone else began to disperse. For a long time we stood on the terrace and had a “friendly” discussion, despite the rain.
From this conversation, I realized that the difference in his treatment was simply explained: before luncheon, the Count had been summoned by the Empress, who already knew everything about telegrams.
The subject of our conversation was the following: “Is it suitable for the Sovereign to stay in Corfu?”
I considered it my duty to note that November in Corfu, although it was warm, was also very damp. It would be better to stay in Egypt. The Count listened to me and very easily agreed. I put the question this way: “If the Sovereign is really so weak, then before choosing a place for his stay, one should decide in general if it was possible to transport Him? It is necessary that a council decide the question. Bearing in mind the weakness of his heart and the vagaries of a sea voyage, there is a possibility that such a trip would end tragically. Further, is there any hope that the Sovereign will be able to return from abroad? Finally, which of the doctors, in the event of such a trip, will accompany the Sovereign and take on himself such a responsibility? One person alone cannot and should not do this.”
The Count agreed that all this was true. I asked, “Is it possible, from the point of view of politics, to allow a sad end on a yacht, is it possible to let the Sovereign die on foreign soil? All this takes on even more special significance in view of the mystery that has hitherto surrounded the Emperor’s illness. What will Russia say about us then?”
The Count agreed that now there could be no question of leaving. The question, I thought, was what they had been thinking until now, since they sent courtiers to Corfu to prepare the residence for the Emperor. Further, I insisted on the need to notify the public in one way or another, pointing out that copies of newspapers delivered to the Sovereign could be printed without bulletins. Finally, I argued that it was necessary to stop the quasi-work of the Sovereign, and that reports should not be sent to him. The Sovereign undoubtedly could not work, and the consciousness that cases of unresolved reports were sent to him and left to accumulate would, with his character, especially irritate the Sovereign. This would torment and harm him and would be of no use to the state.
“I understand this all very well,” the Count said, “but what should I do? The Empress forgets that he is the Emperor, and that politics and affairs of state are involved. All this must be a consideration, but with the Sovereign’s character it is difficult for me to intervene.”
“I think,” I remarked, “that the serious illness of the monarch is of enormous national importance, influencing the course of the history of the state, and it is unacceptable to leave the decision of some issues related to this event to the patient himself and his family. This is the business of those around the monarch, on whom responsibility for all possibilities also falls. What about the Heir? Shouldn’t I talk to him?”
“I already thought about it,” said the Count, “but even though he is twenty-six he thinks like a fourteen-year-old. What should I do?”
“Let’s return to the medical issues,” the Count continued. “After all, Zakharyin acts like a crazy tyrant. He can’t stay here. After three or four days, he sinks into such a state that he begins breaking glasses. Popov is a good fellow, but young, not authoritative, and the Empress does not like him, even though it’s good that he is allowed to visit the Sovereign. Now I'm afraid that Zakharyin will rear up because Leyden has been discharged and will not want to stay and take care of the treatment.”
“Well you, Count,” I said, “attach too much importance to Zakharyin's tyranny. He is obliged to stay here. I, as a Life Doctor, can demand this, because the Sovereign cannot be left without the presence here of a specialist who, in the eyes of Russia, enjoys authority. Popov is a nothing to me and to Russia. I am a surgeon and in general, if I was a specialist, I would not dare take sole responsibility. Therefore, Zakharyin should be left here. Leyden is a foreigner, and I am not capable to acting alone. But with Zakharyin as well everyone can be reassured.”
Count Vorontsov agreed with this and, smiling, ended the conversation: “Well, we'll manage it somehow.”
From Count Vorontsov, I went to see Countess Kutuzov. A servant led me to a terrace overlooking a garden behind the palace, to a road densely overgrown with bushes. Before I had time to walk onto the terrace I heard a rustle behind the bushes, the crunch of carriage wheels on the pebble road, and the clatter of horse hooves. This surprised me very much, for beyond doubt this road was not intended for carriages. I guessed that a member of the Imperial Family was probably coming, and I ducked behind the curtain on the terrace so that I could not be seen. Sure enough, a carriage appeared, an open wicker one with four seats. The Sovereign and the Empress sat in it. The Sovereign had changed so much that I did not recognize him at first. His face was shrunken, his neck was neck, and he had lost so much weight that his clothes hung as if on a hanger. His famous broad shoulders, chest, and powerful torso were gone, as if they had never existed. He was apparently asleep: the Empress held him as he swayed back and forth as if drunk. The carriage disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. It was clear that this road had been chosen so that no one could see the Sovereign
I was shocked and close to tears. Everything became clear to me: he was dying. And only yesterday everyone had been talking about going to Greece and about how events would play out over the winter. What kind of people would act like this, like children? Why talk about a departure when apparently only days were left?
Eventually the Countess came out and, with tears in her eyes, began complaining about how helpless everyone felt. I hardly listened to her, said goodbye at the first opportunity, and ran to see P. A. Cherevin.
“Peter Alexandrovich,” I said, “just now I accidentally saw the Sovereign in a carriage from around the corner.”
“How did this happen?” he asked anxiously. “Nobody sees him! He does not want anyone to see him.” Finally, he calmed down and asked me, “What do you think?”
“Peter Alexandrovich,” I said, “all the talk about Greece is for nothing. It’s all over. He is dying.”
“I’ve known that for a long time,” Cherevin said, with tears in his eyes. “But here people don’t understand. They act like fools. Even Vorontsov won’t understand how serious it is unless you speak to him. He’s fussing about in a state. I didn’t say anything to you on purpose. I wanted to see what you would say.”
“Well, what about Popov?” I asked.
“Of course, he understands it perfectly, but is silent. This is what Zakharyin has ordered. I managed to get the truth from him. Have you spoken to Vorontsov?”
“I have,” I told Cherevin.
“And what does he say?”
“I spoke to him before I saw the Sovereign. Now I would speak to him differently. He is afraid of that tyrant Zakharyin.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that Russia should be prepared now,” I replied. “Zakharyin can be dealt with.”
“Well, of course,” replied Cherevin. “I've been saying for a long time that he shouldn't have been allowed to leave, but I will get him back.”
During that day, Leyden, Zakharyin and Hirsch arrived – the latter after one of his friends advised him to stop sulking and go to Livadia.
The next morning, on October 3, Leyden, Zakharyin and I were called to the Sovereign. Hirsch and Popov were not invited.
Here is an approximate plan of the palace-villa where the Sovereign lived: the house, in its size and architecture, does not at all deserve the name of the palace. It is a modest villa or cottage, very small in size, with small rooms. The best two rooms in terms of size and furnishings are the downstairs reception room and the Empress's study-reception room. The Sovereign’s study was a small room with one window: it could barely fit the large desk. The bedroom was also small, though it had three windows. The furnishings are extremely simple, more than modest, almost philistine.20
The Sovereign received us in the Empress's study, sitting in an armchair in his usual general's jacket, and expressed great pleasure to see me and Leyden. He apparently treated Zakharyin less favorably. In addition to what has already been said about the impression that the appearance of the Sovereign made, I can add that this time it was even harder. He was so weak and drowsy that he fell asleep while talking to us. Zakharyin and Leyden studied him rather superficially, but I, as a non-specialist, refused such a thing, so as not to tire the patient in vain. The sharp swelling of the legs and the strong itching of the skin were bad and worried the Emperor very much. On this day, his heartbeat was so weak that we advised him against going for a walk.
From that day on, that is, from October 3, the Sovereign no longer left his rooms. After the consultation, the Empress, calling us to the reception room, asked our opinion of the patient's condition. Leyden did not hide the seriousness of the situation; he spoke rather mildly and vaguely, but without calling, however, the state of affairs hopeless. Zakharyin, on the contrary, told the Empress the whole truth in very definite terms, quite sharply and, I would say, rudely. She took this blow with rather great restraint, but still she could not restrain herself from a fit of tears. She ordered me to stay and talked to me alone for a long time. For me there was no doubt that she perfectly understood the situation, but she wanted to believe in the possibility of a miracle, which was so natural, and therefore I, like Leyden, did not find it necessary to emphasize the hopelessness of the situation. As far as I could, I reassured the poor woman, but I also spoke about the impossibility and pointlessness of the proposed journey abroad, and the need to notify Russia of the true position of the Sovereign’s health.
She complained to me about all the emotional distress she endured in Spala and Belovezh, where she was left to herself; complained about the rudeness of Zakharyin, who treated her ruthlessly; about the indifference, dryness and indelicacy of Popov, who irritated her; and about the lack of any moral support. She apparently sympathized with Leyden, who, without depriving her of all hopes, encouraged and reassured her. She told me that she ordered Countess Vorontsov to call me back to Spala in order to have her own man with the Sovereign, but she was deceived, and was told that I had refused to come. She was greatly surprised by this, but now I told her that this was an intrigue, in which she found herself entangled even in these difficult moments. At the same time, the Empress expressed the desire of the Sovereign and herself that I should stay in the palace at night and immediately take over the care of the patient.
From that day, that is, from October 3, until the day of the death of the Sovereign, I was on almost permanent duty day and night; for seventeen days I slept in my clothes. I left the palace for my own purposes only in the morning for my bath; sometimes I had luncheon or dinner at the Hofmarshal’s table, and sometimes at about 5 o'clock I went with Leyden for an hour-long walk in the gardens of Livadia. During my absence, Hirsch took over for me, but he was never called to see the patient.
In the morning and in the evening, Zakharyin and Leyden visited the Sovereign in my presence; Hirsch and Popov did not see him until his death, at which, besides the three of us, Hirsch was also present, but not Popov. After visiting the patient, a meeting took place under the chairmanship of the Minister of the Court and bulletins were compiled, which from October 4 were sent to the Government bulletin and reprinted in other newspapers. It was somewhat strange that these bulletins were also signed by Hirsch and Popov without seeing the patient.
For all the time before his death, the Sovereign did not receive anyone, and only between October 14 and 16, feeling somewhat better, wished to see his brothers and Grand Duchesses Alexandra Iosifovna21 who had brought Father John22 to Livadia, and [Grand Duchess] Maria Pavlovna [wife of Grand Duke Vladimir].
The sovereign got up every day, dressed in his dressing room, and spent most of the day in the Empress's study with her and their children. Often after breakfast he went to bed and slept, and then I usually visited him. Under the influence of my convictions, and it seems that at the request of the Empress, he agreed to transfer the affairs to the Heir, but nevertheless kept to himself the affairs of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the signing of military orders; he signed the last of these the day before his death.
I visited the Sovereign several times a day, made sure he fulfilled the doctors' prescriptions, and followed his diet. The Emperor continued to worry about the significant swelling of his legs and the persistent itch of his skin. A light massage calmed him, after which I bandaged his legs to prevent him from scratching them. I managed to convince the Sovereign to obey our instructions, which before this had almost been an impossibility, although he still sometimes locked himself in his room with Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, removed the bandages from his legs, and had his son scratch his leg with brushes. I was very much against this, being afraid of infection, but I was successful in preventing this only in his last few days. Despite his very imperious character, the Sovereign nonetheless obeyed most of my instructions, and it happened that when the Empress could not convince him, she would send for me.
I must say that during these 17 days of my constant communication with the Sovereign, who was seriously ill and suffered from itching, shortness of breath and insomnia, I never once experienced his impatience, displeasure, or the slightest whim; with me he was always even, kind, and delicate. When I sat at his bedside, he began to worry that I had not smoked for a long time and sent me away and often demanded that I definitely go for a ride; for all the time he called me only once at night and apologized very much for interrupting my sleep. He demanded that I come to him without only in a tunic, since it was still warm; when I came in the frock coat demanded by etiquette, he remarked on it. I can safely say that I have rarely seen such a pleasant and delicate patient in forty years of medical practice. The Sovereign, no doubt, was fully aware of the danger of his illness and the hopelessness of his position, but I never saw him lose heart, and he never asked me about this. Only once did I find him with the Empress with tears in her eyes, probably after a difficult conversation about the possibility of death, and once, accidentally going into his office, I saw him in an excited conversation with the Heir, to whom He apparently handed over some business and gave instructions in case of his death. But both times he immediately mastered himself and assumed his usual calm and meek tone. In good moments, he even joked.
Zakharyin continued to act strangely here, too. He complained that it was too noisy in the Suite’s House where everyone lived, and he secured a room for himself in a separate house, where he went to bed almost at 9 o'clock in the evening. Having visited him once, I was surprised that his bed was in the middle of the room, and he explained to me that he was afraid of the dampness of the walls. He did not recognize the usual conveniences [toilet, sink, and bath] like everyone else, but demanded portable versions be brought to his room, which the palace servant assigned to him sincerely resented.
In Livadia, all the paths in the park were strewn with pebbles, as a result of which a very loud and unpleasant noise was caused when a carriages passed. Therefore, the passage of any kind of carriages and carts was strictly prohibited around the Sovereign's house: everything that was needed was brought by hand. But Zakharyin declared that he could not come to consultations on foot, although the distance was not even half-a-mile. Therefore, twice a day, he was given a carriage in which he solemnly came to the palace. He demanded that Viennese chairs be placed for him on the landings of the stairs in the palace, one of which was to stand in front of the doors at the entrance to the reception room: he sat on these chairs for a minute and allegedly rested, and gathered his thoughts on the last chair. The Minister [Vorontsov-Dashkov] hated him and sometimes did not put these chairs out; once I saw how Zakharyin, going upstairs and not finding a chair in front of the door, became terribly angry, ran down the stairs, grabbed a chair, quickly carried it to the upper landing, sat down and finally entered the reception room to the undisguised smiles of the servants. I recounted this scene to the Sovereign, and he laughed heartily.
Leyden, of course, was quite cultured, educated and tactful, although he was not without some of the qualities of the type of people in Germany. He possessed, in addition to his knowledge, a large share of cunning, practicality and worldly wisdom, like a true old Jew. We were on good terms with him and talked a lot on walks, and he gave me lessons in diplomatic treatment and practicality in medicine. He once told me that a good practitioner should be able, especially in the treatment of monarchs, not only to heal, but also help the patient to die, and most importantly, he must be able to behave with his family in such a way that even after the death of the patient he would maintain sympathy and trust. It was in accordance with his views, which were far from sympathetic to me personally, that he behaved in Livadia as well.
The Germans even then adhered to the rule not to miss a single opportunity and method in order to find out everything that was being done with their neighbors, especially in Russia. Leyden once confessed to me in a frank moment that the Berlin court was very interested in our court and that upon his return to Berlin he would tell Emperor Wilhelm everything he had experienced and seen in Russia. We wondered how foreign newspapers were more aware of what was happening in Livadia than, for example, our public. It turned out later that during the illness of the Sovereign, some private German yacht came to Yalta, whose owner was a lady who acted as a correspondent for the German newspapers, I later learned that Leyden, in going out for a walk on those days when I did not accompany him, visited this yacht many times, but kept it a secret, and wrote endlessly long letters in the evenings.
It was characteristic that, being world famous, Leyden especially sought to obtain a rank of nobility and took advantage of the receipt of the Star of the Order of St. Anna with diamonds (an order only given to foreigners), granted to him after his time in Livadia, to add the sacramental preposition “von” to his surname, believing that he enjoyed the rights Russian nobility. The rights of the German, or rather Prussian, nobility were granted to him much later. He was generally skeptical of people.
Once, on my advice, the Heir turned to Leyden in Livadia with questions about the state of his father's health. I asked Leyden how the Tsesarevich reacted to the statement that the Emperor's days were numbered. Leyden answered me with a phrase that I really did not like: “What are you asking? In the end, every heir would rather be a monarch. That’s human nature.”
Leyden boasted terribly of his relations with the Russian Court and, as he said, managed to maintain the trust and sympathy of the Empress even after the death of the Sovereign. So a few years later he was again invited by the Russian Court to Copenhagen on the occasion of severe pulmonary hemorrhage in the heir Grand Duke George Alexandrovich, who was then there. There we met again.
Leyden once said to me: “I know the German court, I know Russia, now I see the Danish. It remains for me to see the English court before death. I hope to achieve this.” He was not interested in the patient, but in the fact of his invitation. His confidence in his success at the Russian court reached such a point that when I visited him in Berlin, he allowed himself to tell me his plan: to become a permanent consultant to the Russian court, since we had no outstanding therapists. I was so infuriated by this German insolence that after that I used all my influence to forestall his further invitations. However I did not succeed, and Leyden was invited once again to see the heir in Abas Tuman….
In Livadia, the sovereign treated Leyden rather well and with confidence, but he only tolerated Zakharyin. He did not respect him, because his peculiarities and quackery were contrary to the nature of the Sovereign.
To be continued…
Notes
1. Baron Vladimir Freedericksz, 1838-1927, Assistant Minister of the Imperial Court under Vorontsov-Dashkov, promoted to Minister of the Imperial Court in 1897.
2. Count Hilarion Ivanovich Vorontsov-Dashkov, 1837-1916, Minister of the Imperial Court between 1881-1897.
3. Baron Otton Borisovich Richter, 1830-1908, Adjutant-General; served as Adjutant to Tsesarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich, eldest of the Alexander II and promoted to the rank of Major-General; from 1881-1891 he managed the Chancellery of Petitions in the Ministry of the Imperial Court under Vorontsov-Dashkov.
4. Baidar Gates was a neoclassical open gateway completed in 1848 on the Sevastopol-Yalta Mountain road above the Black Sea.
5. Adjutant-General Peter Alexandrovich Cherevin, 1837-1896, Assistant to the Minister of Internal Affairs and Chief of Security for Alexander III.
6. Prince Nicholas Dmitrievich Obolensky, Adjutant-General attached to the suite of Empress Marie Feodorovna.
7. Nicholas Nikolaievich Lomen, 1843-1909, Captain of the cruiser Pamyat Azova (1887-1889), created admiral and given command of the Imperil yacht Polar Star, Adjutant-General.
8. Mihály Zichy, 1827-1906, Hungarian painter who was appointed court painter by Alexander II in 1849; he left this post in 1873, but returned to it in 1880 and was a favorite of the Imperial Family, despite his penchant for creating extremely graphic erotica.
9. Peter Mikhailovich Popov, Assistant to Zakharyin and Professor at University of Moscow.
10. Charles Heath, 1826-1900, appointed English tutor to the children of the future Alexander III in 1877.
11. Ferdinand Thormeyer, 1858-1944, tutor to Alexander III’s children.
12. Princess Alexandra Alexandrovna Obolenskaya, 1853-1943, widow of Prince Vladimir Obolensky, lady-in-waiting to Empress Marie Feodorovna.
13. Countess Catherine Sergievna Ozerova.
14. Countess Alexandra Golenishcheva-Kutuzova, wife of Count Arseni Arkadievich Golenishchev-Kutuzov.
15. A reference to the proposed stay at Mon Repos, the villa belonging to the Greek Royal Family, on Corfu.
16. Count Paul von Benckendorff, 1853-1921, Grand Marshal of the Imperial Court.
17. Gregory Antonovich Zakharyin, 1829-1897, Director of the Therapeutic Clinic of Moscow University.
18. Ernst Leyden, 1832-1910, German physician and Professor of Medicine at Königsberg, Strasbourg and Berlin Universities, who treated Alexander III.
19. Vladimir Yasonovich Alyshevsky, 1845-1909, Lieb-Medic, appointed 1891 as primary doctor of Grand Duke George Alexandrovich after he was diagnosed with tuberculosis.
20. The Small, or Maly Palace, was built at Livadia by architect Ippolite Antoniovich Monighetti between 1864-1866; it was remodeled in 1886 by Empress Marie Feodorovna; bombed by the Soviet Army during an exchange of artillery with the occupying Nazis in World War II; and the ruins finally pulled down after the war.
21. Grand Duchess Alexandra Iosifovna, 1830-1911, born Princess Alexandra of Saxe-Altenburg, widow of Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolaievich.
22. Father Ivan of Kronstadt, 1829-1909, born Ivan Sergeiev, famed Russian clergyman.