Mounted on a white stallion, Nicholas II looked splendid, if not regal or impressive. Dressed in a plain army tunic, he was a pale shadow compared to the dazzling, jeweled nobles who had preceded him. But he sat erect and proud, as befitted the heir to the House of Romanov.
He knew well enough what people thought of him. Not, of course, the tens of thousands of simple folk and cheering peasants who lined the streets—they adored him, or at least adored what he stood for. But he lacked the esteem of the men close to him—the ministers, the court, the relatives, the “uncles”—especially the uncles, his father’s brothers, Vladimir, Serge, and Alexis specifically. Not only did they tower over him in size, but they were strong-willed, domineering sorts.
They had boxed his ears and scolded him as a child, so when he suddenly became their monarch and the patriarch of the Romanov family, the transition was not an easy one. Besides, they no doubt felt his ears could still use a good boxing. They would always view him as the weakling lad who disappointed even his own father.
Alexander had always been reluctant to bestow any official duties on his retiring son. The few insignificant posts he did hold, he worked hard at, but with little enthusiasm. He was never more relieved than when a particular committee failed to meet. Count Witte tried to convince Alexander to give his son more responsibility by appointing him president of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Nicholas had been in his early twenties then, but his father still considered him a child.
“Tell, me, Count Witte, have you ever engaged my son in a serious conversation?” asked the tsar. “He simply has not the wit or shrewdness for such a responsibility.”
Now Nicholas was tsar, and instead of his father, it was the uncles who lacked faith in him. Maybe with good reason. From the very beginning they had succeeded in overwhelming him. Even at his father’s deathbed the physicians and relatives felt answerable to them, not he, the heir-apparent. He remembered how Alix had tried to urge him to make sure the others—especially the uncles—knew his mind and did not forget who he was.
Oh, dear Alix! How could he have ever survived the ordeal of his ascension without her? He’d had to fight his father for permission to marry the Hesse-Darmstadt princess, just as his grandfather had been forced to fight for his princess more than fifty years earlier. When Alexander III died before the marriage could take place, Nicholas had had to battle his uncles. Nicholas wanted to marry Alix immediately, believing that was the only way he could face the ordeal that lay ahead. The uncles believed he should wait until after the funeral. They won; he married Alexandra immediately after the funeral. It would be the first of many battles lost for the young tsar.
This day, however, was his moment of glory, not to be clouded by the grim realities surrounding him. In more than a year of rule he had begun to gain confidence, at least enough so that he could look toward the future with some hope. To Alix, styled Alexandra Fedorovna, he attributed much of the credit for this. She gave him the courage to face whatever lay ahead. She was his mainstay, his joy, his life!
He knew this sudden rise to prominence was as difficult for her as it was for him. Alix was painfully shy, detesting ostentation and show. Only love could have convinced her to throw her lot in with this role that so cast her against type. Her hands had trembled this morning in their apartment as she practiced fastening and unfastening the royal robes, as she would have to do during the coronation ceremony. She might be frightened at the prospect of facing the throngs of Russians, yet her fear made her no less strong. For once having made her decision to put all her old life behind her and step into this frightening new world where she could not even speak the language, she did so with determination.
As he rode down the avenue, Nicholas did not turn his head, keeping his gaze studiously fixed straight ahead with his right hand in a stiff, unmoving salute. But he was comforted to know that Alix, his “Sunny,” was following behind him in an ornately gilded carriage. Well, she was not directly behind him—that position was occupied by his mother, the Dowager Empress Marie. But if Alix were to remain in the shadow of the lovely, and still very influential Marie, at least nothing could change the fact that Alix, not Marie, would be crowned Empress of Russia. Nothing could change that. Nicholas loved his mother and continued to depend upon her for wisdom and direction, but he needed Alix and wished for none other to stand at his royal side.
They neared the Nikolsky Gate that led into the Kremlin, where tomorrow the coronation would take place. The ride through Moscow, only a few miles, had taken an excruciatingly long time. He would always remember with a full and grateful heart the jubilant adoration of the throngs but, oh, how he longed for the quiet privacy of his own rooms and the nearness of Alix.