Princely Diaries

April 3, 1938.

Well, that's finally over, and I'm glad of it. I hate dancing. I'd rather climb trees any day! My feet are still sore - especially after that clumsy princess Briane stepped on them while she was trying to waltz. What an oaf.

Hundreds of people attended the ball - all the court society of St. Petersburg, Papa says. If you piled up all their jewels in a heap, it would weight at least a ton.

Mother had a heachache and left before midnight. I wished I could have gone with her, but that would upset Grandmother. She is already annoyed with Mama, I think.

Grandmother has given us each a journal as a keepsake of the ball. Theo, Tatiana and Miel (that's what we call our Meryl) have already begun pasting things in theirs - the invitation, the menu for the midnight super, the program of music played by the orchestra and my brother's and sisters' dance cards signed by the officers who danced with them. (I did not collect my dancing partners' signatures.)

It was late when Papa had the carriage bring us from the Anitchkov Palace to board our train for the ride back to Tsarskoe Selo. He sipped his tea while my sisters chattered about the ball all the way home. I could hardly keep my eyes open but pretended to be wide awake.

April 6, 1938.

Faugh! I hate schoolwork! Monsieur Guilliard, our French tutor, says that my efforts "lack inspiration." What he means is, I am lazy. We've been working on the pluperfect tense, and what could be inspirational about that? I was suppose to write sentences ten times each, but I "forgot" a few of them and instead drew a border of flowers around the paper. M. Guilliard says that my flowers don't make up for my lack of inspiration.

April 11, 1938.

A sunny day, but so cold, it makes my teeth hurt. Just as we finished our morning lessons Papa came out of his study, where he had been working since breakfast, and announced that we should go ice skating. My siblings and I dressed in the warmest woolen clothing and ran outside with Papa.

We ran to the lake in the middle of the imperial park, where servants built a roaring fire near the warming hut. As soon as we'd strapped on our skates, Papa got us playing Crack-The-Wip. I challenged Miel to a race and won. I couldn't beat Theo, because he's the tallest and his legs are longer than mine, but when I grow more I'll beat him with no trouble.

Papa stopped us often to make sure our noses weren't getting frostbitten. "Keep moving! Keep moving, my dears!" he called out, but we didn't need his advice, because to stand still in such weather is to freeze solid as an ice statue.

Later Miel asked if I remembered the time I made a snowball with a rock inside and threw it at her, and it knocked her almost unconscious.

That was wicked of her to mention it. Of course I remember! Olga Alexandrovna, Papa's younger sister, scolded me that day until I cried. Papa never scolds me, and Mama hardly ever. It's only Aunt Olga who does. Yet she's my godmother, and I love her best, after Mama and Papa! But nobody in this drafted family will let me forget that stupid snowball!

April 15, 1938.

I wonder if my siblings are writing in their journals everyday. Miel scarcely bothers, I know that much. She's at least as lazy as I am (maybe worse). Mama and Papa think it's important for us to keep journals. And Mama says we should also be using both Old Style and New Style dates, as she does. This is because Russia uses the Julian calendar, and most other places in the world use the new Gregorian calendar, which is thirteen days ahead of ours. For instance, today is 15 April, but in England and Germany and lots of other places, it's already 28 April. How strange! And what a bother! But if Mama says we must, then we must. I'll start tomorrow.

This morning I crept into the Big pair's room (Papa calls T and T the "Big pair"; M and A are the "little pair"), but I saw no journals lying about. They must have hidden them. I thought of asking, but realized the question was fat-witted. They would certainly not tell me!

So I've decided I must find where each one is kept. I'll take a look from time to time, just to make sure they're actually writing in them. I'm going to search for Tatiana's first, because she is the oldest and most likely to have interesting secrets - although what they could be, I can hardly imagine. We already know everything about each other.

April 16/29, 1938.

(I suppose I'll get used to this.)

How we do love our evening baths! Until a few years ago when Tatiana begged Mama to intervene, we took cold baths every morning because Papa believes they're good for you. He has one everyday as soon as he gets up, just as he has done since he was a boy. Fortunately, Mama took my sisters side and convinced him that young ladies and young men do not need to be brought up like soldiers. And so now we have the luxury of warm baths in our big silver tubs before we retire.

But that's the end of Papa's indulgence. The four of us slept on camp cots. We must rise before sunup and make our beds under the stern eyes of our maids, who tolerate no laxness, such as lumpy bedcovers. Then we joined Papa for breakfast. I should love to have chocolate and pastries, but no! It must be rye bread and herring, or it's not "a good Russian breakfast" in Papa's eyes!

When papa disapears into his study to work - he has much to do as the autocrat of All the Russias - my sisters, my brother and I go to Mama's boudoir, her private sitting room. She lies among her pillows on her chaise lounge and helps us decide how we should dress for the day, always in matching outfits.

At precisely nine o'clock we march off to our classrooms and devote ourselfs to French with M. Guilliard, to English with Mr. Gibbes, and to Russian with Professor Petrov. And all that other nonsense about mathematics and geography. Botheration!