From my basket I took a handful of grapes, which had been chilled deep in the cellar, but as I reached to place them into the woman’s mouth her husband’s thick, gnarly hand suddenly came up. As fast as a pickpocket, he grabbed my wrist.
Not releasing me, Ivan demanded, “What are you trying to do, eh, Princess, kill her? What is that?”
With no great ease, I opened my hand and exposed the small fruits. He looked at them but still there was no trust in his eyes, only confusion at best. Had he never seen a grape before, or did he think my intentions purely evil?
“They are grapes, sir, pure and simple, and I only mean to put your wife more at ease,” I said. “She can no longer swallow, but these grapes are cool and wet, and if you’ll allow me I’ll pack them gently in her cheeks. Within a short time they will begin to crack and slowly release their juices, thereby moistening her tongue.”
“But… but…” he muttered, wanting, perhaps against his better judgment, to believe me.
“Do not worry, no medicament of any sort has been added to them.” And seeing that he still feared I meant her harm, I reached with my free hand into my other-the one he held so tightly-and took a grape and popped it into my own mouth. “They’re sweet and refreshing. Would you care for one, sir?”
He shook his head and, with a nod to his wife, softly said, “Go on.”
Yes, Ivan let me place grapes in each of his wife’s cheeks. And an hour later, when those were smashed of wetness, he let me remove them and place fresh ones into her mouth. I did so another hour after that, and yet an hour later, too, which is to say that this Evdokia lasted nearly another four hours before ascending to the Giver of all life. Finally, when she’d breathed her last, the poor man fell upon her body sobbing like a child. I crossed around to him then, placing one hand upon his shoulder as I said a prayer for this newly departed servant of God.
A short time later it was brought to my attention that this man had no financial means to see to his wife’s funeral, and I told him not to worry, that coffin and prayers and all would be taken care of.
I explained, “We will transfer your wife to the small church across the street, where Psalter will be said over her.”
“Yes, but at whose expense? Whose?” he asked. “Yours?” Of course it was, but I said, “That is of no importance.” And wondering if he was all alone, I queried, “Have you children, sir?”
With some degree of difficulty, he replied, “We had two young boys, but they both died from diphtheria. So now you see, it’s just… just me…”
“Both my mother and young sister died of such,” I confessed, taking both his hands in mine. “Just remember, you are never alone.”
“But… but for me there is no one else…”
“Yes, you have God, and you have us here. Please, just come back later today for prayers, and any other time for a meal as well.”
Without replying yea or nay, he turned to leave, then almost as quickly spun back, bowing deeply and firmly grasping both of my hands in his.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, kissing my fingers.
“Thank you for caring for my wife and… and thank you for the fruits you fed her.”
“It was both my pleasure and my solemn duty. As for the grapes, though, please do not thank me. This batch is from my sister, sent to us here out of concern and mercy for these suffering women.”
“Your sister… the Empress… she sent the… the fruits?” he gasped, unable to hide his shock.
“Yes.”
His face quickly reddening with rage or embarrassment or shock-I couldn’t tell which-he quickly turned and made for the door. Just as quickly, he stopped.
Looking over his shoulder, he quietly confessed, “I would not have become a Communist if I had met your kind before.”
“Please, just don’t forget this afternoon’s Psalter,” I said.
Without replying, he fled out the door, whence I did not doubt he disappeared into the Khitrovka, the worst slums of any city quite round the globe.
As I suspected, the man did not return for prayers over his wife’s coffin. The reasons were of no importance, all that mattered was that ordinance be followed, so later that afternoon, dressed in a fresh white dress free of any contagion, I went to the church. And there I took it upon myself as duty to read the Psalms over the woman’s open casket, thereby aiding her soul as it passed through mitarstva, the toll gates.
Work on my community continued apace, and with great excitement too. I gathered every book relevant to my scheme, reading in English, German, and French about foundations where prayer and work were braided as one. In my native Germany I visited the fine Kaiserwerth Diakonissen training schools, where nurses and teachers were instructed in the care of young and old. Upon my visit to England, my sister Victoria led me to both the Convent of the Sisters of Bethany and, of course, the Little Sisters of the Poor. By studying these good institutions I was able to more finely perceive what was being asked of me and how I might improve its birth. In short, I understood that I was meant to reawaken a slightly modified order of deaconesses whose goal so closely matched mine, which was to aid the sick and the poor. To me the concept seemed simple and pure, but it came as quite a revolution within our Orthodoxy.
With the sale of my personal things and also an estate in Poltava, which had been left to my husband for the purposes of charity, I raised considerable sums. And with these moneys I was not only able to purchase a proper site but also to hire the artist Nesterov, whom Sergei so liked, and, upon Nesterov’s own suggestion, the architect Aleksei Shchusev. It soon became clear that we would be able to remake four of the original buildings on the property and plan for a church, tying all together with a beautiful whitewashed wall that would be covered with vines. At the center of my complex we planned a quiet, peaceful garden that would be planted with white lilies-my favorite-and sweet peas, lilacs, and fruit trees, too. To Nesterov I assigned the eventual task of painting the interior frescoes of the church, along with some icons, while Shchusev proposed a most beautiful white church that artfully blended the beauty of old Russia-complete with onion domes-with a hint of Style Moderne. Both my beloved Kostya and even Nicky dear, along with a host of others, certainly, came to the laying of the cornerstone of the Church of the Protection of the Most Holy Mother of God. Even the fearfully holy icon, The Iverian Virgin, was brought down from the Kremlin by old carriage for the ceremony. It was a very powerful day.
By midwinter of 1909, even though work on the church continued, enough was otherwise done that I was able to move into my house, one of the little buildings that had been remade and incorporated into the plan for my obitel. In all I had three rooms there, airy and cozy, so summerlike, and all who saw them were enchanted. In my sitting room I placed summer furniture of English willow covered with blue chintz, and a desk too. There was my prayer room, the walls of which I covered respectfully with many icons, and also my simple bedroom, in which was placed only a few things, chiefly a plain wooden bed with no mattress or pillow, only planks. In truth, I was sleeping less and less, usually only some three hours, for I was often called either to prayers or to the bedside of the sick.
And yet I had by this time not received the veil, and because of this we few who were there in the early days were required to begin our operation under the guidance of our spiritual father, Father Mitrofan, the kindest and most devoted of confessors, and a real presence with his long hair, big beard, and broad forehead.