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.
Still I pressed on, and after much time and deliberation I conceived a formal plan for the formation of my order, a plan that I in turn submitted to the Holy Synod. I knew this would be no easy feat. Since centuries Russia had operated her centers of religion under the Basilian Laws whereby nuns lived a most cloistered life, all but permanently shut away from the world around them; they lived a life of prayer and contemplation, venturing beyond the walls of the monastery only in extreme cases, to beg for alms, for example, and then only with a bishop’s permission. But I wished for more than that. I envisioned that my sisters should reach out to a community in need, for despite my great respect for such cloistered institutions of prayer and devotion, I saw a different need and felt a different calling.
Appearing before the Holy Synod, I was faced with many heavy faces, a panel of men in great vestments who took great umbrage at my request.
Hermongen, Bishop of Saratov, clearly disliked my proposal, saying, “I’m afraid your request is quite contrary to our canons. The order of deaconesses was done away with by decree centuries and centuries ago, and that decree was quite definitive.”
“If Her Imperial Highness finds herself in need of a religious vocation,” voiced the most stern Metropolitan of St. Peterburg, “I would suggest that all must be based on our strict Basilian laws.”
“Yes, either that or submit yourself to any other of our fine women’s monasteries, of which Russia possesses a great number, ” suggested another of these religious leaders.
I understood immediately where this was headed, and I knew I was completely done for the moment Hermongen began mumbling that my plan for a group of active sisters smacked of “Protestant leaven.” These words, craftily chosen, lit the fire of opposition under still others, and there came grumblings that the whole idea was not Orthodox enough, simply too Western, and these complaints even drowned out the support I had from the powerful Metropolitan Vladimir of Moscow. In short, it was a complete rout, and I and my petition were summarily dismissed as near-blasphemy.
I was vexed, there was no doubt of it, and discouraged, too, but I set right about reworking my rules.
I spent the ensuing months studying my books, and with the consult of important clergy, from Vladimir ’s own suffragan to others, I altered my plan, borrowing much from St. Vincent de Paul. Quite some time later I was back before the members of the Holy Synod with a different proposal. Once again, I was met with doubt and dismiss, and they questioned much, and did so without hiding their displeasure, either. Long had I known the obstacles of Russia, but I was determined to both innovate and invigorate, drawing inspiration from my own mother and all the daring good she had done for her people, from hospitals to clean bathing water.
Upon the second visit to the Synod, one of the first questions asked of me was: “Our Orthodox sisters have always worn square-toed boots, robes of black, and a klobuk upon their heads, not to mention a long black veil. Why is it, then, that you wish for this… this combination, a pale-gray habit and no head gear excepting a mere veil?”
Looking calmly at the Metropolitans and Bishops alike, I replied, “It is my intention that my sisters will be active in hospital work, busy with caring from morning into the night. With this in mind, I have proposed garments that would be more suitable for this busy work. My sisters will need to move quickly and ably without being constrained.”
Hermongen groaned with suspicion, then stared upon me, demanding, “But why meat? All of our true Orthodox sisters have always gone without such. True, from time to time they are offered fish, perhaps, but never meat-never.”
“Please understand,” I began, for I had expected this question and prepared for it, too, “that since years I myself have not eaten meat of any sort, not even fish. Only milk and vegetables have served me. But I intend for my sisters to be young and full of energy. I wish them to eat a healthy diet, including meat, so that they may be better able to serve those in need. It is for their strength. You see, I feel that work is the foundation of one’s religious life-to give one’s whole strength to God-and prayer and contemplation its final reward.”
On and on the questions went, and I had to explain so much, why I proposed taking only sisters between the ages of twenty-one and forty-“So that they will be full of energy”-and why I would require all to take an annual holiday-“For their refreshment.”
Again, Hermongen threw an unkind remark here and there, such a pity for he had not seen our place and the good we were already doing. And again it was implied that my Order sought to imitate Protestantism, which was completely unjust. Really, it came as no surprise that the Holy Synod refused me again.
All would have been lost, too, had my brother-in-law not soon stepped forward. Nicky and I corresponded at length, I took his consult to heart, he understood my intent, and finally by Imperial Decree he established the Order of Saints Martha and Mary. With one swoop the whole thing was done.
And what joy it was when my new life in the church began. It was as if bidding goodbye to the past with all its faults and sins, all with the hope of a higher goal and a purer existence. As the official day approached I wrote Nicky dear, asking him to pray for me, for taking my vows was even more serious than when a young girl marries. How interesting it all was, what turns my life had taken. I had come to a dazzling court in a new land as the young bride of a mighty Romanov, and now I was espousing Christ and His cause, hoping to give all I could to Him and our neighbors.
Finally and at long last by 1910 all was scheduled, and the night before the ceremony an all-night vigil was held there on our territories. Just after sunrise, as the early spring sun began to show its bashful face, I gathered my sixteen sisters about me there in the garden. How eager they were, how earnest and yearning of good deed. Collected, I surveyed them with pride, noting there were sisters of every walk, from nobility to the lowest rung, and yet we were of one now. Especially eager to join was Varya, my young lady’s maid, who of her own accord had chosen to follow me from the Palace and down this profound path of self-denial. Soon to be known as Nun Varvara, she would serve the community and Him with as much devotion, I was sure, as she had once served me at Court.
To all these beautiful faces, I said, “I am about to leave the brilliant world in which it fell to me to occupy a brilliant position, but together with you I am about to enter a much greater world-that of the poor and afflicted.”
We were then led into our chapel where Bishop Tryphon tonsured us all, shaving the tops of our heads during a liturgy written especially for us. And finally we were offered the veil.
And, with a booming voice, Bishop Tryphon proclaimed, “This veil will hide you from the world, and the world will be hidden from you, but it will be at the same time a witness of your work of charity, which will resound
