Father was given the choice of taking one of the generals with him. He selected General Tatishchev. This friend, who was independently rich, had all the necessary qualities and was liked by everybody. The several hundred men who carried our baggage downstairs were rewarded. One of them, a soldier, lifted his three-ruble note to his lips and kissed it. By the way his shoulders shook, we knew that he was crying. A few of our trunks were left upstairs and some were brought to Tobolsk much later. We were allowed to take with us several dogs. I took my “Jemmy” who had been given to me by Anna. Being small she did not require much food. We were now leaving our bedrooms, music room, class room, and playrooms, where we had placed our dolls with their arms stretched out as if they were asking us not to leave them behind. Alexei tearfully placed his Teddy bear against the door to guard his possessions. As we wandered through the rooms in lingering farewell, each tried not to see the other. Those who were to stay behind cried and kissed us children every time they saw us. These good-byes to our childhood home were dreadful. This ancestral home we were leaving was part of us. We gave it a reverential farewell. Marie and I went to our knees in the corner of our bedroom, set up with icons. Our eyes were fixed on the empty places from which some icons had been removed to go with us on this trip. We were nervous, full of anguish, and, in spite of our efforts to be brave, we cried and we were reduced to sobs. Our good friend Dr. Botkin, who had been absent because of illness in his family, had just returned. He gave us sisters drops of valerian to quiet our nerves. What went on in Father’s and Mother’s hearts only they knew. It was a queer, heartrending feeling when we left our rooms not knowing of the future ahead. We five children went down the private spiral stairway. As we did so, the memory of my young years came back to me. I remembered when I happily used to run up and down the steps trying to make two at a time. Now I could not see them; a handkerchief was pressed to my swollen eyes. The stairs led us to Mother’s apartment. She had just finished a thanksgiving prayer when we appeared. We did not dare to look at her. No doubt that to Father that home was full of Tsar-spirits, looking down on him from portraits condemning this final surrender of autocracy. A life-sized portrait of Mother when she was young, happy, and beautiful hung in Father’s study--his favorite portrait. It was by Kaulbach, painted in 1903. He stopped and examined it as if he had never seen it before.