Being raised like a boy...

..gets on your nerves. I mean, until five years ago we had to take COLD baths. Can't that give you pneumonia or something? They felt unhealthy, swimming around in icy water, and it only meant that Mama had to apply more blush to our cheeks because we had not receive a rosy glow as you do when you bathe in hot water, surrounded in all the steam. For breakfast it is always tasteless black bread and herring, some sort of meat, which is 'good Russian nosh'. Mama's English upbringing is rubbing off on him - 'nosh' is very British! Papa tells us we should honour of country by eating the glorious food our people make and our land is famed for. But I'd much rather stomach pastries and chocolate, as would my sisters. We do not need to be raised as soldiers, since the only thing we will ever do is marry and have children and live in palaces with her noble husbands. Palaces with proper beds and not our hard campbeds! But we daren't complain because Mama gets tired and headachey, and Baroness Buxhoveden snaps at us and we're sent away. Mama appears at dinner grey and old beyond her years. Retires immediatley. She does not permit anyone to see her unless it is Alexei, and he never goes because he likes to stay in his teepee and play with his soldiers. Tatiana tries to go but never gets anywhere, and I'm not going. I haven't the patience with sick people.
But these are bad things. The good things are very good, spectacular - we take hot baths in big silver tubs scented with flowery oils. We have no reason to complain, so Mama is not ill. Baroness Buxhoveden keeps on walking in her prudish way and does not scold us. Herring does not taste so bad. Alexei is not ill. We steal cushions from the parlour to make our campbeds more comfy.
Today we were all in the classroom we share with Mr Gibbes, our English tutor. Maria was reading her novel, Oliver Twist by an Englishman called Charles Dickins, aloud for us all to hear. Tatiana and I were finishing our sentances on nouns and verbs, and Anastasia was tapping the table with her pencil. Mr Gibbes told her to stop making a racket, so she did - for about five minutes. Then she started again. 'Anastasia Nikolaevna, stop making noise,' Mr Gibbes repeated, going quite red in the face. Nastya nodded and examined her textbook, turning the pages slowly so they make creasing sounds. Mr Gibbes went even redder, so he rivalled the cushions in the Crimson Parlour. He put down his pen and observed Nastya flicking through her book. Maria stopped reading aloud, and Tati and I began to giggle. Nastya's mouth turned up in a small smirk.
Then the door opened and Alexei's kitten, Zubrovka, came in. She jumped gracefully onto the table and watched Nastya, who began to tease the poor little kitty with her pencil. The cat watched the pencil with eagle eyes. Maria, in a fit of laughter, slammed down her book with her head on it, wobbling the desk and flying the pencil out of Nastya's fingers. It flew accross the room in east direction - towards Mr Gibbes! The cat launched herself after it and landed on Mr Gibbes' chest, who panicked. His face swelled like a balloon and turned violently crimson, and when the cat released herself from his chest small marks where her paws had been appeared on his shirt. Mr Gibbes rushed out of the classroom with force, bright red, while the kitten nibbled on Anastasia's pencil in the corner, innocently looking over at the room. We rolled about laughing, and Nastya sat there glowing with pride in her 'accidental' trick.
It's always like this.Mama calls us to her boudoir afterwards and scolds us for acting childish. She tells us repeatedly young ladies do not act as such and laugh at such silly actions. Especially me and Tati, women in their prime. Mashka gets frowned at and Nastya gets a warning. We write apologises to Mr Gibbes in neat handwriting. When Papa hears of it, we swear to him we shan't ever act like that again. He tells us that is what naughty, mischievous little boys do.
Which leads me to a rather strange conclusion that being a boy must be terribly fun, and that being raised like boys like we were years ago was the closest we ever got to being one.
Signing off now, yours,

Olga.

17TH APRIL 1914.