“Quiet River Don,Loved father mine,Wash thou me!Earth so cool and moist,Loved mother mine,Cover me!”
“Quiet River Don,Loved father mine,Wash thou me!Earth so cool and moist,Loved mother mine,Cover me!”
“Quiet River Don,
Loved father mine,
Wash thou me!
Earth so cool and moist,
Loved mother mine,
Cover me!”
Afrossinia was singing, sitting at her window in the fortress of St. Elmo. She was busily unpicking the red damask lining of her sand-coloured suit of disguise; nothing on earth, she had declared, would ever induce her to deck herself out in this ridiculous manner again.
She wore a dirty silk gown with all the buttons torn off; on her naked feet slippers, embroidered in silver and worn down at the heels. The pewter workbox before her contained various bits of stuff and ribbon, a small fan, gloves, love letters written by the Tsarevitch, envelopes with scented powder, an amulet given her by a saintly old man, “poudre Maréchal” from the celebrated hairdresser Frison, of Rue Saint Honoré, a rosary from Mount Athos, Parisian beauty-patches, and jars of pomade; she spent hours in painting her face, which was absolutely unnecessary, as her complexion was faultless. The Tsarevitch sat at the same table writing letters, which were destined to be anonymously circulated in Petersburg, and also handed to archdeacons and senators.
“Honoured Gentlemen of the Senate,—“Your lordships, as well as the whole Russian nation, I presume, must be surprised at my unexplained absence and the mystery which surrounds me. My conduct was prompted by the way in which my behaviour was persistently misunderstood, and especially by what has happenedsince the beginning of last year, when I was almost forced to take the monk’s habit, without any misdeed on my part, a fact which is well known to everybody. But the all merciful Lord, moved by the prayers of the Holy Virgin, comforter of all the afflicted, and all the saints protected me and gave me shelter away from my beloved country, which, but for this sad occasion, I would never have left. At present I am in good heath, under the protection of a powerful Emperor, until the time when the Lord, who saved me, will command me to return to Russia, in which case I ask you to stand by me.“If any report is circulated about me with the view of uprooting my memory from the minds of the people, if, for instance, it is said, that I am no longer among the living, or that some other mischief has befallen me, believe it not, and also try to prevent the nation believing it. Alive by God’s protection, I remain, wishing you and the whole nation well.“Faithfully yours, to my grave,“Alexis.”
“Honoured Gentlemen of the Senate,—
“Your lordships, as well as the whole Russian nation, I presume, must be surprised at my unexplained absence and the mystery which surrounds me. My conduct was prompted by the way in which my behaviour was persistently misunderstood, and especially by what has happenedsince the beginning of last year, when I was almost forced to take the monk’s habit, without any misdeed on my part, a fact which is well known to everybody. But the all merciful Lord, moved by the prayers of the Holy Virgin, comforter of all the afflicted, and all the saints protected me and gave me shelter away from my beloved country, which, but for this sad occasion, I would never have left. At present I am in good heath, under the protection of a powerful Emperor, until the time when the Lord, who saved me, will command me to return to Russia, in which case I ask you to stand by me.
“If any report is circulated about me with the view of uprooting my memory from the minds of the people, if, for instance, it is said, that I am no longer among the living, or that some other mischief has befallen me, believe it not, and also try to prevent the nation believing it. Alive by God’s protection, I remain, wishing you and the whole nation well.
“Faithfully yours, to my grave,
“Alexis.”
He glanced through the open door of the balcony towards the sea, which lay quivering below the fresh north breeze. A haze seemed to rise from the boiling deep, shrouding the sparkling surge and the white sails, like the breasts of proud swans. The Tsarevitch mused that this was the same blue sea which took Oleg and his “droushina” to Constantinople and which is sung about in the Russian lore.
He took out a couple of folded leaflets filled with his own laboured handwriting in German. There was a note on the margin, “Excuse my bad writing, but I have done my best.” This was a long letter addressed to the Emperor, an accusation against his father. He had begun it some time ago, but was always altering it, crossing out, re-writing, and somehow or other he could not bring himself to finish it. What seemed right in thought no longer appeared so when expressed in words. There was some insurmountable barrier between thought and expression, and no words could be found to convey adequately the essential point.
He revised some stray passages:
“The Emperor must save me. I am innocent before myfather. I have always loved, honoured and obeyed him according to God’s law. I know I am only a weakling, but the fault lies with Ménshikoff’s training. He never taught me anything; always tried to separate me from my father, and throughout treated me no better than some serf or a dog. They did their best to make a drunkard of me. My spirit was broken by continuous drunkenness and persecution. Albeit, my father on occasion used to be kind to me. He entrusted me with administration; all for a time went well and he was pleased with me. But ever since my wife began bearing children—the new Tsaritsa had also borne a son—they began to treat the Crown Princess badly, forced her to perform the duties of a servant, and she died of grief. Then Ménshikoff and the Tsaritsa systematically irritated and set my father against me. They are both filled with malice, knowing neither God nor conscience. If left to himself, the Tsar is kind and just; but he is surrounded by intriguers, while at the same time he is incredibly passionate; he believes that like God, he has the right of life and death. He has shed much innocent blood, and often he has tortured and put victims to death with his own hands. If the Emperor were to deliver me to my father, it would be my certain death. Even should my father spare me, my stepmother and Ménshikoff would not rest until they succeed in killing me either by drink or poison. The abdication of the throne was extorted from me; I have no desire to become a monk; I have sufficient brains to govern. God is a witness that I never even so much as contemplated rousing the people to revolt, though it would have been an easy task for me to do so. The people are affectionate towards me, and dislike my father for his unworthy wife, his cruel and debauched favourites, the desecration of churches and the abolition of old customs, and also because he spares neither money nor blood, because he is the tyrant and enemy of his people.”
“Enemy of his people?” repeated the Tsarevitch. He thought over his words, then crossed them out; they no longer seemed true. He was well aware of his father’s love for the nation, though this love was often more pitiless than hatred: a loving father does not spare therod. It were almost better if he loved less. He loved him, his son, also. But for this love he would not chastise or torture him. And again, as always, when re-reading this letter he vaguely felt that it was just and yet not completely just. Wholly guiltless? Wholly guilty? there was an imperceptible shade of discrimination still to observe in order to keep the balance true; he seemed to always, though unconsciously, fail to seize this fine line of justice in his accusations. Each of them seemed to grasp a distinct truth; and the two truths were doomed to remain eternally contradictory, eternally irreconcilable. It was impossible for both him and his father to remain supreme. Yet it mattered little which of the pair gained ascendancy, the conqueror would always be in the right, the conquered in the wrong.
And he himself could only vaguely formulate all this to himself, much less could he explain it to others; and even then, who could understand or would believe him? Who except God could judge between father and son?
Laying the letter on one side with a heavy heart, with a secret longing to destroy it, he sat listening to Afrossinia’s song. She had finished her work, and was now standing before a mirror, trying to adjust her new French face-patches. This continuous, subdued singing all through the monotonous days of her prison life, seemed as involuntary as the singing of a caged bird. She sang as she breathed, unconsciously. Yet the Tsarevitch could not help feeling a quaint contrast between this playing with French patches and the melancholy Russian song:—
Earth so cool and moist,Loved mother mine,Cover me!Forest nightingale,Loved brother mine,Sing of me!Cuckoo, woodland bird,Loved sister mine,Call for me!Birch, as white and slenderAs a fair young maiden,Rustle thou for me!
Earth so cool and moist,Loved mother mine,Cover me!Forest nightingale,Loved brother mine,Sing of me!Cuckoo, woodland bird,Loved sister mine,Call for me!Birch, as white and slenderAs a fair young maiden,Rustle thou for me!
Earth so cool and moist,
Loved mother mine,
Cover me!
Forest nightingale,
Loved brother mine,
Sing of me!
Cuckoo, woodland bird,
Loved sister mine,
Call for me!
Birch, as white and slender
As a fair young maiden,
Rustle thou for me!
Along the echoing passages of the fortress steps were heard, the call of sentinels, the noise of locks and bolts. The officer on duty knocked at the door, and announced Weingart, the secretary of the Imperial Viceroy in Naples.
An asthmatical, stout man entered the room with many bows; his face was the colour of raw beef, the under lip drooped, his small eyes like those of a pig seemed lost in his fat face. As with many rascals, he had an artless good-natured look about him. Æsop’s verdict on him was, “a wily beast!”
Weingart presented the Tsarevitch with a case of Moselle; observing the incognito, he addressed him as “His Excellency the Count.” For Afrossinia, whose hand he kissed with much gallantry, he had brought a basket of fruit and flowers. At the same time he handed over letters which had arrived from Russia and communicated a verbal message from Vienna:—
“In Vienna they were pleased to learn that His Excellency the Count was enjoying good health. Much patience is required, and now more than ever. The latest piece of news, which might be of interest, is a rumour apparently fast gaining ground, that the Tsarevitch has disappeared. Some suppose he escaped from his father’s cruelty, others believe he has been put to death by the Tsar’s instigation, others again fear he has fallen among murderers and lost his life on the journey. But no one knows precisely where he is. Here is a report of the Imperial Resident Pleyer to that effect, if your Excellency is at all curious as to what are the current views in Petersburg on the subject. The Emperor’s exact message is as follows: ‘We advise our beloved Tsarevitch, for his own good, to observe strictest incognito, for, on his return to Petersburg, the Tsar will inaugurate a thorough investigation.’”
Then stooping down to Alexis he whispered in his ear:—
“Fear not, your Highness! My information comes from most reliable quarters. The Emperor will not forsake you; and should there be need for it after your father’s death, he is prepared to help you to the throne with armed force.”
“No! no! what are you talking about?” The Tsarevitchstopped him, that feeling again taking possession of him which a few moments since had prompted him to lay the Emperor’s letter aside, “I do hope for God’s sake it will never come to that! war will never be caused by me. It is not this I asked you for, only your protection. I did not even desire anything else. However, I am much obliged to you. May God reward the Emperor for the kindness he has shown to me!”
He ordered one of the Moselle bottles to be opened, in order to drink the Emperor’s health. He went out of the room to fetch some important letters, and on his return he found Weingart engaged in politely explaining to Afrossinia, more by signs it is true than by words, that she did wrong in giving up her man’s clothes which had so admirably suited her.
“L’Amour même ne saurait se présenter avec plus de grâces,” he concluded in French, fixing on her with his little pig’s eyes that look which was so particularly odious to the Tsarevitch.
When Weingart was announced, Afrossinia had hastened to alter her outward appearance. Thus he found her wearing a beautiful new damask surcoat, which concealed her dirty dressing gown; a cap of loveliest Brabant lace covered her dishevelled hair; she had powdered herself, and had even found time to fix a beauty spot above her left eyebrow, as she had noticed a Parisian courtesan wear hers in Rome driving in the Corso. The expression of dulness had disappeared from her face; she had brightened up; though she understood not a word of either French or German, she knew full well that Weingart was talking about her recent disguise. She smiled roguishly, blushed and hid her face in her sleeve after the manner of a Russian peasant girl.
“With this German, a pig’s carcass, the Lord forgive me! she has found a nice person to flirt with,” the Tsarevitch thought, annoyed. “Ah, bah! it’s all the same to her; all she requires is some novelty, anything will do so long as it is new. Eve’s daughters are all alike. A woman, a devil, they keep the balance even.”
After Weingart had gone, Alexis began reading the letters; the most important was Pleyer’s report.
“The regiments of the Guard, which consist for the most part of nobles, together with the rest of the army, have organized a plot in Mecklenburg: they propose killing the Tsar, bringing the present Tsaritsa and her three children back here where they will be shut up in the same convent which for so long has cloistered the former Tsaritsa, who will be liberated, and the government entrusted to her son, the legitimate heir.”
The Tsarevitch tossed off two glasses of Moselle and began to pace up and down the room, murmuring something to himself, and gesticulating with his arms. Afrossinia’s eyes were following him silently and intently, while apparently quite indifferent. After Weingart had left, her face had lapsed into its habitual expression of dulness.
At last, pausing in front of her, he exclaimed:—
“Well, dearest, soon all the dainties you desire shall be at your disposal. This is good news! God will soon grant us a safe and joyous return!”
He carefully explained to her Pleyer’s report. The last words he read out in German, they evidently delighted him beyond measure, “Alles zum Aufstand allhier sehr geneiget ist—All here are greatly inclined to revolt. There is a general complaint about nobles and peasants being treated alike, made without distinction to serve in the army and navy. As to the villages, they are positively ruined by the building of ships and towns.”
Afrossinia listened without a word of comment, her face manifesting the same dull indifference, and only when he had finished, she asked in her characteristic, languid, lazy tone:—
“Alexis, suppose the Tsar is killed and you are sent for, will you side with the revolutionists?”
She glanced at him sideways, with a look which, had he not been so entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts, would have amazed him, or even made him aware of a secret sting in this question; but he noticed nothing.
“I don’t quite know yet,” he answered, after a short silence. “Should the summons come, I might side with them. But why build on probabilities? God’s will be done——” He stopped short, as if now only realizing what he was saying. “I only tell you this, Afrossinia, toshow you how God works. My father plans one course, God follows His own!”
Exhausted with joy he sank into a chair, and, oblivious of Afrossinia’s presence, began talking to himself.
“There is printed information that the Swedish fleet has started for the Lithuanian shores to land troops. If this be true, great mischief will ensue. In Petersburg our Senators and Prince Ménshikoff will not work harmoniously together; and meanwhile our main forces are far away; there are quarrels and rivalries, the Swedes will be able to do great mischief. Petersburg lies within their reach; mind we don’t lose it as we lost Azov. Either the Swedes will take it from us, or else of itself it will fall into ruins. Petersburg will be destroyed, destroyed!“ he repeated with gusto his aunt’s habitual prophecy.
“And this apparent lull is also a bad omen. My uncle, Abraham Lopoukhin, writes that people of all ranks and classes inquire after me, sympathize with me, and are ready to stand by me; that there is already beginning a ferment round Moscow, also lower down along the Volga, the people will not remain unaffected. Is this to be wondered at? Have they not remained patient for so long! Ah, but it won’t pass by this time! I am sure their longsuffering will give out, and they will act in some way or other. Add to this the conspiracy in Mecklenburg, the Swedes, the Emperor, myself. Calamity threatens on all sides! the whole edifice is crumbling, tottering. It will, indeed, be a severance. Ah! father! you won’t have the best of it!”
For the first time in his life he felt himself to be a power, dangerous to his father. Joy was again well-nigh stifling him, as on that memorable night, during Peter’s illness, when, behind the frosted window in the moonlight, a wild turbulent snowstorm, a luminous blue chaos, was tossing itself about as in some mad delirium. Joy had intoxicated him even more than the wine of which he continued to drink glass after glass, his eyes fixed on the distant sea, also blue, luminous, and as it were throbbing with mad joy.
“In the German papers it is reported that my youngest brother, Petinka, had a narrow escape from being killedby a thunderbolt this summer at Peterhof. The nurse, who was carrying him, almost died from the shock; the soldier in attendance was actually killed. The babe’s health has suffered ever since. And yet what attention, what care has been bestowed on him! It is evident he won’t live long. Poor Petinka! his young soul is innocent before God. He is suffering, not for his own, but for his parents’ sins. Lord have mercy upon him. Here again is a clear manifestation of God’s will. I cannot understand how my father does not see it. It is awful to fall into the hands of the living God!”
“Who of the senators will espouse your cause?” suddenly queried Afrossinia; again that same strange spark flashed in her eyes and instantly died, as if a candle had been carried behind a curtain.
“And why should you trouble your head about it?” The Tsarevitch looked at her with surprise, he seemed to have entirely forgotten her presence, and only now realized that she had been listening to him the whole time. Afrossinia did not repeat her question; yet they both felt that a scarcely perceptible cloud had passed between them.
“Though they are not all my enemies, yet being cowards, and hankering after my father’s goodwill, they all pretend they are.” continued the Tsarevitch. “Never mind, I am in no particular need of them. I spit upon them all, if only the common people are staunch to me!” This was his favourite expression. “When Tsar, I will turn all the old senators out and replace them by new ones of my own choice. I will lighten the peasants’ burden, give them a chance to breathe. I will reduce the Boyars’ snug incomes; they have been fattening on them for long enough; I will provide for the peasantry, the weaker and poorer. They are the lesser brethren of Christ. I will institute a Church and a Zemski Sobor drawn from all classes: let everybody freely and fearlessly inform the Tsar of what is true, so that both State and Church could be reformed by a general council and under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, henceforth and for ever more.”
He dreamt aloud, and his dreams grew more and more misty, less and less real. Suddenly a cruel, poignant thought stung his heart like a gadfly: “All this is idletalk, nothing like it will ever happen. The blue tit spread his own fame far and wide, yet when it came to action he failed to set the sea on fire.”
He saw himself side by side with his father, the giant who was forging a new Russia; while he with his dreams was but a boy blowing soap-bubbles. How could he possibly vie with his father?
But he resolutely shook this thought off like some tiresome fly. Nothing can happen without God’s will. Let my father go on forging his iron—he only does what pleases him—meanwhile God has His own purpose. The iron will burst like a soap bubble, if God wills it.
The Tsarevitch again abandoned himself to visions. The sense of power had given way to a general feeling of languid weakness. With a smile, more and more serene, he sat listening, as in a trance, to the dull roaring of the sea; and there was something familiar in the roaring; something he had heard long ago seemed again to strike his ear; was it his grandmother’s lullaby? or was it the siren bird pouring forth her melodious strains?
“And after I have provided for the country and eased the lot of the peasants, I will set out with a large army and fleet for Constantinople, drive away the Turk, free the Slavs from the yoke of the unfaithful, and reinstate the cross on St. Sophia. Then I will call an oecumenical council to bring about the union of all churches; I will give peace to the world, and nations from all corners of the world will flock towards St. Sophia, the Wisdom of God, unto the holy kingdom, to meet the coming Christ.”
Afrossinia had long since left off listening; she had been continuously yawning and making the sign of the cross over her mouth. At last she got up, stretching and scratching herself. “I feel tired; waiting for that German this afternoon cost me my sleep. Hadn’t I better go to bed, Alexis?”
“Yes, my dear one, do go, God protect you. I too may come after a while; only I must first feed the doves.”
She went into the adjoining room, their bedchamber, while the Tsarevitch went out on the balcony, where the doves were already collecting, waiting to be fed. He threw some crumbs and grains to them, calling in a lowgentle voice: “Coo! coo! coo!” And just as in Roshdestveno, the doves flocked to his feet, wheeled in circles over his head, perched on his shoulders and arms, covered him as it were with wings. He looked down upon the sea: in the tremulous waving of wings he imagined he was flying away into that boundless space, across the blue deep, towards the luminous, bright Hagia Sophia, the Wisdom of God. The sensation of flight was so real, that his heart sank and his head grew dizzy. He got frightened. He closed his eyes, and convulsively gripped the balustrade. It seemed to him he no longer was flying, but falling.
With faltering steps he returned to the room. At the same moment Afrossinia came in; she had undressed, and was wearing nothing but her chemise; climbing on to a chair she trimmed the little lamp before the holy image. It was an old representation of the Mother of all the Sorrowing, beloved by the Tsarevitch, who never parted from it.
“What a fault! To-morrow is the Heavenly Queen’s Assumption, and I had forgotten all about it. Fancy leaving her, our Lady, without a lamp! Will you read the lauds, Alexis? Shall I get the reading desk ready?”
On the eve of each great feast, as he had no chaplain, he used to officiate himself, reading the lauds, and chanting the psalms.
“No, not yet, dearest, perhaps a little later on. I feel tired, my head aches.”
“You should drink less wine, Alexis.”
“It is not the wine, but my thoughts; the news was so joyous.”
Afrossinia, on her way to the bedroom, stopped at the table to select from the basket which the German had brought her, a ripe peach; she enjoyed eating a dainty before going to sleep.
The Tsarevitch came up and embraced her.
“Afrossinia, my dearest, aren’t you glad? You will be queen—and he, the babe——”
He was persuaded that Afrossinia would bear him a son. She was the third month with child. “You are my gold, and the boy will be our silver,” he would tell her in moments of tenderness.
“Yes, you will be the Tsaritsa, your boy the heir.We will call him Ivan, the most pious Tsar, Ivan Alexeyevitch, Autocrat of all the Russias.”
She gently freed herself from his embrace, looked across her shoulder to see whether the lamp was burning all right, took a bite from her peach, and then calmly answered him:—
“You are talking idly. How can I, a servant, become a Tsaritsa?”
“I’ll marry you, then you can’t help being one! My father did just the same. His wife, Catherine, belongs to no distinguished family; she used to wash linen with the Finnish women, her companions; a chemise was all she wore when taken a prisoner, and yetshereigns. You, also, Afrossinia Fédorevna, will be a Tsaritsa, and no worse than others.”
He wanted to tell her all he felt, yet knew not how to express it. He wanted to tell her the main idea of his life—that it was just because she was of the people he had loved her; though he was the son of the Tsar, he felt he too belonged to the people. He did not share the noble’s pride, but loved the simplicity of the common folk. It is from them that he would accept the crown. Good must be repaid by good. The common people will make him Tsar, and he will make her, Afrossinia, the serf-girl, a Tsaritsa.
She remained silent, her eyes cast down, and her face revealing little beyond an unmistakeable longing for sleep. But he pressed her closer and closer to himself, conscious of the freshness of her naked body concealed by the thin material. She resisted, and tried to free herself. Suddenly by accident he caught the chemise which was kept together by a single button on the shoulder. It gave way, and the chemise slipped off and fell to her feet.
She stood before him naked, amidst the brilliancy of her tawny golden hair alone. The beauty spot over her left brow was strangely enticing. Again there was something faun-like, shining, mysterious and wild in her almond-shaped eyes.
“Let me go Alexis, I am ashamed, let me go!”
If she felt shame, she did not feel it very acutely. She turned aside her head a little with her usual indolent, slightly mocking smile; and remained, always under hiscaresses, cold, innocent, almost virginal, notwithstanding the scarcely perceptible swelling curve which revealed her pregnancy. Her body seemed to glide out of his embracing arms, to become ethereal and melt away like a phantom.
“Afrossinia!” he whispered, trying to retain the vision, and suddenly he fell on his knees before her.
“For shame,” she repeated, “on the eve of a holy day, and when the lamp is burning, sin! sin!”
Yet the next minute she raised with listless indifference a peach to her parted lips, red and fresh as the fruit itself.
“She is right, it is sin,” the old thought flashed across his mind. “With woman began sin, root of all our death.”
Involuntarily he too glanced back at the holy image; just such an image as this had fallen out of his father’s hands one stormy night in the Summer Garden and broken at the foot of the Petersburg Venus, the white she-devil.
Afrossinia stood against the door which opened on the blue sea, and her body, glowing and white like the foam of waves, seemed to have freshly left them and arisen from the surging deep. In one hand she held the fruit, with the other she shielded her nakedness, like the Foam-born. Behind her frothed and sparkled the blue sea, an ambrosial cup, and the noise of its ripples suggested the eternal laughter of the gods.
It was that same girl Afrossinia, who, one evening in early spring, bending low over her naked feet, had been washing the floor in the house of Viasemski. It was that girl and the goddess Aphrodite merged into one.
“Venus, Venus, the White Witch!” thought the Tsarevitch, almost ready to flee from her. But from the body of this innocent sinner, as from an open flower, there came to him a familiar, intoxicating, awful perfume; no longer master of himself he bent lower still and kissed her feet, and, looking into her eyes, whispered as in prayer:
“Tsaritsa, my Tsaritsa.”
Meantime the dim flame of the little lamp was flickering to and fro before the sacred and sorrowful Face.
Count Daun, the Imperial Viceroy of Naples, invited the Tsarevitch to an evening interview at the royal palace on September 26.
During the last few days the atmosphere had indicated the approach of the sirocco, that African wind which carries with it clouds of hot sand from the depths of the Sahara. The storm was probably already raging in the upper regions of the air, while on the earth there was absolute calm; the leaves of the palms and branches of mimosa hung motionless. The sea alone was agitated; huge foamless ridges swelled up and broke on the shore with heavy rumbling. The distance was shrouded in dense gloom, and the sun in the cloudless heavens was seen dimly as through a smoked opal. The air was permeated with the finest dust which penetrated everywhere, even into well-closed rooms; it covered white sheets of paper and the pages of books with a grey layer; it made the teeth gritty, it inflamed eyes and throats. It was close, and hourly became more stifling. In nature there was the same feeling as in the body round a tumour. Men and animals were restless, tossed about in distress. The people were expectant of some calamity; war, or pestilence, or perhaps an eruption of Vesuvius.
And really in the night from the 23rd to the 24th September, the inhabitants of Torre del Greco, Resina and Portici felt the first underground shocks. Lava appeared. The glowing avalanche was already nearing the uppermost vineyards, planted on the slopes of the hill. To appease God’s wrath penitential processions were inaugurated, with burning candles, subdued singing and loud sobbing. But God’s wrath was not appeased.
A thick black smoke rose from Vesuvius in the daytime, as from some furnace, spreading out in the shape of a longcloud from Castellamare to Posilippo. At night the red flames were visible like the glow from some great subterranean fire. The peaceful altar of the gods was transformed into the terrible torch of the Eumenides.
At last in Naples itself the first rumble of the earthquake, like underground thunder, was heard. The ancient Titans were again awaking. The town was terror-stricken. The days of Sodom and Gomorrah were recalled. At night when all was quiet, somewhere in the chinks of the window, or under the door, or in the chimney there would rise a low-pitched piping like the hum of a mosquito. It was Sirocco beginning his song. The noise grew louder and stronger, and at the moment when it was expected to burst into furious howling, suddenly died away, and again stillness ensued, only more death-like. It seemed as if the evil spirits below held converse with one another about the terrible day of the Lord.
During these days the Tsarevitch felt indisposed; but the doctor reassured him that this was only the ordinary effect of the sirocco upon those not used to it, and prescribed a cooling medicine, which seemed to ease him.
On the appointed day and hour he drove to the palace for his interview with the Viceroy. The officer on duty met him in the antechamber and gave him a polite excuse from Count Daun, asking his Highness to wait a few moments in the reception hall, as the Viceroy had been obliged to absent himself on some urgent business. Alexis entered the huge, lonely reception hall furnished with a gloomy, almost sinister, Spanish luxury: blood-red silk tapestries, an excess of heavy gilt decorations; cupboards carved in black wood resembling tombs; mirrors, so dim that they reflected spectres. On the walls large dark canvasses, religious paintings by old masters: Roman soldiers, looking very much like butchers, were burning, kicking, sawing and in sundry other ways torturing Christian martyrs; it reminded one of a slaughterhouse or a torture chamber of the Holy Inquisition. Across the ceiling amid the gilt scrolls and shells was a representation of the Triumph of the Olympian Gods. This abortion, bastard offspring of some follower of Titian and Rubens, marked the end of the Renaissance, in which refined effeminacy had become abarbarian savagery, brutalizing art. Masses of nude bodies, nude flesh, fat backs, puffed-out pleated bellies, sprawling feet, monstrous breasts; these swine-fed gods and goddesses, and the little amoretti very much like sucking pigs, all this beast-like Olympus seemed predestined for the Christian shambles; for the torture-instruments of the holy Inquisition.
The Tsarevitch walked up and down the room for some time; at last he got tired and sat down. Dusk was creeping in through the windows and grey shadows, like spiders, were spinning their webs in the corner. Only here and there a bright gilt lion’s paw, or the pointed breast of a griffin, supporting the bloodstone or malachite slabs of tables, broke the gloom; the candelabra, shrouded in muslin, dimly glittered with their crystal pendants, like gigantic cocoons beaded with dew. This mass of nude fleshy bodies, fat and pagan on the ceiling, suffering Christians round the walls, only seemed to augment the stifling effects of the sirocco. His attention was arrested by a picture, which, unlike the others, was a bright spot among them; it represented a girl nude to her waist, with auburn hair, an almost child-like innocent bosom, clear yellow eyes and a vacant smile on her lips. In the raised corners of her mouth the wild natural smile and the almond-shaped eyes there was something resembling Afrossinia. All at once there came to him an indistinct feeling that there was some connection between this smile and the stifling oppressiveness of the sirocco. It was a poor picture, a copy of an old work belonging to the Lombard school, probably by a pupil of Leonardo’s pupil. This vacant yet still mysterious smile was a last reflection from the face of Naples’ noble citizen Monna Lisa Gioconda.
The Tsarevitch was surprised at having to wait so long for the Viceroy, who was always so exceedingly polite; and where was Weingart? Why this death-like stillness in the castle?
He wanted to get up and call for candles; but some strange torpor paralyzed him. That grey cobweb, which the shadows, like spiders, had woven in the corners, twined and clung round him; he was too lazy to move; his eyes were heavy, he vainly tried to keep them open, nevertheless hefell asleep. It was for a few moments only, yet when he woke it seemed to him he had slept a long time. He had dreamt something unpleasant, something he could no longer recall, but which had left a feeling of untold weariness in his soul, and again there was somehow a link between this dream, the vacant smile of the red-haired girl, and the growing suffocation caused by the sirocco. When he opened his eyes he saw just in front of him a pale, spectre-like face. For a long time he could not make it out; at last he recognised his own face reflected in the dim pierglass before the arm-chair in which he had fallen asleep. The same mirror reflected a door just behind his back. Was not the dream going on? The door will suddenly burst open and let in something terrible, something he cannot define, yet dimly remembers.
The door opened noiselessly; on its threshold appeared lighted tapers and figures. Still looking at the glass without turning round he recognised one face, then another, then a third. He jumped up and held his hands out in the desperate hope that all this was only an apparition, but the same figure stood before him as in the mirror, and a cry of boundless terror escaped his breast:—
“It is He! He! He!——”
Alexis would have fallen had not the secretary Weingart supported him.
“Water! water! the Tsarevitch is ill.”
Weingart led him back to the arm-chair, and Alexis saw bending over him the kind old face of Count Daun, who gently stroked his shoulder and held some spirit to his nose.
“Calm yourself, for God’s sake calm yourself! Nothing bad has happened. We bring the best of news.”
Alexis drank the water, his teeth knocked against the glass. Unable to take his eyes off the door, he was trembling all over as in a high fever.
“How many came in?” he asked Count Daun in a whisper.
“Two your Highness—only two.”
“And the third, I saw a third.”
“You have probably imagined it.”
“No, I saw him, where is he?”
“Who?”
“My father!”
The old man looked at him in amazement.
“The sirocco is responsible for this,” explained Weingart. “A flow of blood to the head; it often happens so. Ever since this morning blue rings dance before my eyes. Be bled, and you will soon be relieved.”
“I saw him,” repeated Alexis. “By God, it was no dream! I saw him, Count, as plainly as I see you now.”
“Dear me,” exclaimed the old man with sincere sorrow, “had I but known that your Highness did not feel well I would never have allowed—— Even now it is quite possible to defer the interview.”
“No, no, it’s all the same. I want to know,” murmured Alexis. “Let the old man alone approach me! Don’t let the other one come near.”
He gripped his hand.
“For God’s sake don’t letthatone come near me; look at him—— He has been sent by the Tsar to kill me! I know it!”
His face expressed such terror, that the Viceroy said to himself. “Who can depend on these barbarians? It might really be true,” and he remembered the Emperor’s words in the original instructions:
“Special precautions must be taken during the interview so that any assault may be frustrated. (The Muscovites are a desperate people, capable of anything.) However, I myself do not anticipate anything of the sort.”
“I pledge my life and honour that no harm will come to you. Trust me, your Highness.”
The Viceroy whispered to Weingart to have the sentinels doubled.
Meanwhile Peter Tolstoi was approaching the Tsarevitch with inaudible gliding steps, arched breast, a deferential air and lowest courtesies. His companion, Roumiantzev, Captain of the Guards, the Tsar’s orderly, of giant stature with an open handsome face resembling a Roman soldier and the Russian national hero, stopped at some distance near the door, at a sign from the Viceroy.
“Gracious Lord Tsarevitch, your Highness! a letter from your father,” said Tolstoi, and bending lower still so that the left hand almost touched the ground, he tendered with his right the letter.
The Tsarevitch recognised his father’s handwriting in the laconic “To my Son,” on the outside. He broke the seal with trembling hand and read:—
“My Son,—“It is generally known what disobedience and contempt for my will you have shown, and that neither words nor punishment could persuade you to follow out my instructions. Before I went you succeeded in deceiving me by vows; and what came next? You left, and, like a traitor, placed yourself under a stranger’s protection! A thing unheard of, either among our children or among our subjects. Having thus caused grief and annoyance to your father, and shame to your country, I send you now this last message, that you should conform to my will, and do as M. Tolstoi and Roumiantzev will tell you. If you do as I wish you, I give you hope and promise in the sight of God that no punishment shall be inflicted on you. I will show you even greater love should you obey and return to me. If on the contrary you remain obstinate, then I, your father, by the power given to me by God, will curse you for all eternity. As your sovereign I will declare you a traitor, and I will employ all means to pursue you. God will help me in the work.“Remember also, that so far, I have not used violence with you; if I had, why should I have depended on your good will? I would have acted as pleased me.“Peter.”
“My Son,—
“It is generally known what disobedience and contempt for my will you have shown, and that neither words nor punishment could persuade you to follow out my instructions. Before I went you succeeded in deceiving me by vows; and what came next? You left, and, like a traitor, placed yourself under a stranger’s protection! A thing unheard of, either among our children or among our subjects. Having thus caused grief and annoyance to your father, and shame to your country, I send you now this last message, that you should conform to my will, and do as M. Tolstoi and Roumiantzev will tell you. If you do as I wish you, I give you hope and promise in the sight of God that no punishment shall be inflicted on you. I will show you even greater love should you obey and return to me. If on the contrary you remain obstinate, then I, your father, by the power given to me by God, will curse you for all eternity. As your sovereign I will declare you a traitor, and I will employ all means to pursue you. God will help me in the work.
“Remember also, that so far, I have not used violence with you; if I had, why should I have depended on your good will? I would have acted as pleased me.
“Peter.”
Having read the letter, Alexis again glanced at Roumiantzev who bowed and tried to come nearer. But Alexis, pale and trembling, rose from his chair and said: “Peter Andreitch, don’t let him come near me, else I will at once leave you. Don’t you hear the Count also forbids him to come near.”
Tolstoi made a sign to Roumiantzev, who stopped short; his handsome but unintelligent face looked perplexed.
Weingart offered a chair. Tolstoi drew it near to the Tsarevitch and sat down in a respectful attitude; he stooped, looked into his eyes with an open confident gaze and began to talk. He spoke as if nothing special had happened and they had just met for a friendly chat.
Tolstoi had remained the same elegant chevalier, his excellency the privy councillor. Black velvety eyebrows, a soft velvety look in his eyes, an amiable velvety smile, an insinuating velvety voice, all smooth and velvety, yet velvet with a fang.
The Tsarevitch listened to his conversation with pleasure, though he could not help remembering his father’s saying, “Tolstoi is a clever man; but in speaking with him it is well to keep a stone ready in your sling.” His sensible, business-like words calmed Alexis, roused him from those terrible dreams and brought him back to reality. Everything seemed to be smoothed over and softened down; it seemed possible to arrange matters that the wolves should be satisfied and the sheep remain whole. He spoke like some experienced old surgeon who tries to convince his patient that a difficult operation is insignificant, almost pleasant.
“Use kindness and threats; for the rest employ arguments appropriate to the circumstances,” ran the Tsar’s instruction, and had Peter heard him he would have been well pleased.
Tolstoi confirmed in words what was written in the letter—absolute pardon and grace should the Tsarevitch return. After that, Tolstoi quoted at length the Tsar’s words from his own instructions bearing on the interview with the Emperor; there was a new accent of firmness sounding in his usually pleasant and amiable voice.
“Should the Emperor say that, our son, having placed himself under his protection, he cannot deliver him up against his will, or should he bring forward any other such excuses and fanciful apprehensions, put it before him, that we cannot but feel hurt that he tries to arbitrate between us and our son; when by natural law, and especially by the law of our country, no one can interfere between father and son, not even in private families: the son must obey his father. And we, an autocratic monarch, are in no wise subject to the Emperor, and he has no right to interfere, but ought to send our son to us. We, as a father and sovereign, following the dictates of our duty, will graciously receive him and forgive him this, his misdeed, and will instruct him so that he, forsaking his old sinful ways, may walk in the paths ofvirtue and follow out our intentions, could then regain our fatherly affection. His Imperial Majesty will benefit him, as well as earn a recompense from God and gratitude from us. Our son too will in the end be more thankful for this than for being kept, as he now is, under strict watch, a prisoner or malefactor under the name of some treacherous Hungarian Count, to the injury of our honour and name. Yet should the Emperor flatly refuse, then declare, that we take this to be an open breach and rupture, and we shall carry our complaint before all the world, and will then seek and strive to revenge such an insufferable insult.”
“Bah!” interrupted the Tsarevitch, “my father will never wage war against the Emperor because of me.”
“I don’t think there will be war,” agreed Tolstoi. “The Emperor will give you up without war; he does not benefit by your stay in his dominions; on the contrary, grave difficulties arise from it. He has fulfilled his promise towards you; he has protected you until you were pardoned by your father; and now the pardon has come, the Emperor has no further obligations; he is not obliged to keep you against all rights and begin a war with the Tsar, especially as he already has two wars on hand—with the Turks and the Spaniards; you probably know yourself that the Spanish fleet is now stationed between Naples and Sardinia, ready to attack Naples, for the nobility have arranged a plot, preferring Spanish to the Imperial rule. If you don’t believe me, ask the Viceroy! He has received a letter in the Emperor’s own handwriting to use all measures to persuade you to follow your father’s wishes; or at any rate to leave his dominions. And should they not give you up freely, the Tsar is willing to use arms. This is why he keeps his army in Poland. He will quarter them for the winter in Silesia, and from there it is not far to the Emperor’s dominions.”
Tolstoi looked into his eyes with still greater kindness, and gently touched his hand:—
“My Lord Tsarevitch, listen to your parent’s entreaties; return to him! ‘And we will,’ these are his exact words, ‘receive him back into our favour and promise to keep him in freedom and plenty, without anger or constraint.’”
The Tsarevitch remained silent.
“Should he refuse,” continued Tolstoi with a heavy sigh,“declare to him in my name that for such disobedience, we will proclaim him, after having cursed him, a traitor to the state. Let him consider what his life will be then. Let him not think he will be out of danger, no, not unless he is in lifelong imprisonment and under strict watch. Thus he will earn not only suffering for his soul in the future, but bodily pain in this present life. We shall not tire in discovering all possible ways and means to punish him. Even if it must be, we will with arms force the Emperor to deliver him up. Let him consider the consequences.”
Tolstoi stopped, waiting for an answer, but the Tsarevitch remained silent. At last he lifted his eyes and intently gazed at Tolstoi.
“How old are you, Peter Tolstoi?”
“Since there are no ladies present, I may confess I am past seventy,” replied the old man with an amiable smile.
“If I remember rightly, seventy is the limit of man’s life, according to the Scriptures. How could you, Peter Andreitch, with one foot in the grave, undertake such a mission as this? I always thought you had some affection for me.”
“And so I have, God knows it; I am ready to serve you to my very last breath. I only have one desire, to reconcile you to your father. It is a good work; it is written ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’”
“Don’t tell lies, old man! Do you really think I don’t know why you both have been sent here? I am not surprised at Roumiantzev, but you, Tolstoi, to lift your arm on the future Tsar and sovereign? You are both murderers. My father has despatched you to kill me.”
Tolstoi raised his hands in terror.
“God is your judge, Tsarevitch.”
There was such sincerity in his voice and face, that, notwithstanding his close acquaintance with him, Alexis wondered if he had been mistaken in him and wronged an innocent old man. But suddenly he laughed, even his anger passed away, there was so much singleheartedness, innocent bewitchery, in this lie; it was like the artfulness of women, and the play of a great actor.
“You are a sly fox, Tolstoi, only no slyness will succeed in luring the sheep into the wolves’ jaws.”
“Is it the father you believe to be a wolf?”
“Wolf or no wolf, if ever I should fall into his hands not one of my bones will remain whole. Why should we two try to mystify one another? You know the truth as well as I do.”
“Alexis Petrovitch, it is all very well doubting my words, but see here, in the Tsar’s own handwriting, ‘I promise before God—’ Don’t you hear, he swears by God. Will it be possible for the Tsar to break his oath in the sight of Europe?”
“What does he care for oaths?” interrupted Alexis, “if he cannot get out of them himself, Theodosius will absolve him. The archdeacons won’t lag behind, and the absolution will be granted by the Council. It is something to be a Russian autocrat. Two people on earth consider themselves gods, the Tsar and the Pope. They do exactly what pleases them. No, Tolstoi, don’t waste words! You won’t get me alive.”
Tolstoi took from his pocket a golden snuff-box. On its lid was depicted a shepherd loosening the girdle of a sleeping shepherdess. Without any haste, in his usual way he took a pinch, lowered his head on his breast, and said, as if to himself, deliberately:
“There is nothing for it, then; do as suits you best. You will not listen to me, may be you will listen to your father, he will be here ere long himself.”
“Where! Here? are you again lying?” gasped the Tsarevitch, growing pale and looking round at the door.
Tolstoi leisurely, put the pinch first in one nostril, then in the other, sniffed, shook off the dust with a handkerchief from his lace front, and said:—
“I had no orders to inform you about it, still it seems I have let it out. I received some time ago a letter from the Tsar, telling me of his immediate departure for Italy. Who can prohibit a father interviewing his son? Don’t imagine this to be impossible, there is not the slightest difficulty, everything depends on the Tsar’s own wish, and for the rest, you know yourself of the Tsar’s desire to visit Italy. And now this circumstance has quite decided him.”
He hung his head lower still and his face suddenly seemed to contract and grow old; he seemed on the verge of crying, a tear appeared; and again the Tsarevitch heard words hehad often heard: “Where can you hide yourself from your father, only in the grave—he will find you everywhere else. The Tsar’s arm reaches far. I am sorry for you, my dear Alexis Petrovitch.”
The Tsarevitch had again risen and as at the beginning of the interview trembled all over.
“Wait Peter Andreitch, I must say a word or two to the Count.”
He took the Viceroy’s hand and together they left the room. Having ascertained that the doors were locked, the Tsarevitch retold his conversation with Tolstoi, and then, seizing the old man’s hands with his cold hands he asked:—
“Suppose my father will demand me with arms, can I still depend on the Emperor’s protection?”
“Don’t be troubled, your Highness; the Emperor is strong enough to defend those under his protection at all costs.”
“I know, Count, but I don’t speak to you now as the Viceroy, but as a noble chevalier and a kindhearted man. You have always been good to me, tell me the whole truth. Don’t hide anything from me, Count. Leave politics alone, tell me the truth, oh God! you see how I suffer.” He burst into tears and gazed at him with the look of a hunted animal. The old man involuntarily cast down his eyes.
Count Daun, tall, haggard with a pale thin face, slightly reminding one of Don Quixote, was a weak indecisive man. An assistant and politician, he was continually wavering between the old traditions, chivalrous but antipolitical, and the new duties, political but antichivalrous. He felt deep sympathy with the Tsarevitch, yet he feared to entangle himself in some responsible affair—it was the fear of a swimmer, himself in difficult straits, gripped by a half-drowning man.
Alexis fell on his knees before him:—
“I implore the Emperor in the name of God and all the saints not to forsake me! It is awful to think what will happen once I get into my father’s hands. No one else knows what manner of man he is. I know.”
The old man bent over him. Tears stood in his eyes.
“Get up, get up, your Highness! I swear by the Lord that I tell you the plain truth, without any politics. So far asI know the Emperor, nothing will induce him to deliver you up to your father. Such an action would be degrading to the honour of his Majesty and against universal justice, a sign of barbarism.” He embraced the Tsarevitch and kissed him with fatherly tenderness.
When they returned to the Reception Hall, Alexis’ face, though still pale, was calm and resolute. He approached Tolstoi, and neither sitting down himself nor inviting him to do so, gave him to understand that the audience was over, saying:—
“It is dangerous to return into my father’s angered presence. The reason why I dare not return I will explain in a letter to my protector, his Imperial Majesty. I may also write to my father in reply to his letter, which will be my definite answer. At present I can say nothing, for this matter requires consideration.”
“If your Highness has any conditions let me know them,” Tolstoi began in his insinuating voice, “I believe your father will consent to everything. He will even permit you to wed Afrossinia. Think it well over; you might see it in a different light to-morrow morning. We shall have enough time to talk it over, we have not met for the last time.”
“There is nothing for us to discuss, and nothing to meet for. How long do you intend staying here?”
“I am ordered,” replied Tolstoi in a low voice, and the Tsarevitch thought he saw his father’s look in Tolstoi’s eyes, “I am ordered not to leave this place without you. And should you be removed somewhere else I must follow you.”
Then he added in a lower voice:
“Your father will not rest until he has got you, either alive or dead.”
The velvety paw had shown its claws, and then promptly drawn them in again. He again made a deep bow, even tried to kiss Alexis’ hand, but the latter pulled it away.
“Your lordship’s most devoted servant!”
He retired with Roumiantzev through the same door by which they had come in.
The Tsarevitch followed them with his eyes; and then for a long time stared at the door, as if some fearful visionhad again flashed upon him. At last he sank into a chair, covered his face with his hands, shrank and stooped as under some terrible load.
Count Daun put his hand on his shoulder; he tried to say something consoling, but feeling there was nothing to be said, he silently joined Weingart.
“The Emperor insists” he whispered, “that the Tsarevitch should rid himself of that woman he has with him. I had not the courage to tell him this to-day. Will you tell him at some better opportunity?”
“I am confronted with great difficulties in the execution of my plans,” wrote Tolstoi to the Resident Vesselóvsky in Vienna. “Our child will never dream of leaving unless he despairs of protection. Hence much would be gained if your grace would have the report widely circulated that he will not be protected by arms, for this is what he has staked his hopes upon. We must be grateful to the Viceroy for his zealous help, but, none the less, we cannot break that cursed stubbornness. I can’t write more just now because I am going to our prey and the post is leaving.”
Tolstoi had before now been in great difficulties, but he always succeeded in getting out of them unhurt. When young he took part in the Streltsy mutiny; all others perished, he alone escaped.
At fifty, with a wife and children, being at the time a governor of a province, he offered together with “the young scions of Russia” to go abroad to learn navigation; and he learnt it. During his ambassadorship at Constantinople he was thrice imprisoned in the dungeons of the Castle of the Seven Towers, and thrice he came out; and later gained the Tsar’s special favour. Once his private secretary charged him in writing with having appropriated money belonging to the state; but the sudden death of the secretary took place before the despatch of the letter.
Tolstoi explained thus: “Timothy, the clerk, became acquainted with the Turks and thought he would join the infidels. By God’s help I learnt about it. I called him to me, talked seriously to him, and then locked him up in my room until evening; during the night he drank a glass of wine and died soon afterwards. In this fashion God saved him from his crimes.”
It was to some purpose that he studied and translated into Russian the Political Discourses of Niccolo Machiavelli, the noble Florentine citizen. Tolstoi himself passed for a Russian Machiavelli. “O head, head, if I had not known you to be so clever I should have cut you off long ago!” said the Tsar in reference to him. And that was why Tolstoi was now afraid lest in this business with the Tsarevitch this clever head should prove itself foolish and the Russian Machiavelli a dupe. And at the same time he had done all that could have been done; he had enmeshed the Tsarevitch in a fine though strong net; he had made all believe that all secretly desired his extradition, but that, through fear of breaking faith, each was thrusting the responsibility upon others. The Empress was reckoning upon the Emperor, the Emperor upon his chancellor the chancellor upon the Viceroy, the Viceroy upon his secretary. To the last named Tolstoi had given a present of £32, and promised to add more should he succeed in convincing the Tsarevitch that the Emperor would no longer protect him. But all efforts were wrecked by the “cursed stubbornness.” The worst was that he had himself asked to be sent on this mission. “Every one should recognise his star,” he used to say; and it seemed to him that his star would be the capture of the Tsarevitch, which would be the crown of his official service, he would be decorated with St. Andrew’s ribbon, receive the title of Count, and thus become the ancestor of a new house—the Counts Tolstoi, a dream which he had cherished all his life. What would the Tsar say, if he returned alone, without him? Just now, however, he did not think about the loss of the Tsar’s favour, the St. Andrew’s ribbon, nor the title. Like a true sportsman, forgetting everything else, he had one thought only, that the prey would escape him.
A few days after his first interview with Alexis, Tolstoi was sitting sipping his chocolate at breakfast on the balcony of his luxurious apartments at the Three Kings Hotel, in one of the liveliest streets of Naples, the Via Toledo. He looked very old, almost decrepit, in his dressing gown, with no wig to cover his smooth skull, which showed a scanty remnant of grey hair at the back.
Ovid’s “Metamorphoses,” which he was still translatinginto Russian, lay on the table in front of the mirror, together with his own metamorphosis—his youth—a small jar, brushes, and a beautiful wig with youthful coal-black curls.
He was very uneasy. But as always in moments of deep musings about political affairs, he wore an unconcerned, almost heedless expression. He exchanged glances with his pretty neighbour who was also sitting on her balcony across the road. She was a black-eyed Spaniard, one of the class who according to Æsop “are not very much inclined to live by manual labour.” He smiled across at her with gallantry, though his smile reminded one of the grin of a death’s head; and hummed a love song of his own, “To the maiden,” an imitation of Anacreon:—