Fly not thus my brow of snow,Lovely wanton! fly not so!Though the wane of age is mine,Though the brilliant flush is thine,Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee,Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!See, in yonder flowery braid,Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid,How the rose, of orient glow,Mingles with the lily’s snow;Mark, how sweet their tints agree,Just, my girl, like thee and me!
Fly not thus my brow of snow,Lovely wanton! fly not so!Though the wane of age is mine,Though the brilliant flush is thine,Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee,Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!See, in yonder flowery braid,Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid,How the rose, of orient glow,Mingles with the lily’s snow;Mark, how sweet their tints agree,Just, my girl, like thee and me!
Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so!
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily’s snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!
Captain Roumiantzev was telling him about his love adventures in Naples. According to Tolstoi, Roumiantzev was a man with a cheerful disposition, and made life pleasant by his company; yet all he had was the courage of a good soldier—in short, he was a fool. But Tolstoi did not despise him for that reason; on the contrary he always listened to him; and would even sometimes act on his advice. “The world is kept going by fools,” remarked Peter Tolstoi. “Cato, the Roman senator, used to say that fools are more necessary to clever men, than clever men to fools.” Roumiantzev was abusing a certain damsel, Camille, for having already lightened him in one week of more than hundred pieces of gold:
“These ladies are too fond of money.”
Peter Tolstoi remembered how he had once had a love affair in Naples, many years ago; he always related the story in the same words:—
“I was inamorato with Signora Francesca, and she was my mistress during the whole of that visit, I was so enamoured that I could not do without her, not even an hour, and she cost me a thousand gold pieces in those two months. I felt keenly leaving her; even to this day the affair remains for me the tenderest of recollections.”
He sighed languidly and smiled across to the pretty neighbour.
“And what about our ‘prey?’” he suddenly asked with a nonchalant air, as though it were a matter of very secondary importance to him. Roumiantzev related to him a conversation he had had yesterday with the sailor, Youroff, “nicknamed Æsop.” Frightened by Tolstoi’s threat to send him to Petersburg as a deserter, Youroff, notwithstanding his devotion to the Tsarevitch, agreed to become a spy, to report all he saw or heard in the latter’s house. Much of what Roumiantzev had heard about the great love of Alexis for Afrossinia proved to be of considerable interest and importance for Tolstoi’s calculations. The girl holds him by his sensuous nature; she is his confidant night and day; she has gained such power over him that he dare gainsay her in nothing. She has absolute mastery over him, he does exactly as she bids him, he wants to marry her, only he cannot find a priest; else they would have been wedded long since. He also told about his interview with Afrossinia, an interview which owing to Æsop and Weingart, had been arranged without the knowledge of the Tsarevitch, during his absence.
“A distinguished-looking woman, taking her all round, only red-haired; in appearance very meek and harmless as a dove, but in reality probably unmanageable; still waters run deep.”
“And how did it seem to you,” asked Tolstoi, on whom a sudden thought had flashed, “is there any chance? Is she the sort to fall in love?”
“With a view to make our ‘prey’ jealous as the devil?” rejoined Roumiantzev, “well, she’d probably be like the rest of women; only there is no one for her.”
“Why not yourself, Roumiantzev? Don’t be afraid, it would flatter any woman to associate with a fine fellow like you,” cunningly suggested Tolstoi.
The captain laughed, and complacently twisted his moustache, which imitated the fashion set by the Tsar.
“Camille is enough for me, what should I do with two mistresses?”
Tolstoi sang:
“Double flames make virtue vain!Though thy heart love ladies twainNew love need not old love smother,First serve one and then the other.Capture one, then two, and thenAll the rest, though there be ten!”
“Double flames make virtue vain!Though thy heart love ladies twainNew love need not old love smother,First serve one and then the other.Capture one, then two, and thenAll the rest, though there be ten!”
“Double flames make virtue vain!
Though thy heart love ladies twain
New love need not old love smother,
First serve one and then the other.
Capture one, then two, and then
All the rest, though there be ten!”
“What a wag your Excellency is,” laughed Roumiantzev, showing two rows of white, even teeth, “Grey hair in the beard, but a devil of a fellow inside!” Tolstoi replied by another ditty:—
“The women tell me every dayThat all my bloom has passed away.“Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,“Behold this mirror with a sigh;The locks upon thy brow are few,And, like the rest, they are withering too!”Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,I’m sure I neither know nor care;But this I know, and this I feel,As onward to the tomb I steal,That still as death approaches nearer,The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;And since I’ve but an hour to live,That little hour to bliss I give!”
“The women tell me every dayThat all my bloom has passed away.“Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,“Behold this mirror with a sigh;The locks upon thy brow are few,And, like the rest, they are withering too!”Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,I’m sure I neither know nor care;But this I know, and this I feel,As onward to the tomb I steal,That still as death approaches nearer,The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;And since I’ve but an hour to live,That little hour to bliss I give!”
“The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has passed away.
“Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,
“Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they are withering too!”
Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,
I’m sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And since I’ve but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I give!”
“Listen Roumiantzev,” he continued, growing serious; “instead of wasting your time with Camille, why not make love to that distinguished young lady? It might help us with the matter in hand. We might so entangle our child in jealousy that he, unable to find a way out, would fall into our clutches. For us cavaliers there is no allurement like a woman!”
“Peter Andreitch, what are you thinking about? Good gracious, I thought you were joking, and here you are quite serious. It is a ticklish job. Suppose he becomes Tsar and learn about this little adventure, my neck won’t escape his axe.”
“Oh, nonsense! that Alexis will ever be Tsar is written onwater; that Peter will reward you most handsomely is quite certain. Roumiantzev, my friend, render me this service and I will never forget you.”
“Really, your Excellency, I don’t know how to tackle a job like this.”
“We’ll tackle it together. It is not very difficult. I’ll teach you how. All you will have to do is to obey.”
Roumiantzev vainly sought to get out of it, yet at last yielded. Tolstoi explained to him the plan of action.
When he had gone, Tolstoi fell once more into musings worthy of a Russian Machiavelli.
For some time past he had had a vague idea that only Afrossinia could, if she would, persuade Alexis to return. The night bird can outsing the day bird; she at any rate was their last hope. He had written the Tsar: “It is impossible to exaggerate the passion he has for this girl, and how much he thinks about her.” He also remembered Weingart’s words: “He dreads returning lest his father should separate him from that girl. I would like to use the threat, that she will immediately be taken from him if he refuses to return to his father. Although I cannot put my threat into execution without a special decree, yet we can see what the result would be.”
Tolstoi decided to go at once to the Viceroy, and ask him to command the Tsarevitch, in accordance with the Emperor’s will, to send Afrossinia away. “Besides, there is Roumiantzev’s love affair!” thought he, and such hope possessed him that his heart began to beat faster and faster. “Aid us, Mother Venus! Where clever politicians fail, a foolish lover may succeed.”
He had grown quite cheerful, and looking at his Spanish neighbour hummed with unassumed playfulness:—
See how fair in posiesWith white lilies twinethRed of roses!
See how fair in posiesWith white lilies twinethRed of roses!
See how fair in posies
With white lilies twineth
Red of roses!
And the little coquette, hiding her fan, and showing from under her black lace skirt a pretty foot in silver slippers, and pink stockings embroidered with golden arrows, ogled, and smiled slyly. And it seemed as though in this girl, Dame Fortune herself, as so often before, was again smiling,promising him success, decoration, and the title of Count.
Going inside to complete his toilette, he threw a kiss across the road with the most gracious of smiles.
The bald head smiled at wanton Fortune.
The Tsarevitch suspected Æsop of being a spy and in secret communication with Tolstoi and Roumiantzev. He sent him away and forbade him to come near him; but one day when he returned home unexpectedly he ran against him on the staircase. Æsop on seeing him grew pale and quaked like a captured thief. The Tsarevitch perceived that he was stealing up to Afrossinia with some secret message, and taking him by the collar, threw him down the stairs. A round tin box which he had been carefully concealing fell from Æsop’s pocket. The Tsarevitch picked it up. It was a box of chocolates; in its cover lay a note which began:—
“Gracious Lady Afrossinia Fédorevna!
“Since my heart is not a block of wood but has been endowed with the tenderest of feelings.” And ended with the verses.
I cannot quench this fireSick with a vain desire.Without thee, O believe me,Wasting am I and dull,If thou deny me, life is null,Vesuvius shall receive me!
I cannot quench this fireSick with a vain desire.Without thee, O believe me,Wasting am I and dull,If thou deny me, life is null,Vesuvius shall receive me!
I cannot quench this fire
Sick with a vain desire.
Without thee, O believe me,
Wasting am I and dull,
If thou deny me, life is null,
Vesuvius shall receive me!
Instead of a signature the initials, A. R. “Alexander Roumiantzev,” guessed the Tsarevitch.
He had sufficient courage and resolution to conceal his discovery from Afrossinia.
The same day Weingart informed him of the Emperor’s decree that should the Tsarevitch desire further protection he must without delay send Afrossinia away. In reality no such decree had come. Weingart was only carrying out his promise to Tolstoi. “I will try to frighten him; and though I cannot put the threat into execution without a special decree, yet we can see what the result will be.”
On the night of October 1, the sirocco at last broke out. The storm howled with special fury round the summit of St. Elmo. Inside the castle, even in the closely shut up rooms, the noise of the wind was as intense as in the cabin of a ship in tempest. Through the voice of the air-storm which sounded now like the howling of a wolf, now like the sobs of a child, now like the frantic stampede of a herd of buffaloes, now like the gnashing and whistling of gigantic iron-winged birds, the roll of the sea’s breakers resembled the distant rumbling of artillery. It seemed that outside the walls everything was breaking down, the end of the world had come, and that illimitable chaos was raging.
In the apartments of the Tsarevitch it was cold and damp; yet it was impossible to light a fire in the hearth because the wind beat down the smoke. The wind seemed to penetrate the very walls, so that draughts blew through the room, the candles flickered and drops of wax grew cold on them in long, hanging, pointed needles.
The Tsarevitch was hastily walking to and fro; his angular black shadow ran across the white walls, now contracting, now enlarging, now breaking against the ceiling. Afrossinia sat with her feet on an arm-chair, and while pulling a fur coat around her kept silently following him with her eyes. Her face seemed indifferent; only the corners of the mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, and her fingers twisted and untwisted with monotonous action the golden cord torn off from the fastening of her fur coat. Everything was the same as it was six weeks ago when the joyous news had reached him.
At last the Tsarevitch stopped in front of her and said in a hollow voice:—
“It can’t be helped, Afrossinia. Get ready, to-morrow wewill start for Rome, to the Pope. The Cardinal here told me the Pope will receive us under his protection.”
Afrossinia shrugged her shoulders:
“Idle talk! Tsarevitch, when the Emperor refuses to lend his protection to a poor lost girl like me, how can the Pope do so? He could not because of his clerical position. Besides, he has no army to protect you, should your father appear in force to claim you.”
“Then what can be done, Afrossinia?” he exclaimed, clasping his hands in despair, “a decree from the Emperor has come, to send you away at once. It was difficult to persuade them to wait till the morning; they can at any moment take you away by force. We must escape, escape at once.”
“Escape, where? they’ll catch us anywhere—then it will all come to the same thing. Return to your father!”
“You also, Afrossinia? I see Tolstoi and Roumiantzev have bamboozled you with their fairy tales; you have taken it all in.”
“Peter Andreitch only wishes you good.”
“Good! What do you know? Better hold your tongue. Women have long hair, but short wits. Do you expect to escape torture? Don’t you imagine it. Even your condition will stand you in no stead. With us it is no new thing for women to be delivered in the hour of torture, on a strappado.”
“But your father promised forgiveness——”
“Oh, I know what that means. That’s where he will apply his mercy to me,” and he pointed to the back of his head. “Should the Pope refuse we will go to France, England, the Turk, the Swede, to the devil, but not to my father. Never mention it to me again, Afrossinia! Do you hear? Never!”
“Well, the decision rests with you, Tsarevitch, only I won’t go with you to the Pope,” she said in a low voice.
“Not go, what are you thinking about?”
“I won’t,” she repeated, calm as ever, fixedly looking at him. “I have already told Peter Andreitch that I won’t go anywhere with the Tsarevitch except to his father. Let him go alone where he pleases, but I won’t go with him.”
“Afrossinia, what are you talking about? What is thematter with you? Be yourself,” began Alexis: he had grown suddenly pale, his voice had changed. “May God pardon you! How could I live without you.”
“Do as you like, Alexis, but I won’t go; so you’d better not ask me.” She tore the cord off the buttonhole and threw it on the floor.
“Are you mad, girl?” he cried, clenching his fists with sudden anger, “if I take you, you will have to go. You assume too much liberty, have you forgotten who you are?”
“I am what I always was, the faithful servant of his Majesty the Tsar, my sovereign Peter Alexeyevitch. Where the Tsar commands there will I go. I will do as he wishes. I won’t go with you against your father’s will.”
“Ah, is this how you talk now. You have made friends with Tolstoi and Roumiantzev, my assassins. Is this all your gratitude for my love, my kindness? Viper! Viper!”
“What is the good of reviling me, Tsarevitch? I will do as I say.”
He was awed; even his anger went, he grew weak and faint, sank into a chair at her side, took her hand and trying to look into her eyes, said:—
“Afrossinia my love, what does all this mean? Good heavens! is this a time for us two to quarrel? Why should you speak like this? I know you won’t do it; I know you won’t forsake me in my distress; or if you have no pity for me at least think of the little one.”
She neither answered, nor looked, nor even moved, but remained passive, like a dead thing.
“Or don’t you love me?” he continued, with mad, entreating caress, the pathetic cunning of a lover. “Well, if it is so, then leave me. God be with you! I won’t keep you back, only say you don’t love me.”
She suddenly started up and looked at him with a jeering smile which almost made his heart stand still.
“And you thought I loved you? When you made game of me, a foolish girl, used her with violence, threatened her with a knife, then was the time to ask whether I loved you or not!”
“Afrossinia, whatisthe matter with you? Don’t you trust me? I will marry you and cover up the sin by wedlock. I look upon you now already as my wife.”
“I thank your lordship for his gracious favour! a favour indeed! The Tsarevitch condescends to marry a serf-girl! And yet look at her, the fool is not glad of the honour! I have endured it all these years; I can no longer. Marry you! I would as soon be hanged or drowned. I would you had straight away killed me that time. ‘You shall be Tsaritsa,’—is that your allurement? Maybe my maiden honour and freedom are more to me than your kingdom! At court you live like wolves, each ready to devour the other. Your father is the old wolf, you are the young one; the old one will swallow the young one in the end. How can you stand against him? The Tsar did wisely when he took the inheritance from you. How can you govern? Go and be a monk, and pray for your sins, you hypocrite! You killed your wife, neglected your children, so entangled yourself with a woman that you can’t leave her. You have become feeble, hopelessly feeble, wearied out, degenerate. Look at your self now, when a woman insults you, you remain silent, afraid to say a word. Eh, my fine fellow! I cudgel you like a dog, and then just sign to you, whistle to you, and you will be again after me, tongue hanging out, like a dog after a bitch; and yet he asks me forlove! Is it possible to love a cur like you?”
He started, unable to recognise her. Her pale face, lit up with an almost insufferable brightness in an aureole of fiery-red hair, was terrible, yet more beautiful than ever. The witch! he thought. All at once she seemed the cause of all the storm outside her. The wild shrieking of the storm was but an echo to her words.
“Wait a little, you will see how I love you! I will repay you! I would rather die myself than shield you. I will tell your father how you asked the Emperor for an army to make war on him; how you rejoiced at the mutiny in the army, and planned to side with the rebels, how you even wished your father’s death, you villain! I will report everything, you won’t be able to get out of it! The Tsar will torture you, flog you to death, and I shall be looking on and asking: ‘Well, dear Alexis! will you remember Afrossinia’s love?’ And as for your brat, the moment he is born I will with my own hands——”
He closed his eyes, stopped his ears, he wanted neitherto see nor to hear. It seemed to him that all was falling, was breaking down, and that he himself was sinking with it. In a flash he realised, as he had never done before, that there remained no hope for him, and that, struggle as he might, do what he would, he was irrevocably doomed.
When the Tsarevitch opened his eyes Afrossinia had left the room, but a streak of light came through the bedroom door. He guessed she was there, and he went in to see.
She was hurriedly packing, tying things in a shawl as though preparing to leave him at once. The bundle was quite small—a few underclothes, two or three simple dresses which she had made herself, and the only too familiar box with a broken lock, and on the lid a bird—now nearly peeled off—picking a bunch of grapes; it was the same box in which she used to lay her marriage outfit while a serf-girl at Viasemski’s house. The expensive dresses and other things which he had given her she carefully put to one side, probably not wanting to take his presents. This hurt him more than all her cruel words. When she had finished packing she sat down at her little table, mended a quill and began to write, slowly, with difficulty printing each letter. He approached on tiptoe, stooped, and looking over her shoulder, read the first lines:
“Alexander Ivanovitch [that was Roumiantzev]. Since the Tsarevitch wants to go to the Pope, and not only does not heed but is even exceedingly angry with me for trying to dissuade him from going, please send for me as soon as you can, or rather come yourself, for fear he should carry me away by force, because he will go nowhere without me.”
A board creaked, Afrossinia turned round, shrieked, jumped up. They stood facing one another, speechless, motionless, and staring at one another with the same look as at the time he threatened her with the knife.
“So it is to him, then?” he gasped in a low hoarse voice.
A scarcely perceptible smile of irony flitted across her slightly pallid lips.
“I will do just as I like. I am not going to ask you where I am to go.”
His face became contorted, with one hand he gripped her throat, with the other her hair, then throwing her down he began to beat, drag her along and kick her.
“You vile creature!”
The thin short dagger she used to wear when disguised as a page, with which she had just cut a sheet for her letter, lay shining on the table. The Tsarevitch caught hold of it and raised his arm. He felt a mad joy, as on the day when he had done her violence. He realized that she had always deceived him, that she had never belonged to him, not even in their most passionate moments, and that only now, only in killing her, would he entirely possess her, and satisfy his implacable desire. She neither shrieked, nor called for help, but struggled silently, adroitly, as supple and nimble as a cat. During the struggle he knocked the table on which the candle was standing: it upset and the candle falling to the ground went out. Darkness ensued. Fiery circles danced before his eyes. The voices of the storm began howling, somewhere quite close to him, almost in his ear, and then burst into infernal laughter. He started, as if recovering from a trance, and, at the same time, he felt her hanging on his arm, motionless, apparently dead. He loosened the hand with which he had grasped her hair, her body fell to the ground with a short, lifeless, dull thud.
Such fear seized him that his hair stood on end. He flung the short dagger far from him, rushed into the next room, seized the chandelier with the half-burnt candles, hurried back to the bedroom, and then saw her lying on the floor prostrate, pale, with blood on her forehead, her eyes closed. He was again going to rush out and call for help, when it seemed to him that she was breathing. He fell on his knees and bent over her, put his arms round her and carefully lifted her on the bed. Then he lost all control over himself, and was no longer conscious of what he was doing. He now gave her some spirits to smell, now he tried to find a feather, remembering that burnt feathers restore people to consciousness, now bathed her head carefully with water, sobbing and kissing her hands and feet and dress; he called to her and knocked his head against the bed corner, and tore his hair.
“I have killed her—killed her,—killed her! accursed that I am.”
Now he again prayed.
“Lord Jesus, Blessed Virgin—take my life for her life!”
And his heart began to beat in such an agony of dread that he imagined he was dying.
Suddenly he noticed that she opened her eyes and looked at him with a curious smile.
“Afrossinia! Afrossinia! How are you? Shall I send for a doctor?”
She continued to look at him with the same silent, mysterious smile.
She made an effort to raise herself, he helped her and felt that she had put her arms round his neck, and was pressing her cheek close to his with a child-like fondness quite new to him.
“You got frightened, thought you had finished me, eh? Nonsense! it is not quite so easy to kill a woman. We are like cats, with nine lives. A lover’s blow does no harm.”
“Forgive me, forgive me, Afrossinia!”
She looked into his eyes, smiled, and fondled his hair with the tenderness of a mother.
“Ah, my boy, my foolish little boy! Now I come to look at you, you are quite a little boy. You know and understand none of us women. Ah, you foolish boy, you really thought that I did not love you. Come, let me whisper a word into your ear.”
She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered passionately:
“I love you, love you as my own soul, my life, my joy, how can I live on earth apart from you? Rather would I see my soul parted from my body. Do you believe me now?”
“I believe you, I believe you!” he cried, and laughed for joy.
She nestled closer to him.
“My light, Alexis, why do I love you so much? Where your thoughts are there are mine also, your word is my word, your will is mine. You are my master. This is my sorrow, that we women are all foolish and wicked, and that I exceed them all. God gave me a hungry grasping heart. I see you love me, but that does not satisfy me; what more I want I cannot tell. Why is my boy, I think, always so gentle and quiet, never contradicting, never saying a cross word, never admonishing me, stupid me? I never feelhis hand upon me, nor his anger. It is not an empty saying that ‘they strike most who love most.’ Or is it because he does not love me? Let me make him angry; let me test him and see what he will do then? And this is what you are, you almost killed me. Just like your father. I nearly died of fear. Well, this will be a lesson for the future, I will remember it and love you, this is how I’ll love you, deep, deep——”
It was to him as if he saw for the first time those eyes kindled with a terrible dim fire, those parted, hungry lips, and for the first time felt this elusive, snake-like body. “Then this is her true self,” he thought, in blissful amazement.
“And you thought I could not caress?” and she laughed with a quiet laugh which seemed to set all his blood on fire. “Wait, and you’ll see how I can love! only satisfy my foolish heart, do what I ask you, then I shall know that you love me as I love you—unto death. My life, my dearest darling, will you do it?”
“I will do anything you ask. God knows there is nothing in the world I would not do. I’ll even meet certain death if you wish it.”
She did not whisper, but only breathed:—
“Return to your father.”
And again his heart sank in terror. The iron hand of his father seemed to stretch out and grip him from under this loving hand. “She lies,” the thought flashed across his mind with the swiftness of lightning.
“Well! let her lie, so long as she caresses me thus,” he concluded recklessly.
“I am sick, sick unto death of living with you in lawlessness. I don’t want to be a lost woman. I want to be your wedded wife before God and man. You may tell me I am as good as your wife now. Idle talk! What sort of a wife am I? Our boy, too, will be born a bastard. But as soon as you return to your father we can marry. Tolstoi himself says, ‘Let the Tsarevitch propose, as the condition of his return, that he may be allowed to marry.’ And the Tsar, he says, will be only too glad; all that will be expected from the Tsarevitch is the abdication of the throne and his retirement to the country. To marry a serf-girl means thesame as going to a monastery; he will forfeit the crown. And this is all I want, my Alexis. I am afraid of the Tsardom, more than of anything else. When a Tsar you won’t have any time left for me. Your head will be turned. Tsars have no time for love. I don’t want to be a neglected Tsaritsa, I want to be your sweetheart always. Love is my kingdom. We will settle down in the country, in some village, either in Poretzkoye or Roshdestveno, and there we will live in peace and quiet, you and I and the boy, untroubled by anything. My heart, my life, my joy! Don’t you want it? Won’t you do it? Is it the throne you regret?”
“Why should you ask, Afrossinia, little mother? You know well I’ll do it.”
“You’ll return to your father?”
“I will.”
It seemed to them that the opposite of what had just happened, was going on now. No longer he, but she had the violent mastery. Her kisses were wounds; her caresses a murder.
She grew still, and, gently pushing him away, again breathed, in a scarcely audible whisper:—
“Swear it!”
He wavered, like a man on the brink of committing suicide, when the knife is already raised. Nevertheless he said—
“I swear, before God.”
She blew out the candle and embraced him with endless love, deep, terrible as death. It seemed to him he was flying with her, a witch, a white sorceress, towards some bottomless gloom, borne on the wings of the storm.
He knew it was his doom, the end of everything, and he rejoiced in it.
The next day, October 3rd, Tolstoi was writing a letter to the Tsar in Petersburg:
“Most Gracious Sovereign,—“We have to humbly report, that your Majesty’s son, his Highness the Tsarevitch Alexis, has declared unto us this day his intention. Putting aside all former resistance, he submits to your Majesty’s decree, and is coming to Petersburg with us. About this he has himself written to your Majesty, and has given us his letter unsealed, so that we may include it in our packet. Herewith we send a copy of the aforesaid letter, the original we are keeping back, deeming it wiser under present circumstances. He lays down in it two conditions—first, to be allowed to live on his estate near Petersburg, and the second—permission to marry the girl who now lives with him. When we tried at first to persuade him to return to your Majesty, he would not even so much as consider it without these conditions being granted. He is very anxious, your Majesty, that we should obtain permission for him to wed the woman before reaching Petersburg. And though these conditions are rather tiresome, yet I take the liberty of granting them of my own accord, without waiting for your decree. I herewith lay before your Majesty my own humble opinion on this subject. If there is no special reason against it let him have his way, for then only, will he show to the world what sort of a man he is; that no real grievance had prompted his flight, only the woman. Secondly, it will so annoy the Emperor that he will never believe in him again. Thirdly, the danger of a suitable marriage will be warded off; a risk which threatens us even here. And should you sanction all this, please deign to mention this to me in your letter,along with other commands, so that I could show it to him without leaving it with him. And should your Majesty consider that this marriage is not permissible, why not just give him hope by telling him that it cannot take place in any other country save Russia, so that, filled with hope, he may not think of delay, but come to you without the least suspicion. And also, my lord, deign for a little while, at least, to keep your son’s return a secret; lest once it gets abroad, those who are opposed to his return should tempt him to change his mind, which may God forbid. Also, condescend to send me a decree to all the commanders of regiments stationed along our route, in case we may need a convoy. We hope to leave Naples on the 6th or 7th of October. The Tsarevitch desires first to visit Bari to see the relics of St. Nicholas, whither we will accompany him. At the same time, the mountain roads are very bad, and though we should travel without delay, yet it will be impossible to hurry. Besides, the aforesaid woman is four or five months advanced in pregnancy, and this too might lengthen the time of our journey, because he will not travel fast out of consideration for her; it is impossible to describe how he loves her and with what solicitude he watches over her.“We remain your Majesty’s most humble and respectful servant,“Peter Tolstoi.“P.S.—When God shall grant me to be back in Petersburg, then, your Majesty, I shall safely praise Italy without running the risk of the penalty of the Large Goblet, since a real campaign was not even needed; but your intention of coming to Italy alone proved sufficient to yield good results to your Majesty and the entire Russian Empire.”
“Most Gracious Sovereign,—
“We have to humbly report, that your Majesty’s son, his Highness the Tsarevitch Alexis, has declared unto us this day his intention. Putting aside all former resistance, he submits to your Majesty’s decree, and is coming to Petersburg with us. About this he has himself written to your Majesty, and has given us his letter unsealed, so that we may include it in our packet. Herewith we send a copy of the aforesaid letter, the original we are keeping back, deeming it wiser under present circumstances. He lays down in it two conditions—first, to be allowed to live on his estate near Petersburg, and the second—permission to marry the girl who now lives with him. When we tried at first to persuade him to return to your Majesty, he would not even so much as consider it without these conditions being granted. He is very anxious, your Majesty, that we should obtain permission for him to wed the woman before reaching Petersburg. And though these conditions are rather tiresome, yet I take the liberty of granting them of my own accord, without waiting for your decree. I herewith lay before your Majesty my own humble opinion on this subject. If there is no special reason against it let him have his way, for then only, will he show to the world what sort of a man he is; that no real grievance had prompted his flight, only the woman. Secondly, it will so annoy the Emperor that he will never believe in him again. Thirdly, the danger of a suitable marriage will be warded off; a risk which threatens us even here. And should you sanction all this, please deign to mention this to me in your letter,along with other commands, so that I could show it to him without leaving it with him. And should your Majesty consider that this marriage is not permissible, why not just give him hope by telling him that it cannot take place in any other country save Russia, so that, filled with hope, he may not think of delay, but come to you without the least suspicion. And also, my lord, deign for a little while, at least, to keep your son’s return a secret; lest once it gets abroad, those who are opposed to his return should tempt him to change his mind, which may God forbid. Also, condescend to send me a decree to all the commanders of regiments stationed along our route, in case we may need a convoy. We hope to leave Naples on the 6th or 7th of October. The Tsarevitch desires first to visit Bari to see the relics of St. Nicholas, whither we will accompany him. At the same time, the mountain roads are very bad, and though we should travel without delay, yet it will be impossible to hurry. Besides, the aforesaid woman is four or five months advanced in pregnancy, and this too might lengthen the time of our journey, because he will not travel fast out of consideration for her; it is impossible to describe how he loves her and with what solicitude he watches over her.
“We remain your Majesty’s most humble and respectful servant,
“Peter Tolstoi.
“P.S.—When God shall grant me to be back in Petersburg, then, your Majesty, I shall safely praise Italy without running the risk of the penalty of the Large Goblet, since a real campaign was not even needed; but your intention of coming to Italy alone proved sufficient to yield good results to your Majesty and the entire Russian Empire.”
He also wrote to the Resident in Vienna, Vesselóvsky:
“Keep everything absolutely secret for fear some devil should write to the Tsarevitch and frighten him off this journey. God alone knows the difficulties which have arisen over this affair. I cannot tell you all the miracles we have accomplished.”
It was night and Tolstoi was alone in his apartments at the Three Kings Hotel, sitting with a candle at his writing-table.
Having finished his letter to the Tsar, and made a copy of the Tsarevitch’s letter, he took the sealing wax to seal them up in the same envelope. But he put it down again, then read once more the original of the Tsarevitch’s letter, sighed deeply, joyfully, opened his golden snuff-box, took a pinch, and rubbing the snuff between his finger and thumb, with a quiet smile fell into a reverie.
He could scarcely trust his luck; only this morning he was in the depths of despair, so that on receiving a note from the Tsarevitch: “I wish urgently to speak with you—something to your interest,” he did not want to go, thinking it only meant more talking to while away the time.
And suddenly, the “cursed stubbornness” had disappeared; he had agreed to everything; in very truth a miracle, due to none save God and St. Nicholas. It was not in vain that Tolstoi had always specially honoured St. Nicholas, and trusted to the holy protection of the wonder worker. He was glad to accompany the Tsarevitch to Bari. The holy man well deserved a candle! It is true that besides St. Nicholas, Venus also had her part, Venus whom he so fervently worshipped had not abandoned him—rather helped him. To-day, when saying good-bye he had kissed the woman’s hand—only the hand—why, he had felt equal to falling down before her on his knees and worshipping her, like Venus herself. A clever lass! How she tricked the Tsarevitch? For after all, he was not so great a fool as not to realize what was before him. That’s just the trouble, he is too clever. “It is a general rule,” Tolstoi was in the habit of saying, “that clever people are easily cheated, because while they have a lot of extraordinary knowledge, they have but slight acquaintance with everyday concerns. To fathom the mind and nature of man requires great knowledge; it is more difficult to know people than to remember a number of books.”
With what reckless ease, with what a cheerful face, did the Tsarevitch inform him to-day that he was returning to his father. He seemed either drunk or dreaming; the whole time he was laughing with a strange pathetic laugh.
“Poor man! poor man!” Tolstoi shook his head in distress and having snuffed, he wiped a tear which had comeinto his eye; whether owing to the snuff, or his pity for the Tsarevitch is doubtful. “Like a sheep which is dumb, he is brought to the slaughter.”
Tolstoi had a kind, almost sentimental heart.
“Yes, it seems a great pity, yet it could not be helped,” he hastened to console himself. “The eel lives in the sea to prevent the carp from sleeping. Friendship is friendship, duty is duty.”
He, Tolstoi, had, after all, succeeded in rendering a service to the Tsar, to the Fatherland; he had kept up his dignity, had proved himself a worthy disciple of Niccolo Machiavelli, and had successfully crowned his career. Now his lucky star will descend on his bosom in the shape of St. Andrew’s decoration, the Tolstoi’s will be Counts, and should they attain celebrity in future generations, reach higher positions, they will remember him. Let now Thy servant depart in peace, O Lord!
These thoughts had filled his heart with an almost frolicsome mirth. He suddenly felt young again, forty years seemed to have dropped off his shoulders, he felt a desire to whirl round and round, as if, like the god Mercury, he had wings on his feet and hands.
He was holding the sealing wax over the candle, the flame trembled, and the huge shadow of a smooth skull—he had taken his wig off—was bobbing on the wall as in a dance, and making awful faces, laughing like a dead skull. The sealing wax melted, thick drops, red as blood, began to fall. He was gently humming his favourite song:
’Tis time to cast thy bow away,Cupid, we all are in your sway!Thy golden love-awaking dartHas reached and wounded every heart.
’Tis time to cast thy bow away,Cupid, we all are in your sway!Thy golden love-awaking dartHas reached and wounded every heart.
’Tis time to cast thy bow away,
Cupid, we all are in your sway!
Thy golden love-awaking dart
Has reached and wounded every heart.
In the letter Tolstoi was sending to the Tsar the Tsarevitch had written:—
“Most gracious Sovereign and father!“Your gracious letter was delivered to me by Messieurs Tolstoi and Roumiantzev. From it as well as from their words, I, who, by my presumptuous flight, made myself unworthy of all grace, have been informed of your Majesty’sgracious pardon, assured to me in case of my return, for which I tender you my heartfelt thanks, and humbly pray to be forgiven my manifold transgressions, which I fully realize deserve severe punishment. And trusting to your gracious promise, I give myself into your hands, and will leave Naples together with your envoys in a few days, for Petersburg.“Your lowliest servant, no more worthy to be called your sop.“Alexis.”
“Most gracious Sovereign and father!
“Your gracious letter was delivered to me by Messieurs Tolstoi and Roumiantzev. From it as well as from their words, I, who, by my presumptuous flight, made myself unworthy of all grace, have been informed of your Majesty’sgracious pardon, assured to me in case of my return, for which I tender you my heartfelt thanks, and humbly pray to be forgiven my manifold transgressions, which I fully realize deserve severe punishment. And trusting to your gracious promise, I give myself into your hands, and will leave Naples together with your envoys in a few days, for Petersburg.
“Your lowliest servant, no more worthy to be called your sop.
“Alexis.”
Peter had got up early. “The very devils haven’t had time to snore,” grumbled the sleepy orderly who had to light the stoves. A gloomy November morning was looking in through the window. By the light of a tallow candle end, in a night cap, dressing gown, and craftsman’s leather apron, the Tsar was sitting at his lathe turning a candelabrum of ivory for the Church of St. Peter and Paul, in gratitude for the benefit he had derived from the Martial water during his illness. Then he started carving out of birch-wood a little Bacchus with grapes for the lid of a goblet. He worked with as much zeal as if his livelihood depended upon it.
At 4.30 a.m. in came his private secretary, Makaroff. The Tsar took his place at a walnut-wood desk—so high that the chin of a man of medium height was but level with it, and began to dictate decrees to the different Colleges or Departments, which were being established in Russia on the advice of Leibnitz, “following the example and precedent of other civilised Empires.”
“As in a clock, one wheel sets the other in motion,” said the philosopher to the Tsar, “so in the great administrative machine one college ought to work another, and if everything is harmoniously organised in exact proportions, then the hands of the state clock will invariably point to happy hours for your whole country.”
Peter loved mechanics, and the thought of converting the government into a machine delighted him. Yet what seemed so simple in theory, proved far otherwise in practice.
The Russian people neither understood nor liked the idea of colleges, and mockingly called them “kaleki,” which means cripples. The Tsar had invited learned foreigners “versed in law.” They worked through the medium of interpreters. This however did not answer. Young Russian clerks were then despatched to Königsberg, “to learn the German language and thereby facilitate the working of the Colleges,” and supervisors were sent with them to prevent them from idling. But the supervisors idled with the supervised. The Tsar published a decree: “All colleges are obliged to draw up regulations for their work on the Swedish model. If some of the points in the Swedish regulation are inapplicable, or are unsuited to the conditions of this Empire, the same should be altered at discretion.” But judgment was sadly lacking, and the Tsar felt the new institutions would prove as inefficient as the old ones. “It is all in vain,” he thought, “until the direct good, the supreme patriotic interests of the Empire is realised—a thing that can’t be expected for another hundred years, at least.”
The orderly announced a Foreign Office translator, Koslovsky. A young man came in, haggard, pale and consumptive-looking. Peter rummaged among his papers and gave to him a manuscript corrected and marked with pencil notes on the margin; it was a treatise on mechanics.
“It is badly translated. It must be done over again!”
“Your Majesty,” stuttered Koslovsky in fear and trembling, “the author himself has written the book in very involved language. More mindful of the subtlety of his philosophical style than of the benefit people could derive from the book, he is abbreviated and abstruse. For my part with my dull brain I cannot possibly follow him.”
The Tsar patiently instructed.
“There is no need to translate literally, but, having ascertained the meaning clothe it in language which can best convey it, employing only what is necessary for presenting the main ideas. To try and retain the style is notnecessary. Your matter should be useful and not written for effect, without any superfluous words which only waste time and distract the reader’s attention. Avoid the high-flown Slavonic style, and write the plain Russian speech. Do not use high sounding words but the language of the Foreign Office. Write as you speak, simply. Do you understand me?”
“Quite so, your Majesty,” answered the translator, with the precision of a soldier, yet he hung his head with as melancholy an air as if he remembered the fate of his predecessor Boris Wolkoff, also a translator to the Foreign Office, who in despair over a French book on gardening, ‘Le jardin de Quintiny,’ and afraid of the Tsar’s wrath, opened his veins, and perished.
“Well go, God be with you! Put all your heart in the work! And also tell Avrámoff that the type in the new books is fatter and not so clean as in the older ones. The types of letters B. and P. must be altered, they are too broad. The binding also is defective, especially as he binds the pages together too tightly; the books won’t close. He should sew them at the hinges more loosely and give them more space at the back.”
When Koslovsky left him, Peter remembered the dreams of Leibnitz about a general Russian Encyclopedia—the quintessence of sciences, such as was not yet in existence; a Petersburg Academy, the college of learned administrators with the Tsar at their head; a future Russia, which having surpassed Europe in knowledge, would act as lighthouse of the world.
“That bread will be long in baking,” thought Peter with a bitter smile. “Before we can begin to teach Europe we must ourselves learn to speak Russian, write, print, bind and make paper.”
He dictated an ukase:—
“In all towns and villages all bits of rags and linen should be carefully collected and sent to the chief office in Petersburg, where fourpence per pood will be paid for them.”
These rags were intended for the paper factories.
Then followed the ukase about the melting of fat, the right way of plaiting bast shoes, and the dressing of hides for boot leather: “Inasmuch as the hide commonly usedfor shoe leather is exceedingly unfit for wear, being dressed with tar, which does not prevent it from rotting, nor from letting water in in damp weather, it would be more expedient to dress the same with train oil.”
He glanced at his slate, which, together with a piece of pencil, hung at the head of his bed; he used to note on it any thought which occurred to him during the night. That night he had jotted down:
“Where should manure be deposited? Don’t forget Persia—mats.”
He made Makaroff read out the ambassador Volinsky’s letter concerning Persia.
“The present monarch here is such a fool that it would be difficult to find his equal even among simple peasant folk, much less among the crowned heads. His power will not last long. Although our present war with the Swedes may hinder us, yet, nevertheless, seeing the feeble resources of this country as I do, I deem it possible to annex a major part of Persia simply with a small force. There could not possibly be a more favourable time than the present.”
In his answer to Volinsky, Peter ordered him to send merchants down the river Amu-Daria in order to discover a water way to India, and to draw a map describing it. At the same time to prepare a letter to the Grand Mogul—the Dalai Lama of Tibet. (A road to India, an alliance between Europe and Asia, was an old dream of Peter’s.)
Some twenty years ago, a Russian church had been erected in Pekin, in honour of St. Sophia—the Wisdom of God.
“Le Czar peut unir la Chine à l’Europe,” prophesied Leibnitz. “The Tsar’s conquests in Persia will lay the foundation of an Empire greater than that of the Romans,” the foreign diplomats warned their sovereigns. “The Tsar, like another Alexander, strives to conquer the world,” said the Sultan.
Peter reached down from a shelf, and unfolded a map of the globe which he had once drawn himself while musing on Russia’s destiny. With the words Europe on the west, Asia towards the south, and on the space between the headland Tchoukotsk, and the Niemen and across from Archangel down to Astrakhan the word RUSSIA appearedin the same sized letters as EUROPE and ASIA. “They are all mistaken in calling Russia ‘an Empire’; it is half the world.”
But the next moment, with his usual ductile will power, he turned sharply from musings to business, from the grandiose to the petty. He began to dictate ukases as to a fit place for the deposit of manure; on the substitution of hair sacks for sacks of matting in which to carry biscuits to the galleys; and barrels, or linen bags, for grain and salt, “mats should on no account be used”; on the saving of lead bullets used at practice-firing; the preservation of forests; “the prohibition of hollowed-out trunks for coffins”, which were to be made of planks. “N. B.—England to be written to for a model.”
Then he turned over the pages of his notebook to ascertain whether anything of importance had been forgotten. The first page bore the inscription: “In Gottes Namen”—“In the Lord’s name.” Then followed various notes and memoranda: sometimes two and three words indicated a long train of thought—
“Of a certain discovery which will help to find out various mysteries in nature.”
“Clever experiments: how to extinguish earth oil with vitriol.” “How to boil hemp in saltpetre water.” “Buy the secret of making German sausages.”
“Draw up a concise catechism for the peasants, and have it read in churches for their instruction.”
“Exposed foundling infants are to be educated.”
“Whaling to be organised.”
“The fall of the Greek Monarchy was caused by contempt of warfare.”
“Order French Gazettes to be sent.”
“Engage foreign comedians at high pay.”
“Russian proverbs. A Russian lexicon.”
“Chemical secrets for testing ore.”
“If it be true that laws of nature are rational, why then do animals devour one another? and why do we cause them so much suffering?”
“Present and past judgments against atheists.”
“Compose a prayer for the soldiers: Great, eternal, Holy God, etc.”
The journal of Peter recalled the diary of Leonardo da Vinci.
At six in the morning he began to dress. Pulling on his stockings he noticed a hole; he sat down, got a needle and a ball of wool, and began darning. Ruminating about a road to India in the footsteps of Alexander of Macedonia, he darned his stockings.
Then he had some anisette brandy, with a cracknel; lit his pipe; went out of the palace, and drove in a cabriolet with a lantern (for it was yet dark) to the Admiralty.
The Admiralty pinnacle glowed dimly through the fog, reflecting the flames of fifteen dockyard furnaces. Out of the gloom there rose the black outline of a monstrous skeleton; the hull of a new ship. Cables lay coiled like gigantic serpents. Pulleys squeaked, hammers sounded, iron rattled, pitch was boiling. In the red glare men flitted to and fro like shadows. The dockyard resembled the forges of hell.
Peter went hither, thither, inspecting everything.
He verified in the gun department the entry of the calibre of cast cannon balls and shells which were piled in pyramids, under shelter—to prevent the rust eating them; whether the flint locks and barrels of the muskets had been filled with fat; whether the ukase concerning cannon had been carried out: “It must be ascertained with the help of a mirror whether the inside of the barrel was quite smooth, or whether the handles to the muzzle had formed flaws and bulgings; should any such flaws have occurred their depth must be measured.”
He could tell by the smell the different qualities of walrus fat; tested by handling the weight of sailcloth, and whether its lightness were due to the fine texture, or to flimsiness. He talked with the foremen as to equals.
“The boards must be planed to fit tightly. Choose well-seasoned wood; for should it be caulked before it is quite dry, then it will not only shrink, but also bulge out in the water and compress the caulk.”
“The oak should be young; with a bluish, and never a reddish hue. Made of such oak, the vessel will be as hardas iron, even a bullet could not pierce it further than two inches.”
In the hemp stores, he took handfuls from the bales, and, holding the hemp between his knees, carefully examined, shook and tested it like an expert. “Ship cables for mooring are of great consequence; they ought to be made of the very best and strongest hemp. When the cable is trustworthy, the vessel is safe; if faulty, vessel and crew are doomed.” On all sides the Tsar was heard rating the agents and contractors:—
“I see that during my absence the work has gone sidelong, like a crab, at snail’s speed.”
“I shall be obliged to bring you to order by demanding from you extra work, and by a merciless infliction of corporal punishment.”
“Just wait a bit, I will give you a keepsake, which you won’t forget till next spring!”
He cut short lengthy speeches. One day, when a distinguished foreigner elaborated some unessential detail, he spat in his face, reviled him obscenely, and turned away.
To a clerk who cheated, he remarked: “I will score on your back the figures you failed to put on paper.”
To a petition for raising the stipend of the Admiralty Councillors, he answered:—
“Nonsense! they are more anxious to fill their pockets than to render good service.”
When he learnt that several of the vessels belonging to the galley-fleet had been supplied with rotten salt beef, so that the soldiers during five weeks had to content themselves with stale smelts and water, which caused 1,000 men to fall ill, and be unfit for work, his anger passed all bounds. He almost struck an old captain who had distinguished himself in the Yarqut engagement.
“Should you do such an idiotic thing again, don’t lament being dishonoured in your old age! Why should such important business, a thousand times more valuable than your head, be transacted with such carelessness? Probably you seldom read the Military Regulations. The officers of the galleys in question will be hanged, and you almost deserve as much for your gross neglect.” But he dropped his raised hand and mastered his wrath.
“I should never have expected this from you,” he added in an undertone; but such rebuke was in his tone that the guilty one would have preferred a blow.
“Now take care,” said Peter, “that such cruelty shall not recur; for in God’s sight it is the greatest of sins. I have recently heard that here in the Petersburg dockyards, last year, the working men were utterly neglected, especially the sick, and that even dead bodies were allowed to remain lying about the streets, which is revolting not only to Christians, but even to barbarians. I cannot understand this lack of compassion. They are not cattle but Christian souls, for which we shall have to answer before God.”
Peter drove in his cabriolet along the quay to the Summer Palace, where he was staying that year until late autumn, owing to alterations which were going on in the Winter Palace.
He was wondering why, in the olden days, he used to delight at going home to dinner and meeting his wife, while now it seemed almost burdensome. He remembered anonymous letters full of hints with regard to his wife and the handsome young German, the gentleman in waiting, the Kammerjunker Mons.
Catherine had always been a faithful wife and true helpmate. She had shared all his toils and dangers; she had followed him in his campaigns like a common soldier’s wife. During the Pruth campaign, acting in a truly manly way, she saved the whole army. He called her his mother. When without her he felt helpless, and complained as a child:—
“Mother, there is no one to wash clothes and mend for me.”
They used to feign jealousy of one another for fun.
“On reading your letter, I fell a thinking profoundly. You write bidding me not to hurry home, for the sake of the cure; but it is more likely you have found somebody else a little younger than myself. Please write and tell me whether it is one of our own, or a foreigner. That is how you women treat us poor old men!”
“I don’t accept the term, old man,” she replied; “it’s all nonsense to call yourself one. I am sure that so dear an old man will easily find some one to love him! Is that what you think of me? Well! I too have heard that the Swedish queen is in love with you. I have my suspicions!”
When they were separated they were wont to exchange gifts like affianced lovers. Catherine would send to him at a distance of a thousand miles, Hungarian wine, strong vodka, freshly salted cucumbers, lemons, oranges, because—“our own will be more agreeable to you. I hope they will do you much good.”
But the presents he most delighted in were children. With the exception of the two elder ones, Lisa and Anne, they came, however, into the world puny things, and soon died. Most of all he loved the last born, Peter, “The Master of Petersburg,” who had been proclaimed heir to the throne in Alexis’ stead. Peter, too, was a sickly child, always ailing, and only kept alive by medicine. The Tsar was in continual dread of losing him. Catherine used to comfort the Tsar, saying: “I dare say if our dear old man were here, we might have another Peterkin before the year is over.”
There was a certain affectation of sentiment mingled with this conjugal tenderness, the sentimentality of a gallant, quite unexpected in a fierce Tsar.
“I have had my hair cut here, and though it may not be a very pleasing gift, yet herewith I enclose a lock.”
“I have received your beloved hair and am glad to learn you are well.”—“I am sending you, my sweetheart! a flower and a sprig of mint which you yourself have planted. I am glad to say all goes well here, only it feels so lonely without you in the garden.” This he wrote from Reval, from her favourite garden, Catherinenthal. The letter contained a withered blue flower, mint, and a cutting from an English newspaper: “Last year on the eleventh of October, there arrived in England from the county of Monmouth two people who had lived in wedlock one hundred and ten years, the man was one hundred and twenty-six years old, and the woman one hundred and twenty-five.” As much as to say: “May God grant us as long a time in the happy state of matrimony!”
And now, on the verge of old age, on this melancholy autumn morning, he mused over the life they had lived together. At the idea that Catherine might perchance be false to him, and exchange her “old man” for the first-come handsome boy, some German of base origin, he feltneither jealousy, nor anger, nor indignation, only the helplessness of a child forsaken by his mother.
He gave the reins to his orderly, and, sinking back, hung his head. The jolting of the carriage over the uneven road made his head shake, as if from old age, and his whole figure suggested age and decrepitude.
The clock beyond the Neva struck eleven. But the morning light as yet only suggested the lurid look of a dying man. It seemed day would never break. Snow mingled with rain. The horse’s hoofs splashed sonorously through the puddles, the wheels scattering mud.
Long trains of grey clouds were creeping slowly like fat-bellied spiders across the skies, so low that they completely shrouded the pinnacle on the Peter and Paul fortress; grey water, grey houses, trees and human beings, all losing their precision in mist, seemed but dull phantoms.
When Peter reached the wooden drawbridge across the Swan Channel there came from the Summer Garden a mortuary smell of earth and damp rotten leafage, which the gardeners were sweeping into heaps along the avenues. Rooks were cawing in the bare lime-trees. The clang of hammers was heard: men were busily engaged in nailing narrow long boxes over the marble statues to protect them from the winter’s snow and frost. It seemed as if the risen gods were again buried, nailed up in coffins.
Through the dark, lilac-hued, wet stems gleamed the bright yellow walls of a Dutch house, many-windowed, and with glazed doors opening on the garden; with its iron checkered roof, a weathercock in the shape of St. George the Dragonslayer, and white stucco bas-reliefs depicting sea monsters, Tritons and Nereides.
This was the Summer Palace.
There was a smell of sour cabbage soup in the palace. This soup was being cooked for the imperial dinner. Peter liked it; he preferred the simple dishes of the soldiers.
The Tsar disliked spending much time at meals; the dishes were served in rapid succession through a window straight from the kitchen. The latter was neat, tiled, and its walls hung with bright copper pans—as in old Dutch houses.
Besides the soup the dinner consisted of buckwheat, Flensbourg oysters, brawn, sprats, roasted meat, with cucumbers and pickled lemons, ducks’ feet in sour sauce. After dinner, nuts, apples and Limbourg cheese were brought in. For drinks kvas, and French red wine. One servant only waited at table.
As usual, guests were invited to dinner: James Bruce, the Court physician, Blumentrost, an English captain, the Kammerjunker Mons, and Miss Hamilton, lady-in-waiting. Peter had invited Mons as a surprise for Catherine; and when she heard of it, she, in her turn, invited the court lady Hamilton. Perhaps she did it to suggest to her husband that she was not quite ignorant of his mistresses. It was that same Hamilton, a Scotchwoman by birth, proud, pure, cold as a marble Diana to look at, whose name had been whispered, when in the Summer Garden the body of an infant, wrapt in a napkin belonging to the palace, had been found in the water pipe of a fountain. At table she remained silent; her pale face seemed bloodless.
Conversation flagged, notwithstanding Catherine’s efforts to keep it going.
She related a dream she had had—a savage white-furred animal with a crown on its head bearing three lighted candles, repeatedly roared at her.
Peter was fond of dreams, and would often at night note them down on his slate. He, too, related his dream: Water everywhere; manœuvres at sea; vessels, and galleys; he had noticed in his dream that the sails and masts were out of proportion.
“Ah, little father,” Catherine fondly exclaimed, “you are continually worrying about the ships; even sleep brings you no peace.”
And when he lapsed into sullen silence she began to talk about the new ships. “TheNeptuneis an exceedingly fine vessel and sails so well, that it is really the flower of the fleet. TheGangutalso goes well and obeys her rudder; only she is not rigid enough for her height, and the slightest breeze causes her to slope more than any of the others. What will happen to her in stormy weather? I have delayed the launching of the large sloop, made by Von Renne, until your arrival; and to prevent it warping had it covered with boards.”
She spoke about the ships like a mother of her children: “TheGangutand theLesnoyare like twin sisters, unhappy apart from one another. Now that they lie together it is a pleasure to see them. The name ‘adopted’ suits well the purchased vessels as compared with ours; for they can as little be mistaken for ours as a father confounds his own child with an adopted one.”
Peter answered reluctantly, as though preoccupied. He was stealthily watching her and Mons, whose smooth, immovable face, as if it were cut out of some pink stone, his blue turquoise eyes, gave the Kammerjunker the appearance of a porcelain doll.
Catherine felt that her husband was watching them, yet she controlled herself perfectly; even if she knew of any charge against her, she manifested no alarm. Only her eyes, when looking at her husband, expressed more insinuating tenderness than usual; and, perhaps, she talked a little too much, passing on quickly from subject to subject, as if trying to distract her husband. It might have dawned upon him that she was striving to charm away his suspicions.
She had hardly ended about the ships before she began about the children; Elizabeth and Anne who had narrowly escaped being disfigured by smallpox this summer; thelittle Peter, whose health had grown worse with his last tooth.
“Still he is gradually picking up again; already he has cut five teeth; only now his right eye gives him trouble.”
Peter brightened up for a moment and began to question Blumentrost about his boy’s health.
“The eye is getting better, sir,” the doctor replied, “and a new tooth has appeared in the lower jaw. To-day he is rubbing his gums further back with his little fingers; that means the molars will soon be coming.”
“He will be a brave general,” added Catherine; “he delights in playing at soldiers, and his great joy is to watch the soldiers exercise and hear the guns go off. All he can say is ‘papa,’ ‘mamma,’ ‘soldier.’ I need your protection, father, he is always quarrelling with me when you are away. He does not like to be told that his father has gone, and he rejoices when I tell him that papa has come.” She smiled sweetly at her husband.
Peter did not reply. But the look he gave her and Mons made every one feel uneasy. Catherine cast her eyes down and slightly paled. Hamilton raised her eyes, and a mocking smile curved her lips. Silence ensued. All were alarmed.
Peter, as though nothing had happened, turned to James Bruce and began to talk with him about astronomy, Newton’s system, the spots on the sun which can be looked at through a telescope, if the glass next to the eye be smoked, and the forthcoming solar eclipse. He was so engrossed in this conversation that he noticed nothing else to the very end of the meal. Before leaving the table he pulled out his diary and noted down:
“Mem:—To inform the people about the forthcoming solar eclipses in order to prevent them being regarded as miraculous; since that which is foretold ceases to be a miracle. Nobody should be allowed to invent and spread false rumours about supposed miracles, which serves no purpose except to upset people.”
All breathed more freely when Peter rose from the table and went into the next room.
He sat down in an arm-chair close to the fire, put on his round, iron-rimmed spectacles, lit his pipe, and began tolook through the new Dutch papers, marking on the margin what was to be translated for the Russian newspapers.
Then he made another note in his diary:
“Publish everything in full: both good and bad news; nothing should be concealed.”
A pale sunbeam escaped from behind the clouds; it was timid, feeble, like the smile of a dying man. A luminous square spread from the window across the floor to the fireplace; the red flame paled, and grew transparent. Outside the branches stood sharply outlined against the clear silvery sky. An orange-tree grown in a barrel, which was generally carried from one hothouse to another, being delicate and sensitive to cold, rejoiced to see the sun, and its fruit glowed among the dark clipped foliage like golden balls. Amid the dark tree stems gleamed white marble gods and goddesses, the few which had not yet been hidden in their coffins; they too, naked and chilled, seemed to hasten to warm themselves in the sun.
Two little girls came running into the room; the nine-year old Anne, with black eyes, white skin and rosy cheeks, quiet, grave, fat and rather heavy, “a little barrel,” as Peter was wont to call her. The younger one, Lisa, aged seven, with golden curls, blue eyes, sprightly as a bird, noisy, mischievous, slack at her lessons, and caring for only games, dancing and songs, was very pretty and already quite a little flirt.
“Aha! you rascals!” exclaimed Peter, and laying aside the newspapers, he put out his hands towards them with a loving smile. He embraced and kissed them, and lifted them one on to each knee.
Lisa pulled off his spectacles: she did not like them because they made him look older—quite a grandfather to them. Then she began whispering into his ear, confiding to him her long-cherished wish:—
“The Dutch boatswain, Issai Koenig told me about a green monkey which lives in Amsterdam. It is very tiny and could get into an Indian nut. Papa, darling, itwouldbe nice if I could have that monkey!”
Peter, doubting the existence of green monkeys, nevertheless was forced to promise solemnly, with a twofoldoath, that he would write by the next courier to Amsterdam. Elizabeth was in raptures and began passing her hand through the blue ringlets of smoke which escaped from Peter’s pipe, to string them together, as she explained.