Catharina II“Peter created Russia,Ekaterina gave her a soul!”
“Peter created Russia,Ekaterina gave her a soul!”
“Peter created Russia,Ekaterina gave her a soul!”
“Peter created Russia,
Ekaterina gave her a soul!”
“Gran Dio!” said the unfortunate girl, “he invokes the name of God,” added she, raising her eyes to the image of the Saviour which hung on the wall over the head of her bed; “he! Very likely you have arranged this slow torture, this torment! and yet you boasted that torture was abolished here. The empress, I am sure, knows nothing of all this. In this matter she has been deceived, as in everything else.”
“Be calm, be calm.… Tell me, who are you?” continued Orloff; “hide nothing. I’ll implore the empress; she will be merciful to you and to me.…”
“Diavolo!he asks, ‘Who am I!’” she stammered, half stifled by a new fit of anger. “But cannot you see I have done with the world? I am dying; then to what end all this?” She again began to cough most awfully, and leaning her head against the wall, was silent.
“There,—she’ll die without having confessed anything,” thought Orloff, as he stood by her.
“In riches and in happiness,” said she, coming to herself, “in humiliation and in prison, I repeat constantly the same thing—and you know it well. I am the daughter of your late empress,” proudly said she, rising. “Do you hear me, miserable, wretched slave, I am your born grand-duchess.…” A bold idea flashed through Orloff’s mind.… “Ah! what’s in a word?” thought he; “she won’t live long, and at one stroke I’ll please them both.”
He bent on one knee, grasped the frail pale hand of the captive, and ardently pressed it to his lips.
“Your Highness!” stammered he. “Elise! pardon, I swear—yes, I am guilty,—but those were the orders. I myself was arrested. Only now have I received my liberty.…”
The poor girl raised her big, astonished eyes to his face, covering her mouth with her handkerchief to stop the blood.
“I implore you, I promise you, we will be really solemnly married,” continued Orloff. “You shall be my wife—and then, your Highness—my darling, … my own Elise, rank, riches, faithfulness, life-long devotion.…”
“Out! away! monster!” screamed the captive, jumping up. “This bruised hand princes, kings sought—it’s not for you to touch it, branded traitor, inquisitor.”
“Well, she doesn’t choose her words,” thought to himself the Commandant Tchernishoff, who, standing outside the door, could easily hear the French abuses and the curses of the prisoner; “better take myself off. If the count knows all this has been heard, his little vanity will be pricked, and it is just possible he may take his revenge.” The commandant walked off.
The jailer, standing in the long corridor, with his keys, and also hearing the, to him, quite unintelligible cries, the stamping of feet, and, as it seemed to him, the noise of things being thrown at the visitor, also walked off into a corner, thinking to himself: “Ha, ha, Mamzoulka (Mademoiselle), it seems, is asking for better food; it seems it’s not in the articles. She’s screaming at the general, oho! Of course it’s not for such as she, so thin, to eatschiandschi. Yesterday, for the first time, they gave her milk.” The furious screams continued. Then came the sound of broken glass. The door of the dungeon was flung open rapidly, and Orloff, humbly bending under the door, too low for his tall person, came out. His face was purple; he lingered for a moment in the corridor, and stared about him, as if collecting his thoughts. Having felt under his arm for his cocked hat, passed his fingers through his hair, and pulled down his coat, he briskly and smartly drew himself up, and silently walked out in the pouring rain, jumped into the carriage, and shouted to the coachman, “Général Procureur.”
As he left the fortress behind him, Orloff began turning over in his mind the details of the last interview.
“Well, sheisa serpent, a viper!” he whispered to himself, looking out into the streets from the carriage window; “didn’t she sting!”
Very reservedly, and with plenty of self-composure, he entered the house of the Prince Alexander Alexéeovitch Viazimski. It was already late. The candles were lighted. Orloff shivered, and rubbed his hands together.
“Take a seat,” said the général procureur. “What! cold?”
“Yes, prince, a little.”
Viazimski ordered a servant to bring in liqueurs. The servant soon came, bringing a lovely decanter, and a silver basket containing ginger biscuits.
“Pray help yourself, count.… Well! what about our usurper?” continued the général procureur, putting aside some papers that he had just been looking over.
“Impudent beyond all bounds; still persists.…” answered Count Alexis, pouring himself out a wineglassful of the rich liqueur, and raising it first to his nose, and then to his lips.
“Well, of course!” said the prince; “she has no wish to part with her so-called titles and rights cheaply.”
“Oh! she’ll give plenty of trouble yet; other measures than those are wanted,” said Orloff.
“But what others, Batienka? Her last minutes are drawing near.… You would not have her strangled?”
“And why not?” whispered Orloff, as if to himself, dipping a biscuit into a fresh glass of liqueur. “Pity for such like!”
The général procureur threw a side-long glance from behind the greenabat-jouron his visitor. “And you’re not joking, Alexis Gregorevitch? It’s your advice?”
“Oh! for the good of my country, and like a true patriot—not only would I advise, but very much recommend,” answered Orloff, walking backwards and forwards, munching the sweet melting biscuits.
“Mais, c’est un assassin dans l’âme!” thought to himself the great judge,[40]whose personal appearance was austere and generally gloomy, as he listened in horror to the soft, cat-like tread of Orloff on the carpet; “c’est en lui comme une mauvaise habitude!”
Orloff took out his eye-glass, and, biting a fresh biscuit, began to admire a picture of Psyche and Cupid on the wall.
“Whence came this picture?” asked he.
“It is a gift from the empress.… Count, when do you think of returning to Moscow?”
“To-morrow morning. I shall not of course delay my information, but shall instantly report the fresh obstinacy of that impudent liar.”
Viazimski knit his bushy eyebrows. “Do you know anything about the information of the prisoner on your own account?” he grunted out, turning over some papers.
Orloff let drop his half-eaten biscuit.
“Yes! Now, just fancy; you’ll not deny all this is disgusting. My faithfulness, devotion, honour, she has spared nothing.… And let me tell you what is more astonishing than everything else, that that she-devil fell over head and ears in love with me, and invented, goodness knows what; but even just now the hussy has had the impudence to bid me acknowledge a marriage with her.”
“Well! I can only wonder,” said Viazimski; “that disguise in clerical vestments—excuse me, what need for such sacrilege? Oh! you’ll have a deal to answer for, to God, Batiushka Count.… All that would haunt me.”
Orloff tried to turn it all off as a joke, tried to go on talking, but the gloomy silence of the bear-like Procureur showed him that his credit atcourt had been long on the decline, and that he, notwithstanding his late services, might, like useless old rubbish, hope for only one thing—to be left alone and forgotten.
“My annals are finishing, it seems. I shall soon be at the bottom of the river,” thought Orloff, on leaving Viazimski. “They’ll put me under hatches somewhere in Moscow, or perhaps farther. We are grown old, out of fashion; we must clear the way for new-comers.”
He was so much disturbed by his reception at the procureur’s that the next morning he had a special service celebrated in the Church of the Holy Virgin Mary, and before his departure for Moscow he even paid a visit to an Armenian fortune-teller on the Litienaya.
The peace with Turkey was publicly celebrated at Moscow on July 13th. Galitzin was not forgotten, and, for having cleared Moldavia of the Turks, received from Petersburg a rich sword studded with diamonds. Orloff received a testimonial, a rich dinner service, one of the Imperial properties near Petersburg, and the title of “Chesmenski.”
“Put up on the shelves of the archives, wholly thrown over!” thought Alexis Gregorevitch. He was not allowed to follow the court to Petersburg. From this time Moscow was assigned to him as a residence, as also to many of the other supporters of Ekaterina. It would have seemed that the days of Chesmenski flowed on peacefully and pleasantly in his splendid Muscovite palace; but the retainers of the count began to notice that he often had fits of melancholy—that very often, without any reason whatever, he would have funeralmasses celebrated, or a special service withAcathistus,[41]or would call in the gipsy fortune-tellers, and they would hear him often murmur and complain of the “Traitress Fortune,” who in former times had so spoilt him with her favours.
If Count Alexana would drive out his fleet steeds on a beautiful frosty evening, flying along the streets, glancing at the passers-by from under his rich fur cap, thickly studded with frosty diamonds, his thoughts would carry him back to other blue, but warm skies, to the azure shores of the Morea and the Adriatic, to the Roman and Venetian marble palaces. If in autumn the sleet were driving, promising a splendid hunt, the count would ride in the neighbourhood of Otradi or Niaskouchnavo, and, after having driven the mother hare out of the birch copse, and started his favourite harehounds on her track, would gallop on his gallant Kabardinetz furiously in pursuit, but all at once he would rein in his steed and stop. The rain might brush the wet branches of the birch in his face, the horse might splash through the pools and mud, but the count’s thoughts had wandered far away, to that far-off Italy, to Rome, Livorno, to the unfortunate, by him betrayed, Tarakanova.
“Where is she? What has become of her?” he would think. “Has she survived her child’s birth? Is she still there, or have they hidden her even farther away?”
After the fall of the favourite, Prince Gregory, his brother, Count Alexis Chesmenski, retired so quickly from court that he not only knew nothing positive, but even dared not try to know anything positive about the unfortunate beauty whom he had carried off and betrayed.
That same year, in autumn, rumours were spread in Moscow that a very important mysterious personage had been brought over from Petersburg, and sequestered in the Novo Spaski Nunnery; that she had been compelled to take the veil, and had been named Docifé,[42]and was now locked up in a secluded cell.
The Muscovites whispered loudly that the new nun was the daughter of the late Empress Elizabeth, by her secret husband Razoumovski.
What emotions the count underwent, are only known to himself.
“It is she! it is she!” he would murmur in his agitation, not knowing that his victim, thePrincess Tarakanova, still hopelessly languished in the fortress. “It can be no one else; of course not. She has renounced everything, she has submitted, she has taken the veil.”
Thoughts of the newly-arrived captive troubled him so much that he even avoided driving in the street where the convent was, and if this were impossible, he would avoid looking up at the windows.
“Traitor, murderer!” would resound in his ears, on recollecting his last interview with the Princess. In bitter anguish he would remember every detail of that interview, when she had loaded him with curses, stamped at him, spat in his face, and passionately flung at him whatever came near her hand. Once, when the Prince Volkonski had paid him an unofficial visit, to see over his stables and horses, Chesmenski tried to bring the conversation round to the Princess. They had returned from their walk to the stables, and were taking tea. The count began in a roundabout way to refer to foreign and home news, and rumours, and then, as if merelyen passant, asked who the person was whom report said had been brought to the convent?
“Why do you ask that?” suddenly interrupted the prince, Michael Nikititch.
“What?” asked the bewildered Chesmenski.
“Nothing!” answered Volkonski, turning round, and looking aimlessly out of the window. “I was just recollecting a little Petersburg incident, that happened last year at Court.”
“What incident? Honour me, Batiushka Prince!” said the count, with a smile and a bow. “You see, here I hear nothing and see nothing of the new, curious, and to us very often incomprehensible occurrences in the court regions?”
“Well! as you please,” said Volkonski, clearing his throat, and continuing to gaze out of the window. “The incident, if you like, is not very important, rather comical than otherwise. You know the wife of the General Major Kojin? Marie Dimitrievna, who is so lively, so beautiful and such a chatterbox?”
“Oh, of course, who does not know her? I often used to meet her, before my departure for foreign parts.”
“Well! you know, she babbled out, it is said, somewhere … that some one … well! we’ll call them the Abaloshoffs, it’s all the same, I’ve forgotten who—had decided on patronising the new lucky man, Peter Modrvinoff.… Of course you know.”
Orloff silently inclined his head.
“Patronise … well! you understand, trip him up.…”
“Who?” asked Orloff.
“Well! it would seem Gregory Alexandrovitch Potemkin.”
“Well! and what then?”
“Well! this,” continued the prince. “In somebody’s private rooms, Stephan Ivanovitch Sheshkovski was hurriedly called, and the following orders were given:—‘Batiushka, go immediately, this very minute, to the masquerade, find out theGeneralshaKojin. Having found her, carry her off to the secret department, and having given her a slight taste of corporal punishment, as a small token of remembrance, bring back the aforesaid little lady, with all honour, and deliver her safely over to the masquerade.”
“And Sheshkovski?”
“Well! he took the little lady, whipped her soundly, and brought her back, with all honour, to the masquerade, and she, that no one should get a hint of this curious little incident, said nothing, and very wisely and assiduously went through all the dances to which she had been invited—every one to the last—minuet,cotillon, and all.”
Orloff understood well the bitter allusion, and never mentioned Docifé again.
Neither did the count find any pleasure in his conversations with his intendant, Terentitch Cabanoff, who sometimes used to come from Krenova to Niaskouchnavo. Terentitch was a serf, but knew how to read and write. He was always dressed in the latest fashion, with a pearl-greykaftan[43]and waistcoat, shoes with huge steel buckles, ruffles, and a black silk purse[44]to his powdered pigtail.
The count would pour out for him a goblet of rich foreign wine, saying, “Taste that, old fellow.… It’s not wine I’ve poured out, it’s a man’s life, … elixir.” Terentitch would refuse.
“No! No nonsense, old man!” would press the count. “Don’t forget the proverb, ‘Enjoy life while it lasts.’ Be merry, in that alone lies happiness. Unfortunately, not for all.”
“Too true, Batiushka Count!” would answer Cabanoff, drinking off the goblet. “We, well! we are but serfs; … but you, ought you to sigh, ought you not to enjoy sweet life in yourown lovely, beautiful manors? The sites are so dry, so gay, the sloping fields are so fruitful; springs of water, forests, groves, everywhere. The serfs so industrious, so hardy, no beggars, thanks to you, our benefactor. We have noticed long ago, sir, that you are always very sad, and have heard something now and then which makes us all very anxious.”
“Doubt and suspicion, my dear fellow, will constantly exist,” answered the count. “Last autumn, you yourself wrote to me, when I was in foreign parts, praising the coming crops, and how did they turn out? to be of no account at all? No, the proverb says, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!’”
“Yes, it’s the truth you’re saying,” answered Terentitch, sighing.
“And in all other things,” continued the count. “I go about a great deal, and many come to me, and, would you believe it? I know nothing of what I used to know before. Phylia was high in favour, every one sought his patronage, but now, …” the count was silent and thoughtful.
“See there!” thought Cabanoff, looking at him, “with that strength, those riches, to be thus slighted.”
“Ah! yes, old man,” continued Orloff, “hardtimes are come. I feel as if between two millstones. My services are ended; no one requires them any more, and here, at home, there is nothing butennui.”
“Count, fire purifies gold,” answered Terentitch, “misfortune, man. Wood won’t burn without shavings.… I might look out for some for you.”
“What?”
“Get married, your Grace.”
“Oh! well, prate about that to others, but not to me,” answered Chesmenski, remembering that Konsov had given him the same advice not long before.
Meanwhile, the position of the Princess Tarakanova had remained the same. During the celebration of the peace with Turkey, in Moscow, she had been forgotten. However, when all had become quiet again, new points of condemnation were found against her. She was again cross-examined. Even Sheshkovski was called, and let loose on her, and the cross-examinations were more frequent. Worn out by her illness and mental anguish, as well as by her miserable and unusual surroundings, and by the presence of the two sentinels in her room, she began fading rapidly. There were even days when her end was expected every minute. After one of these terrible days, the unfortunate captive seized a pen, and wrote a letter to the empress.
“Snatching myself from the arms of death,” she wrote, “I throw myself at your feet. You ask, who I am? but can the fact of birth bemade a crime of, for any one? Night and day men are in my room. My sufferings are such that my whole being is shaken. In refusing me mercy, it’s not to me alone you refuse it.” The empress was very much troubled that she could not leave Moscow herself and personally see the captive, who excited in her by turns the deepest anger, and, involuntarily, the most profound pity.
In the month of August, Field-Marshal Galitzin paid the Princess another visit.
“You called yourself a Persian. Then you said you were born in Arabia; you gave yourself out next as a Tcherkeshenka; and at last as our grand-duchess,” he said. “You stated that you knew the Oriental languages; we gave your letters to persons who know those languages, but they could make nothing out of them. Is it possible—excuse me—that this is also deceit on your part?”
“Oh! how stupid all that is!” answered Tarakanova, with a contemptuous smile, and again coughing. “Do Persians and Arabs teach their wives to read or write? In my childhood I learnt a little by myself, and therefore I ought to be believed more than your readers.”
Galitzin was too sorry for her to go onquestioning her on all the points written down by Oushakoff.
“Look here,” said he, dashing away a tear, seeming to recollect something which was a great deal more serious and important, “there’s no time for disputes now … your strength is failing you.… I have not received permission; yet I will give orders for you to be transferred into a better and more spacious apartment, and your food shall be brought you from the table of the commandant.… Would you not like a priest … you understand … we are all in the hands of God … to prepare you … for.…”
“For death … is it not true?” interrupted the captive, shaking her head.
“Yes!” answered Galitzin.
“Yes, I feel myself it is true.”
“Whom would you like?” asked the prince, leaning over her. “A Catholic, a Protestant, or one of our own faith?”
“I am Russian,” said the Princess, “therefore send me one of our own faith, if you please.”
“So, everything is finished!” thought she the next night, sleepless as always; “darkness without dawn, anguish without end, death … there it comes. It will soon be here, soon—perhapsto-morrow. And they’re not yet tired of questioning.…”
The captive arose, leaned her head on the side of the bed. “But who am I after all?” she asked herself, raising her eyes to the image of the Saviour. “Is it so difficult to sum up everything in these my last minutes? Perhaps.—Is it possible that I am not really the one I thought myself to be? No, I do not acknowledge that! But why not? Is it from a feeling of disgust towards them, or from too great a passion; or is it revenge for a name disgraced, for a woman crushed?”
And then she tried again to remember all her past, to recollect its smallest details. Days long past crowded her memory. Her luxurious gay life, her successes, her triumphs, her visits and her levées, her balls. “Courtiers,diplomâts, counts, even reigning princes; how many adorers I have had,” thought she. “There must have been some reason why they should all have courted me so, offered me their hearts, their riches, sought my hand.… For what? for my beauty, for my power of pleasing, for my talents? But there are many beautiful, talented women far more wily than I; why did not the Prince Limbourski go mad over them? Why did he not givethem, as he gave me, his lands, his castles? Why didn’t he make these over to them instead of to me, as ‘granted’ estates? Why only to me did all the ‘Radzivills’ and ‘Pototskis’ cling? Even the powerful favourite of the Russian Court, Shouvaloff, sought an interview with me. Why was I surrounded with such profound, almost devotional respect? Why was my past history so eagerly searched out? Yes, I was selected by Providence for some special end, of which I myself am ignorant.
“Childhood!—there alone lies the key to it all,” whispered the poor captive, grasping at her earliest recollections; “there alone lie the proofs.”
But it was just that very childhood which was so bewildering to her own mind. She recollected the isolated hamlet somewhere in the South, in a desert, the large shady trees, the low cottage, the kitchen garden, and beyond, the boundless fields. A good, kind old woman dressed and took care of her. Then came the journey in the comfortably balanced cart, filled with fresh, perfumed hay, other boundless fields, rivers, mountains, forests. “But who am I?” she would cry in anguish, sobbing and striking her poor senseless head! “They want proofs!—but where are these tobe found? What can I add to what I have already said? How can I myself separate the truth from the fiction which life has mixed up together? And how could a poor, weak, deserted, helpless child know that one day she would be called to account for her own birth? The judgment concerning me is unjust, illegal. It’s not for me to help to convince my persecutors. Let them disgrace me; let them hunt me down; let them finish their work; I am not answerable, either for my birth, or for my name.… I am the only living witness of my past; there is no other. Why are they so furious? God does many wonders. Is it possible that He, to avenge a poor, persecuted creature, will not perform a miracle, will not open the door of this stone coffin, of this awful fatal dungeon?”
The last warm days of autumn had already passed, and cold and gloomy November had brought its rains and mists.
Father Peter Andréef, the high priest of the Cathedral of Kazan, was a man in the prime of life, highly educated and well read.
In the autumn of 1775 he was expecting from Tchernigoff, his niece and god-daughter Vâra. She had written to her uncle, that she would arrive in Petersburg with a companion, a young lady, who was coming in the hope of presenting personally to the empress a petition on a very important subject. The little house of Father Peter, with anentresol,[45]and aperronstanding out in the street, was built behind the cathedral, and stood by the side of the palace of the Hetman, Razoumovski. The old oaks and the lindens threw their shade over its red-tiled roof,even extending their wide-spreading branches over the priest’s little yard.
A widower for already several years, the childless Father Peter led the life of a hermit. His gates were always closed, and an enormous watch-dog, Polkan, on hearing the slightest noise would bark in the most furious fashion. The few and far between visitors who wished to speak to the priest always came through the street-door, which was also kept constantly closed. The letter of his niece gave a great deal of pleasure to Father Peter, but he also found in it something very extraordinary. Vâra wrote to him, that the young mistress of the neighbouring estate had a little while ago received from abroad, together with a letter addressed to her, a packet of papers covered with writing, which, as the letter told her, had been found on the sea-shore in a bottle. “Dear godfather and uncle, forgive my foolishness,” wrote Vâra to her uncle, “but after having read these papers together, the young lady and I have decided on coming to Petersburg, and we shall soon be there. Whom could I recommend the unfortunate orphan to go to if not you. She buried her parents a year ago. In the papers sent her there is so much concerning an important person, that before decidingon speaking about it, there is a great deal to think over. First, the young lady thought of sending the papers to Moscow, to the empress, but on reflection we decided otherwise. You, dear uncle, know everything. You go everywhere, you are respected by every one, therefore you can easily advise us what to do. The name of the young lady is Irena Lvovna, and her surname—she is the daughter of the Brigadier Rakitin.”
“Ah! youth, youth!” thoughtfully shaking his head, said the priest on reading this letter. “Ah! the magpies, what crazy ideas! to come all the way from Tchernigoff to Petersburg to get my advice.… They’ve fallen—well—they’ve found some one!”
Every evening, at twilight, Father Peter was wont to light the candles, and having put on his house cassock, to walk up and down the little linen drugget which ran through all the rooms, from the little hall, through the drawing-room, dining-room, and into the bedroom. He would look after his plants, especially his geraniums, standing on the window-sills; pull off the dry leaves and pick out the weeds; and would arrange the books on the table, and gaze at his favourite blackbird asleep in its cage, at the“ikons” and images in the corner, at the lighted lamp, and would begin musing and thinking—when at last would those rooms be filled with mirth and life, when would his magpie come?
The two girls arrived. The house of the priest became at once bright and lively. The sprightly gay Vârushka quite bewildered her uncle with news about his birthplace, their acquaintances, and journey adventures. Listening to her, Father Peter thought within himself, “How time flies! Is it so long ago that she was brought here, a wild, snub-nosed, and sulky little lass? and now—look at her, so sprightly, so gay, so clever! Yes, and her companion, she is a beauty! Those thick black braids, and what eyes! But quite in another style to my Vâra; so thoughtful, discreet, serious and proud!”
After the first joyful questions and answers, the priest was obliged to celebrate the vesper service, and his visitors having hastily established themselves in the attic, took everything that was necessary, and started for the bath, accompanied by the cook. On returning home they established themselves in the corner by the fireside, and there Father Peter found them, as red as boiled lobsters, their heads tied up with coloured handkerchiefs,drinking tea. It was long past midnight when they at last rose to go to bed.
“Well! my young lady, and where are the papers you have brought with you?” said Father Peter, rising. “It interests me also; what is it all about?”
The girls began searching in their bundles, found the roll—on it was the inscription, “Diary of Lieutenant Konsov.”
Father Peter retired to his chamber, drew the curtains, put the candle on the night-table, threw himself without undressing on the bed, unrolled the crumpled manuscript of blue foreign note-paper with gilt edges, and began reading. He did not close his eyes till morning.
The whole history of the Princess Tarakanova, or Princess Wladimirskaya, of which Father Peter had only heard the most contradictory rumours, was now open to him, with unexpected details.
“Ah! that is what it is about,” he thought, on reading the first lines; “about the mysterious Princess.”
Sometimes he would leave off reading the manuscripts, and lie with closed eyes, then again begin to read. “And where now is that poor unfortunate, betrayed girl?” he asked himself, on reading the incident of Livorno. “Where is she now dragging out her miserable existence? And he, who wrote these lines, was he saved?”
One candle after another burnt out. Father Peter finished the manuscript, snuffed out the last little piece of candle, and began walking up and down on the drugget. He went on walking till dawn reminded him that he had not slept all night. “What events! ah! what events! What an unfortunate tissue of incidents!” whispered the priest. “Poor martyr! May God help her!”
The blackbird in the cage woke up, and seeing the very unusual promenade of its master, set up a loud unwonted scream.
“He’ll wake every one up,” thought the priest.
He returned on tiptoe to his bedroom, threw himself on his bed, and began reflecting on all that he had read. His thoughts wandered to the last reign, to the sea of mysterious and common events, known to others as well as to him; at last he fell asleep.
The sound of the bells ringing for morning service awoke him. The pale November sun was struggling through the curtains. Father Peter locked up the manuscript in the drawer of his table, went to church to celebrate morning service, and returned home, through the back door, into the kitchen. On seeing his god-daughter going up the attic stairs with a hot iron in her hands he beckoned her.
“Tell me, Vâra,” he whispered; “he who wrote that diary—Konsov—must, it’s plain, have been herfiancé?”
Vâra moistened her finger and then touched the hot iron; it fizzed.
“He did woo her,” she answered, dangling her iron.
“Well! and what then?”
“Well! Irena Lvovna liked him. Her father would not hear of it.”
“Then the match was broken off?”
“Of course!”
“And now?”
“Well, what can I say? She is an orphan now, and of course would be delighted. She is her own mistress—but where is he?”
“Oh! of course the ship was wrecked,” said Father Peter.
“And in our wilderness, what could we learn about it? Uncle, you might go and make some inquiries of naval people, because, you see, not only the command was lost, but all the count’s riches.… Somewhere, you would be sure to learn something.”
“Who sent your friend this diary?”
“God alone knows. The post brought it; Irisha received it. On the roll was only‘Rakitin,’ and the address; and in the note, written in French, it was merely said that the manuscript had been found by some fishermen in a bottle on the sea-shore. Irena is now the only survivor of Rakitin … and so of course she received it.”
The priest, without saying anything either to his niece or her friend, began most energetically to make inquiries in all directions, but his efforts were fruitless.
The only information he gained at the Marine Department was that the frigate,The Northern Eagle, which was laden with the rich collections of Count Orloff, had been driven along into the Atlantic Ocean—it had been seen for some time beyond Gibraltar, near the African coast, not far off from Tangiers—and that in all probability it had been shipwrecked and sunk not far from the Azores or the Canaries. Of the fate of Lieutenant Konsov nothing could be gathered; it was not even known for a surety whether he was on the frigate or not, as the whole of the crew had perished. The commander of the squadron, and Admiral Greig, were both now in Moscow, and there remained no one else to apply to. There had been some rumours in foreign newspapers that a disabled ship had been seen somewhere about on the ocean, but with no crew on board,as far as could be noticed; it was being driven by the storm in the direction of the Azores or Madeira. The violence of the storm had effectually prevented any efforts being made to rescue it.
“Poor young girl!” thought the priest, looking at Rakitina; “so clever, so modest, so rich, and so young. They would have been a couple, if God had only spared him! No, he must be dead. Had he been alive, he would have sent some token to his native land, to his fellow officers, to his relations.”
Once, when he had some spare time, he took the opportunity of speaking with Irena.
“Young lady,” said he, “I have heard from my niece of your loss. Of course, it is plain your enemies had their own reasons for separating you from your wooer and giving you another. Why did it all happen? Why was Konsov treated with such disdain?”
“I know not myself,” answered Irena. “My late father was very fond of Pavel Efstafitch, was always very kind to him, treated him not only as a near neighbour, but as one dear to him. And I, what words can describe my love for him? I lived only in his love.”
“Well, then, how came this separation about?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Irena, covering herface with her hands. “It is such anguish to me—such grief. We saw each other often, corresponded; we used to have meetings. I gave him my word; we were only awaiting a fitting time to tell all to my father.”
Rakitina was silent for some minutes.
“Oh, it is dreadful to recollect it all!” she continued. “I suppose some one must have calumniated Konsov to my father. All at once—it was evening—I saw the horses being put to the carriage. ‘Where to?’ I asked. My father would answer nothing. My things were carried out, put into the carriage. At that time a relative from Petersburg was on a visit to us. We three took our seats in the carriage. ‘Where to?’ I again asked my father. ‘Oh, hereabouts, not very far; we will just have a drive,’ said my father, joking. Yes; it turned out a nice joke! We went on with post-horses, without one relay, as far as our other property, one thousand versts[46]distant. I could neither write nor send any message to Konsov for a long time, I was watched so closely. It was only when my father fell dangerously ill that I implored him not to break my heart, but to allow me to write to Konsov. He began crying bitterly, and said, ‘Forgive me,Irisha. We have both been deceived cruelly.’ ‘What? what?’ I could only ask. ‘Is it possible that that cousin sought my hand?’
“‘Not your hand, my dear, but the money,’ my father said. ‘He intercepted one of Konsov’s letters to you, and so stirred up my anger against him, that I decided on carrying you off. Forgive me, Irenushka, forgive me. God has punished him, the wicked one. He borrowed a large sum from me, lost it at cards in Moscow, and has blown his brains out. He left a letter … there it is, read it … I received it a few days ago.’
“My poor father did not live long after this. I returned to my own property, but of Konsov I could get no tidings. His grandmother was also dead. I wrote to Petersburg, whence he had started, wrote into foreign parts, to the fleet; but then war was raging, and of course he did not get my letters. Then his captivity in Turkey … then … and that is all my sad fate.”
“Pray, my dear young lady, pray,” said the priest. “Your lot is a bitter one; only the good God above can help you.”
Meantime, several days passed by. Rakitina, ceaselessly without respite, went about gathering all the information she could, regretting neither time nor money, but all was of no avail.
“I can see, Irena Lvovna,” said Father Peter to his guest one day, “that you are constantly going about, first to one, then to another, troubling yourself and all for nothing. I have heard it said that the empress will not be here for some time yet; why should you not write to the superior officer of Pavel Efstafitch, to Moscow? may not the Count Orloff know of something?”
“Thank you, Father,” answered Rakitina, bowing. “Let us pray God that we may learn something about that unfortunate ship without a crew, and if no one else were saved, perhaps Konsov.… Yesterday Count Pânin promised me to get some information from a foreign Marine Department—in Spain—in Madeira; Von Viesing, the author, has also offered his services. Shall I not hear of something? I shall wait a little longer; still I ought to be going home, but how can I go without any hope! Oh! that unfortunate ship, it haunts me night and day!…”
The evening of the 1st of December, 1775, was particularly wet and windy. The snow which had fallen in the morning was now all melted; there were pools of water everywhere; the few and far between carriages and pedestrians gloomily splashed along the streets. There was a storm. The wind howled over the house of the priest, shaking the shutters, and bending the enormous trees in the garden of the Hetman. The Neva was swollen; an inundation was imminent. From time to time could be heard the gloomy sound of the cannon from the fortress.
Father Peter was in the attic with the girls, and very thoughtful. The conversation could not be kept up to the accompaniment of the howling wind; it frequently had to be broken. Vâra was telling the cards; Irena appeared very displeased, and was relating with a very discontented face what leeches the secretaries in the Foreign Department were, the interpreters, and even thevery scribes. Notwithstanding the orders and personal interest of Count Pânin, they had as yet done nothing in Spain or on the islands. Projects were made on paper, copied, translated, everything, only to drag on.
“You should just oil a little … through the servants, or somehow,” said the priest.
“Oh! she gave without stint,” answered Vâra for her friend.
“Oh! those laggards,” said Father Peter. “Yes, it’s high time our empress should return from Moscow. We are badly off without her.”
The rain beat furiously on the windows like hail. The poor trembling drenched dog had hidden himself in his kennel, as though acknowledging that in such a storm, and with the cannon firing, no one would take the trouble to disturb him. All at once, after one of the booms of the cannon from the fortress, the dog began to bark most angrily, and, above the roar of the wind, the noise of the shutting of the gate was distinctly heard. Both girls shivered.
“Axenia is asleep,” said Father Peter, speaking of the cook. “Some one wants me, I suppose, and could not make himself heard at the front door.”
“Uncle, I’ll go and open it,” said Vâra.
“Oh! with your courage! You’d better sit still.”
The priest, taking the candle in his hand, went down and opened the door. There entered a not very tall, but stout man, with a red face. He had a cocked hat and sword, and seemed as if he had got rather wet while waiting at theperronto have the door opened.
“Secretary to the commander-in-chief, Oushakoff,” said he, shaking himself. “I am come to you on a secret mission.”
The priest felt a little frightened. He remembered the papers brought by Rakitina. He shut the door, and invited his guest into the study, lighted a second candle, and having given his visitor a chair, took one himself and sat down to listen.
“‘The Sermons of Massillon’?” said Oushakoff, rubbing his cold hands, and looking at the book of celebrated sermons lying on Father Peter’s table. “Then I suppose you know the French language well?”
“I understand it a little,” said the priest, thinking within himself, “What can he want with me at this late hour?”
“Very probably, Batiushka, you understand German also; and, who knows, perhaps Italian?”
“I learnt German, and of course Italian resembles Latin very closely.”
“Consequently,” continued the stranger, “you know a little of those languages?”
“Well! here’s a Preceptor come to examine me,” thought the priest.
“Yes! a little,” he answered.
“Is it not strange, Father Peter, such questions; especially in the middle of the night?” said the stranger. “Now, confess; you do find it strange?”
“Yes! it is rather late,” said the priest, gaping and looking at him.
Oushakoff crossed one leg over the other, and looking up to the wall, saw a portrait of the then disgraced Archbishop Arsénia Matzaevitch, and thought to himself, “Ah! well, he sympathises with that scoundrel. I shall have to be very determined with him, very brusque!”
“I will not delay any longer,” said he. “This is what it is. His Grace, the commander-in-chief, desires your Right Reverence to take all the necessary vessels, and immediately, without any delay, to follow me … to a foreigner—of the Grecian Faith.…”
“But what is all this about?”
“To celebrate two Sacraments.”
“But which?”
“Excuse me, but is it necessary for you to know, beforehand?” answered Oushakoff. “There must be no hesitation. The orders come from high powers.”
“I must get everything ready,” answered the priest, “so I must know which.”
“First Baptism, then Confession, and Holy Communion,” answered Oushakoff.
“Now, in the night?”
“Just so. A carriage is waiting.”
“May I take the clerk?”
“The orders are, ‘without any witnesses.’”
“Where is it, if I may ask?”
“I cannot answer. You will know all afterwards. Now, only one thing; there must be no delay, and the most profound secrecy,” said Oushakoff, with a haughty inclination of his head, although in earnest of his request, he pressed with both his hands his cocked hat, dripping with the rain, to his breast.
“May I at least tell my household, and allay their anxiety?”
Oushakoff knit his brows, and silently shook his head. The priest took the cross and books, called to Vâra in the attic to shut the door, and by the time his niece had descended, the carriagewas rolling noisily away in the street. Driving up to the palings of the church, Father Peter woke up the clerk, went into the church, and took the chalice.
The carriage stopped at the house of the Commander-in-Chief Galitzin. The prince was informed of the arrival of the priest, and ordered him to be brought to his bedroom, where he was awaiting him in his dressing-gown.
“Mille pardons, Batiushka,” said the prince, hurriedly dressing. “Most important affair; by orders of the highest authority. You must first give me your oath that you will be silent for ever on everything heard and seen this night. Do you swear?”
“As one offering up a bloodless sacrifice,” answered Father Peter, “I will be faithful to my Sovereign, without any oaths.”
Galitzin was a little embarrassed at first, but he did not insist. He related to the priest a few of the circumstances concerning the captive.
“Did you ever hear anything of her before?” he asked the priest.
“Yes! a few rumours did reach me.…”
“Have you heard that she is now in Petersburg?”
“I hear it for the first time.”
Galitzin told him of the anxiety of the empress, of the several foreign inimical parties, and of the false wills.
“The doctor has quite given her up,” added the field-marshal. “Not only her days, but her hours are numbered.”
Father Peter crossed himself.
“She wishes to be prepared,” continued the prince, as if choosing his words. “It is not for me to teach you what to do. Most probably, like a good shepherd, you will lead her to a full Confession and Repentance as to who she is, and if she has taken a name not belonging to her, and who incited her to do it?… Will you do this?”
The priest lingered with his answer.
“Give your word that you will help justice.”
“I know my duty and my obligations as minister of God,” answered Father Peter, drily, coughing.
“You may go,” said the prince, bowing. “You will be conducted where you are needed. As to me, I hope you will excuse the trouble I have given you at such a late hour.”
The carriage, with the priest and Oushakoff, took the road to the fortress. At the door of the commandant’s they noticed another carriage.
The priest was led into a special room, where he saw the Général Procureur, Prince Viazimski. Near the prince stood the tall, manly, ruddy-faced commandant of the fortress, Tchernishoff, and, near the latter, his still young-looking and smartly dressed wife.
“Is everything ready?” asked Viazimski, looking round.
“Everything is ready,” answered theCommandantsha,[47]trembling and bowing in her rustling farthingale.
“Be so good as …” said the Prince Viazimski to the priest.
They all went into the next room, where candles in the tall silver candlesticks had already been lighted. Between them stood a font, and near it a woman, commonly dressed, and holding in her arms something wrapped in white.
“Begin, Holy Father,” said Viazimski, pointing to the font and to what the woman held.
Father Peter put on his vestments, took thecenser from the hands of Tchernishoff, opened the Prayer-Book, and began the ceremony.
The sponsors were the finely dressed, affected wife of the commandant, and the général procureur himself.
They gave the newly christened babe the name of Alexander. The ceremony was finished; thecommandantsha, with the babe in her arms, continued turning and twisting about, trying with her airs and graces to attract the attention of the général procureur to herself and her rustling silk dress.
“Whose child?” asked the priest, lowering his voice, and respectfully inclining the cross towards the godfather, who drew near.
Viazimski looked at him, quite taken aback.
“Under what name must I inscribe him in the register?” asked Father Peter. “Who are the parents?”
“But is that absolutely necessary?” asked the général procureur, in a displeased voice.
“As you may order.… By right, the ceremony requires it. Who knows what may happen in the future?… We are bound.…”
“Right,” said Viazimski. “Alexander Alexéef, son of Chesmenski.”
The priest silently, with a trembling hand, inscribed the name in the baptismal register.
“Now another Sacrament.… Here is your guide,” said the Prince Viazimski sighing, pointing to the smart commandant, who was standing drawn up to his full height. “I hope that everything will be fulfilled according to orders.”
With these words, he left the room and drove home.
Father Peter, holding the chalice to his breast, followed Tchernishoff. His heart beat faster when, having crossed the little bridge in the interior, they entered a special yard, surrounded by a high wall. He at once understood that they had entered the fatal Ravelin of Alexéef.…
The priest and his guide, mounting a few steps, entered a long, dimly lighted corridor, and stopped before a low door.
“She is here,” whispered the priest to himself. The door led into a rather low but very comfortable room. There were no sentinels now. The candle near the bed shed a feeble light on the other part of the room, through a purposely arranged silk curtain. The room was close, and a faint odour of medicine and incense pervaded it. The priest glanced around, and silently stepped behind the screen.
The sick girl lay motionless on her bed, but was quite conscious.
She slowly raised her eyes to the visitor, and recognising that it was the priest by his dress, gently sighed, and held out her hand.
“I am very, very glad, Holy Father,” she whispered in French. “Perhaps you would prefer German?”
“Oui! Oui, comme il vous plaît,” stammered Father Peter, shivering involuntarily at the sound of that deep, broken contralto.
“I am ready; ask,” stammered the captive. “Pray for me.”
The priest carefully put the chalice on the table, drew a chair near the bed, passed his fingers through his bushy hair, and glancing at the image over the head of the sick girl, gently bent over her.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Princess Elizabeth.…”
“I conjure you, speak the truth,” continued Father Peter, trying to recollect the French words. “Who were your parents, and where were you born?”
“I swear by the Almighty God that I do not know,” answered the captive, with a hollow cough. “I knew and believed only what others told me.”
She answered all the other questions in a voice broken and so low as to be scarcely heard. She touched lightly on her childhood, the South of Russia, the village where she had lived, Siberia, her flight to Persia, and her residence in Europe.
“You are a Christian?” asked the priest.
“I was baptized into the Russian faith, and therefore look upon myself as belonging to the Russian Church, although until now, for many reasons, I have been deprived of the blessings of Confession and Holy Communion.… I have sinned a great deal. Trying to tear myself from my awful position, I gave my friendship to people who only betrayed me.… Oh, how thankful I am for your visit!”
“Among your papers were found two wills.… From whom did you receive them, and—hide nothing from God and from me—by whom was your Manifesto to the Russian fleet written?”
“All that was sent to me quite ready by persons quite unknown to me,” said the sick girl. “I had secret friends who pitied me. They tried to restore to me my lost rights.”
“But what is this?” thought the bewildered priest, listening to her. “Is all this fiction or truth? If this is deceit, my God, at what a moment!”
“You are on the borders of the grave,” said he, in a trembling voice; “on the verge of eternity.… Repent.… Between us there is only one witness—God.”
The penitent struggled within herself. Herbosom rose and fell, and her hand convulsively clutched her handkerchief and held it to her lips.
“In expectation of God’s judgment and my near death,” said she, turning her eyes to the image of the Saviour, “I confess and swear that all that I have told you and others is the truth. I know nothing more.…”
“But all this is impossible,” said Father Peter, in an agitated voice. “All that you have told me is so very improbable.”
The poor girl closed her eyes, as if from unendurable acute suffering. Large tears rolled down her thin and faded cheeks.
“Who were your accomplices?” asked the priest, after a short pause.
“Oh, no one! Have pity, have mercy; … and if I, weak, persecuted, without means.…”
The Princess did not finish. A hollow cough shook her frame. She suddenly raised herself, clutched at her breast, at the bed, and fell back, apparently lifeless.
The fainting fit lasted several minutes. Father Peter, thinking she was dying, began reading the prayers. The sick girl came to herself.
“Do not agitate yourself; be calm,” said the priest, noticing she was coming to.
“Oh, I cannot any more! Leave me! Go away!” murmured the sick girl. “Another time.… Let me rest.”
“I have just christened your son,” said the priest, wishing to give her a little courage. “I wish you joy for him. God is merciful; you may yet live for him.…”
A faint smile came on the poor parched lips of the captive. Her eyes wandered aimlessly around, as though seeing beyond that room, that fortress, beyond everything surrounding her, far away.…
Father Peter blessed the poor girl, gazed at her for some time, took the chalice, and having postponed the celebration of the Holy Communion, left the room.
“Well! what?” asked the commandant, who was waiting for him in the corridor; “has she confessed, communicated?”
The priest inclined his head, silently bowed to the commandant, entered the carriage, and left the Ravelin.
On the morning of the 2nd of December, he was asked to come to the fortress, and to bring the Elements of the Eucharist with him. The sick girl was fading rapidly.
“Think well, my daughter, and ease your soul,by repentance,” extorted the priest. “I conjure you, in the name of God, for the sake of the future life!”
“I am a sinner,” answered the dying girl, in a strangely quiet voice; “from my very youth I have sinned against God, and feel myself to be a great impenitent sinner.”
“I absolve thee from thy sins, my daughter,” said the priest, devoutly praying and blessing her; “but thy Pretendership, thy sins against the empress,—thy accomplices?”
“I am a Russian grand-duchess! the daughter of the late empress,” faintly murmured the captive, hardly moving her benumbed lips. The priest bent over her to administer the Sacrament; but the captive lay motionless, almost lifeless.
Father Peter returned home in a very agitated frame of mind. “Is she a usurper?” thought he. “Of course, man will stick to anything in his own interests. But dying—almost with her last breath, after such terrible privations, almost torture! What if she’s innocent, not an adventuress? remembers her childhood, repeats always the same—of course, in all this, she is the only witness. Is it her fault that her proofs are so scanty, so insignificant?”
The priest, on coming home, went straight to his study. Having learnt that the girls were not at home, he lighted his stove, shut the door, and once more took the diary of Konsov in his hands. Having again glanced over the manuscript, he wrapped it in a sheet of paper, tied it round with a string, sealed it, and wrote on the outside paper—“To be opened only after my death.” This roll he put at the bottom of a trunk, where he kept many precious documents and manuscripts.He had hardly shut the lid down, when a knock was heard at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Friends!” and his niece entered with Rakitina.
“What is the matter with you, dear uncle,” asked Vâra, looking at the priest; “you look agitated—this is the second day you’ve been out driving?…”
Irena looked at him inquiringly. “Perhaps he has some news for me,” thought she.
“About other people’s business; of no interest to you, my dear; and you, Irena Lvovna, be magnanimous and forgive me,” continued the priest, turning round to Rakitina. “Times are troublous, it is now too dangerous to keep the manuscripts you brought from home. I know you will soon go away, but the village even is not safe. You’ll forgive an old man.”
Irena turned pale.
“All sorts of rumours are floating about—search may be made,” continued Father Peter. “Scold me, young lady, but your manuscript.…”
“Where is it? oh, you’ve not burnt it?” cried Irena, involuntarily glancing at the lighted stove.
Father Peter silently bowed.
Irena clasped her hands.
“Oh! my God!” she cried, unable to keep back her tears; “the last consolation, the last token of remembrance, and that is gone! What shall I carry away with me now?”
Vâra looked reproachfully at her uncle.
“Afterwards, dear young lady; in time you shall know everything, but now it is better to be silent,” said the priest in a decided voice. “God’s ways are not our ways. The enemy’s path is full of snares. Pray to God; He will have mercy.”
But the priest was not to be left in peace. That very day he was again called to the commander-in-chief.
“Well, did you get anything from the captive?” asked Galitzin.
“Excuse me, your Grace,” answered Father Peter, “but the secrets of the Confession.… No! I cannot, I dare not.”
Galitzin became embarrassed.
“What a commission!” thought Galitzin, blushing. “Ah, those counsellors.… Orloff, you can see, unable to rest, is again inventing something at Moscow, and I—play the Inquisitor.…”
“Well, Batiushka! that’s my orders from high.…”
“I cannot, your Grace; ’twould be against my conscience.”
Galitzin moved his lips, not finding a way out of his embarrassment.
“Whoisshe?” said he, trying to look very important and determined. “Cannot you see this is a State secret, a most important one. You see I must send a report. There will be inquiries; I’m answerable for everything, for order. Here, I … I alone!”
“One thing I may tell your Grace—while I am alive, I’ll keep the oath exacted by you.”
The field-marshal was all ears.
“I’ll not let one word fall of what I heard at the Confession,” continued Father Peter. “You exacted from me an oath of silence, but I can inform you of one thing, prince, although it is my own personal opinion: the captive has been much calumniated, a great deal has been invented, … and what if she.…”
“Oh! speak, speak!” said the field-marshal.
“What if the captive were innocent?” said the priest; “why should she suffer all that?”
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the prince, he could not have been more wonderstruck.
“You assure me—do you mean to say, that shehad no accomplices?” said he; “that she was no traitor? But then, am I to understand that she is our own truly born grand-duchess! But is it possible? No, not for one minute can I think it!”
Father Peter, with his head bent down, was silent.
“No! you make a mistake, that’s all a dream, delirium,” cried out the field-marshal, clutching at the bell rope. “Horses!” he called to the orderly, who at once came in, “I’ll try; time is not yet quite lost. I’ll see for myself.”