CATHERINE AND THE CZAR.
IT was not until the day after the meeting with mademoiselle at the
Kremlin that M. de Lambert confided to me something of her talk with
him. It appeared that Zotof was straining every nerve to bring about
her union with the czar, with or without her consent; Dolgoruky, the
Marshal Sheremetief, and a dozen more of the nobility supporting him in
his desire for an alliance that would destroy rather than strengthen
the influence of Mentchikof. The old jealousy of the favorite, “the man
of the hour,” was glowing in the bosoms of Mentchikof’s associates, and
it was probable that they would go to any length to defeat his attempt
to establish Catherine Shavronsky in the czar’s favor, and the fact
that Peter had openly expressed his admiration for Najine supplied a
weapon ready to their hands.
There was an old custom that the czar should send the bridal robes to
the maiden whom he had selected, as a sign that his choice was made.
Mademoiselle told her lover that Madame Zotof was already making
preparations for some such event. Najine herself was determined to
resist any coercion, and she had a fine spirit. Peter had declared
against the old compulsory marriages, and he would scarcely care
to be the first to violate his own regulations; so there was the
better opportunity for mademoiselle to assert her independence. The
czar had probably not foreseen the possibility of any woman being
indifferent to his advances; his success in affairs of the heart having
been already but too conspicuous. But, after all, I fancied that
mademoiselle’s resistance could scarcely endure under the pressure that
would be brought to bear. Peter’s temperament was not one to brook
disappointment, and there was the force of his powerful will which
it would be hard for one young girl to resist. I saw that even M. de
Lambert was much cast down, and I felt more anxiety than he did, for I
had also the responsibility of steering him clear of the quicksands of
trouble that were spreading about his feet. I staked my chief hopes on
Mentchikof, on his ambition, diplomacy, and influence, and I determined
to keep him informed of the Dolgoruky intrigue by a delicate hint now
and then which would serve as a guide for his ready wit. He was not
slow to divine my friendliness to his scheme, and I saw that he was
inclined to extend every favor in his power to Guillaume de Lambert;
his kindness to him somewhat reassuring me, for I was convinced that he
would not willingly injure Mademoiselle Zotof, if she could be removed
from his path without violence.
It was at Mentchikof’s palace that I saw the czar bestow some marked
notice upon the Livonian girl, but at the same time he did not forget
to be cold to M. de Lambert. It was a week after the meeting by the
Tower of Ivan Veliki that we were bidden to a ball by Mentchikof.
Madame de Brousson had no love for these fêtes where the czar presided;
there was frequently too much liquor and too much violence, so she
pleaded indisposition, and M. de Lambert and I went alone. If the truth
must be told, I think that madame my wife looked with disapproval upon
both Mademoiselle Arsenief and Catherine, and therefore avoided their
presence. She had always preferred to live a retired life, and the sins
and the follies of a court were little to her taste. As a young girl,
she had seemed to me a model of purity, and she was no less so as a
matron.
M. Guillaume and I were late in arriving at the palace of Mentchikof,
and found it already crowded by the suite of the czar. When Peter went
to dine, it was not unusual for him to take with him eighty or ninety
guests and a hundred servants. With some difficulty we pushed our way
through the throng and entered the _salon_, at the end of which a
stage had been erected, and a German play was in progress. This was a
form of entertainment much favored by Peter and his court, where the
German influence predominated, German clothes were worn, and the German
language was more frequently spoken than any other, for the German
suburb of Moscow had been a potent influence in Peter’s early life; his
German friends and favorites having excited the jealousy of the Russian
people. To the end of the czar’s life, his favor for foreigners and his
constantly enforced foreign innovations were causes of bitterness and
rebellion.
The room was thronged, and to avoid interruption M. de Lambert and I
remained standing at the entrance, silent observers of the scene. The
drama was not without wit, but of a coarse and common sort that would
have been little to the taste of the Court of Versailles. However, the
audience seemed to enjoy it, especially the czar, who sat almost in the
center of the _salon_ surrounded by his immediate circle, Mentchikof,
Sheremetief, Repnin, Dolgoruky, and Prince Gregory Galitsyn, a cousin
of my exiled friend. The rival interests of the court were represented.
At a short distance from the czar were Madame Golovin, Madame
Sheremetief, the Arsenief sisters, and Catherine Shavronsky, the last
in a splendid robe of white velvet embroidered in silver, and wearing a
rope of pearls around her full white throat. It was a brilliant scene
of light and color, for all the great personages in Moscow were there,
and the gay velvet coats and powdered perukes made an odd contrast to
the old costumes that I remembered so well. Here were ruffles of lace
and the sheen of satin, and on nearly every breast gleamed a rare jewel
or a conspicuous order, the czar alone wearing his usual simple attire,
as if he scorned the rules that he made for others.
When the drama was over, I advanced to make my obeisance to Peter.
He received me graciously, but scarcely noticed M. de Lambert, which
was enough to convince me that Tikhon had not failed to report his
observations. Mentchikof saw the young man’s embarrassment, and taking
him aside talked pleasantly for a quarter of an hour. Catherine
Shavronsky was also gracious to him, which amused me not a little,
especially as I noticed that the czar was observing her narrowly,
and seemed to take an unusual interest in her conduct. I could not
deny to myself that she was beautiful, and that there was something
about her that suggested an ability above the common order. It was
not long before I found myself in her vicinity, and she greeted me
with a brilliant smile, extending her hand. She was not trammelled by
Mademoiselle Zotof’s blushes and youthful dignity; her manner was calm
and frank. It was, perhaps, this very quality that appealed to the
czar’s fancy.
“You were tardy, M. le Maréchal,” she said, upbraiding me. “I had
almost given up the hope of seeing you, and we are fortunate to-night
in having the presence of his Majesty.”
“I thought that the czar was frequently here, mademoiselle,” I said
purposely, “in the house of his favored friend.”
“Then you are mistaken, sir,” she retorted a little tartly. “It is long
since his Majesty has been here to enjoy a play. We have been under a
cloud, or, at least, so it seemed.”
I stood a moment looking upon the floor. In fact, I was revolving many
things in my mind.
“Mademoiselle,” I remarked absently, “it may be that some other star
drew away the imperial attention for the moment.”
A peculiar expression came over her face.
“You have seen the star,” she said, taking up my figure of speech. “Was
it beautiful?”
“Most lovely, mademoiselle,” I said at once; “pure and unsullied in its
radiance.”
She stood there twisting the pearls about her throat until I saw them
press into the delicate flesh, and her lips were compressed. It was a
moment before she spoke.
“I have been told,” she said in a low voice, “that some stars never
reach the greatest heights, but are content to shine in semi-obscurity.”
“That may be true, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but when a star is
radiant it must rise, unless some brighter planet outshines it.”
She looked at me keenly, and I returned her regard with a placid smile.
“Your friend M. de Lambert,” she said, “is, I hear, also an observer of
the stars.”
“I commend him to your friendship, mademoiselle,” I said quietly; “it
may be that he will have need of it. A brave soldier, but a hot-head.”
“We must find him a Russian bride, monsieur,” she said at once, a
gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Mentchikof and all the members of
this household will aid you. I feel myself a lively interest in M. de
Lambert’s happiness.”
“He is fortunate, mademoiselle,” I replied, “in having such champions,
but there is only one way to remove all rivals from his path.
Mademoiselle Shavronsky herself must interpose.”
She twisted the chain of pearls so tight that the necklace broke, and
they fell scattered on the floor. I stooped to gather the fragments,
but she received them with disdain.
“A trifle,” she said, placing her foot upon them. “What are pearls when
I have not my heart’s desire?”
“_Ciel!_” I exclaimed in a low tone, “admit it not, mademoiselle. What
can be beyond the reach of your beauty and your wit? The ladder of fate
is climbed step by step; never go back to a lower rung.”
Her momentary peevishness had passed, and she gave me a radiant glance.
“I thank you,” she said; “the advice is excellent, but I have heard
that it is more bitter to fall, when the height is once attained, than
never to attempt the ascent.”
“Many things in this life are bitter, mademoiselle,” I replied
philosophically, “but youth and beauty should not look upon the darker
side.”
As I spoke, there was a sudden confusion at the other side of the room,
and we both turned to discover the cause. The czar was the center of an
excited group, and before him stood a young man whom I knew by name,
Yury Apraxin. A glance at Peter showed me that he was in one of those
sudden and violent fits of passion which occasionally carried him
beyond the bounds of reason, while Apraxin was painfully embarrassed,
but maintained his position with sullen hauteur. We could not hear his
reply to Peter; but in a moment the czar struck him in the face with
his open palm, and would doubtless have followed the blow with some
great indignity if Mentchikof had not interposed his person, while
Sheremetief hurried the young nobleman to the door. Apraxin’s face
was white with fury at the insult, and in another instant, but for
Sheremetief, he would have struck back at the czar. The silence in the
_salon_ was sudden and painful. Peter thrust his favorite aside, and
with a crimson face shouted to his equerry to arrest the offender.
“I will have his head!” he cried fiercely.
From a scene of gayety it had become almost a tragedy. His Majesty’s
outbursts of fury were often fruitful of fearful results, and he was
ever at his worst when flushed with wine. Every face was pale, and the
women drew back with startled eyes, while the men regarded the czar
with ill-concealed apprehension. The autocrat himself stood in the
center of the apartment, his great figure towering over the others
and his breast heaving, while his face twitched with that nervous
affliction which made his expression for the time terrific. Through the
open door we could see Apraxin, struggling in the arms of his friends.
“What is the trouble?” I asked, in a whisper, of a courtier near me.
He glanced at me in a frightened way. “The young fool got into a
dispute with his Majesty about the battle of Narva,” he whispered back,
“praised the courage of Charles of Sweden, and condemned the conduct of
the Russian troops.”
I understood. It was the weak point in Peter’s armor; he never forgot
or forgave Narva until the victory of Poltava.
In a moment something happened which again transformed the scene.
While the czar was still quivering with ill-suppressed passion, in the
midst of an extending circle of courtiers, Catherine left my side and
advanced across the space. She was short, but she had a peculiarly
majestic mien in her sweeping white garments, her beautiful shoulders
bare and her proud head slightly bent. She walked straight up to the
infuriated czar, and knelt gracefully before him. Peter stared at her
in undisguised amazement, and the others were transfixed; not a word
was uttered, every eye was turned on the two central figures, the
massive form of the czar, contrasting with the figure of the woman at
his feet.
“I pray your Majesty’s forbearance,” she said, in a clear voice that
was heard the length of the room.
“Rise, Catherine,” he exclaimed, in an embarrassed tone, his passion
suddenly arrested by her unlooked-for interference.
“Nay, sire,” she replied gently, “I am a suppliant, and suppliants must
kneel. I crave your Majesty’s forgiveness for this young man who has
so unhappily offended. I doubt not that he regrets his fault, and your
Majesty’s anger is too great a chastisement. You are royal, and it is
royal to forgive!”
Her gesture and her glance were eloquent. I had never seen her so
beautiful. Her large eyes were kindled with some deep emotion, and her
face was pale, while her white throat was bare even of its necklace
of pearls. The Livonian peasant girl had suddenly assumed a dignity
that was worthy of a nobler origin. The czar was silent, but we, who
knew his moods, saw that the tempest was spent, and that the natural
generosity of his disposition would prevail; he was even perhaps a
little ashamed of the vehemence of his outburst. Whether she was sure
of her success or not, she spoke again, and now there was a thrill in
her rich voice.
“Sire,” she said softly, “you once promised me a boon--I claim your
pledge. Give me this boy’s pardon; a king may not break his word!”
The czar’s face paled, but he took her hand and raised her to her feet.
“Have I ever broken mine to you, sweetheart?” he said, a sudden smile
dispelling the cloud upon his face. “The youth has my pardon, but keep
him out of my sight for a while; I love not such disputatious boys.”
As he spoke, he drew a small bit of twisted paper from his pocket and
laid it in her hand. “I owe you something, Catherine,” he said, “since
you alone had the courage to remind me that I was a king.”
She bowed her graceful head and kissed his hand, and then the murmur
of talk arose; the spell was broken, and the startled courtiers
could breathe again. They flocked about Catherine with ill-concealed
admiration of her prowess, and many curious glances were cast upon the
paper package in her fingers. To gratify them, she opened the tiny
parcel, and smoothing out the old and wrinkled wrapper revealed a
splendid ruby,--a sign of favor that increased her circle of admirers.
It was characteristic of the czar to bestow a superb present with
nonchalance, and to wrap a jewel in a bit of soiled paper. To me the
scene was strangely significant; I had watched it as I would have
watched a cleverly conducted drama. Who but this Livonian woman would
have dared to achieve that success, and, after all, did she not stand
high in the czar’s regard? Looking across the _salon_, I saw into the
ante-room beyond, where they had hurried Apraxin out of sight, and
by the door stood M. de Lambert; reading the expression on his face,
I divined his thought. He was radiant; he fancied that Mademoiselle
Shavronsky had won the day. But I reflected that the road of court
intrigue is tortuous, and that there are many turnings before the end
is in view. I saw not only the satisfaction on the face of Mentchikof
and his _clique_, but the anger and anxiety on the countenances of
Prince Dolgoruky and Sheremetief and a dozen more, who I knew had
no toleration for the favorite or his schemes. Meanwhile the czar’s
good-humor had returned, and he was boisterous in the reaction. The
wine was already affecting several of the boyars, two or three were
foolishly happy, and a third was so belligerently inclined that he had
to be forcibly removed. The amount of liquor consumed often made the
guests at these entertainments violently ill, for there was a rivalry
over the quantity that each man could drink. When M. de Lambert and I
retired, the revelry was at its height and the czar was perhaps the
only sober man present, for Peter could drink unhurt more wine than his
most bibulous courtier.
As M. de Lambert and I walked to our quarters through the crooked
lanes, the first rosy tint of sunrise was spreading like a blush along
the eastern sky, while above it the morning star shone like a solitary
jewel in the pallid blue. The white buildings of the Kremlin loomed
ghostlike through the mist that was rising in a soft cloud over the
river Moskva; the city was as silent as a tomb; the shuttered windows
of the houses closed in their secrets, and the streets lay in the
dark, untouched by the golden shafts of light that were illuminating
the horizon. The spell of midnight was upon the earth, the radiance of
daybreak in the heavens, and between, a wreath of mist.
For a time no words passed between us, and then M. de Lambert spoke.
“The youth was foolish,” he said thoughtfully, “but the czar was wrong;
it was an unkingly act.”
“He has a kingly temper,” I said lightly; “the boy escaped easily.”
“It was not royal,” M. de Lambert went on, “and he lost a loyal
subject. I saw Apraxin’s face; he will never forgive it.”
“The czar can afford to offend,” I replied dryly; “royalty is rich in
friends.”
“No man can afford to be unjust,” M. de Lambert rejoined with that
generosity that was natural to him, for he had a noble nature.
“Mademoiselle Catherine has set her heart upon the crown, and she is
clever,” I remarked softly.
“I rejoiced to see it,” he said with relief in his voice, and added
eagerly, “did you note his manner, monsieur? He was very tender with
her.”
I laughed aloud. “Ah, M. de Lambert,” I said, “set not too great store
by that; the royal heart, we know, is fickle. Remember Madame de
Montespan!”