CHAPTER I

By DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI

=THE DEATH OF THE GODS.= Authorized English Version by HERBERT TRENCH. 12o

=THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI: THE FORERUNNER.= (The Resurrection

of the Gods.) Authorized English Version from the Russian. 12o. With 8

Illustrations

—— Artist’s Edition, with 64 illustrations. 2 vols., 8o

=PETER AND ALEXIS.= Authorized English Version from the Russian. 12o

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

New York London

PETER AND ALEXIS

THE ROMANCE OF PETER THE GREAT

BY

DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI

AUTHOR OF “THE DEATH OF THE GODS” (THE EMPEROR JULIAN)

AND “THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI”

_Sole Authorised Translation from the Russian_

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

PREFATORY NOTE

This remarkable novel, the first by Merejkowski on a purely Russian

theme, completes the already famous historical Trilogy, of which _The

Death of the Gods_, and _The Forerunner_, or Romance of Leonardo da

Vinci, were the two former instalments. For some account of the author,

and of the main idea underlying the Trilogy, the reader is referred to

the English preface to _The Death of the Gods_.

These novels, which may be read independently of each other, have been

very successfully translated into all the principal European languages;

and the exclusively authorized English translations of them, published

in England by Messrs. Archibald Constable, and in the United States by

Messrs. Putnam, are being again issued in new editions respectively in

both countries.

The present translation, although it is feared much like Heine’s “stuffed

moonbeam,” has been made direct from the Russian original, and pains have

not been spared to render it exact. Thanks are due to Mr. W. R. Morfill,

Reader in Russian to the University of Oxford, for his kind assistance on

one or two difficult points.

A word of explanation is due to the English and American public with

regard to the purpose of the present work.

No one who knows Merejkowski personally, no one who reads his story with

a fair mind, will imagine for a moment that it is written to please or

to amuse the “young person.” It is intended for men and women. It is a

simple and earnest psychological study of the most moving episode in the

life of the greatest of the Romanoff princes. It is a sketch, vivid and

true, of classes and conditions,—of court and society,—of peasants and

wild religious beliefs—in Russia at the beginning of the eighteenth

century. As regards the bulk of her population she has not materially

changed.

Russia at that time lay in a position relative to Europe precisely

analogous to that occupied by Japan thirty-five years ago. The vaster

country, as the reader will see, was beginning, through the person of its

sovereign, humbly to learn of the civilised West, just as Japan began to

do so also through her sovereign’s efforts in 1868.

But in this book a strange additional feature of interest for the present

moment is a psychological feature. The character of the Romanoff family

is a persistent one; and in the course of this novel, with its single

terrific scene, dull indeed will be the reader who does not step by

step more clearly discern in the soul of the luckless Alexis the very

lineaments and complexion of Nicholas, the now living occupant of the

Russian throne. This is the key to the book. Possibly before another year

has expired, perhaps even before these words are being read, he will

occupy the throne no longer; and the forces that may remove him would be

essentially the same forces as those which decided the fate of Alexis.

LONDON, _September, 1905_.

CONTENTS

PAGE

BOOK I. THE VENUS OF PETERSBURG 9

BOOK II. ANTICHRIST 51

BOOK III. THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF THE TSAREVITCH ALEXIS 99

BOOK IV. THE FLOOD 171

BOOK V. DESOLATION OF THE HOLY PLACES 227

BOOK VI. THE TSAR’S SON IN EXILE 271

BOOK VII. PETER THE GREAT 333

BOOK VIII. THE WERE-WOLF 373

BOOK IX. THE RED DEATH 415

BOOK X. FATHER AND SON 461

_Epilogue_

THE CHRIST WHO IS TO COME 513

Book I

THE VENUS OF PETERSBURG

CHAPTER I

“_Antichrist is coming._ He, the last of devils, has not yet come

himself; but the world is teeming with his progeny. The children are

preparing the way for their father. They twist everything to suit

the designs of Antichrist. He will appear in his own due time, when

everywhere all is prepared and the way smoothed. He is already at the

door. Soon will he enter!”

Thus spake an old man of fifty, a clerk, judging by his clothes, to a

young man, who, wrapped in a nankeen dressing gown, with slippers on his

bare feet, was seated at a table.

“And how do you know all this?” asked the young man. “Of that day it is

written: _Neither the Son, nor the angels know_; but you seem to know.”

He yawned, and then after a moment’s silence asked:

“Do you belong to the heretics—the Raskolniks?”

“No, I am an Orthodox.”

“Why did you come to Petersburg?”

“I have been brought here from Moscow, together with my account books. An

informer reported me for taking bribes.”

“Did you take them?”

“I did. I was not compelled to, neither did I do it for the sake of

extortion, but in all fairness, and with a clean conscience, being

satisfied with whatever was freely given me for the clerk-work I did.”

He said it so simply that it was evident he did not consider bribe-taking

necessarily a fault.

“The informer could add nothing to the proof of my guilt, which was

disclosed by the entries made in certain agents’ books, showing that

they had for years been wont to give me trifling sums, amounting in

all to two hundred and fifteen roubles; and I have nothing wherewith

to repay the sum. I am poor, old, sad, wretched, disabled, destitute;

and unable any longer to do my work, I beg to be discharged of it. Most

merciful Highness! open your bowels of compassion unto me, and protect a

defenceless old man; cause me to be exempted from this unjust payment!

Have mercy upon me, I beseech you, Tsarevitch Alexis Petrovitch!”

Alexis had met this old man some months ago in Petersburg, at St. Simeon

and St. Anne’s Church. Noticing him because of his unshaven, grizzled

beard—so unusual for clerks—and his zealous reading of the Psalms in the

choir, the Tsarevitch had asked him his name, position, and whence he

came.

The old man had introduced himself, as a clerk of the Moscow Arsenal,

Larion Dokoukin by name. He had come from Moscow and was now staying

in the house belonging to the woman who made the consecrated bread at

St. Simeon’s; he had mentioned his poverty, the informer’s disclosure,

and also, almost in his first words, had referred to Antichrist. The

Tsarevitch had been touched by the pitiable condition of the old man

and told him to come to his house, promising to help him with money and

advice. Now that he stood before him in his torn coat he looked the very

image of a beggar. He was one of those poor ordinary clerks, nicknamed

in Russia “inky souls,” “pettifoggers.” Hard were his wrinkles as though

fossilized, hard the cold look in the small dim eyes, hard his neglected

grizzled beard, his face colourless and dull as the papers which he had

been copying and had pored over may be for thirty years in his office. He

had accepted bribes from agents “in all fairness”; he may have even been

guilty of roguery, and this was the conclusion he had suddenly arrived

at: Antichrist is coming!

“Is he not simply an impostor?” surmised the Tsarevitch, looking steadily

at him. There was nothing deceitful or sly in this face, but rather

something artless and helpless, sombre and stubborn, as with people who

are possessed by an _idée fixe_.

“There was yet another reason for my coming here,” added the old man,

and then stopped short, unable to continue; the _idée fixe_ was slowly

working its way through his hard features. He cast down his eyes, fumbled

with one hand in his breast pocket, pulled out some papers, which had

apparently slipped into the lining through the pocket-hole, and gave them

to the Tsarevitch.

They consisted of two thin, greasy, quarto booklets, filled with the

large legible handwriting of a clerk.

Alexis began to read them carelessly, but gradually became more and more

absorbed.

At the beginning came passages from the Holy Fathers, the prophets, and

the Apocalypse, with reference to Antichrist and the end of the world.

Then followed an appeal to the chief clergy of great Russia, and of the

world, together with a prayer that they would forgive him, Dokoukin,

his impudence and rudeness for thus writing this without their fatherly

blessing, prompted as he had been solely by much suffering, sorrow and

zeal for the Church, and with a further prayer that they would also

intercede on his behalf with the Tsar and entreat him to show mercy unto

himself, and vouchsafe him a hearing. Then followed what was evidently

Dokoukin’s main idea, “_God has ordained man to be master of himself_ (to

exercise self-will, to be autonomous,)” and at the end came an accusation

against the Tsar Peter:

“Nowadays we are cut off from this divine gift—life absolute and free;

as well as deprived of houses, markets, agriculture, handicrafts and

all the old established trades and laws, and, what is worse still, of

Christian religion. We are hunted from house to house, from place to

place, from town to town; we are insulted and outraged. We have changed

all our customs, our language and dress; we have shaved our heads and

beards, we have basely defiled ourselves; we have lost all that was

characteristic both of nature and bearing, and in no wise differ now from

the foreigners; we have once and for all mingled with them, got used to

their ways, broken our Christian vows, and forsaken the holy churches.

We have turned away from the East, and directed our footsteps toward the

West, we have travelled along strange and unknown paths and have perished

in the land of oblivion. We have adopted strangers and have showered good

gifts upon them, while our own countrymen are left to die of hunger, to

be beaten on distraint and ruined absolutely by unbearable taxation. It

is inexpedient to give utterance to everything; more becoming is it to

place a bridle on one’s tongue. But the heart is sore distressed to see

the desolation of the New Jerusalem, and the troubled people smitten with

insufferable scourges!”

“All this,” ran the conclusion, “is done unto us for the sake of the

Lord Jesus Christ. O Secret Martyrs! fear not, neither despair, but

rise valiantly and arm yourselves with the cross to repel the power of

Antichrist. Suffer for the Lord’s cause, bear all patiently for yet a

little while! Christ will not forsake us. Unto Him be praise now and ever

more, world without end, Amen.”

“What was your reason for writing this?” asked the Tsarevitch, when he

had read through the booklet.

“A little while ago I dropped a letter like this in the porch of St.

Simeon’s,” answered Dokoukin, “but those who found the letter simply

burnt it, neither reporting it to the Tsar nor making any inquiries about

it. This petition here I think of nailing up somewhere in the Trinity

Church, near the Tsar’s palace, so that whoever reads it may be informed

and may report it to his Majesty. And I wrote this to bring about a

reform, so that the Tsar, should he once come to himself again, might

amend his ways.”

“A cheat,” flashed across Alexis’ mind, “and possibly an informer. Why in

the devil’s name did I thus commit myself?”

“Are you aware, Dokoukin,” said the Tsarevitch, looking straight into his

face, “are you aware of the fact that it is my duty, as citizen and son,

to report these, your seditious and rebellious writings, to my father the

Sovereign? And the twentieth article of the military regulations reads:

‘Whosoever shall use seditious language against his Majesty shall forfeit

his life by having his head cut off.’”

“It is for you to decide, Tsarevitch. For myself I am willing to suffer

for Christ’s sake.”

He said it in the same unpretentious manner as when he was speaking

about bribes. Alexis eyed him yet more closely. Before him was the same

ordinary clerk, the pettifogger, with the same cold look and dull face.

Only somewhere deep in his eyes something was again struggling forth.

“Are you in your right senses, old man? Consider what you are about!

Once in the torture chamber, there will be an end of joking; you will be

hanged by the ribs and smoked to death like Gregory of Talitsa.”

Gregory of Talitsa was one of those prophets, preaching the approach of

the judgment day, who had declared that Tsar Peter was the Antichrist,

and for this reason he had suffered the cruel death of being smoked on a

slow fire.

“With God’s help I am ready to give up my life,” answered the old man.

“To-day, to-morrow, we all must die once. It is meet to have done

something good with which to come before God, lest death should be our

lot there also.”

His manner remained as simple as before, yet there was something in the

calm face and subdued voice which inspired the conviction that this

arsenal clerk, discharged for having yielded to bribery, would really

meet death without flinching, like one of those “Secret Martyrs” he

mentioned in his petition.

“No,” the Tsarevitch promptly decided, “he is neither a cheat nor a spy,

but either mad or, in truth, a martyr.”

The old man hung his head, and added in a yet lower tone, as if to

himself, forgetful of the other’s presence: “God has commanded man to be

master of himself.”

Alexis rose and, without another word, tore a page from the booklet,

lit it at a lamp which was glimmering before the images, uncovered the

draught hole, opened the stove door, shoved in the papers, and waited; he

stirred them from time to time till they were reduced to ashes, then went

up to Dokoukin, who all the time stood watching him, laid his hand on his

shoulder and said:—

“Listen, old man, I will report you to none. I see you are an honest

man; I trust you. Tell me, do you wish me well?”

Dokoukin did not reply, yet his look made words unnecessary.

“If you do, then banish all this nonsense from your head! Never even dare

so much as think of writing such seditious letters; this is not the time

for them. If it were known you had been to see me, I too should fare ill.

Go, God be with you, and don’t come again. Don’t talk with any one about

me. Should you be questioned, keep your own counsel, and leave Petersburg

as quickly as possible. Now will you remember what I tell you?”

“What else can one do but obey you?” said Dokoukin, “the Lord knows I am

your faithful servant unto death.”

“Don’t fret about the informer’s report,” continued Alexis, “I’ll put in

a word where it is necessary, rest assured you shall be exempt from it

all. Now go—or no, wait, give me your handkerchief.”

Dokoukin handed him a dark blue chequered handkerchief, faded, full

of holes, as miserable looking as the owner. Alexis opened a drawer

in his small walnut wood desk, which stood next to the table, took

from it without counting about twenty roubles in silver and copper—a

whole treasure for the destitute Dokoukin—wrapped the money in the

handkerchief, and gave it back with a kindly smile.

“Take this for thy journey. On thy return to Moscow order a mass at the

Archangel Cathedral, and have God’s servant Alexis remembered. Only be

careful and don’t let it be known who this Alexis is!”

The old man took the money, yet neither thanked him nor stirred. He stood

as before, with his head hung down. At last he lifted his eyes, and began

in a solemn voice a speech which he had probably prepared beforehand:—

“As of old God quenched Samson’s thirst by means of an ass’s jawbone,

so to-day has not the same God used my ignorance as a means to convey

something useful and refreshing to you?”

But he suddenly broke down, his voice gave way, his solemn speech stopped

short, his lips trembled, he staggered and fell at Alexis’ feet.

“Have mercy, our Father, listen to us, poor, groaning, and lowliest of

slaves! Work zealously for the Christian faith; build up, control, give

to the Church peace and unity of spirit. Tsarevitch! Fair child of the

Church, our sun and Russia’s hope! the world is waiting to be enlightened

by thee. The scattered sons of God rejoice in thee. Who but thou can

succour us? We all are lost without thee, our beloved! have mercy!”

The old man knelt before Alexis, embracing his knees, weeping, and

covering his feet with kisses. The Tsarevitch listened, and this

desperate prayer seemed to gather into itself and give expression to the

wrongs of all those who were perishing, outraged, and goaded to despair,

a cry from the whole people for help.

“Enough, enough, old man,” he said, stooping and trying to lift him.

“Am I then blind and deaf? Does not my heart ache for you? The sorrow

is common to us. I feel the same as you do. Should God once grant me to

rule over this country, I will do all I can to ease the people’s lot.

Neither will I then forget you; I need faithful servants. And meanwhile

bear patiently, and pray God to speed the fulfilment, for His holy will

worketh in all things.”

He helped him up. The old man looked very weak and pitiful; but his

eyes glowed with such joy, as though he already beheld the salvation

of Russia. Alexis embraced, and kissed him on his forehead. “Good-bye,

Dokoukin, we shall meet some day, God willing. The Lord be with thee!”

* * * * *

When Dokoukin left, the Tsarevitch returned to his leather

arm-chair—which was old and well-worn, with the hair stuffing peering

through the holes, yet remarkably soft and comfortable, and there he sank

into a kind of doze or torpor.

Alexis was twenty-five years old, tall, slim, narrow across the shoulders

and in the chest; his face, too, was thin and strangely long, as if drawn

out and pointed at the chin; it looked old, sickly, and sallow, like the

face of people who suffer from kidney disease; his mouth was very small,

pitiful and child-like; long tufts of straight black hair surrounded his

large open arched brow. Such faces are common among monastic novices,

country deacons, and choristers. Yet when he smiled his eyes would light

up with intelligence and kindliness; his face would suddenly become young

and handsome and shine as with some soft inner light. At such moments he

resembled his grandfather, the gentle Tsar Alexis.

As he was now, wrapped in a dirty dressing gown, worn-out slippers on his

bare feet, sleepy, unshaven, his hair unkempt, he little looked like Tsar

Peter’s son. Last night’s drinking bout had given him a severe headache;

the best part of the day had gone while he slept it off; it was well on

towards evening when he got up. His disarranged couch, with its large

crumpled feather bed and sheets, could be seen through the open door in

the next room.

Upon the writing table there lay scattered before him sundry rusty

mathematical instruments, covered with dust; a broken antique censer

filled with frankincense, a tobacco grater, meerschaum pipes, an empty

hair-powder box, now used as an ash tray, piles of paper and books, all

in a muddle; notes on Baronius’ “Universal Chronicle,” in Alexis’ own

handwriting, were covered up by a heap of packet tobacco; a half eaten

cucumber was lying on the open page of a tattered book, whose title ran:

“Geometry or Earth—measurement by root and compass, for the instruction

of knowledge-loving painstakers”; a well picked bone was left on a

pewter plate, and close by a sticky liqueur glass with a fly buzzing in

it. Innumerable flies were crawling and buzzing in black swarms over

the walls, hung with torn, dirty grass-green oilcloth, over the smoked

ceiling, and the dim panes of the double windows, which had been left in

regardless of the hot June weather.

Flies were buzzing all around him, and drowsy thoughts swarmed like

flies in his mind. He remembered the fight which had ended last night’s

drinking bout; Jibanda struck Sleepyhead, Sleepyhead Lasher, and then

Father Hell. Starling and Moloch had rolled under the table. These were

nicknames which Alexis had given to his boon companions, “for his private

diversion.” Alexis also remembered beating and pulling somebody’s hair,

but who this somebody was, he could not recall. Last night it had amused

him, to-day he felt ashamed and miserable over it.

His head was again beginning to ache. He longed for another glass to

cure this drunken headache; but he was too lazy to go and get one, too

lazy even to call out to his servants. Yet the next moment he would be

obliged to dress, pull on his tight-fitting uniform, buckle his sword,

put on the heavy wig, which would only intensify his headache, and

present himself at the Summer Garden for a masque where all were ordered

to appear, under threat of terrible punishment for the defaulter.

He heard the voices of children skipping and playing in the courtyard.

A sickly ruffled green-finch twittered plaintively from time to time

in his cage over the window. The pendulum of a tall upright English

striking clock, an old present from his father, was ticking monotonously.

Seemingly interminable, melancholy runs of scales reached his ears from

the apartment overhead. It was his wife the Crown Princess Charlotte, who

was playing on a tinkling old German spinet. All at once he remembered

how last night, when drunk, he had railed about her to Jibanda and

Lasher: “I am encumbered with a devil of a wife. Come when I will to

her, she is always bad tempered, and will not speak to me. Such a mighty

personage!” “This won’t do,” he thought now, “I talk too much when I am

drunk, and afterwards I am sorry for it.” Was it her fault that, when but

a child, she was forced to marry him, and by what right did he mock her?

Sick, lonely, abandoned by all, in a foreign land, she was as unhappy

as himself. Yet she loved him, perhaps she was the only one who did

love him. He remembered their recent quarrel; how she had called out:

“The lowest cobbler in Germany treats his wife better than you do!” He

had angrily shrugged his shoulders:—“Go back to Germany then, God speed

you!” “Yes, I would, if I were not——” She had not continued, but had

burst into tears pointing to herself: she was with child. How well he

remembered those pale blue eyes, swollen with tears trickling down her

cheeks, washing off the powder she, poor girl, had specially put on for

him. Her usually plain features had become haggard and plainer yet during

pregnancy: a pathetic, helpless face. And yet he himself loved her, or at

any rate he pitied her, at times with some strange, hopeless, desperate,

poignant, well nigh overwhelming feeling of pity. Why then did he torture

her? Was he bereft of all sense of sin and shame? He would have to

answer for her before God.

The flies seemed quite to distract him. A hot slanting ray of the red

setting sun, coming through the window, just caught his eyes.

At last he altered the position of his arm-chair, turned his back to

the window, and fixed his eyes on the stove. It was a huge stove, built

of Russian glazed tiles imitated from the Dutch, clamped together at

the corners with brass. It was decorated with carved pillars, flowered

recesses, and sockets. Various curious animals, birds, human beings, and

plants were represented on a white ground in thick red, green, and dark

violet colours; under each design there was an inscription in Slavonic

characters. The colours glowed with unusual brightness in the glare

of the setting sun, and for the hundredth time Alexis looked at these

designs with drowsy curiosity and read over the inscriptions: under a

man with a musical instrument the legend: “I make melody;” under a man

sitting in an arm-chair with a book, “Improving the mind;” under a full

blown tulip the words: “My scent is sweet;” under an old man kneeling

before a beauty the words: “No love for an old man!” under a couple

sitting under a tree the words: “Taking good counsel together;” a birch

elf, French comedians, a Japanese priest, the goddess Diana and the

legendary bird Malkothea.

Meanwhile the flies go on buzzing; the pendulum ticks; the green-finch

pipes in a melancholy tone; the sound of scales from above, the voices

of children rise from the court below. The sharp red ray of sunlight

grows duller and fainter, the coloured figures assume life, the French

comedians play leap-frog with the birch elf, and the Japanese priest

winks at the bird Malkothea.

Everything begins to lose precision; his eyelids grow heavy, and but for

the large sticky black fly, no longer buzzing in the glass, but in his

head, all would be so quiet, so peaceful, in this dark red gloom.

Suddenly a shudder went through him; he started up. “Have mercy upon us!”

The words seemed to thunder within him with violent force. He cast a look

round his untidy room, and at himself, and his cheeks, bathed a moment

since in the red blaze of the setting sun, were now glowing with shame. A

goodly Hope of Russia indeed! Brandy, sleep, indolence, lies, filth, and

a ceaseless craven fear of his father.

Was it really too late? Was this really to be the end? Could he but shake

himself free, and run away! “Suffer for Christ’s sake,” again Dokoukin’s

words came to his mind,—“God willed man to be master of himself.” Yes, he

would join them ere it is too late. They, the Secret Martyrs, are calling

and waiting for him.

He started up as if really intending to act upon his impulse—to do

something irrevocable; as he stood there, indecisive, his heart sank with

foreboding.

The slow melodious brass chime of the clock rang out through the

stillness. It struck nine. When the last stroke had died away, the door

was gently pushed open, and a head peered into the room; it was his

valet, the aged Ivan Afanássieff.

“It is time to be going. Would you not like to get ready?” He muttered it

in his usual grumpy voice, as if he were chiding Alexis.

“No thank you, I am not going,” said Alexis.

“As you please. The order was for everyone to be present; your father

will again be wrathful.”

“Go, go.” Alexis was going to turn him out of the room, when looking

at this ruffled, unkempt, unshaven, unwashed, sleepy face, he suddenly

remembered, that it was this man he had pulled by the hair on the

previous night.

Alexis fixed on him a long perplexed gaze, as if he had only at this

moment fully awakened.

From the window the last ray of sunlight had died away; immediately the

room lost all its brightness, and grew dreary; it seemed as if some

monstrous grey cobweb, which up to that moment had been lurking in the

dirty ceiling, was now gradually descending, filling the space with a

dense net of dinginess.

The head continued to peer through the door, as if it had stuck there,

moving neither to nor fro.

“Have you at last decided whether you will dress or not?” repeated Ivan

in a yet gruffer voice.

Alexis waved his hand in utter helplessness.

“I will, it’s all the same!” and seeing the head did not disappear, but

apparently awaited further orders, he added:

“Just another glass of orange liqueur. My head is splitting from last

night’s drinking bout——”

The old man said nothing, yet his look plainly intimated, “It is not

_your_ head which ought to be aching after last night.”

Left to himself, the Tsarevitch clasped his fingers, stretched out his

arms till all the joints cracked, and yawned. Shame, fear, sorrow,

repentance, thirst for immediate heroism, all dissolved in this slow,

hopeless yawn, which neither pain nor contortions could repress, which

was more awful than any sob or groan.

* * * * *

In an hour’s time, washed and shaved, with hardly any trace of drink

about him, dressed in a tightly-fitting officer’s uniform of the

Preobrazhensky Regiment, of green cloth with red facings and golden

galoon, he was wending his way to the Summer Palace along the Neva in a

six-oared boat.

CHAPTER II

It was the twenty-sixth of June, 1715; a festival in honour of Venus

had been arranged for that day in the Summer Garden. Her statue, newly

arrived from Rome, was to be placed in the pavilion overlooking the Neva.

“I will have a braver garden than the French King at Versailles,” boasted

Peter. When away on campaigns, at sea or in foreign lands, the Tsaritsa

used to supply him with news about his favourite nursling: “Our garden

has come on beautifully, better than last year. The avenue leading from

the palace is almost entirely overshadowed with maple and oak trees.

Whenever I go out, I am grieved not to have you, my heart’s joy, with me.

Our garden is gradually becoming green, there is already a strong smell

of resin in the air,”—she was referring to the scent of the trees just

bursting into leaf.

The Summer Garden, in fact, was laid out on the same plan as the renowned

park at Versailles, with smoothly shorn trees, flower beds in geometrical

figures, straight canals, square lakes, swans, islets, bowers, ingenious

water-sprays, endless avenues, prospects, high leafy hedges, and

espaliers which resembled the walls of some grand reception hall. Here

people were encouraged to walk about, and when tired to seek rest and

seclusion, for which a goodly number of benches, pavilions, labyrinths

and green lawns were provided.

Yet, nevertheless, the Tsar’s garden was far inferior to the gardens at

Versailles.

The pale northern sun drew but puny tulips from the fat Rotterdam bulbs.

Only the humbler boreal flowers grew freely, such as, for instance,

Peter’s favourite, the scented tansy, double peonies, and melancholy

bright dahlias. Young trees, brought here with incredible trouble by

sea and by land even a distance of 1,000 miles—from Prussia, Poland,

Pomerania, Denmark, and Holland—were also far from flourishing; the

foreign soil nourished their roots but scantily. On the other hand, as

at Versailles, all along the main alleys marble busts and statues were

placed. Roman emperors, Greek philosophers, Olympian gods and goddesses

seemed to look at one another in amazement, unable to understand how

they got into this wild country of the “Hyperborean Barbarians.” These

statues, however, were not the antique originals, but feeble imitations

by second-rate Italian and German masters. The gods appeared to have only

just taken off their wigs and embroidered coats, the goddesses their

lace-trappings and robes; they seemed to wonder at their scarcely decent

nakedness, and resembled affected cavaliers and dames who had been taught

the delicacies of French politeness at the court of Louis XIV. and the

Duke of Orleans.

Alexis was walking along one of the side alleys, which led from the

large lake in the direction of the Neva. He was accompanied by a funny,

hobbling, bow-legged creature, who wore a shabby foreign-cut coat, a huge

wig and a flurried confused expression, like some one suddenly aroused

from his sleep. He was the head of the Armoury department and of the new

Printing Works, the first master-printer in Petersburg—Michael Avrámoff.

The son of a deacon, at the age of seventeen, Avrámoff had been taken

straight from the Breviary and Psalms to a trading vessel at Kronslot;

the vessel was bound for Amsterdam with a cargo of tar, skins, leather,

and a dozen “Russian youths,” who had been selected by Peter’s command

from “sharp youngsters,” for instruction abroad. After some study

of geometry and more at classic mythology, Avrámoff had received

commendations and a diploma from his teachers. Not stupid by nature,

he seemed to have been stunned and baffled by a too sudden transition

from the Psalms and Breviary to the Fables of Ovid and Virgil, and

never to have recovered. His mind had undergone something like a fit of

convulsions to which little children are subject, when suddenly startled

from their sleep, and ever since his face had retained that expression of

stupefaction.

“Tsarevitch, I confess to you, as before God,” spoke Avrámoff in a

monotonous whining tone, like the buzzing of a gnat, “my conscience is

uneasy, in that being Christians we yet worship idols.”

“What idols?” asked the Tsarevitch in amazement.

Avrámoff pointed to the marble statues along both sides of the alley.

“Our fathers and forefathers placed holy icons in their houses and along

the roads, but we are ashamed to do likewise, and set up shameless

idols instead. When God’s images have God’s power in them, the devil’s

images in like manner will surely hold the devil’s power. In the Most

Foolish Conclave with the Kniaz-Pope we have been serving the drunken

god Bacchus; and now, to-day, we are preparing to worship that dissolute

and obscene goddess Venus. These ceremonies are termed masquerades and

are not accounted to us for sin; for, they say, these gods have never

existed, and their lifeless statues are placed in house and garden solely

for the sake of ornament. But that is where folk fatally err; because

these ancient gods do really and verily exist.”

“You believe in their existence?” Alexis’ surprise increased.

“Your royal Highness, according to the witness of holy men, I believe

that the gods are evil spirits, who, being cast out of their temples

in the name of the Crucified, sought refuge in dark and desert places,

there pretending to be dead and non-existent till their hour should

come. But when ancient Christianity grew feeble and a new infamy had

sprung up, then these gods began to regain life, and leave their hiding

places; just as various worthless creeping things, scarabees and such

like poisonous vermin, emerging from their eggs sting people, so the evil

spirits emerging from their larvae, these ancient idols, sting and ruin

Christian souls. Do you remember Father Isaac’s vision, recorded in the

Holy Fathers? How beautiful young men and maidens with faces bright as

the sun, catching hold of the saint’s hands, whirled him away in a mad

dance to the strains of sweet music, and how when they had tired and

dishonoured him they left him almost dead, and disappeared? Then the Holy

Father knew that he had been visited by the ancient Greek and Roman gods,

Jove, Mercury, Apollo, Venus and Bacchus. Now the evil ones appear unto

us sinners to-day, but in disguise, so to speak. And we welcome them, and

mingling with them in obscene masquerades, we prance and dance, till in

the end, we shall all rush headlong into some deep Tartarus, or, like a

herd of swine, into the sea; ignorant fools, not to realize that these

beautiful, new, radiant, white devils are far more dangerous than the

most churlish and blackest Ethiopian monstrosities!”

It was almost dark in the garden, though it was but the middle of June.

Low, black, oppressive storm-clouds crept over the sky. Neither the

fireworks nor the festival had as yet been started. The air was as still

as in a room. Distant heat lightnings lit up the horizon, and each flash

revealed marble statues of almost painfully dazzling whiteness among the

green espaliers on both sides of the alley—it seemed as though white

phantoms were flitting along the glades.

After all Avrámoff had been telling him the Tsarevitch looked at them

with a new feeling. “Really,” he thought, “they _are_ just like white

devils.”

Voices became audible. By the sound of one of them, not loud but slightly

husky, and also by the red glowing spot, which to all appearance came

from the Dutch clay pipe, and disclosed the gigantic stature of the

smoker, Alexis recognised his father. He swiftly turned the corner of the

alley into a side path leading to a maze of lilac and box shrubs. “Like a

hare,” he angrily termed his action, which though almost instinctive was

nevertheless cowardice.

“What in the devil, Avrámoff, are you always talking about?” he

continued, feigning annoyance in order to cover his shame. “Excess of

reading seems to have muddled your brain.”

“I speak the pure truth, your royal Highness,” retorted Avrámoff, not

in the least hurt, “I have myself experienced the power of those evil

spirits; it was Satan who enticed me when I asked your father, the Tsar,

to let me print Ovid and Virgil. I have already issued one book with

drawings of the gods and their mad doings, and ever since I seem to have

been beside myself, and subject to insatiable lechery. The Lord has

forsaken me, and all sorts of strange gods, especially Bacchus and Venus,

have begun to haunt my dreams.”

“In what guise?” asked Alexis, his curiosity now aroused.

“Bacchus appeared to me in the shape of Martin Luther the heretic, just

as you see him in paintings, a red-faced German with a belly as round

as a beer barrel. Then Venus took the form of a girl whom I had known

during my stay in Amsterdam: a nude body, white as foam, scarlet lips

and impudent eyes. And when I awoke in the bath-house, for this devil’s

work happened there, the sly witch had changed to the priest’s serf girl,

Akoulína, who reviling me for hindering her having a bath, impudently

struck me across the face with a bunch of wet birch twigs, and jumping

into a snow drift in the yard—it happened in winter—she melted away in

thin air.”

“But this might very possibly have really been Akoulína,” laughed the

Tsarevitch.

Avrámoff was going to retort but stopped short. Again voices became

audible. Again a blood-red spot glimmered in the darkness. The narrow

path of the dark maze had again brought father and son together in a

place too narrow to avoid one another. Again the desperate thought

flashed across Alexis’ mind to hide himself somewhere, to slip through,

or again dart as a hare into the low wood. But it was too late; Peter had

already caught sight of him from a distance, and called out:

“Zoon!”

The Dutch “Zoon” signifies son; he called him thus only in rare moments

of graciousness. Alexis was all the more surprised, as of late his father

had quite given up talking to him either in Dutch or Russian.

He advanced towards his father, took his hat off, made a low bow, and

kissed first the lappet of his coat, then the hard horny hand. Peter

was attired in a well worn commander’s uniform of the Preobrazhensky

Regiment. It was of dark green cloth with red facings and brass buttons.

“Thank you, Aliósha,” said Peter, and Alexis’ heart thrilled at this long

unheard “Aliósha.” “Thank you for the present you sent me. It came just

in the nick of time. My own supply of oak, which was being floated down

on a raft from Kazan, perished in a storm on the Ládoga. But for your

present, we should scarcely have finished our new frigate before the

autumn; the wood was of the best and strongest, like yours—true iron. It

is long since I have seen such exceptionally good oak!”

The Tsarevitch knew that nothing pleased his father more than good timber

for ship-building. On his own estate in the Poretzkoye district of the

Novgorod government, Alexis had for some time secretly reserved a fine

plantation of oak for the day when he should be in special need of his

father’s favour. When he learnt that they would soon be wanting oak in

the dockyard, Alexis had the timber felled and floated on a raft down

the Neva just in time to supply his father. It was one of those timid,

awkward services, which he had rendered frequently at one time, but

of late more and more rarely. However, he did not deceive himself; he

knew it would soon be forgotten, like all his previous services, while

increased severity would follow this momentary tenderness.

Nevertheless a bashful joy flushed his face; his heart throbbed with

mad hope. He muttered something in a low, halting tone, about “always

glad to give my father pleasure,” and stooped again to kiss his hand.

But Peter raised his head with both his hands. For one instant Alexis

saw the familiar face, so terrible yet so dear to him, with its full

round cheeks, the curly moustache, and the charming smile which flitted

across the curved, almost femininely tender lips, he saw the large,

dark, lucid eyes, which so fascinated him that he used to dream about

them, as a love-sick youth would dream about the eyes of a beautiful

woman. He recognised the odour familiar from his childhood: a mixture of

strong tobacco, brandy, sweat, and something else, not disagreeable, a

smell of soldiers’ barracks, which usually filled his father’s working

room, “the office.” He felt the touch, familiar also to him from his

earliest years, of the hard, slightly bristly chin with the dimple in the

centre, which seemed strangely out of place on this formidable face. He

remembered, or was it only a dream, kissing this odd dimple, saying with

delight: “It is just like Granny’s,” when as a child his father used to

take him on his knees.

Peter, kissing his son on the forehead, said in his broken Dutch speech:

“Good beware ú!”

This slightly stiff Dutch “you” in place of “thou” sounded to Alexis

charmingly amiable.

He seemed to have felt and seen all this in a flash of lightning. The

lightning faded away and all disappeared. Peter had already passed a good

way on, his head thrown back as was his wont, slightly twitching his

shoulder, waving his right hand in a soldierly manner, walking at his

usual rapid pace, which was so quick that those who accompanied him were

obliged to keep up by running.

Alexis went in the opposite direction following the same narrow path

of the dark maze. Avrámoff kept close behind; he again began talking,

but now about the Archimandrite of the Alexander Monastery, the Tsar’s

chaplain Theodosius Janovski, whom Peter had appointed “Administrator

of Religious Affairs,” and had thus raised above the first prelate, the

aged occupant of the Patriarchal throne,—Stephen Javorsky. Theodosius

was suspected of leanings towards Lutheranism, of secretly plotting to

abolish the worship of icons, relics, the keeping of fasts, monasteries,

the Patriarchate and other ancient statutes and customs of the Orthodox

Church. Others surmised that Theodosius was dreaming of himself becoming

Patriarch.

“This Theodosius is a veritable atheist and a most insolent pagan,”

Avrámoff continued. “He has wormed his way into the hard-worked monarch’s

holy confidence and enthralled him. He boldly destroys Christian laws and

traditions, and introduces an ambitious, luxurious, epicurean, almost

swinish way of living. He, this mad heresiarch, tore the crown off the

wonder-working Kazan icon of the Virgin; ‘Sexton, a knife!’ he cried, cut

the wire, tore off the embossed golden ornament, and put the spoil in his

pocket, barefacedly, before the eyes of all; and those who saw it were

amazed and bewailed such impudence. Meanwhile he, the unclean vessel,

the obscene one, turned away from God, made a compact with Satan, and,

mad goat that he is, even wanted to spit and trample on the Life-giving

Cross, the Saviour’s image!”

The Tsarevitch gave no heed to Avrámoff’s prattle. He was musing over

and trying by arguments to choke this unreasonable, and as it now

seemed, childish joy. What was he expecting? What was he hoping for? A

reconciliation with his father? Was it possible? Did he himself really

wish for one? Had not something taken place, which could never be

forgotten or forgiven? He remembered hiding himself in cowardly fear a

moment ago; he remembered Dokoukin and his “denunciatory petition against

Peter,” and many other far more terrible, unanswerable denunciations. It

was not for his own sake merely that he had rebelled against his father.

And yet, a few kind words, one smile, had sufficed to melt and soften

his heart. He is again willing to fall at his father’s feet, forget and

forgive everything and himself implore for pardon, as if he alone were

the guilty one. He is ready, for another such caress, another such smile,

to surrender his soul to him anew. “Is it possible,” he thought almost

terrified, “that I love him so much?” Avrámoff continued talking like a

gnat humming in one’s ear. The Tsarevitch caught his last words: “When

St. Mitrofane of Voronesh saw Bacchus, Venus and other gods standing on

the roof of the Tsar’s palace, he said: ‘I cannot enter the house until

the Tsar orders these idols, which mislead the people, to be taken down.’

And the Tsar, honouring the holy man, had them all removed. That’s how

it was in the past; but to-day, who dares speak the truth to the Tsar?

Not Theodosius the unclean one, who turns icons into idols. Woe unto us!

It has come to such a pass that, this very day, at this very hour the

Virgin’s holy picture will be replaced by a devilish, mischievous image

of Venus! And the monarch your father——”

“Leave me alone, you fool,” the Tsarevitch exclaimed wrathfully. “All of

you leave me alone! What are you always at me for? Damnation!” and he

used some ribald expressions. “What have I to do with you? I neither

know nor desire to know anything. Go and complain to my father: he will

see to your rights—”

They were approaching the Skipper’s square near the fountain in the

middle alley. A crowd had gathered there. They soon attracted attention

and many an ear tried to catch their conversation. Avrámoff had paled, he

seemed to have shrunk and grown shorter, and eyed Alexis with a furtive

look, the look of a child frightened in his sleep, who at any moment

might be taken by a fit of convulsions. Alexis felt sorry for him.

“Don’t fear, Avrámoff!” he said with a kind, bright smile, which recalled

not his father’s, but the smile of his grandfather Alexis. “Never fear—I

won’t denounce you, I know you love me—and my father. Only don’t talk

such a lot of trash again!” And with a sudden shadow over-casting his

countenance, he added in a lower tone: “Even if you should be right, what

is the good of it; who wants truth nowadays? The lash cannot vie with the

axe; nobody will listen to you, nor to me.”

Between the trees flashed the first lights of the illuminations:

many-coloured lanterns, firepots, pyramids of tallow candles placed in

the windows and between the carved pillars of the open roofed gallery

overlooking the Neva.

Everything had been very ingeniously and plentifully decorated. The

gallery consisted of three long narrow pavilions, in the centre of

which, under a glass dome, specially constructed by the French architect

Leblond, a place of honour had been prepared—a marble pedestal for the

Venus of Petersburg.

CHAPTER III

“I have purchased a Venus,” wrote Beklemísheff to Peter from Italy.

“She is highly prized in Rome. The statue differs in no wise from the

celebrated Florentine Venus, and is even in better preservation. She was

found by some workmen, who discovered her when digging the foundation for

a new house; she had been over two thousand years in the ground. She has

for a long time stood in the Papal Garden. I have had to conceal her for

fear of eager purchasers. I am as yet uncertain whether they will let her

go. However, she already belongs to your Majesty.”

Peter entered into communication with Clement XI. through his

plenipotentiary Savva Ragousínsky and the Cardinal Ottobani, seeking

permission to remove the statue to Russia. For a long time the Pope would

not agree to this. The Tsar was even ready to carry the Venus off by

stealth. At last, after many diplomatic negotiations and wirepullings,

the permission was obtained.

“Captain,” wrote Peter to Jagushinski, “the superb statue of Venus must

be taken from Leghorn to Innsbruck by land, and thence by water along

the Danube to Vienna, under the care of a special guard. And have her

addressed to yourself in Vienna. As the statue is of repute there also,

it would be advisable to have a carriage stand made with springs on which

she may be conveyed to Cracow, and thus avoid all risk of damage, from

Cracow she might be sent on by water.”

Along seas and rivers, over hills and dales, through towns and deserts,

and finally across the miserable settlements, dark forests and bogs of

Russia, everywhere carefully watched, by Peter’s will, now rocked on

the sea waves, now on carriage-springs in her dark box, as in a cradle

or coffin, the goddess journeyed from the Eternal City to the newly-born

town of Petersburg.

When she had safely arrived, the Tsar, much as he would have liked a look

at the statue, which he had been expecting for so long, and about which

he had heard so much, nevertheless overcame his impatience and resolved

not to open the box until the first solemn appearance of Venus at the

festival in the Summer Garden. Small boats, wherries, canoes, punts,

and other new-fashioned river-craft came to the wooden steps which led

straight down to the water, and moored at the iron rings of the poles

which had been driven in close to the shore. The newly arrived guests

came up the steps to the Central Pavilion; here, in the flare of numerous

lights, an ever-increasing crowd, sumptuously arrayed, was moving to and

fro. The men wore coloured velvet and silk coats, three-cornered hats,

swords, stockings and buckled shoes with high heels; on their heads

towered large wigs, arranged in magnificent but unnatural curls—black,

fair, and occasionally powdered. The ladies wore large, wide-hooped

skirts—_robes rondes_—after the latest Versailles fashion, with long

trains, beauty spots and rouge on their faces, lace, feathers, and

pearls in their hair. But in this resplendent throng there could be also

seen military uniforms of plain coarse cloth, even the short jackets

of sailors and skippers, and the tarry boats and leather caps of Dutch

mariners.

The crowd separated to allow a strange procession to pass. Strong Royal

Grenadiers were bending under the weight of a long, narrow packing-case,

very much like a coffin, which they bore on their shoulders. Judged by

the size of the coffin, the body was of superhuman height. They placed

the case on the ground.

The Tsar without any help proceeded to open it, handling the joiners’

tools with great rapidity and skill. He was in a hurry, and pulled at

the nails with such impatience that he severely scratched one hand. The

people thronged round on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse over one

another’s shoulders.

The Privy Councillor, Peter Tolstoi, who had lived for many years in

Italy, a learned man and a poet—he was the first to translate Ovid’s

Metamorphoses into Russian—was describing to the ladies around him, the

ancient ruins of the Venus temple.

“On my way to Castello-di-Baia, near Naples (the town had fallen into

ruins and its site was overgrown with wood) I saw a shrine dedicated

to the goddess Venus. The temple was built in first-rate style, with

tall pillars; the arches were decorated with representations of the

pagan gods. I also saw there other shrines dedicated to Diana, Mercury,

and Bacchus. The cursed tormentor Nero had sacrificed to them in those

places, and he is now atoning in hell for his inordinate devotions.”

Peter Tolstoi opened his mother-of-pearl snuff-box—on its lid was

represented three lambs, and a shepherd loosening the girdle of a

sleeping shepherdess—offered the snuff-box to the pretty Princess

Tsherkassky, took a pinch himself, and added with a languid sigh:

“During my stay in Naples (I remember it so well!), I was inamorato with

a certain cittadina Francesca, celebrated for her beauty. She cost me

over 4,000 roubles; and to this day I cannot free my heart from that

tender recollection.”

He spoke Italian so well that he liked interspersing his native speech

with Italian words: “inamorato” for in love; “cittadina” for citizen’s

wife, and so on.

Tolstoi was seventy, yet did not look more than fifty, so strong, alert

and fresh was he. The Tsar had often expressed the opinion that Tolstoi’s

politeness towards ladies “could outdo that of any younger devotee of

Venus.” A feline suppleness of gait, a low velvety voice, velvety amiable

smile, velvety eyebrows, amazingly thick, black and possibly painted:

“He is all velvet, yet not without spikes,” people used to say of him.

Even Peter himself, as a rule so careless with regard to his “eaglets,”

thought it wise “to keep a stone close at hand when dealing with

Tolstoi.” There was many a dark, wicked, and even bloody stain on the

conscience of this polite worthy, but he knew the secret of effacing all

traces of his misdoings.

The last nails gave way, the wood cracked, the lid was lifted, and the

case opened. At first something of a greyish yellow tint struck the

eyes, something which suggested the dust of putrefied bones. These were

pine shavings, chips, felt, and combings of wool which had been put there

for soft packing. Peter with both hands was routing among them, and when

at last he came to the marble body, he joyfully exclaimed:

“Here she is!”

The lead was already being melted for the soldering of the iron tie-rods

which were to fix the foot of the statue to the pedestal. The architect

Leblond busied himself in getting ready a kind of hoist with steps,

ropes, and pulleys. But the statue had first to be raised by hand out of

the case.

The servants were assisting Peter. When one of them clasped “the naked

wench” in coarse joke, the Tsar rewarded him with such a ringing buffet

on the ears, that every one present at once felt a certain respect for

the goddess.

Flakes of wool were falling off the smooth marble, like grey clods of

earth, while again, just as two hundred years ago in Florence, the risen

goddess was emerging from her tomb.

The ropes tightened, the pulleys squeaked, she rose higher and higher.

Peter stood on a ladder, and fixing the statue to the pedestal, he held

her with both arms, as in an embrace.

“Venus in the embrace of Mars!” Leblond, the emotional lover of classics,

could not help ejaculating.

“How beautiful they both are!” exclaimed a young maid of honour belonging

to the Crown Princess Charlotte’s household. “Were I the Tsaritsa, I

should be jealous.”

Peter was almost as tall as the statue, and his human face remained noble

in the presence of this divine one: the man was worthy of the goddess.

A last tremor, a last vibration, and she stood immovably upright and firm

on the pedestal.

It was the work of Praxiteles: Aphrodite Anadyomene, the Foam-born, and

Urania the Heavenly, the ancient Phoenician Astarte, the Babylonian

Mellita, the Mother of Life, the great foster mother, she who had

scattered the seed of stars over the blue vault, and shed the Milky-way

from her breast.

She was the same now, as on the hillside in Florence where Leonardo da

Vinci’s pupil had looked at her with superstitious fear; or, yet earlier,

when in the depths of Cappadocia, in the forsaken temple near the old

castle of Macellum, her last true worshipper had prayed to her, that pale

boy in monk’s attire, the future Emperor Julian the Apostate. She had

remained the same innocent yet voluptuous goddess, naked and not ashamed.

From that very day when she rose from her millennial tomb far away in

Florence, she had progressed further and further, from age to age, from

people to people, halting nowhere, till in her victorious march she had

at last reached the limits of the earth, the Hyperborean Scythia, beyond

which there remains nought but chaos and darkness. And having fixed

herself on the pedestal she for the first time glanced with a look of

surprised curiosity around this strange new land, these flat moss-covered

bogs, this curious town, so like the settlements of nomads; at this

sky, which was the same day and night, these black, drowsy, terrible

waves so like the waves of the Styx. This land resembled but little her

radiant Olympian home; it seemed as hopeless as the land of Oblivion, the

dark Hades. Yet the goddess smiled as the sun would have smiled had he

penetrated into Hades.

Peter Tolstoi, yielding to the entreaties of the ladies, declaimed some

verses dedicated to Cupid, taken from Anacreon’s ancient hymn to Eros.

Cupid once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless archer, not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!

The bee awak’d—with anger wild

The bee awak’d, and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries;

To Venus quick he runs, he flies!

“Oh, mother!—I am wounded though—

I die with pain—in sooth I do,

Stung by some little angry thing,

Some serpent on a tiny wing—

A bee it was—for once I know

I heard a rustic call it so.”

Thus he spoke, and she the while

Heard him with a soothing smile;

Then said, “My infant, if so much

Thou feel the little wild bee’s touch,

How must the heart, ah Cupid! be,

The hapless heart that’s stung by thee!”

The ladies, who had never heard any poetry except sacred chants and

psalms, were charmed.

It came very appropriately, for the next moment Peter himself, as the

signal to begin the fireworks, lit and started a flying machine in the

shape of Cupid bearing a burning torch. Along an invisible wire Cupid

glided down from the gallery to a raft on the Neva, where screens had

been erected for “fire diversions” in wicker work designs, and with his

torch he set the first allegory on fire—two flaring red hearts on an

altar of dazzling light. On one of them was traced in green light a Latin

P, on the other a C—Petrus, Caterina. The two hearts merged into one, the

inscription appeared: “Out of two I create one.” Venus and Cupid blessed

the wedlock of Peter and Catherine.

Another configuration appeared, a transparent luminous picture with two

designs; on the one side the god Neptune looking towards Cronstadt,

the newly erected fortress in the sea, with the inscription “Videt et

stupescit—He sees and is amazed.” On the other—Petersburg, the new town

amidst marshes and woods, with the inscription “Urbs ubi sylva fuit.”

Peter, a great lover of fireworks, managing everything himself, explained

the allegories to the audience.

With pealing hiss, in sheaves of fire, numerous rockets soared into the

heavens, and there, in the vaulted darkness, dissolved into a rain of

slowly dropping and fading red, blue, green and violet stars. The Neva

reflected and multiplied them in her black mirror. Fiery wheels were set

turning; fiery jets sprang forth; serpents began to hiss and twirl; water

and air balls, bursting like bombs, crashed with a deafening noise. A

fiery hall appeared with blazing pillars, flaming arches and staircases,

and in its centre, dazzling as the sun, shone forth the last tableau:

a sculptor—was it the Titan Prometheus?—standing before an unfinished

statue, which he is hewing with chisel and hammer out of a block of

marble. Above on a pediment was the All-seeing Eye in a glory, with

the inscription, “Deo adjuvante.” The stone block represented ancient

Russia. The statue, although unfinished, already bore the semblance of

the goddess Venus—she was the new Russia. The sculptor was, in fact,

Peter himself. This tableau did not quite succeed: the statue burnt down

too quickly and crumbled at the sculptor’s feet. He seemed to beat the

air; then the hammer too crumbled away, and the hand remained still. The

All-seeing Eye grew dim; it leered suspiciously and gave an ominous wink.

No one, however, paid any attention to this; all were occupied by a new

spectacle. In clouds of smoke, illumined by a rainbow of Bengal lights,

there appeared a huge monster, neither horse nor dragon; with pointed

wings and fins, and its tail covered with scales, it came swimming along

the Neva from the fortress towards the Summer Garden, towed by a flotilla

of rowing boats. In a gigantic shell on the monster’s back, sat Neptune,

with a long white beard and a harpoon at his feet—sirens and tritons

blowing trumpets: “The tritons of the Northern Neptune sound the fame

of Russia’s Tsar wherever they go,” explained one of the onlookers, the

chaplain of the fleet, Gabriel Boushínsky. The monster was dragging after

it six pair of empty barrels tightly bunged, with the cardinals of the

“most Foolish Conclave” sitting astride, one on each barrel, securely

strapped so as to prevent their falling into the water; they swam in this

procession, pair after pair, loudly blowing their cow horns. After this

followed a raft made up entirely of such barrels; it carried a huge tub

filled with beer on which the Kniaz-Pope, prelate of Bacchus, floated in

a wooden ladle as in a boat; Bacchus himself sat on the edge of the tub.

Accompanied by strains of solemn music, this huge water machine slowly

approached the Summer Garden, stopped at the Central Pavilion, where the

gods landed.

Neptune turned out to be the Tsar’s court jester, the old boyar

Tourgenev; the sirens, with their long fish-tails dragging after them,

like long trains, almost concealing their feet, were serf girls; the

tritons, the stable-men of the Admiral Apraksin; the Satyr or Pan

accompanying Bacchus was the French dancing master of Prince Ménshikoff;

the adroit Frenchman executed such gambols, that one could believe he

had goat’s legs like a real faun. In Bacchus, wearing a tiger’s skin and

a wreath of artificial grapes, with a sausage in one hand and a brandy

bottle in the other, they recognised Konon Kárpoff, the leader of the

court choristers; he was exceptionally fat and had a ruddy face; to make

him appear more real, he had for three whole days been pitilessly filled

with brandy, so that, according to his companions, “he had grown like a

ripe cranberry,” and thus become a veritable Bacchus.

The gods surrounded the statue of Venus. Bacchus, reverently supported

by the cardinals and the mock-Pope, fell on his knees before the statue,

bowed before her very low, and proclaimed in a thunderous bass voice,

worthy of a cathedral precentor: “Most honourable mother Venus, thy

humble servant Bacchus, born of Semele, the creator of wine and joy,

petitions thee against thy son Eros. Do not allow him, that mad Eros, to

hurt us thy people, to ruin our souls, to wound our hearts; may it please

thee, Gracious Queen, to be merciful unto us.” The cardinals responded

with “Amen.” Drunk as he was, by force of habit Kárpoff was just going to

start a church hymn in response, but was checked in time.

Then the Kniaz-Pope, the Tsar’s aged tutor, a boyar and table-companion

in Tsar Alexis’ time, Nikíta Zotoff, in a burlesque mantle of red velvet

trimmed with ermine, on his head a threefold tiara crowned with the

indecent figure of a naked Eros, placed before the statue, on a brazier

made of kitchen turnspits, a round brass pan, such as was commonly used

for preparing hot punch. Pouring some brandy into it, he lit it. On long

poles, bending with the weight, the Tsar’s grenadiers brought in a tub of

peppered brandy. Besides the clergy, who were present at this festival,

as at all similar burlesques, all the guests, both cavaliers and dames

and even young girls, were obliged to approach the tub one by one; they

had to accept a large wooden spoonful of brandy, were expected to all

but empty it, and pour the few remaining drops on the altar fire. Then

the cavaliers kissed Venus; the older ones her foot, the younger ones

her hand, while the ladies greeted her with ceremonious courtesy. The

ceremonies, every detail of which had been thought out and arranged

for by the Tsar, had to be punctiliously gone through under pain of

severe punishment, even lashing. The old Tsaritsa Proscovy, Peter’s

sister-in-law, his brother John’s widow, also drank brandy from the tub

and curtsied before Venus. She, as a rule, tried to please Peter and

yielded to all his new-fangled ideas; it was of no use trying to sail

against the wind. Yet when the dignified old dame, dressed in her dark

widow’s jerkin—Peter allowed her to wear the old style of dress—made the

curtsey after the foreign manner before “the shameless naked wench,” she

felt very uneasy at heart.

“I would rather be dead than see all this!” thought she. The Tsarevitch

also humbly kissed the hand of Venus. Avrámoff tried to hide himself,

but he was soon found out and brought back by force; although he quaked,

and paled, and shuddered, and sweated, and almost swooned, when, kissing

Satan’s image, he felt his lips touch the cold marble, yet he accurately

performed the ceremony, watched by the keen eye of the Tsar whom he

feared even more than the “white devils.”

The goddess seemed to look down upon these desecrations of the gods,

this play of the barbarians, without the least wrath. They adored her

involuntarily, even in this scoffing; the burlesque tripod became a real

altar on which in the flickering bluish flame, thin as the serpent’s

sting, burnt the soul of Dionysus, her brother god. And illumined by this

flame the goddess smiled her subtle smile.

The banquet began. At the top end of the table, under a canopy made of

hop foliage and whortleberries, which grew on the hillocks of the native

marshes and took the place of the classic myrtle, sat Bacchus astride a

barrel from which the Kniaz-Pope filled the glasses with wine.

Tolstoi, addressing himself to Bacchus, declaimed another poem by

Anacreon.

When Bacchus, Jove’s immortal boy,

The rosy harbinger of joy,

Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,

Thaws the winter of our soul;

When to my inmost core he glides,

And bathes it with his ruby tides,

A flow of joy, a lively heat,

Fires my brain, and wings my feet!

’Tis surely something sweet, I think,

Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink!

Sing, sing of love, let music’s breath

Softly beguile our rapturous death,

While, my young Venus, thou and I

To the voluptuous cadence die!

Then waking from our languid trance,

Again we’ll sport, again we’ll dance.

“It’s plain from the verses,” remarked Peter, “that Anacreon was a lordly

drunkard and took life mighty easily.”

After the customary toasts for the welfare of the fleet, the Tsar and

the Tsaritsa, the Archimandrite Theodosius Janovski stood up with solemn

air, glass in hand. Notwithstanding the Polish expression of self-esteem

on his face—he belonged to the minor Polish nobility—notwithstanding

the blue decoration ribbon, and the diamond panagia with the Emperor’s

likeness on one side and the crucifix on the other, with the diamonds

more in number and larger on the former than the latter, notwithstanding

all this, Theodosius, to quote Avrámoff’s account, “had the appearance of

some monstrosity,” of a starveling or an abortion. He was small, thin and

angular; in his tall mitre with its long folds of black crêpe, his very

wide pall with wide open sleeves, he greatly resembled a bat. Yet when

he joked and especially when he scoffed at sacred things, which usually

happened when he was drunk, his sly eyes would sparkle with such wit,

such impudent mirth, that the miserable face of the bat-like abortion

became almost attractive.

“This will not be a flattering oration,” said Theodosius, turning to the

Tsar, “but I speak the truth from my heart: by your Majesty’s actions we

have been led from the darkness of ignorance into the lighted theatre of

fame, from death into life, and have even joined the throng of civilised

nations. Monarch! you have renewed and revived everything, and more yet,

given new life to your subjects. What was Russia in olden times? What is

she to-day? Let us consider the houses: old rough huts have been replaced

by bright palaces; withered twigs by blooming gardens. Let us consider

the fortifications: here have we things which prior to this we have not

even beheld on charts!”

He went on talking for a long time “about laws, free learning, arts,” the

fleet, these armed arks, the reformation and the new birth of the Church.

“And thou,” he exclaimed in conclusion, brandishing his arms in the heat

of rhetoric, so that the wide sleeves, like black wings, made him still

more like a bat, “And thou, City of Peter! young in thy supremacy! How

great is the renown of thy founder! In a place where nobody even as much

as dreamt of human habitation, in a short time a city has been erected

worthy to hold the monarch’s throne. ‘Urbs ubi sylva fuit.’ A city in

place of a wood. And who will not praise the position of this city? The

district not only excels in beauty the rest of Russia, but even in other

countries the like cannot be found! On a cheerful site art thou erected!

Verily a metamorphosis, a change in Russia hast thou accomplished, O

Majesty!”

Alexis listened, and looked at Theodosius attentively. When the later

mentioned the “cheerful site” their eyes met for an instant, and the

Tsarevitch seemed to discern a spark of mockery in the orator’s eyes. He

remembered how Theodosius had often in his hearing, during his father’s

absence, reviled this “cheerful site” and termed it a “devil’s bog,” “a

devil’s haunt;” for some time already it seemed to the Tsarevitch that

Theodosius was laughing at his father, almost in his very face, only

disguised so cleverly and adroitly that no one save he, Alexis, noticed

it; and every time on a similar occasion, Theodosius would exchange quick

cunning looks with him, as if he saw in him an accomplice.

Peter, according to his custom, replied simply and concisely to the

ceremonious oration:

“I am eager that the people should know how the Lord hath helped us

hitherto. Yet we must not slacken our efforts; but taking up whatever

burden God lays before us, work for the good and advantage of the

community.”

And returning to ordinary conversation he gave in Dutch (so that the

foreigners present could follow him) an exposition of the thought he had

lately heard from the philosopher Leibnitz, and which had greatly struck

him, “the rotation of sciences:” all science and art were born in the

East and in Greece, thence they travelled to Italy, France, Germany, and

lastly through Poland they came into Russia. “Now our turn has come; from

us they will again return to Greece and to the East, their birthplace,

completing a perfect circle in their wanderings. This Venus,” concluded

Peter, lapsing into Russian, with a naïve declamatory eloquence, natural

to him, “this Venus has come to us from there, from Greece. Our soil has

been ploughed with the plough of Mars, and the seed has been scattered.

We now await a good return which Thou, O Lord, vouchsafe unto us! May

our harvest come soon and not like that of the date palm, whose fruit is

never seen by those who plant it. May Venus the goddess of all that is

loveable, domestic felicity, and national concord, ally herself to-day

with Mars. May the union be for the glory of Russia.”

“Vivat, vivat, vivat, Peter the Great, the father of his country, the

Emperor of all Russia!” shouted the guests raising their glasses of

Hungarian wine. The Imperial title, announced publicly neither to Europe

nor even to Russia, was accepted here in the circle of “Peter’s Eaglets.”

In the left wing of the gallery, the ladies’ pavilion, the tables had

been pushed aside and dancing begun. The music of war trumpets, hautboys,

and kettledrums of the Simeon and Preobrazhensky regiments, coming from

behind the trees of the Summer Garden, softened by distance and perhaps

by the charm of the goddess, sounded here at her feet, like the delicate

flutes and _violes d’amour_ of Cupid’s kingdom, where lambs graze on soft

meadows and shepherds loosen the girdles of shepherdesses.

Peter Tolstoi, who was dancing in the minuet with Princess Tsherkassky,

hummed in his mellow voice to the strains of the music:

’Tis time to cast thy bow away,

We all are, Cupid, in thy sway.

Thy golden love-awaking dart

Hath reached and wounded every heart.

And affectedly curtsying to the cavalier, as the rule of a minuet

demanded, the pretty princess responded with the languid smile of a

Chloe to the aged Daphnis. Meanwhile in the dark alleys, bowers, in all

the secluded nooks of the Summer Garden, whispers, rustlings, kisses,

sighs of love were heard; the goddess Venus had begun her reign in the

Hyperborean Scythia.

In an oak grove, apart from the rest, so that none could overhear them,

a group of servants and pages, belonging to the Tsar’s household, were

discussing the love exploits of their friends, the court ladies or

maidens, after the manner of true Scythians and Barbarians.

In the presence of women they were shy and bashful, but when by

themselves they spoke about “women” with brutal shamelessness.

“The wench Hamilton spent a night with the master,” calmly announced one

of them.

It was Mary Hamilton, the Tsaritsa’s lady in waiting.

“The master is gallant, he can’t live without mistresses,” remarked

another.

“It is not her first either,” retorted a page, a boy of about fifteen,

deliberately spitting and again puffing the pipe which made him sick:

“Before the master’s time she had a child by Golitsin.”

“And how do they manage to get rid of the brats?” the first one queried

in amazement.

“And the husband does not know what his wife is after!” giggled the lad.

“I saw with my own eyes just now, from behind the shrubs, how Billy Mons

made love to our mistress!”

Wilhelm Mons was the Tsaritsa’s Kammerjunker, a foreigner of low origin,

yet very adroit and handsome.

Huddling closer together, they began to speak about the strange rumour,

which said that, quite lately, when cleaning a stopped up pipe of one

of the fountains in the royal garden, the body of an infant was found,

wrapped in a palace napkin.

The Summer Garden possessed the inevitable “grotto,” met with in all

French gardens; it was a square edifice on the banks of the river

Fontanna, rather awkward from the outside, suggesting a Dutch church,

while the inside resembled a cave, laid out with large shells, mother of

pearl, corals and porous stones; numerous fountains and water jets flowed

into marble basins with that abundance of water, too great for the damp

city of Petersburg, yet so dear to the heart of Peter.

Here staid old men, senators, and dignitaries, were also conversing about

love and women.

“In olden days true wedlock was sacred, whereas nowadays, lust is

considered gallantry, even by the husbands themselves, who with a calm

heart watch their wives make love to others and call us fools for staking

our honour on so weak a spot. They have given women their freedom; just

wait a bit, they will soon master every one of us,” grumbled the oldest

among them.

A younger one remarked that “free intercourse between the sexes is

agreeable natural to all men, not fossilised by ancient customs. The real

love passion, unknown in barbarous ages, had begun to possess sensitive

hearts;” that “nowadays marriage boorishly reaps in one day all the

flowers love tenderly rears for years; and jealousy is the pest of love.”

“Fair women have always been facile,” decided a middle-aged man, “but no

doubt the devils themselves have set up their abode inside the ribs of

the present giddy generation. They will hear of nothing but love-making.”

“And little girls, stirred by this example, begin to flirt, and only

can’t do it, poor things, because they are too innocent. Oh! how the

desire to please dominates women!”

Here entered her Majesty Catherine, attended by the Kammerjunker Mons and

Mary Hamilton, her lady in waiting, a proud Scotchwoman with the face of

Diana. The least elderly of the two old men, aware that Catherine was

listening to their conversation, began amiably to defend the ladies.

“Truth herself proves the dignified nature of womankind by the fact, that

God, at the end of His work, on the last day created Adam’s wife, as if

without her the world were incomplete. Woman’s body alone is composed

of all that is most charming in the universe. Add to these advantages

her beauty of mind, and how can we help wondering at her perfection, and

what excuses can be given by him who does not show due deference to her?

Should there be some weakness about women, it is right to remember, how

delicately they are made.” The oldest of the speakers only shook his

head. His face clearly expressed that he was not convinced, that in his

opinion “woman was as far removed from a human being, as a crab was from

a fish; a woman and the devil make a fine match.”

In the opening, between the cloven clouds, on the transparent melancholy

sky bathed in golden-emerald, appeared the narrow sickle of the newborn

moon; it cast a gentle beam into the depths of a dark alley, where near

a fountain surrounded by the semicircle of a tall clipped hedge, on

a wooden bench, at the foot of a marble Pomona, there sat a solitary

girl of seventeen. She wore a wide dress of pink taffeta embroidered

with small yellow florets; she had a slender waist and a fashionable

head-dress; yet so Russian and simple was her face, that it was evident

she had only recently left a calm country life, where she had grown up

surrounded by nurses, under the thatched roof of an old house. Casting a

timid look around her, she undid two or three buttons of her frock and

swiftly pulled out a roll of paper, hid in her bosom and warm from the

contact. It was a love missive from her nineteen year old cousin, who

by the Tsar’s command had first been torn from the same peaceful spot,

sent to Petersburg, then placed in the navy school connected with the

admiralty, and a few days ago had been sent on a man-of-war with other

gardes-marines, either to Cadiz or Lisbon—to quote his own expression

“to the world’s end.” By the light of the white night and the moon the

young girl read the note, written on ruled lines in large round childish

characters:

“My heart’s treasure, my angel Nástia. I would like to know why you did

not send me the last kiss. Cupid the thief has wounded my heart with his

arrow. I suffer greatly, my heart’s blood is frozen.”

A heart was drawn with blood instead of ink between the lines, the same

was pierced by two arrows; red spots stood for drops of blood.

Then followed verses probably copied from somewhere—

Remember Joy, our merry talk,

Sweet words during every walk,

How long is it since last I saw thee?

Come my fair dove, come fly to me.

Should my wish be not in vain,

Mad with joy I’d be again.

Having read the love letter, Nástia carefully rolled it up, hid it again

in her bosom, hung her head and covered her face with a handkerchief,

scented with “Cupid’s sighs.”

When she looked up again, a black cloud resembling a monster with gaping

mouth had almost swallowed the narrow moon. His last beam reflected

itself in the tear which hung on the young girl’s eye-lash. She watched

the moon disappearing and hummed to herself the only love-song she

knew—how it became known to her no one could say:—

Wherever I roam, and wherever I go,

My heart it feels heavy, my spirits are low,

And I, like a dove without wings, must make moan,

For what is in life when my dearest is gone?

Young am I and yet shedding tear after tear

For the sweetheart who left me in loneliness here....

Everything about her was strange and artificial, “after the manner of

Versailles,” the fountain, Pomona, the espaliers, her dress of pink

taffeta strewn with yellow florets, her hair arrangement “Budding

pleasure,” and the scent “Cupid’s sighs.” Only she herself with her quiet

grief and gentle song had remained simple, Russian, just as she had been

under the thatched roof of her father’s country house.

Close to her, from the dark alleys, bowers and every possible nook of

the Summer Garden, there continued to come whispers, rustles, kisses and

love-sick sighs.

The sound of the minuet, wafted across like shepherds’ flutes and _violes

d’amour_ from Venus’ kingdom, with the languid melody:—

’Tis time to cast thy bow away,

Cupid, we all are in thy sway.

Thy gol’en love-awaking dart

Has reached and wounded every heart!

In the pavilion, round the Tsar’s table the conversation continued. Peter

was talking with the monks about the origin of Hellenic Polytheism; he

could not conceive how the ancient Greeks, who had displayed sufficient

knowledge about natural laws and mathematical principles, could at the

same time call their soulless idols gods, and believe in them.

Here Michael Avrámoff could no longer contain himself, he mounted his

hobby and began to prove that the gods exist, that they are in reality

evil spirits.

“You talk about them as if you yourself had seen them,” said Peter.

“Not I, but others have really seen them, your Majesty,—beheld them with

their own eyes,” exclaimed Avrámoff triumphantly. He took out of his

pocket a fat leather pocket book, found in it two old cuttings from the

Dutch newspapers and began to read, translating them into Russian:—

“We are informed from Spain that a stranger has brought with him to

Barcelona a Satyr, a man covered with wool as with bark, and having

goat’s horns and hoofs. He eats bread and milk, does not speak, but only

bleats like a goat. This deformity attracts many visitors.” The second:

“In Jutland fishermen have caught a siren or mermaid. The monster has

a human body with a fish’s tail. The skin is pale yellow, the eyes are

closed, the hair on the head is black. A membrane connects the fingers

just like a goose’s foot. The fishermen pulled their net to the shore

with great difficulty, breaking it in many places. Then the people made

a huge tub, filled it with salt water and put the mermaid into it; they

did this in the hope of preserving her from putrefying. This is reported

on account of the many rumours current concerning maritime wonders, not

all trustworthy, but this one may be believed, because the astonishing

sea-monster has been caught.—ROTTERDAM, _April 27, 1714_.”

Printed matter was as a rule believed in, especially foreign news, for

if foreigners lie, where could truth be found at all? Many of the people

present not only believed in ghosts, nymphs, were-wolfs, water, house,

and wood spirits, but had also seen the like with their own eyes. If wood

spirits exist, why should not Satyrs also exist, if nymphs exist why

should not mermaids with fish tails also? And why should not other gods,

even this very Venus, also have true being?

The company were hushed, silenced; something strange and terrifying

seemed to pass through the air; all suddenly became conscious of doing

something they ought not to do.

Lower and lower sank the sky shrouded in black clouds. Brighter and

brighter grew the bluish flashes of thunderless lightning. And these

sudden flashes of light in the dark vault seemed to reflect the bluish

flame on the altar which continued to glow at the feet of the statue; or

else in the vault, as in an overturned bowl of a gigantic altar, hid by a

bank of clouds, black as charcoals, there glowed the Bacchantic flames,

sallying forth from time to time in the shape of lightning. The fire of

the sky and the flame on the altar, responding to one another, seemed

to hold converse about some terrible mystery unrevealed to mankind, yet

already enacting itself in earth and sky.

The Tsarevitch, who was sitting not very far from the statue, gazed

intently at her, for the first time after the reading of the newspaper

cuttings. The nude white body of the goddess seemed so familiar to him,

he was almost sure he had seen it before now, and even more than seen

it—these very dimples on the shoulders, this virginal curve of the back

appeared to him in his most passionate, secret visions, visions he felt

ashamed to confess even to himself. Suddenly he remembered to have seen

this same curve, these same dimples on the shoulder of his mistress,

the serf girl Afrossinia. He felt dizzy, probably from the wine, the

heat, the close atmosphere, and all this monstrous festival, so like a

nightmare. He glanced again at the statue, and suddenly the white nude

body, in the double light of the red smoky illumination vessels and the

bluish flame of the tripod, appeared so real, terrible and enticing to

him, that he was obliged to cast down his eyes. Was it indeed possible

that the goddess Venus should appear to him also, as she did to Avrámoff,

in the guise of a were-wolf—the serf girl Afrossinia? He crossed himself

in thought.

“Not the Hellenes are to be wondered at, who, ignorant of the Christian

law, bowed before lifeless idols,” rejoined Theodosius, continuing the

conversation interrupted by the reading, “but, rather we Christians, who,

ignorant of true reverence for icons, worship them as idols!”

This started one of those conversations which Peter specially delighted

in, about all sorts of false wonders and signs, the deceitfulness of

monks, the possessed, nervous epileptic women, saintly madmen, old wives’

tales, and the superstition of Russian priests. Again Alexis had to

listen to all these oft-repeated odious tales: about the shift of the

Queen of heaven, which the monks had brought from Jerusalem, as a gift

to Catherine, and which was supposed could neither burn nor rot. When

the material was experimented on it turned out to be woven of a special

fireproof fibre—amianth: about the incorruptible body of the Finnish

girl von Grot, whose skin “was like prepared pigshide and when pressed

returned like a ball to its shape”; and about other false relics made of

ivory which Peter had ordered to be sent in to the Petersburg Kunstkammer

as a memento of “superstition now being exterminated by the zeal of the

clergy.”

“Yes, there is much deception in the Russian Church concerning miracles,”

concluded Theodosius, in his tone of plaintive malignity. He mentioned

the last false wonder on record. In a small church near Petersburg an

image of the Virgin had appeared, which shed tears, prophesying as it

were great mishaps, even the final destruction of the new city. Peter,

informed of it by Theodosius, went himself to the church, examined the

icon, and exposed the deception. This had happened quite recently. The

icon had not yet been sent into the Kunstkammer, and it had meanwhile

been kept in the Tsar’s Summer Palace, a small Dutch house, here in the

garden, only at a distance of about two yards from the gallery, on the

corner between the Fontanna and the Neva. The Tsar, desirous showing

it to his guests, ordered one of his servants to fetch the icon. When

the man returned Peter left the table and coming out in front of the

statue, where there was more room, he, leaning with his back against

the marble pedestal and holding the image in his hand, began to give a

careful and elaborate explanation of the deceptive mechanism. The guests

again thronged round him, crowding, rising on tiptoe, striving to catch

a glimpse across one another’s shoulders and heads, just as at the

beginning of the festival, when the case containing the statue was being

opened. Theodosius was holding the candle.

The icon was an old one. The face was dark, almost black; only the large

sorrowful eyes, swollen as with tears, seemed alive. Alexis had always

loved and honoured this image of “God’s mother, the Joy of all the

sorrowing.”

Peter removed the silver trimming set with priceless gems; it came off

easily, having been already loosened during the first examination. He

then unscrewed the brass screws, which fastened a small piece of new

limewood to the back of the icon. In its centre was fixed a smaller

piece; it moved easily on a spring, a pressure of the hand was sufficient

to work it. Removing both boards Peter pointed to two little cavities

hollowed out in the wood just against the eyes of the image. Two tiny

sponges soaked with water were placed in them, the water oozed through

the almost imperceptible holes bored in the eyes, forming drops which

looked like tears.

Peter proved it by an experiment; he moistened the sponges, put them into

their cavities, pressed the board and the tears began to flow.

“This is the source of these miraculous tears,” said Peter. His face was

as calm as if he had just been describing a curious trick of nature, or

some unusual object in the Kunstkammer.

“Yes, there is much deception,” repeated Theodosius with a quiet smile.

All were hushed. Somebody moaned in a low voice, probably a drunkard in

his sleep. Someone else tittered so curiously and unexpectedly, that

everybody turned round almost in terror. Alexis longed to go away. But

some strange torpor held him, as in a nightmare, when the legs refuse to

carry one or the voice to cry out. In this lethargy he stood and watched

Theodosius holding the light, Peter nimbly and adroitly fingering the

wood of the image, the tears trickling down the sorrowful face, and over

all there towered the white, terrible alluring body of Venus. He looked

on, and an anguish like mortal sickness seized his heart and almost

choked him. And it seemed to him that this torture would never end,—that

it always had been, and would be.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of lightning; as if a fiery abyss had

yawned above their heads. And through the glass cupola a burning light,

painfully white, whiter than the sun, bathed the marble statue. Almost at

the same instant a short, deafening peal of thunder was heard, as though

heaven’s vault had been cloven and fallen into ruin. A darkness, black

and impenetrable, followed the lightning. Suddenly a storm broke out,

and moaned, and hissed, and rolled in the darkness; high wind together

with pouring rain and hail; in the pavilion a general confusion ensued.

The piercing shrieks of women were heard—one of them was laughing and

crying in hysterics. The terrified people fled, from what, they knew not,

knocking, falling and crushing one another. Somebody moaned in despair,

“St. Nicholas! Holy Mother, have mercy upon us.” Peter, letting the icon

drop, hurried away in search of Catherine. The flame from the overturned

tripod, going out, flared up for the last time like the forked sting of

a serpent, in the shape of an azure tongue, lighting up the face of the

goddess. It alone had remained calm amid the storm, darkness and terror.

Someone stepped on the icon. Alexis, stooping to lift it, heard the wood

crack. The image had broken in two.

Book II

ANTICHRIST

CHAPTER I

A coffin of pinewood tree

Stands ready prepared for me;

Within its narrow wall

I’ll await the trumpet call.

This was the song of certain heretics, the raskolniks called—“The

Coffin-liers.” “Seven thousand years after the creation of the world,”

said they, “the second coming of Christ will take place; and should it

not happen we will burn the Gospels themselves; as for the other books it

is not worth believing them.” And they left their houses, lands, goods,

and cattle, and every night went out into the fields and woods, put on

clean shirts and shrouds, laid themselves in coffins hollowed out of tree

trunks, and saying mass waited, expecting at every moment the trumpet

call of the Judgment. Such was their idea of “meeting Christ.”

Opposite the headland formed by the Neva and the lesser Neva, in the

widest part of the river, close to Gagarin’s hemp warehouse, among

the rafts, barges, and cargo boats, stood the oak-rafts belonging to

Tsarevitch Alexis. They had come from Nishigorod to Petersburg for the

Admiralty dockyard.

On the night of the Venus festival in the Summer Garden an old bourlak

was sitting at the rudder of one of these rafts; though it was summer he

still wore a torn sheepskin coat and bast shoes. They called him “foolish

John,” and he passed for a simpleton. For thirty years, day by day, month

by month, year by year, he would sit every night till dawn waiting to

“meet Christ,” always chanting the same song of the coffin-liers. Sitting

quite close to the water on the very edge of the raft, bending over and

with both hands clasped round his knees, he looked in expectation on the

bits of golden-emerald sky which gleamed through the black torn clouds.

His fixed eyes looking from under matted grey hair and his immovable face

were filled with terror and hope; slowly swaying from side to side, he

sang in a long drawn melancholy voice:—

A coffin of pinewood tree

Stands ready prepared for me;

Within its narrow wall

I’ll await the trumpet call.

When the angels blow,

From the graves will go

Those who in them lie,

To God’s throne on high.

Two roads are there to take,

Beware which choice you make!

One leads to heaven fair,

One to old Satan’s lair!

“Ivan! come to supper!” they called from the other side of the raft. A

fire was burning there on stones which had been put together in imitation

of a stove, and over it hung on three sticks an iron kettle boiling

fish-soup. Ivan did not heed, but went on singing. The group which sat

talking round the fire comprised, beside the boatmen and bourlaks, the

aged schismatic Cornelius, who preached of self-burning and was now

on his way to the Kershen forests beyond the Volga; his disciple, a

runaway Moscow scholar named Tichon Zapólsky; Alexis Furlong, a gunner,

deserter from Astrachan; the caulker Ivan Boudlóff, a sailor under the

Admiralty, also a deserter; the clerk Larion Dokoukin, an old woman

Vitalia belonging to the “runners,” who to quote her own words “led the

life of a bird,” always on the move, soaring everywhere, staying nowhere;

her companion Kilikeya the Barefooted, an epileptic woman, who had a

“satanic suggestion” in her abdomen; and many other “people in hiding”

who had fled to save themselves from the heavy taxation, soldiering, the

cat-o’-nine tails, forced labour, tearing of nostrils, beard shaving,

crossing with two fingers, or some of the other terrors of Antichrist.

“I feel sick at heart,” said Vitalia, an alert old woman, wearing a dark

loose neckerchief who, though wrinkled, was red-cheeked as an autumn

apple. “And, I know not why, the days seem so dark; the sun does not seem

to shine as it used to.”

“The times are sad, the fear of Antichrist is invading the world, hence

this sorrow and heaviness,” explained Cornelius, a haggard old man

with a broad pleasant face, pock-marked and, apparently, mole-eyed. In

reality he had piercingly sharp sight; he wore a “heretic” cape, in

shape somewhat monkish, a black under-cassock which had turned brown,

and a leather belt with a thong. And whenever he moved, his iron chain,

weighing a hundred weight and made of crosses which deeply scored into

his flesh, would clang its links together. “I too, father Cornelius,

begin to see that these are the last days,” groaned the woman. “The

world’s sands are running short; they say the end will come about the

middle of the eighth thousand years.”

“No,” retorted the old man with decision, “it won’t even last as long as

that.”

“Lord be merciful unto us,” sighed one of the company, “God knows His own

time; all we can do is to say—God have mercy upon us.”

And they all lapsed into silence. Clouds had again covered up the opening

of the sky which had become as dark as the Neva. The distant lightning

grew brighter and brighter; with each flash the thin taper pinnacle of

the Peter and Paul fortress shone forth like a streak of pale gold, and

was reflected in the Neva; the flat stone battlements which seemed to

be sunken into the banks, and the group of stucco buildings clustering

around: mercantile and garrison depôts, hemp sheds and magazines, stood

out in black relief. In the distance, on the opposite shore, the lights

of the Summer Garden glittered through the trees. As a last breath of the

late Northern spring a smell of pine, birch, and aspen was wafted across

from the Lake of Keivoussary. The small group of people on the flat and

scarcely visible raft, lit up by a red fire, between the black thunder

clouds and the dark surface of the river seemed lonely and forsaken, as

if hanging in the air midway between two skies and two abysses.

When all had stopped talking such silence ensued, that only the

monotonous rippling of the stream under the logs was audible, while from

the other end of the raft came along the water the same old melancholy

song:—

A coffin of pinewood tree

Stands ready prepared for me;

Within its narrow wall

I’ll await the trumpet call.

“Friends, is it true,” began Kilikeya, a young woman with a delicately

transparent, almost waxen face, and feet terrible to look at, being black

as the roots of an old tree (she always went about barefoot even in the

keenest frost), “is it true what I heard to-day in the market, that there

is no Tsar in Russia; that the present Tsar is not the right one, neither

a Russian nor of royal blood, but either a foreigner or foreigner’s son,

or a Swedish changeling?”

“Neither Swede nor foreigner, but a damned Jew of the tribe of Dan,”

declared Cornelius.

“O Lord, Lord,” again somebody sighed heavily, “see how the royal race

has degenerated!”

They began to discuss who Peter was: whether a Swede, a foreigner, or Jew.

“The devil knows who he is. Whether a witch has hatched or the damp bred

him, one thing is certain: he is a were-wolf,” declared the sailor, a

young man of about thirty years old, with a wide-awake, intelligent

expression on his face, once probably handsome, now disfigured by the

branded forehead and torn nostrils.

“Ay! My friends, I know, I know positively everything concerning the

Tsar,” replied Vitalia; “I learnt from an old wandering beggar woman, and

the choristers of the Ascension told me just the same. When our Tsar, the

pious Peter, was abroad visiting foreign countries he came across the

Glass Kingdom; this Glass Kingdom is ruled by a maiden, who, making sport

of him forced him to sit on a red hot tin, and then, having shut him up

in a barrel with nails, cast him into the sea.”

“No, not in a barrel, but he was laid in a trunk,” some one corrected.

“Well, it does not matter whether it was a barrel or a trunk, but the

fact remains that he has been lost ever since, neither seen nor heard

of. And in his stead the sea vomited up a Jew of the tribe of Dan, born

of an ill-conditioned wench, and nobody knew him. And on his coming

to Moscow he began to do as a Jew would; he declined the Patriarch’s

blessing, would not go to the holy relics in Moscow, aware that the holy

place would refuse his approach. Neither did he do honour to the tombs

of former pious Tsars, for the simple reason that they were strangers

to him and hateful in consequence. He saw no one of the royal family,

neither the Tsaritsa nor the Tsarevitch nor the Tsarevenas, fearing

they would detect him and say: ‘You don’t belong to us, you are not the

Tsar, but a cursed Jew.’ He did not show himself to the people on New

Year’s Day, fearing detection, just as Gregory had been detected by

the people; he does not keep fast days nor go to church, nor does he

wash in the bath-house on Saturdays, but lives dissolutely in a house

with the foreigners. Nowadays a foreigner is an important personage in

Muscovy; the sorriest foreigner stands higher than a boyar, higher even

than the Patriarch himself. He himself, the cursed Jew, publicly dances

with foreign courtesans; drinks wine not to the glory of God, but in

an indecent ugly way, like a common toper, reeling on the ground and

using bad language when drunk. For the amusement of foreigners, or, more

likely, for the outraging of all Christian customs, he publicly calls

his drink-companions by holy names, one, the most holy Patriarch, others

again, Bishop and Archbishop, himself Archdeacon, thus defiling sacred

names by applying them to shameful things.”

“The abomination of desolation, predicted by Daniel, has come to pass,”

concluded Cornelius.

Other voices from the crowd chimed in:

“And the Tsaritsa Eudoxia, who is shut up in the Sousdal nunnery, tells

us: ‘Have patience, keep to the Christian faith, this is not my Tsar—he

is a stranger.’

“He is trying his best to make the Tsarevitch imitate him, but he can’t

succeed; and that is why the Tsar wants to rid himself of him, and

prevent his coming to the throne.”

“O Lord, Lord! what a trouble God has sent—the father rises against the

son, the son against his father.”

“What father is he to him! The Tsarevitch himself says this man is

neither father nor Tsar to me.”

“The Tsar loves the foreigners; the Tsarevitch does not love foreigners:

‘Give me time,’ says he, ‘and I will soon get rid of them.’ A foreigner

once came to him and began to talk in an unknown language. The Tsarevitch

burnt his clothes and scorched him; the foreigner complained to the

Tsar; ‘Why do you go to him?’ was the answer, ‘while I live you will be

unhurt.’”

“This is so! they all say when our Tsarevitch comes to the throne then

the Tsar and his company will have to do their best to save themselves.”

“Truly, truly, it is so,” affirmed several voices cheerfully, “the

Tsarevitch dearly loves the ancient ways.”

“A righteous man!”

“Russia’s Hope!”

“Many old women’s tales pass current among our folk nowadays; they cannot

all be believed or trusted,” began Ivan Boudlóff, and at once his calm

matter of fact words riveted the attention of the whole group. “But I

must say, be he Swede or foreigner or Jew—the devil knows best—one thing

is certain, ever since God sent him to rule over us we have seen no happy

days; life has become hard; there is no peace. Take us mariners and

soldiers. It is fifteen years since we began fighting the Swede, we have

not disgraced ourselves anywhere, but have shed our blood freely; and yet

to this day we see no peace. Summer and autumn we are sent to roam on the

seas, the winter is spent among rocks, we are dying of sheer hunger. And

the country is ruined to such an extent that in some places not even a

sheep remains to the peasant. They say: ‘A clever head, a clever head.’

If he were clever, he would be able to understand his people’s needs.

Where does he show his cleverness? He gave us a proof in his civic laws,

the institution of the Senate. Yet what good comes of it? Not only more

wages are wanted; but ask the people with law-suits if any one of them

has been promptly attended to—— Ah! what is the use of talking? The

whole nation is outraged. He so arranges matters as to drag the last bit

of Christianity from our souls, the last bit of life from our bodies. How

is it that God tolerates so much cruelty? But this is not happening in

vain; a change will come, sooner or later, the blood will come over them.”

Suddenly one of the audience who had remained silent all this while, a

woman named Elena with a simple, kind face, started defending the Tsar.

“We don’t know how to express it,” she said, in a low voice, as if to

herself, “but we continually pray—O Lord, bring the Tsar back to our

Christian faith!”

Her timid attempt was silenced however, by indignant voices crying:—

“He is no Tsar! only a mock-Tsar; he has squandered himself, goes about

as if beside himself.”

“He has become quite a Jew, he can no longer live without a sip of blood

from time to time. The day he drinks blood, that day he is content and

merry, but the day he gets none he can neither eat nor drink.”

“Glutton! he will have eaten everybody soon, for himself there is no

extermination.”

“May the earth engulph him!”

“Fools! Curs!” interposed with fury the gunner Alexis Furlong, a

red-haired man of huge height, with a face now suggesting a beast, now

a child, “fools, for not knowing how to defend yourselves! All of you

are doomed soul and body; you will be mashed up like worms in a cabbage.

As for me nothing would please me better than to cut him up into little

bits.”

Elena weakly sighed and made the sign of the cross; these words, she

confessed afterwards, made her feel hot all over. The others looked with

terror at Alexis, while he, fixing his bloodshot eyes on one spot, and

clenching his fist, added slowly as if lost in thought,—and there was

something yet more terrible in this measured tone than in his fury:—

“I am surprised that no one has finished him off before now. He is always

about alone. There are plenty of chances to cut him up half a dozen times

over.”

Elena grew pale, she wanted to say something, but her moving lips could

not articulate a sound.

“Thrice have there been attempts to kill the Tsar,” said Cornelius, “but

every time has failed: evil spirits attend and protect him.”

A fair, puny soldier, with an idiotic, haggard, sickly face, quite a

boy, a deserter named Petka Jisla, began to talk hurriedly, stuttering

and sobbing like an infant. He told them that three ships had brought

branding-irons from abroad to brand people with. Strict watch was kept

over them, nobody was allowed near; sentinels being stationed by them on

the Cotline island.

These were the new recruit marks introduced by Peter, about which

the Tsar wrote in 1712 to the general plenipotentiary Prince James

Dolgorúki:—“to mark recruits, prick a cross with the needle on the left

hand and rub in powder.”

“The marked men receive bread, those who have no marks go without, no

matter if they starve. Ah! brethren, brethren, it is a sorry business.”

“Famine will bring us all unto the son of perdition to worship him,”

affirmed Cornelius.

“Some have been already marked,” continued Petka, “I among them, lost man

that I am.”

With evident difficulty he lifted with his right hand the left which hung

powerless at his side, brought it to the light, and showed the recruiting

mark, stamped with the government stamp.

“When stamped, the hand at once began to wither, first the left only, now

the right has began; try as I may to raise and bless myself with it, I

cannot.”

His companions looked terror-stricken at the dark spot, which seemed like

a number of pock marks on the pale yellow, withered, lifeless hand. This

was the human brand, the black cross of the crown.

“That is it, quite right,” declared Cornelius, “the sign of Antichrist.

It is written: ‘he will mark them on the hand, he, who receives this

mark, will lose the power to bless himself with the sign of the cross;

yet his hand will be paralyzed not by chains, but by an oath, and no

repentance shall be granted unto such.’”

“Brethren! brethren! what have they done unto me? Had I but known in

time they should never have had me alive. They have spoilt a human body;

marked a man like cattle.” Petka sobbed convulsively, and large tears

rolled down his childish pathetic face.

“Friends,” ejaculated Kilikeya, as if struck by a sudden thought, “all

this seems to point to one fact, that our Tsar Peter is himself the——”

She did not finish, the terrible word seemed to die on her lips.

“And what did you think?” Cornelius looked at her with his little sharp

piercing eyes. “He is that very one Himself.”

“No, never fear, the veritable one has not yet appeared. He might be his

forerunner,” tried to put in Dokoukin. But Cornelius stood up, the chain

of iron crosses clanking; he lifted his hand, raised his two fingers in

the “schismatic” way, and triumphantly announced:—

“Listen ye Orthodox, this is He who reigns, who has had dominion over

you since the year 1666, the year of the Beast. In the beginning, the

Tsar Alexis together with the Patriarch Nikon renounced the faith, and

in so doing became the forerunner of the Beast. Now following in their

footsteps Tsar Peter has finally uprooted all piety; he has annihilated

the Patriarchate; claimed the Church and divine power, and, against our

Lord Jesus Christ, has declared himself supreme head of the Church, the

absolute pastor. And vieing with the supremacy of Christ, about whom it

is written:—‘I am the first and the last,’ he called himself Peter the

First. In the year 1700, on the first day of January, the new year’s day

of the ancient Roman god Janus, at a firework entertainment he proclaimed

on a screen—‘My time has now come.’ And he assumed unto himself the name

of Christ, in the hymn sung at church in memory of the Poltava victory

over the Swedes. And on his return to Moscow, he had young children in

white robes placed on triumphal arches and taking part in the procession,

to glorify him and sing, ‘Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the

Lord, Hosanna in the highest. Lord God appear to us!’—as by God’s will,

the Jewish children had praised our Lord Jesus Christ on his entry into

Jerusalem. Thus by his title he had elevated himself above every Name

of God. For it has been said: under the name of Simon Peter there will

appear in Rome the proud prince of this world, Antichrist, and in Russia,

which is the third Rome, that Peter has appeared who is the son of

darkness, the blasphemer and enemy of God, that is Antichrist. And as it

is written: in all things will the false prophet strive to resemble the

Son of God, so also does the aforesaid Peter, glorifying himself, say:

‘I am a father to the fatherless, a shelter for the wandering, a helper

to those in trouble, a defence to the oppressed’; he has built hospitals

for the sick and the aged; schools for the young; the simple and ignorant

Russian people he has in a short time made shrewd and clever, and in all

knowledge equal to other European nations. He has expanded the Empire,

he has reinstated what was stolen, restored what had fallen to ruins,

glorified what had been humbled, renewed the old; he has roused those

sleeping in ignorance; and has created what was not. ‘I am gracious,

meek, and merciful. Come unto me, and worship me, the living and Almighty

God, for I am God, there is none other God but me.’ Thus the Beast feigns

goodness; he about whom it is written, ‘That Beast is terrible and is

like unto none.’ Thus a cruel wolf, masked under a sheepskin, will one

day spring forth and swallow everyone. Listen then, ye Orthodox, to

the word of the prophet: Go, go forth, go forth from Babylon, oh! my

people and save yourselves, for there is no salvation in cities for the

living; flee, persecuted faithful ones, who have no present abode, but

are seeking the Coming. Flee into the woods, the deserts, hide your

heads under the earth, in hills and caverns, in the earth’s abysses;

for brethren you yourselves see, that we have reached the utmost evil.

Antichrist himself has come, and with him the world is ending. Amen.”

He finished. A blinding flash of lightning suddenly lit up the man

from head to foot, and to those who were looking at him, the small man

seemed almost a giant in this glare, and the roll of the dull, as if

subterranean thunder, seemed to be the echo of his words, which had

filled heaven and earth.

He finished, and all around him remained silent. Again was heard the

dreamy ripple of the stream under the logs, and the languid melancholy

song of Ivan wafted across from the other end of the raft:—

Ye hollowed oak trunks, ye will prove

Fit house for us who on earth did move,

Night approacheth, endeth day,

And Death his scythe doth lay

To the root of all that live....

The song made the silence only more intense, more awful. Suddenly, with

a rumbling and a hiss, up soared a rocket, dissolving in the dark vault

into a rain of iridescent stars. The Neva reflecting them doubled their

number in her black mirror. Fireworks flared, screens with transparent

pictures were lit, fiery wheels began to whirl, fountains of fire surged

forth, and halls appeared, resembling a temple of white sun-like flame.

And from the Pavilion overlooking the Neva, where the Goddess already

stood, along the smooth surface of the waters, came the cry of the

revellers—“Vivat! Vivat! Vivat! Peter the Great! Father of his country!

Emperor of all the Russians!” and music rang forth in the air.

“This, brethren, is the last of the signs,” exclaimed Cornelius, pointing

with his outstretched arm to the rocket. “As St. Hippolitus testifies:

‘Antichrist will be glorified, praised by sundry songs and many voices

and loud crying. And a light greater than all lights will surround him,

the master of darkness. Night will be changed into day, and day into

night; the sun and the moon will become red as blood, and he will take

the fire away from the heavens.”

In the centre of the luminous hall appeared the statue of Peter the

Sculptor of Russia, in the image of the Titan Prometheus.

“And all will fall down before him,” concluded Cornelius, “and exclaim

‘Vivat! Vivat! Vivat! who is like unto the Beast? who is able to make war

with him; he has brought us fire from the heavens!’”

Nearly all on the raft watched the fireworks terror-stricken. And when,

shrouded in clouds of smoke, illumined by many coloured bengal-lights,

there appeared the sea monster, with prickly fins and wings and tail

covered with scales, floating along the Neva from the fortress towards

the Summer Garden, they deemed this to be the Beast, coming up out of

the depths, as predicted in the book of Revelation. Every moment they

expected to see Antichrist coming towards them on the water, or flying

through the air on wings of fire, amidst thunder and lightning, and

armies of evil spirits with him.

“Friends, friends,” sobbed Petka, trembling like a leaf, and his teeth

chattering, “I feel frightened; we speak about him, but is he himself not

somewhere close by? See how we are all troubled!”

“I don’t know where you get all this old woman’s fear. Ram a pike down

his throat, and that’ll finish him,” boastingly began Furlong; but he too

grew pale, and began to quake when Kilikeya, who was sitting next to him,

suddenly called out in a piercing voice, fell on the ground, twisting her

body in convulsions, and began to shriek.

Kilikeya had been injured in her childhood. Once, so she herself was wont

to relate, her stepmother had poured out some soup in a wooden bowl, and

passed it to her to eat—reviling her at the same time, saying, “there,

sup it up, the devil be with you,” and three weeks later she fell ill,

and it seemed to her that something had begun to growl audibly within

her, like a dog, so that everybody could hear it. And really an evil

spirit did seem to growl with human and animal voices within her. She

had been imprisoned according to the Tsar’s law, concerning such nervous

women; she had been questioned, judged, even whipped. She had signed

promises, not to call out again under pain of punishment with the lash

or of being convicted to lifelong labour in the weaving mill. Yet lashes

could not cast out demons, and she continued to have fits.

Kilikeya moaned: “I feel sick, so sick,” and then she would laugh, and

cry, and bark like a dog and bleat like a sheep, and croak like a frog,

grunt like a pig, and many other animals did she imitate.

The watch dog, which lived on the raft, roused by these unwonted sounds

came out of its kennel: a hungry, lean cur, with sunken flanks and

prominent ribs; it walked up to the edge of the raft, and paused at the

side of Ivan, who continued to chant, neither seeing nor hearing anything

around him, and the dog lifting its muzzle into the air, its tail

between its legs, howled piteously at the fireworks. The howl of the dog

and the howl of the sick woman blended into one.

They poured water on Kilikeya. Cornelius bending over her, was reciting

incantations for the driving out of demons, blowing and spitting on her

face, and lashing it with his leather thong. At last she grew calmer,

and fell into a heavy swoon-like slumber. The fireworks had died away.

The embers of the fire were faintly glowing; darkness reigned once more.

Nothing had happened; Antichrist had not appeared; the fear had passed

away. Yet the distress they all felt was more terrible than any fear.

They sat as before on the low raft, whose black outlines scarcely stood

out against the dark water and the black heavens; their little group,

lonely and forlorn, suspended as it were, somewhere in space twixt the

two skies. All was quiet, the raft motionless, and yet it seemed to

them, they were being precipitated into and were sinking down, engulphed

in this gloom, as in some yawning black abyss, the jaws of the Beast

itself, the inevitable end of all things. And into this black oppressive

darkness, luminous with the blue tremulous heat-lightning, floated from

the Summer Garden the music of the minuet, tender as the languid sighs of

the kingdom of Venus, where the shepherd Daphnis loosens the girdle of

Chloe,

’Tis time to cast thy bow away,

Cupid, we all are, in thy sway.

Thy golden love-awaking dart

Hath reached and wounded every heart!

CHAPTER II

On the Neva, near the rafts of the Tsarevitch, stood a large barge, which

had come from Archangel, laden with Holmogorian pottery. Her owner, the

rich merchant Poóshnikoff, belonging to the heretics of the sea coast,

gave shelter in his barge to deserters of the old faith, who were obliged

to be in hiding. The space between the decks and the poop was divided up

into little cells. In one of these Elena had found shelter.

Elena was a peasant woman, the wife of a foreman in the Moscow

Mint, Maxim Yereméyeff, a secret iconoclast. When the leader of the

iconoclasts, the barber Thomas, was burnt, Maxim fled to the southern

towns, leaving his wife behind. It was difficult to decide whether she

herself was a heretic or an Orthodox, for she crossed herself with two

fingers after the advice of some old man who used to visit her, saying:

“thou canst not move God with three fingers,” while yet frequenting

Orthodox Churches and confessing to Orthodox priests. Notwithstanding

the terrible rumours about Peter, Elena believed he was the true Russian

Tsar and loved him. She prayed that she might be allowed to behold his

Majesty, and for this reason she had come to Petersburg. One thought

only possessed her: that God might grant the Tsar repentance, bring

him back to his father’s faith, make him cease from persecuting the

people of the old faith, and thus give them, in their turn, a chance of

joining the Orthodox church. Elena had composed a special prayer for

the unification of the church, which she meant to have shown to her

confessor, but could not find the courage, as it seemed so badly written.

She visited monasteries, she engaged an old woman for six weeks to

read the acathistus for the Tsar at the Ascension church and at another

dedicated to the Virgin of Kazan. She herself would kneel two or three

thousand times a day for him. But all this did not seem sufficient for

her, and she resolved on a last desperate remedy. She made her nephew

Vassia, a lad of fourteen, write out the prayer she had composed for

the Tsar and the uniting of the church, sewed a cover for an icon, and

putting the prayer in the lining, gave it to a priest in the Church of

the Assumption, making no mention of the hidden letter.

After the conversation on the raft, Elena returned to her cell on the

barge, and when she recalled all she had heard that night about the Tsar,

she for the first time asked herself whether after all it was not true,

that God could not be moved for such a Tsar.

For a long time she lay motionless in the oppressive darkness of her

cabin cell, her eyes wide open, bathed in cold sweat. At last she got up,

lit a remnant of a wax church taper and placed it in the corner of the

closet before the icon of the Virgin, hung on the wooden partition. It

was the same Virgin whom Peter had been exhibiting at the foot of Venus.

She knelt, bowed to the ground three hundred times and began to recite

with tears and sighs that same forlorn prayer, now sewn into the cover of

the icon, at the church of the Assumption.

“Hear me, thou Holy Church, with all the hosts of Cherubim and Seraphim,

with all the companies of prophets, patriarchs, saints and martyrs, the

Gospels, and all the sacred words that compose the Gospel, remember ye

our Tsar Peter! Hear me, Holy Apostolic Church, together with all local

images and little icons, with all apostolic books and holy lamps, the

censers and candles, the sacred coverings and goodly palls, the stone

walls and iron slabs, all fruitful trees and flowers! I implore thee,

beautiful sun, pray thou the Lord for our Tsar Peter, and thou young moon

with thy stars! O sky and thy mists! O terrible clouds and stormy winds

and breezes! O fowls of the air! blue sea, great rivers, small brooks and

lakes! pray ye the heavenly King for our Tsar Peter! Fish of the sea,

cattle in the fields, beasts of the wood, meadows, forests, mountains

all the earth’s increase, pray ye the heavenly King for our Tsar Peter!”

* * * * *

A thin partition separated Elena’s closet from a more spacious cell

occupied by Cornelius and his disciple Tichon. Not a word did Tichon say

during the conversation on the raft, yet he had followed it with greater

interest than any one else. When the group had dispersed, Cornelius

went ashore to confer with some other heretics about the approaching

great self-burning, “the Red Death,” of thousands of persecuted people

belonging to the old faith; a rite which was to take place in the woods

beyond the Volga. Tichon had returned to his floating cell alone, and

had gone to bed. Yet like Elena in the adjacent compartment, he could

not sleep, but kept thinking over what he had heard that night about the

Tsar. He felt that his future hung on these thoughts, that the moment

was approaching which, like a sword, would cleave his life in twain. “It

seems now as though I were on a knife’s edge,” he said to himself, “on

whichever side I fall, in that direction will I go.”

Together with thoughts about the future rose memories of the past.

Who was this Tichon?

Tichon was the only son, the last offspring of the once noble family of

the princes Zapólsky, long since fallen into disgrace and poverty. His

mother died at his birth, his father, a leader of the Streltsy, took

part in the mutiny against Peter, supporting the Miloslavskis, ancient

Russia and the old faith. During the terrible trial of 1698 he was

sentenced, tortured in Preobrazhensky torture chamber, and then executed

on the Red Square in the Kremlin. All his other relatives and friends

were also executed or banished. The orphaned Tichon, but eight years

old, remained in the charge of his attendant, Yemelian Pahómitch. The

child was weak and puny, and suffered from fits like one “possessed.”

He loved his father with passionate tenderness. Anxious for the boy’s

health, Pahómitch kept from him the knowledge of his father’s death, by

telling Tichon that his father had gone away on business to his distant

patrimony in the Sarátoff government. But the child cried and pined, and

glided like a shadow about the large empty house, his heart foreboding

some calamity. At last he could bear it no longer. One day, having again

vainly sought to learn the truth, he ran out of the house by himself,

hoping to reach the Kremlin where an uncle of his lived, and to ask him

about his father. The uncle was, however, no longer alive; he had been

executed at the same time as Tichon’s father.

At the Spasski gate the boy met large carts laden with corpses of the

executed Streltsy, thrown together anyhow, half naked. Like slaughtered

cattle, fresh from the slaughterhouse, they were taken to a common grave,

the refuse pit, and there buried together with filth and carrion, by the

express order of the Tsar. Beams stuck out from the walls of the Kremlin,

on which numerous bodies hung like “Polti,” a salt Astrachan fish which

is hung in bundles to dry in the sun.

The people all day long silently crowded the Red Square, not daring to

come near the place of execution, but looking on from afar. Making his

way through the crowd, Tichon perceived near the Lóbnoye place some

long thick logs surrounded by pools of congealed blood. These served

for the executioners’ blocks. The victims crowding against one another,

as many as thirty men at once, would lay their heads on the logs in

rows. While the Tsar was drinking in a hall with windows overlooking the

square, his boyars, fools and favourites were chopping off heads. Once

the Tsar, dissatisfied with the way they did their work—the hands of

the inexperienced headsmen were trembling—ordered twenty of the victims

to be brought to his banqueting table, and there slew them with his own

hands to the accompaniment of jeers and music. He drank a glass of wine,

chopped off a head; glass after glass, head after head. Wine and blood

flowed together.

Tichon saw the gallows erected in the shape of a cross for the mutinous

Streltsy priests. The hangman was Nikíta Zotoff, the mock patriarch. A

great number of wheels with the mutilated bodies still hanging to them;

iron spikes and stakes with half putrefied heads. The Tsar’s command

forbade their being taken off till they had completely rotted. The air

was one awful stench. Crows hovered over the place in large flocks.

The boy fixed his eyes on one of the heads. It stood out black against

the transparent azure of the sky, all strewn with cloudlets of delicate

rose and golden hue; while further off, the domes of the Kremlin churches

glowed like living embers. The evening bell rang out in the still air.

Suddenly Tichon felt the sky, the domes, the very earth go from under his

feet, while he himself was falling into some bottomless abyss: he had

recognised his father’s face in that head with black sockets for eyes.

The drum rolled, a division of the Preobrazhensky regiment came round

the corner; it accompanied carts with fresh victims. The condemned sat

in white shirts with calm faces, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

A tall man on horseback rode in front of them. His face too was calm,

yet terrible. This was Peter. Tichon had never seen him before, but he

at once recognised him, and it seemed to the child that the dead head

of his father with its blank eye-sockets was looking straight into the

Tsar’s eyes. The next moment he swooned. The crowd falling back in terror

would have crushed the boy, had not an old man noticed him. This man,

an old friend of Pahómitch, a certain Gregory of Talitsa, lifted him up

and carried him home. In the night Tichon had a fit such as he never had

before. It was a wonder he survived.

This Gregory of Talitsa, a poor unknown scribe, who lived by copying

books and manuscripts, was one of the first to prove that Tsar Peter was

the Antichrist. This was the charge brought against him at his trial,

“that prompted by too great a zeal against Antichrist, and a doubtful

heretic fear, he began to spread among the people evil words of blame and

slander against the Tsar.” Having compiled booklets about the “coming

of Antichrist,” and “the end of the world,” he thought of printing and

freely distributing them among the people, in order to rouse them against

the Tsar. Gregory often used to visit Pahómitch and talk with him about

the Tsar, the Antichrist, and the last days. The monk Cornelius, who

was living in Moscow at that time, took part in these conversations.

Young Tichon used to listen to these old men, who, like three illboding

crows, would collect at dusk in the empty house and caw: “the end of the

world is drawing nigh; hard times, evil years have come; true faith, the

stone wall, the strong pillar of Christ, has disappeared—Christianity

has perished. Antichrist will come at the consummation of time; the

whole world will be set on fire and burn sixty ells deep into its crust,

because of our great transgressions.” And then they would relate a vision

of “some vile serpent, which creeps and wriggles about, hanging down from

the archdeacon’s shoulder instead of the holy stole during the service

in a Niconian church; or at night, coiling round the walls of the Tsar’s

dwelling, slips its head inside, and whispers into the Tsar’s ear.” These

melancholy conversations would pass into still more melancholy songs:

Christ, the heaven’s eternal King,

Whose glory through the world doth ring,

Bids us, his beloved people,

In lone deserts, shady caves,

Darksome forests, refuge take;

Bury deep ourselves in sand,

Strewn with ashes walk the land,

Die in hope and never fear,

For God’s kingdom draweth near!

Tichon listened with special eagerness to tales about the secret

settlements, amid dark forests and bogs beyond the Volga, and about the

legendary and invisible city—Kitesh on the Lake of Light. The site of

the city appeared to be a lonely wood; yet there were churches, houses,

monasteries, and numbers of people. In summer church bells are heard at

night ringing on the lake’s surface and the clear waters reflect the

golden domes of the churches. There the true kingdom on earth is, in

peace, quiet and eternal joy; holy fathers have flourished there, like

lilies, cypresses and date palms, like pearls and heavenly stars. From

their lips unceasing prayer to God rises like the breath of sweet-scented

thyme and choice incense, and at night their prayer is visible like

fiery sparkling pillars, and the light is so strong that it is possible

to read and write without a candle. God loves and cherishes them as the

apple of His eye, and His invisible hand is ever over them. And they

shall experience neither sorrow nor affliction from the Beast; only for

us sinners do they grieve day and night for our apostasy and Russia’s,

and for the dominion of Antichrist over us. One road only leads to

this invisible city. It is narrow, surrounded by all sorts of wonders

and terrors, and winds among thickets, through woody dales, and no one

can find it, except those whom God Himself leads to this serenely quiet

refuge. Listening to the tales, Tichon longed to be in these dark forests

and lone deserts. With inexpressibly sweet melancholy would he repeat

after Pahómitch the poem about prince Joseph, the young hermit:—

Fair solitude! my heart’s desire,

Through forest and mire,

Over hill, dale, and peak,

Will I wander and seek

A place for my hut.

Thou emerald vault,

Under thee will I roam

To full heart’s delight.

Thy cuckoo’s call

Shall teach me all,

Dry roots will be

Eden’s food for me,

Thy sparkling springs

Mine only drink.

From earliest childhood Tichon was subject to a strange sensation, quite

unlike anything else; a feeling of almost painful anguish, coupled with a

delicious sweetness: it seemed ever new, yet ever familiar, and generally

intimated the approach of a fit. Terror and surprise mingled with a

reminiscence as from some other world, but the prevalent elements were

curiosity and expectation, and a desire, that what was about to happen

should happen quickly. He never mentioned this to any one, and even if he

would, he could not have found words to express it. Later on, when his

consciousness and thinking power increased, this sensation became tinged

with thoughts about the end of the world and the second coming.

At times the most sinister croaking of the old men would leave him

unmoved, while something unexpected, a colour, a sound, a scent could

rouse in him the same feeling with sudden force. His house stood on the

slope of the Sparrow hills, beyond the river Moscow. The garden abruptly

terminated in a steep cliff. From this spot the whole of Moscow could

be seen: a mass of black log structures—very much like a village—and

towering above them, the white stone walls of the Kremlin and the

countless golden domes of churches. Hence, too, the boy would often watch

those grand and terrible sunsets, which sometimes occur in a late, stormy

autumn. In the clouds, which appeared now livid blue, purple, black or

flaming red, now as it were bloody, he fancied he could discern at one

time a giant serpent which had coiled round Moscow, at another a Beast

with seven heads with a woman sitting on it, having a cup in her hand

full of abominations: now he saw the host of angels pursuing demons,

wounding them with arrows of fire and causing streams of blood to flow

over the heavens, or again the radiant Zion, the invisible city, which

descending out of heaven, was resplendent with the glory of the coming

Lord. It seemed as though the mystery, destined to be revealed on earth,

was already being enacted in the heavens. And the familiar presentiment

of the final end of all things entranced the boy. This same presentiment

was also roused by everyday occurrences, even by the merest trifles; by

the smell of tobacco; by the first sight of a Russian book printed in

Amsterdam by order of Peter, in the new civil characters; by the signs

over the new shops in the German quarter; by a special form of wig, which

had long, curious locks like Jew’s ringlets or dog’s ears; or by the

peculiar expression on Russian faces, recently bearded, now clean-shaven.

One day, Yereméich, the beekeeper, an old man of eighty years, who

lodged in their garden, was captured by the royal commissioners at the

town gate; they forcibly shaved off his beard and cut short the lappets

of his coat according to the regulation measure. The old man returned

sobbing like a child, fell ill and shortly died of grief. Tichon loved

the old man and was sorry for him, yet when he first caught sight of

him, clean-shaven, with his coat shortened, sobbing most piteously, the

boy burst into a laugh, but one so strange and unnatural that Pahómitch

dreaded another fit. In this laugh, too, there was the fear of the end of

the world.

Once in winter a comet appeared, “a star with a tail,” so Pahómitch

called it. The boy all the time longed to see it, yet did not dare to

look; he used to purposely turn away his head, and close his eyes. But

one night he saw it quite unexpectedly, when Pahómitch was carrying him

across a snowdrifted lane to the bath-house. At the end of this lane

between the black log-houses, rising just above the white snow, at the

very edge of the dark blue sky, sparkled a large, delicately transparent

star; it seemed to be gliding away, as it were, into infinite space. It

was not terrible, on the contrary so familiar, so welcome, so fair, that

he gazed and could not gaze enough. The old feeling, stronger than ever,

clutched his heart with unendurable terror and delight. He stretched

himself towards the star, as if now only awakening, with a tender, dreamy

smile. At the same time Pahómitch felt terrible convulsions shake the

little body. A cry escaped the boy; he had his second epileptic fit.

At the age of sixteen, he was compelled, together with other children

belonging to the nobility, to attend the school of “Mathematical,

Nautical, that is Maritime, and cunning Arts.” The school was located

in the Súkharev tower, where James Bruce was engaged on astronomical

observations. The astronomer was considered to be a sorcerer and

magician: a squinting woman, who sold soaked apples in a street close by,

had seen Bruce one winter’s night flying from the tower straight to the

moon, astride of a telescope. Nothing in this world would have induced

Pahómitch to send the child to this cursed place, but the boys were taken

there by force.

Minors,[1] who had been in hiding on their estates, some even married,

babes of thirty or forty years of age, had been brought hither by

compulsion, and now sat next to children on the same bench. They learnt

from the same book, which had a picture representing a teacher beating

with rods a schoolboy laid across a bench. Below ran the inscription,

“Let every boy learn in quiet.” All the primers were well supplied with

verses about the rod:

God bless the woods for evermore,

Of useful rods the living store;

Birch is for youth the needful kind,

Nought but stiff oak brings age to mind.

It was prescribed by a royal ukase that a number of strong soldiers

should be chosen from the Guards Regiment, one of whom, lash in hand,

should be present in each room during the lessons; and should one of

the pupils misbehave, he was to be lashed, irrespective of his rank or

family. But neither rods nor lashes could knock learning into their

heads; both young and old learnt badly. Sometimes in moments of despair

they would sing, “the Song of Babylon.” The older ones, their voices

hoarse with excessive drink, would start:

We with school life can’t agree,

The use of rods is far too free.

The shriller young voices chimed in:—

Sorry and sad

Is every lad.

then both high and low would join in the chorus.

Tichon would have learnt little in the school had he not attracted

the attention of one of his teachers, the Pastor Glück, a native of

Königsberg. Glück, who had acquired a kind of Russian from a runaway

Polish monk, came to Russia “to teach,” quoting his own words, “the

Muscovy youths, who were soft and impressionable as clay.” He was soon

disillusioned however, not so much by the youths themselves, as by

the Russian method employed in training them, “like horses,” knocking

knowledge into their heads with whips. Glück was kind and clever in spite

of being a drunkard; sorrow drove him to drink, because not only Russians

but even Germans considered him mad. He was engaged upon an enormous

task, the writing of commentaries on “_Newton’s Commentary to the

Apocalypse_”; a book in which all Christian revelations concerning the

end of the world were proved by minute astronomical calculations, based

on the laws of gravitation, laid down in Newton’s recently published

“_Philosophæ Naturalis Principia Mathematical_.”

He discovered in his pupil Tichon an extraordinary gift for mathematics;

he loved him dearly, as his own kin.

After a glass or two, he would converse with Tichon as with his dearest

friend, forgetful of his age. He used to tell him about the new

teachings in philosophy; about Bacon’s “Magna Instauratio,” Spinoza’s

“Geometrical Ethics,” Descartes’ “Vortices,” “The Monads of Leibnitz”;

but the greatest inspiration kindled in him when talking about the great

discoveries in astronomy, made by Copernicus, Kepler and Newton. The

boy could not follow all he heard, yet he listened to these accounts of

scientific wonders as eagerly as he did to the talks of the three old men

about the legendary town.

As to Pahómitch, he considered all foreign science, especially astrology

and astronomy, blasphemous. “The damned Copernicus rivals God Himself,”

he used to say, “he has lifted the heavy globe into the air; it is

nothing but a dream, all this nonsense about the sun and the stars being

fixed while the earth alone goes round; it is clean contrary to Holy

Writ. Theologians laugh at him.”

“True philosophy,” Pastor Glück was wont to say, “is not only useful, but

even necessary to faith. Many of the Holy Fathers excelled in philosophy.

Knowledge of nature does not impede Christianity, and God honours him

who strives to explore nature. To reason about the created tends to the

glory of the Creator, for it is written; ‘the heavens declare the glory

of God.’”

A vague instinct, however, told Tichon that this reconciliation between

knowledge and faith was not quite as simple and easy even to Glück, as

the latter believed, or tried to believe. It was not without reason, that

sometimes, after a learned debate with himself about the plurality of

worlds and the incomprehensibility of cosmic space, the drunken old man,

oblivious of his pupil’s presence, would in exhaustion lay his bald head

on the table-edge, his wig awry, dazed not so much with wine, as by the

confusing metaphysical thoughts, and groan, repeating Newton’s celebrated

words:—

“O Physica—save me from Metaphysica!”

One day Tichon found on his teacher’s table a manuscript collection of

Spinoza’s letters, which had been brought from Holland. Tichon, nineteen

at that time and about to leave school, could read Latin fluently. He

opened the book, the first lines he chanced to see were these: “There

is much in common between man’s nature and God’s, as between the

constellation of the Dog and the dog, the barking animal. For I believe

that a triangle, if it could speak, would in like manner say that God

is eminently triangular, and a circle, that the Divine nature is in an

eminent manner circular.” And in another letter concerning the Eucharist:

“Oh, foolish youth! Who has so bewitched you as to make you believe in

the possibility of swallowing something holy and eternal? as if holy and

eternal things could remain in your bowels! Stupendous are the sacraments

of your church, they are contrary to reason!” Tichon closed the book, he

read no further. For the first time in his life thought had roused in him

the old feeling of terror at the end of all things, which so far had only

been called forth by external impressions.

In the Súkharev tower, James Bruce had a well-stocked library, a cabinet

of mathematical, mechanical and other instruments, also a collection of

natural objects: animals, insects, plants, various ores and minerals,

antiquities, old coins, medals, cut stones, larvae, and foreign, as well

as Russian curiosities. Bruce had commissioned Glück to catalogue all the

books and objects. Tichon helped him, and spent whole days in the library.

One bright summer evening he was sitting on the top of a folding library

ladder, which moved on wheels, before a wall ranged with books from top

to bottom; he was sticking numbers on the backs of books, comparing the

new catalogue with the old illiterate one, in which the names of foreign

books were copied out in Russian characters. Through the high windows,

glazed after the manner of old Dutch houses with little round pieces of

glass fixed in a network of lead, the slanting rays of sunshine fell

like sheaves of luminous dust upon the sparkling brass instruments; on

the heavenly spheres, astrolabes, compasses, bevels, draught compasses,

measurement scales, levels, telescopes, microscopes; the various stuffed

birds and animals, the huge bone from a mammoth’s head, monstrous Chinese

idols and marble statues of beautiful Hellenic gods; the interminable

rows of books uniformly bound in leather and parchment. Tichon enjoyed

his work, here among the books. There reigned the calm, soothing peace

of a wood, or of some old cemetery, which, forsaken by men, is lovingly

visited only by sunshine. No sound interrupted the stillness save the

evening chimes, which suggested the bells of the legendary town Kitesh,

and the voices which came through the open door of the adjoining room

where Bruce and Pastor Glück, having finished their supper, now sat

talking and smoking over their wine.

Tichon had just fastened new numbers on some quarto and octavo

volumes which were described in the old catalogue under No. 473 as

_The Philosophy of Francis Bacon_ in English, 3 vols.; under No. 308,

_Meditationes de Prima Philosophia_, by Descartes, in Dutch; under No.

532, _Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica_, by Isaac Newton.

Returning the books to their places, Tichon found at the back of the

shelf an old mouse-eaten octavo, No. 461, _Leonardo da Vinci_, a

treatise on painting, in German. This was the first German translation

of _Trattato della Pittura_, issued at Amsterdam, in the year 1582; a

leaflet with a wood-cut portrait of Leonardo had been placed in the

book. Tichon gazed intently at this face, strange, unknown, and yet so

familiar, as if he had once seen it in a dream. He thought that Simon the

magician, who could fly in the air, must surely have had a similar face.

The voices in the neighbouring room seemed to grow louder and louder,

Bruce was disputing some matter with Pastor Glück. They spoke in German.

Tichon had learnt the language from the pastor; a few stray words struck

him; his curiosity was aroused and he remained, with Leonardo’s book

still in his hand, trying to catch the drift of their conversation.

“How is it you don’t see it, Reverend Sir, that Newton was no longer

in his right senses when he wrote his Commentaries on the Apocalypse?”

said Bruce. “Later on he himself confesses it, in a letter addressed to

Bentley, on September 13, 1693, ‘I have lost my coherency of thought and

no longer feel the old vigour of reason,’ in other words, he simply went

into his dotage.”

“Your Excellency, I would rather be mad with Newton than reasonable with

the rest of us bipeds!” exclaimed Glück, tossing off another glass of

wine.

“There is no accounting for taste, my good sir,” continued Bruce, with a

dry, short, wooden laugh, “but here’s something more curious still. At

the time Newton wrote his Commentaries, in Muscovy, the other extremity

of the world, barbarians called ‘Raskolniks,’ have in their turn

compiled Commentaries on the Apocalypse, and come to very much the same

conclusions as Newton. Daily expecting the Day of Doom, and the Second

Coming, some lay themselves in coffins and say their own funeral service;

others burn themselves. They are hunted and persecuted; for my part I

would say of these unfortunate people, in the words of Leibnitz, ‘I do

not like savageries, and would prefer to let everybody live in peace.’ As

for those who are calmly awaiting the end of the world, their error seems

to me quite innocent. Another thing strikes me as most curious, that the

extreme West and the extreme East, the greatest enlightenment and the

greatest ignorance, meet in these Apocalyptic deliriums. It is enough to

suggest that the end of the world _is_ drawing nigh and that we shall all

go to the devil very soon!”

Again he laughed his sharp, wooden laugh and then added something Tichon

could not hear, but it was evidently something very heterodox, for Pastor

Glück, whose wig had, as usual at the end of his supper, slipped to one

side of his drowsy head, suddenly jumped up in a fury, pushed back his

chair and was going to run out of the room. Bruce kept him back, however,

and a few kind words reassured him: he was the only patron Glück had.

He loved and esteemed him for his disinterested pursuit of knowledge;

yet, being himself a sceptic, or as many asserted a thorough atheist,

he could not see the poor Pastor, the Don Quixote of astronomy, without

being tempted to tease him and scoff at the unlucky commentaries on the

Apocalypse—the reconciliation of science and religion.

Bruce was of opinion that one or the other had to be chosen—either faith

without knowledge, or knowledge without faith.

He filled Glück’s glass and, in order to console him, began to inquire

about the details of Newton’s Apocalypse. At first the old man answered

reluctantly, but after a while he related with enthusiasm Newton’s

conversation with his friend concerning the comet of 1680. “One day, when

asked about it, instead of giving a direct answer he opened his Principia

and pointed to a place where it was said ‘Stellae fixae refieri possunt.

Fixed stars can be renewed by comets falling upon them.’ ‘Why did you not

write about the sun as plainly as you did about the stars?’ ‘Because the

sun concerns us more,’ replied Newton, and then added with a laugh, ‘For

the rest, I have said sufficient for those who desire to understand.’

“As a moth attracted by the light, so will the comet fall into the sun

and increase the solar heat to such an extent, that everything on earth

will be consumed by fire. As it is written in the Holy Scriptures: ‘The

heavens will pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt

with fervent heat; the earth also and the works that are therein shall

be burnt up.’ Then the prophecies will be accomplished both of him who

believed, and of him who knew.

“‘Hypotheses non fingo!’” he concluded with an inspired air, repeating

Newton’s great saying.

Tichon was still listening, and the ancient prophetic cawings of the

three old men seemed to fit in with the most exact deductions of science.

Closing his eyes, he saw a lonely lane, banked up with snowdrifts, and at

its end, rising just above the white snow, between the black houses, on

the very edge of the dark blue sky, a large, delicately-transparent star.

And again, just as in childhood’s days, the familiar sensation clutched

his heart with unbearable fear and joy. He dropped Leonardo’s book, which

in its fall caught the tube of the astrolabe, and with a loud crash they

both fell to the ground. In hurried Glück. He knew Tichon was subject to

fits, and perceiving him at the top of the ladder, pale and trembling,

hastened to him, caught him in his arms, and helped him down. This time

the fit did not come on. Bruce too had come in. They sympathetically

tried to make Tichon talk; but he remained silent, he felt that it was

impossible to discuss _this_ with anybody.

“Poor lad!” said Bruce apart to Glück, “I feel almost convinced that

our talk has frightened him, they are all alike here, one idea seems to

possess them—the thought about the end of the world. I have noticed of

late that the madness seems to spread among them like an epidemic. God

alone knows where this unhappy people will end!”

On leaving the school, Tichon was expected to enter the ranks of the

army, like other young men belonging to the nobility. Pahómitch had died.

Glück was preparing for a journey to Sweden and England, commissioned

by Bruce to buy new mathematical instruments. He invited Tichon to

accompany him. Tichon, forgetting all his childish superstitions and

Pahómitch’s warnings, gave himself with ever increasing love to the

study of mathematics. His health had improved and his fits did not

recur. A long-cherished curiosity drew him to foreign lands, almost as

mysterious to him as the invisible legendary town. Thus, owing to Bruce’s

intervention, Tichon Zapólsky, scholar of the Navigation School, was by

the Tsar’s decree ordered, along with other Russian youths, to finish his

studies abroad. They arrived with Glück in Petersburg in the beginning

of June, 1715. Tichon was twenty-five years old, the same age as the

Tsarevitch Alexis, yet he looked a mere boy. The trading vessel, which

was to take them to Stockholm, was due to leave Kronslot in a few days.

Suddenly all in Tichon’s life had changed! Petersburg, in its general

aspect so unlike Moscow, had startled Tichon. For days he would wander

about the streets looking in amazement at the endless canals, prospects,

houses erected on piles, driven into the yielding mud of the marshes, all

in a row, along a straight line, according to a law, which forbade any

new building either to go beyond or fall short of the prescribed line,

modest whitewashed huts amidst woods and waste lands, often roofed in the

Finnish manner with turf and birch-bark, palaces of elaborate structure,

after the Prussian fashion, melancholy garrison dépôts, ammunition

stores, sheds, churches with Dutch spires, and striking clocks—everything

was flat, ordinary, colourless, very much like a dream-vision. At times,

on dull mornings, it seemed to him that the city, shrouded in a muddy

yellow mist, would lift with the fog and vanish like a dream. In the

legendary city that which is, remains invisible, while here in Petersburg

on the contrary, the visible is that which is not; yet both cities

were equally visionary. And again there arose within him that strange

feeling, which he had not experienced for a long time—the presentiment

of the end. Only it no longer resolved itself into ecstasy and fear, but

oppressed him with a more definite anguish.

One day, on the Troïtsa Square near the Four Frigates coffee house, he

met a tall man wearing the leather jacket of a Dutch skipper. And just as

in Moscow, on the Red Square near the Lóbnoye Palace, where his father’s

head on the spike had looked with its empty eye-socket straight into that

tall man’s very eyes, Tichon again recognised him—the Tsar Peter. The

terrible face suddenly explained to him the terrible town—they both bore

the same impress.

That same day he met the monk Cornelius; he was delighted to see him and

did not leave him again. He slept the night in the old man’s cell and

spent his days on the rafts and barges among the “hidden runaway folk.”

He listened to their tales about the lives of great hermits, who lived

in the north, in the woods along the sea coast, the Onega and Olonetz

where Cornelius, on leaving Moscow, had spent many years; about terrible

burnings, where many thousands had sought a fiery death. From the barge

Cornelius was now going to preach the Red Death in the woods beyond the

Volga. Tichon had not studied in vain; much of what these people believed

he no longer could believe; he thought differently, but felt the same

as they, and what was more important still—common to them all was _the

presentiment of the end_. That about which he never could speak, which

none of the learned would have comprehended, these people understood and

by it alone they lived. All he remembered Pahómitch telling him in his

earliest childhood now suddenly had revived in his soul with new force.

Again he felt drawn to the woods, the deserts, the secret settlements and

peaceful refuges. Again through the air of the white night he seemed to

hear over the Neva the bells of that visionary city, in the chimes of the

Dutch clocks, again with languid melancholy and yearning he would repeat

the ballad about Prince Joseph:—

Fair solitude! my heart’s desire

Through forest and mire

Over hill, dale, and peak....

He had to decide, to choose one or the other course: either to return to

the world and live there like all men, serve a man who had destroyed his

father and was likely to destroy the whole of Russia; or once for all

turn his back upon the world, become a beggar, a wanderer, one of those

“hidden, runaway folk,” who have here no continuing city, but seek one

to come; to the West with Pastor Glück, or to the East, the legendary

city, with Cornelius the monk. Which should he choose? whither should he

go? he had not yet made up his mind; he wavered, tarried with the final

decision. He seemed to wait for something. But this night, after the

conversation on the raft about Peter, the Antichrist, he felt that it was

impossible to delay any longer. The ship was sailing for Stockholm in the

morning, and on the morrow Cornelius, threatened with arrest, was obliged

to flee from Petersburg. He urged Tichon to come with him.

“I am just upon the sword-edge,” he again thought, “and whichever side

I happen to fall on, in that will I abide. There is but one life, one

death; a second blunder won’t mend the first.”

Yet at the same time Tichon felt powerless to decide, and that two

destinies, like the two ends of a deadly noose, joined and tightening,

seemed to press and strangle him. He got up, took from the shelf a

manuscript—“_The Meditations of St. Hippolitus concerning the second

coming_,” and in order to escape from thought, began looking at the title

pictures by light of the oil-lamp burning before the image. One of them

represented Antichrist, sitting on a throne, wearing the green uniform of

the Preobrazhensky regiment with red facings and brass buttons; on his

head, a three-cornered hat and a sword by his side: his face resembled

that of Tsar Peter, and he was pointing forward with his hand. In front

of him, to the right, columns of the Preobrazhensky and Simeon Guards

were marching towards a monastery among dark woods. Far above, on a hill

with three caves, some monks were praying. The soldiers, guided by quaint

blue demons, were climbing up the mountain slope. Below ran the legend:

“Then will he send into the hills and caves and holes of the earth his

armies of evil spirits to seek out those who hide from his sight and

bring them to worship him.” On another picture soldiers were shooting at

monks who were bound: “These are falling by Satan’s hand.”

Behind the wooden partition Elena continued to sigh and weep, praying to

the heavenly King for the Tsar Peter. Tichon laid down the book and fell

on his knees before the icon. Yet he could not pray. Anguish seized him,

such as he had never felt before. The flame of the burnt-out lamp flared

up a last time and then went out; gloom surrounded him, and something

seemed to creep up and clutch his throat with a dark, soft, warm hairy

paw. He grew short of breath. His body was bathed in a cold sweat. And

again it seemed to him he was flying headlong, sinking down into some

black gloom, into an abyss—the jaws of the Beast itself. “It does not

really matter,” thought Tichon, the thought flashed on his mind with

unbearable clearness, it did not really matter which of the two paths

he chose, go east or go west, here or there, at either extremity of the

earth there ruled the one foreboding—“_The end is approaching_.” For as

the lightning comes from the east and shineth even unto the west, so

should also the coming of the Son of man be. And it seemed to him that

he—Tichon—had already beheld this encircling lightning. “Even so, come

Lord Jesus!” he exclaimed. At that very instant the cell window was lit

up with a terrible white light. A deafening crash followed. It seemed

as though the sky was rent and falling. It was the same lightning which

had so startled the Tsar Peter that he let the icon drop at the foot of

Venus. Elena heard, through the howling, hiss and rumbling of the storm,

a terrible unearthly scream. Tichon for the third time in his life was

seized with an epileptic swoon.

He recovered consciousness on the deck of the barge, where he had been

brought from the close cell to revive. It was early morning, blue sky

above, white mist below. A star was glistening in the east through the

mist, it was the star of Venus. On the isle of Keivoussary, crowning the

dome of the house of Boutourlin, the Metropolitan of the Thrice-Drunken

Conclave, stood the gilt statue of Bacchus. Lit up by the first ray of

the rising sun, it glowed like a red star through the mist. The earthly

star exchanged mysterious glances with the heavenly one. The mist became

roseate, as if blood were entering the pale bodies of phantoms. The

marble body of the goddess, in the middle pavilion overlooking the Neva,

glowed as if alive. She smiled her eternal smile at the sun, rejoicing

that he rose even here amid the hyperborean night. The body of the

goddess shone ethereal and roseate in the shroud of mist, the mist

glowing like the body of the goddess. The mist was her body. In her all

existed, and she in all.

Tichon remembered the thoughts that had thronged his mind during the

night, and he felt in his soul a calm determination not to return to

Pastor Glück, but to escape with Cornelius.

* * * * *

The storm had shifted the barge and its bow was now touching the raft

where the conversation about Antichrist had taken place last night. Ivan

had found time to get his sleep and he was again sitting in the same

place as last night singing the same song. And music, (or was it only

phantom music?) the sounds of the minuet subdued by the mist:—

’Tis time to cast thy bow away,

Cupid, we all are in thy sway.

mingled with Ivan’s melancholy, drawling song, as, his face turned to the

east and the dawn, he sang of the eternal setting, the end of all days:

Hollowed oak trunks, ye will prove

Fit house for us, who on earth did move,

Night approacheth, endeth Day,

And cruel Death his scythe doth lay

To the root of all that live!

CHAPTER III

On the banks of the Neva, near the Church of Mary the Mother of all

the Sorrowing, next to the house belonging to the Tsarevitch Alexis,

stood that of Tsaritsa Martha, the widow of Tsar Peter’s stepbrother

Fédor. Fédor died when Peter was ten years old. The Tsaritsa, eighteen

at the time of her wedding, had been married only four weeks. The death

of her husband sent her out of her mind and she spent thirty-three

years in seclusion. She never left her apartments, and neither knew

nor saw anybody. At foreign courts she was believed to be dead long

since. Petersburg she had only caught sight of through her windows: its

whitewashed huts, built after the Dutch and Prussian manner, its church

spires, the Neva with its barges and rafts seemed to her an absurd

nightmare. Dreams were her reality.

She imagined herself to be living in the Moscow Kremlin, in the old

Terems, and that looking through the window, she would see the high Ivan

Tower and the Church of the Annunciation. Yet she never did look out of

her window, afraid to dispel her dream, afraid of the daylight. Continual

darkness reigned in her apartments; the windows were draped. She lived by

candle-light. The curtains and screens of ancient tradition hid the last

Russian Tsaritsa from the people’s sight. The solemn, pompous ceremony of

a Tsar’s Court was strictly observed here. The servants were not allowed

to enter further than the hall. Here time stood still, here nothing had

changed since the days of the gentle Tsar Alexis. Her crazy mind was

possessed of one idea: she believed her husband, the Tsar Fédor, was

alive; that he was now at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem praying for

Russia, which was being invaded by Antichrist, accompanied by countless

armies of Poles and pagan foreigners. There is, she thinks, no Tsar in

Russia; he, who calls himself Tsar, not being the true one. He is a

pretender, a were-wolf, a Gregory Otriópieff, a runaway artillery man,

an alien. But the Lord has not finally forsaken his faithful Orthodox.

At the consummation of time, he, Fédor, the only true Tsar of Russia,

“the fair sun,” will return with a terrible luminous host, and the

foreign troops will flee before him as night fleeth; he will sit with

his Tsaritsa on the ancestral throne and re-establish truth and justice.

All the people will come and bow before him, and Antichrist, together

with all his foreigners, will be overthrown. Soon thereafter will be the

second coming of Christ, the end of the world. All this is drawing nigh,

is at the door.

About two weeks after the Venus festival in the Summer Garden, Tsarevna

Maria invited Alexis to Tsaritsa Martha’s house. This was not the first

time they had arranged to meet there. The aunt used to supply him with

news and letters from his mother, the Tsaritsa Eudoxia, the first wife

of Peter, who had been banished to the Sousdal nunnery under the name of

Elena.

On entering the house of Tsaritsa Martha, Alexis was obliged to grope

his way for some time along dark wood corridors, halls, chambers, ground

floors and staircases. There was a smell of wood oil, old mouldering

furniture, dust and the rot of age in the air. The house teemed with

small cells, chambers, secret rooms, side rooms and closets. They

sheltered the old wives and daughters of Boyars, chambermaids, nurses,

housekeepers, laundresses, furriers, saintly madmen, mendicants,

wanderers, pilgrims, fools and idiots, orphaned girls, old story tellers

and musicians, who were skilled to accompany their ancient legends by

melancholy string music. Decrepit servants in faded coats, grizzled

and shaggy, well nigh moss-grown, caught hold of Alexis’ lappets,

kissing his hand and his shoulder. Blind, dumb, lame, grey with age,

almost featureless, they all followed him, gliding along the walls like

phantoms; they thronged, swarmed, and crept about in the dark passages

like woodlice in damp cracks. He met the fool Shamira, who was always

pinching and grinning with the fool Polly. The oldest of the boyars’

wives, Soundóuleya Vahrameyevna, the favourite of the Tsaritsa, now in

her second childhood, like her mistress, and fat, yellow, trembling like

a jelly, fell at his feet; and for some reason or other began to bewail

him, as though he were dead. Alexis felt uncomfortable. He remembered his

father saying: “Tsaritsa Martha’s house has been transformed by piety

into a hospital for the maimed and mad, for hypocrites and rascals.”

He sighed with relief on entering the light, airy corner room where his

Aunt Marya Alexeyevna was expecting him. The windows looked out upon

the blue sunny space of the Neva with its vessels and barges. The walls

were bare and the logs of which they were built showed as in a village

hut. The sole ornaments were the icons and the lamps which glimmered

before them. Wooden seats ran along the walls. His aunt rose from the

table at which she was sitting, and tenderly embraced the Tsarevitch. She

was dressed after the old fashion in a head-dress and a jerkin of dark,

quiet colour with brown spots. Her face was ugly, pale, slightly bloated,

like that of an old nun. Yet in the ill-tempered lips, the clever,

sharp, piercing eyes, there was something which suggested the Tsarevna

Sophia—the evil brood of the Miloslavskis. Like Sophia, she too hated her

brother and all he did; she loved the old times. Peter had spared her; he

called her “old crow,” because she was always cawing evil to him.

Maria gave Alexis a letter from his mother. It was an answer to the son’s

recent note, all too short and laconic: “Mother, farewell! Please do

not forget me in your prayers.” Alexis’ heart throbbed, as he began to

decipher the lines of the familiar writing, scrawled in awkward, childish

characters.

“Tsarevitch Alexis, God be with thee! I, poor woman, am grieved to death,

that thou hast forsaken me in my sorrow, forgotten me who bore thee. I

tended thee, yet thou hast so soon forgotten me! But for thee, I should

not live in such tribulation and poverty. Sad, very sad, is my life, I

would I had never been born. I know not why so much suffering has fallen

to my lot. Yet I have not forgotten thee; but am always praying the Holy

Virgin to keep thee pure and well in body and soul. There is an image

here of the Kazan Virgin for which a church has been built. For thy sake

I had this image brought to my house, and at night I have myself taken

it back, carrying it on my shoulders. And on May 23, I had a vision. The

heavenly Queen appeared to me, pure and radiant, and promised to petition

her Son, our Lord, to turn my sorrow into joy. And I heard, unworthy

though I be, the radiant Virgin speak these words; ‘Thou hast honoured my

image and carried it back to my church, I will exalt thee and protect thy

son.’ And thou, my joy, my own child, let the fear of God dwell in thine

heart. Write me, darling Aliósha, if only one line to still my sobs; let

me rest from my sorrow, have mercy upon me, thy mother and slave. I pray

thee write. I greet thee devoutly.”

When Alexis had finished reading the letter, his aunt gave him presents,

sent by his mother—a small image; a handkerchief which the lowly sister

Elena had embroidered with her own hand; and two small limewood cups,

for drinking vodka. These humble presents touched him even more than the

letter.

“You have quite forgotten her,” said Maria, looking him straight in the

face. “You neither write nor send her anything.”

“I dare not write,” replied the Tsarevitch.

“Why not?” she retorted with vivacity, and her sharp eyes seemed to sting

him, “And even if it _did_ mean a little suffering, what matter? It’s for

your mother, and no one else.”

He remained silent. Then she began telling him in a low voice all she

had learnt from Michael, a half-witted saint, who had come from Sousdal,

“Their joy is ever buoyant: visions, signs, prophecies and voices from

the images do not cease. Job of Novgorod says: ‘Some ill is awaiting

thee in Petersburg. Yet I feel that God will deliver thee; thou shalt

see what will happen.’ It was revealed unto Vissàrion, the old man who

lives immured in the Jaroslav wall, that we are on the eve of a change.

Either the Tsar will die, or Petersburg fall. And St. Demetrius appeared

to the Bishop of Rostov, Dositheus, prophesying that there should be

tribulations and that the fulfilment will soon come.

“Soon, soon,” concluded Marya, “for many are they who cry: ‘Revenge, O

Lord! and speed Thy fulfilment.’”

Alexis knew that the fulfilment meant his father’s death.

“Remember my words,” she cried with prophetic voice. “Not for long will

Petersburg exist! it will soon perish.” And looking out of the window

upon the small white houses among the green marshes, she repeated

malignantly: “Sink it! Woe to it! Let it sink back thither whence it

came, the devil’s bog. Sprung up like a toadstool, it will rot like one.

Not even its site will be known, the damned place!”

The old crow was started on her cawing.

“Old woman’s tales,” said Alexis, waving his hand hopelessly; “we have

heard not a few of such prophecies and they have all turned out to be

rubbish.”

She was going to reply, but glancing at him with her sharp piercing eye,

she said:—

“What’s the matter with you Tsarevitch? Are you ill? have you been

drinking?”

“I am forced to it. The day before yesterday at a formal launching, they

carried me out senseless. I would much rather have been a convict in

exile or ill in bed than there!”

“You should take medicine or feign illness to escape such launchings?

seeing you know your father’s ways.”

Alexis remained silent, then he sighed heavily: “Ah Marya! Marya! I am

much troubled. I hardly know what to do with myself, so troubled am I. No

man could stand this without God’s help. I would be glad to hide myself

somewhere, run away from all this.”

“Where can you escape from your father? his arm is long. You will be

found out anywhere.”

“I am sorry,” continued Alexis, “that I did not follow Kikin’s advice and

go to France or to the Emperor. There my life would be more peaceful,

till God wills otherwise. Many in my position have found refuge in

flight; only there is no pretext for going away. I really don’t know what

will become of me, auntie dear; I want nothing, only give me freedom and

let me live quietly. Or that they should give me leave to become a monk.

I would abdicate the throne, and would live in retirement away from

everything. I would choose some quiet, plain country seat, and there end

my days.”

“Enough, enough, Alexis! the Tsar is not immortal after all. He too

will die in God’s good time. They say he suffers from epileptic fits;

such people never live long. God will grant the end. I feel sure it

won’t tarry much longer. Wait, I say—the time of our rejoicing will also

come. You are beloved by the people, they drink your health, calling you

Russia’s Hope. The crown will not pass you by.”

“What is the good of it, Marya? I believe it is my fate in any case to be

a monk. Nothing awaits me but the cowl, either in my father’s life, or

later after his death, when they will treat me as they did Basil Shúisky,

who was forced to become a monk, and then imprisoned. My life is likely

to be a gloomy business.”

“How can we help it? One hour’s suffering and the issue is a whole life.

Be patient, Alexis.”

“I have borne it patiently for a long while, I can no more,” he burst

out, unable to contain himself any longer. His face had grown pale and

convulsed. “Would it had an end! This weariness is worse than death; my

head seems to be always on the edge of the block. And why all this, O

Lord? What have I done to him? Did I not try my very best to please my

father? When quite a child I was dragged about on campaigns, half killed

with work, made to do sentry duty in the frost, drink vodka till my head

swam, I wonder I came out of it alive. I bore it all patiently. I spared

neither health nor life. And he never even pitied, not even so much as

addressed a kind word to me. He is always angry, and looks as fierce as a

beast. It makes no difference what you do for him. If you tore yourself

in two, all he would say would be, ‘Why not in four?’ Well, never mind,

put it down to my fault, let it be granted that I disappoint him. Who

is responsible for it that I was born such as I am? I am not a fool by

nature, and he knows it. Were I a fool, I would have a little better

life. But I live according to my own lights, not his. _He cares nothing

for the people, I sympathize with the people._ That is the reason why

I am in disgrace. ‘Do not do the good you would, but the evil I will.’

Two men in the world are like unto God: The Muscovy Tsar and the Pope

of Rome—their will is their law. I would not mind if this were all; in

old days he used to scold and beat me, yet it always seemed that he

considered me; that I was not quite a stranger to him. But do you know

what he has devised of late? He neither scolds, nor beats me, not even

touches me; all he does, is to remain silent. I talk to him; he neither

heeds nor sees, but looks past me, as if I did not exist. And this lasts

for months, years! I am no longer a human being in his eyes, but some

creature worse than a dog. Now, is this fair? After all I am his son, his

flesh and blood. Even the serpent does not eat its young. He has no fear

of God. I know what it is he wants—my death. To me he is not a father,

but a monster, a blood-sucker, a torturer. Ay, it would have been better

if he had killed me at once. And what does all this mean? O Lord! what is

he trying to do with me? What?”

He was going to add something, but his voice broke; all he could do was

to falter faintly “O Lord! Lord!”

He dropped his arms on the table, covered his face and pressed his head

between the palms of his hand; he did not weep, only seemed to sink down,

shrink and contract, as from some severe inward pain, and a convulsive

tearless sob shook his whole frame.

Tsarevna Marya bent over him; on his shoulder she laid her small white,

firm, powerful hand; the Tsarevna Sophia had hands just like these.

“Don’t be fainthearted, Tsarevitch,” said she, with gentle severity in

her kind voice. “Do not murmur against God. Remember Job! It is good to

trust in the Lord, for our life and going forth are in His hand. He can

turn evil into good. When God is with me what can men do unto me? Though

an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear, for the Lord

will not forsake me! Trust in Christ, my darling Aliósha! He will not

suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able to bear.”

She stopped; and he too had grown quiet under the touch of this fond,

firm hand, and the sound of these old, familiar pious words.

Somebody knocked at the door. In came Soundóuleya Vahrameyevna sent by

the Tsaritsa Martha to fetch them. Alexis raised his head; his face

though very pale was almost calm. He glanced at the image and the faintly

glimmering lamp, crossed himself piously, and said:—

“You are right, aunt; God’s will worketh in all things. Moved by the

prayers of the Holy Virgin and all the Saints, God will judge between us

according to His righteous will. This was, and is, my hope.”

“Amen!” said Marya. They got up and together went into the Tsaritsa

Martha’s private apartments.

CHAPTER IV

Notwithstanding the sunny day, it was quite dark in the room, and the

candles were burning. Not a ray could find its way through the windows,

blocked up with felt, hung with tapestries. The close air was saturated

with calamite, yarrow brandy, rose water, and perfumes added to the

fuel for scent. The room was crowded with seats, dressers, cupboards,

boxes, hampers, chests, coffers, treasure chests bound with strips of

iron, cypress-wood trunks filled with various furs, dresses and linen:

“the white treasury.” In the middle of the room towered the Tsaritsa’s

bed, overhung by a canopy, the bed-curtain made of red satin, interwoven

with a pale green and gold design, with a quilt of gold embossed tissue,

lined with sable and surrounded by a border of ermine. Everything was

sumptuous, but old, worn and dilapidated, and looked as though it would

crumble into dust at the first breath of fresh air. Through the open door

a glimpse of the private chapel could be caught; it was flooded by the

light of lamps, which burned before the images, trimmed with gold and

silver, and studded with priceless gems. Here numerous relics were kept:

crosses, panagias, triptychs, little boxes, shrines with relics, myrrh,

leaven, miracle-working ointments, holy water in waxed cloths, saucers of

cassia; holy chrism in lead vessels, blessed by Patriarchs; tapers lit

with fire from heaven; sand from the Jordan; bits of the burning bush,

and the oak of Mamre; some of the Holy Virgin’s milk; an azure stone—part

of the sky on which Christ had stood; a stone in a cloth case “diffusing

a perfume, but what sort of stone is unknown.” Other treasures were the

leg wrappers of Paphnuti Borovsky; a tooth of Antipas the Great, a charm

against toothache which Ivan the Terrible had appropriated from the

reliquary of his murdered son.

Tsaritsa Martha was sitting near the bed, in a gilt arm-chair, which

resembled a throne, with a double-crested eagle and crown carved on the

back. Although the green glazed stove, richly ornamented with festoons

and mouldings, had been well heated, the sickly, shivering old woman

wrapped herself in a warm jacket, lined with Arctic fox. A pearl fringe

and strings hung over her forehead, from under the golden headgear. Her

face was not old, but it seemed lifeless as stone. According to the old

custom of Muscovy’s Tsaritsas, white and rouge were thickly laid on her

face, and made it yet more lifeless. Only the eyes seemed alive; they

were transparently lucid, but with a curious blind look resembling that

of night birds in daylight.

A monk sat at her feet on the floor relating something to her.

When the Tsarevitch and his aunt came in, the Tsaritsa Martha greeted

them kindly, and invited them to listen to this pilgrim of God. He was

of small stature, and had a child-like, cheerful face; his voice, too,

was cheerful, melodious and pleasant. He was describing his pilgrimages,

the settlements of monks on Athos and Solovki; he compared the Russian

monastery with the Greek and gave the preference to the Greek.

“The monastery on Mount Athos is called the garden of the Holy Virgin,

and the Holy Mother herself is ever beholding it from the heavens, she

provides for, and keeps it from destruction. And with her help the

settlement flourishes, and brings forth visible and invisible fruit; the

visible fruit is fair, the invisible is that of souls saved. And any one,

who has once penetrated within the garden, the forecourt of Paradise, and

has beheld its nature and beauty, will not, I believe, have any desire to

leave it. The air is pure, and the high hills and mountains, the warmth

and light of the sun, the variety of trees and fruits, and the nearness

of the longed-for land, Jerusalem, maintain a perpetual joy.

“The Solovetzky Isle on the contrary inspires fear and exasperation; it

is melancholy, dark, and cold as Tartarus.

“There are features about that island which harm the soul. Sea-gulls,

white birds, live there in great numbers; all the summer long they

multiply, breed and build their nests on the ground near the paths,

along which the monks go to church. And great is the mischief caused by

these birds to the monks. First they lose their tranquillity. Secondly,

watching the birds play and flutter and pair, they delight in it, and

their passions are aroused. Thirdly, women, maidens, and nuns often visit

the monastery.

“Mount Athos is free from any such temptations; neither seagulls nor

women come near it. One woman only floating on the wings of an eagle, the

holy Church, soars over that delightful desert, until the fulness of time

appointed by the Lord shall be reached; and to Him be glory for ever and

ever—Amen.”

When he had finished, the Tsaritsa begged all to leave the room, even

Marya; and remained alone with Alexis.

She scarcely knew him, and could not remember what relationship existed

between them; even his name she repeatedly forgot, and simply called him

grandson. Yet she loved and pitied him with a strange prophetic pity, as

if his fate, unknown to himself, were revealed to her.

She looked at him for a long time in silence, with her lucid motionless

gaze, which seemed to be dimmed by a film, like the eyes of nightbirds.

Then she sadly smiled, and began to gently stroke his face and hair with

her hand.

“My poor orphan! neither father nor mother to protect thee! The cruel

wolves will devour the lamb; the black crows will peck the white dove to

death. I am sorry for thee, my loved one; thou wilt not live long.”

These wandering words of the last Tsaritsa, who seemed here in Petersburg

a pathetic phantom of ancient Muscovy, this decaying splendour, this

quiet warm room, where time seemed at a standstill, all filled Alexis’

soul with the chill of death, and memories of his fair distant childhood.

He felt a sweet melancholy pain gnawing at his heart. He kissed the pale

meagre hand, with its thin fingers, from which the ancient, heavy royal

rings kept dropping off. She bent her head, as if musing, turning over

her coral beads; beads which ward off evil spirits, for coral grows in

the shape of a cross.

“Everything, everything is troubled; times are growing evil!” she again

began with increasing alarm. “Have you read, grandson, in the Scriptures:

‘Children, these are the last days? Have you heard he is coming and

is already in the world’? This has been said about him, the son of

Perdition. He is already at the threshold, soon will he come in! I can’t

tell whether I shall live to see my beloved, my fair sun, the pious Tsar

Fédor. Could I but just look at him, if only a glance when he comes in

power and glory to wage war with the unfaithful, and having conquered

them will sit on the throne of glory, and all the people will bow before

him saying: ‘Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!’”

Her eyes brightened up, but in the next moment a dull film seemed to come

over them, like ashes over live charcoal.

“Ah! No, I shall not live to see him. I have provoked God’s wrath. My

heart has a presentiment that trouble is coming. I am sick at heart,

grandson. And my dreams have been ill-omened of late.”

She furtively glanced round, then bringing her lips to his ear, she

whispered:

“Do you know, grandson, what I dreamt quite recently? Whether it was a

dream or a vision, I can’t tell for certain, but he, he, himself, none

other than himself, came to me.”

“Who, Tsaritsa?” asked Alexis.

“Don’t you understand? Don’t you see it? Listen then, grandson, how it

was I dreamt that dream. Perhaps you will then understand. It seemed to

me, as if I were lying on this very bed, as it were expecting something.

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and he appeared. I at once recognised

him. Tall, stout, a short foreign coat, in his mouth a pipe; his face

clean shaven, with whiskers like a cat. He came up, looked at me and

remained silent. I also kept silent, waiting for what would happen next;

I felt so sick at heart, so weary—— I tried to cross myself; but could

not lift my hand; I tried to recite a prayer, my tongue would not move.

I lay there, as if dead. He took my hand, and felt it; I shuddered. I

glanced at the holy image, the image too seemed to have taken a new

shape: it was no longer the blessed Saviour, but an unclean German, with

bloated blue face, like that of a drowned man. And meanwhile I heard him

saying to me:—

“‘You are sorely ill, Martha. Would you like me to send you my doctor?

Why are you staring at me like this? Do you not recognise me?’ I

answered, ‘How could I fail to recognise you? I know you—I have seen many

like you.’ ‘Well, if you know me tell me who I am,’ said he. ‘There is

no mistaking who you are: a foreigner, a foreigner’s son, a drummer.’

Upon this he grinned and chuckled like a mad tom cat. ‘You are completely

gone mad, old woman, that is quite evident. I am neither a foreigner,

nor a drummer, but the divinely anointed Tsar of all the Russias, your

own dead husband’s, the Tsar Fédor’s, stepbrother.’ Now I was roused,

I could hardly restrain myself from spitting in his face, and calling:

‘Thou dog! cur’s pup; pretender, Gregory Otriópieff, anathema, this is

who thou art!’ But then, ‘it isn’t worth while,’ thought I, ‘why should

I rail at him? He is not even worth spitting on. It is but a dream, an

evil apparition, which by God’s will, I am now enduring. I’ll just blow

with my lips and it will all disappear and disperse.’ ‘And if you are the

Tsar,’ said I, ‘What is your name?’

“‘Peter is my name,’ he answered. When I heard the name ‘Peter,’ it was

as though a light had flashed upon me. ‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘is this who you

are? well, just wait.’ And seeing my tongue would not move, I, not being

a fool, began in my mind to recite the holy adjuration.

“‘Satan! thou fiend, get thee away from me, into empty space, thick

forests, deep precipices, into bottomless seas, upon prodigious,

uninhabited hills, on which the glory of God’s face never shines. Cursed!

disappear from me into Tartarus, bottomless hell, the infernal regions of

Gehenna. Amen! Amen! Amen! I blow at thee, I spit on thee.’ When I had

finished my imprecation, he had disappeared: the earth seemed to have

engulfed him, not a trace of him was left, only a smell of tobacco. I

awoke, cried out. In hurried Soundóuleya Vahrameyevna, sprinkled me with

holy water, burnt some incense; I got up, walked into the chapel, fell

down before the holy Queen, only then having remembered and thought it

over, I realized who he had been.”

While she was speaking the Tsarevitch gradually realised that it was his

father who had been to see her, not in a dream, but in reality. At the

same time the maundering of the woman seemed to catch hold of and infect

him.

“Well, and who was it, Tsaritsa?” he repeated with a trembling yet eager

curiosity.

“Don’t you see? Have you forgotten what is said in Ephraim’s book, about

the second coming, ‘there shall come a proud prince of this world, under

the name of Simon Peter, who shall be the Antichrist.’ Do you hear, his

name is Peter? It is he Himself, no doubt.”

She fixed on him her eyes dilated with fear, and repeated in a choking

whisper: “It is he, himself, Peter! the Antichrist, the Antichrist!”

Book III

THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF THE TSAREVITCH ALEXIS

CHAPTER I

THE DIARY OF FRÄULEIN ARNHEIM, MAID OF HONOUR

_May 1, 1714._

A cursed country, a cursed people! Brandy, blood, and dirt! It is

difficult to say which is the ruling characteristic. Dirt, perhaps. The

Danish King had good reason to say: “The next time ambassadors from

Muscovy come to me, I will have pig-sheds erected for them, for any place

they occupy, even a short time, is rendered uninhabitable for at least

six months by the stench.” A Frenchman describes the Muscovite as a

human being according to Plato; a featherless biped possessing all human

qualities except cleanliness and common sense.

And these stinking savages, these baptized bears, more pitiable still

when changed into apes of Europeans, consider themselves the only human

beings, the rest of mankind beasts. Especially for us Germans they feel

an inborn and invincible hatred; our touch alone defiles them. Lutherans

are little better than Satan himself in their eyes. I would not remain

another moment in Russia were it not for my duty of loyalty, and devotion

to her Highness, my most gracious mistress and dear friend, the Crown

Princess Sophia Charlotte. Whatever may happen, I will not forsake her!

I will write this diary in the languages I usually speak, German and

French. But some of the jokes, proverbs, songs, text of ukases and bits

of conversation, I will give in Russian and afterwards translate them.

My father, a pure German, belongs to an ancient family of Saxon Knights.

My mother was a Pole. With her first husband, a Polish nobleman, she had

lived for a long time in Russia, not far from Smolensk, and knew the

Russian language well. I was brought up in Torgau, at the court of the

Queen of Poland, which was frequented by many Muscovites. I have been

familiar with the sound of Russian speech since my childhood. I speak

badly; I don’t like the language, but understand it well.

I have decided to keep a diary in order to ease my heart, when it is too

heavy: imitating the talker of old, who, not daring to confide his secret

to people, whispered it to the marsh-reeds.

I should not like these notes ever to become public, but I rejoice to

think that they will one day be read by a man whose opinion I value more

than anything else in the world—that of my great teacher, Gottfried

Leibnitz.

* * * * *

His letter came just as I was thinking about him. He asks me to find

out about the salary which he claims on the strength of his position in

the Russian service, as Geheimer Justiz-Rath. I fear he will never see

the money. Reading his letter I almost wept for joy and sadness, when I

remembered our quiet walks and talks in the galleries of the Salzdallen

Castle, along the lime avenues of Herrenhausen, where the gentle breezes

among the trees and the murmur of fountains seemed to be ever singing our

favourite song from “The Mercure Galant.”

“Chantons, dançons, tout est tranquille

Dans cet agréable séjour.

Ah! le charmant asile!

N’y parlons que de jeux, de plaisirs et d’amours.”

I remembered the teacher’s words which at that time I almost believed:

“I am a Slav as you are; we ought to rejoice that we have Slavonic blood

in our veins. A great destiny awaits the race. Russia will link Europe

to Asia and reconcile the East and the West. This country is like a new

stewpot which has not yet absorbed any foreign flavour; a sheet of white

paper, whereon you can write anything you like; virgin soil which will

be broken up, and ploughed to receive new seed. Russia might in time

even lead Europe, since she may avoid those errors which are too deeply

rooted in us.” An inspired look lit up his face as he concluded, “I seem

called by Providence to be a Russian Solon—the lawgiver of a new world.

To gain supremacy over the mind of such a man as the Tsar, and direct it

for the good of the people is of more worth than the gaining of a hundred

battles.”

Alas! My poor great dreamer! Could you but know and see all I have learnt

and seen in Russia!

Even now as I am writing, sad and stark reality reminds me that I am no

longer in the delightful refuge at Herrenhausen, that German Versailles,

but in the depth of Muscovite Tartary.

Through the window, screams, shouts, and quarrellings reach me from

below; the servants of our neighbour, Princess Natalia, are fighting

ours; Russians fighting Germans. I see, alas! the union between Asia and

Europe, the East and the West, as it really is.

In ran our secretary, pale and trembling, his dress in tatters, his

face bleeding. On seeing him the Crown Princess almost swooned. The

Tsarevitch was sent for, but he was suffering from his habitual

complaint—drunkenness.

_May 2._

We occupy the palace of the Crown Prince Alexis, situated on the banks

of the Neva, a whitewashed, two-storied house with a red-tiled roof.

The accommodation is so limited that nearly the whole of her Highness’s

retinue had to be lodged in the neighbouring houses, hired by the Senate

for that purpose. One of them had neither doors, windows, stoves, nor

furniture of any sort. Her Highness was obliged to finish it at her own

expense, and add stables to it.

Yesterday, the proprietor of the house, a certain Gedeónoff, returned; he

is in Tsarevna Natalia’s service: he ordered our servants to be turned

out, and our things to be thrown into the yard. Then he began to lead

her Highness’s horses out of the stables and put in his own instead.

The Crown Princess ordered the stables to be taken down so as to remove

them to another place. But when the Stallmeister brought the workmen,

Gedeónoff sent some of his, who beat ours and chased them away. When the

Stallmeister threatened to report this to the Tsar, Gedeónoff answered

laughingly: “Report as much as you like; I will forestall you!”

But worst of all is the fact that he assures us, he does everything by

order of the Tsarevna. This Tsarevna is an old maid, and the vilest

tempered creature in the world. She is very amiable to our face, but

when our back is turned, every time her Highness’s name is mentioned she

spits, saying: “The German minx! what airs she gives herself! The time

will come when she will have to cultivate a little modesty!”

Thus our grooms are obliged to sleep in the open. So limited is the

accommodation in the whole town that the men could not be lodged

elsewhere, even for a hundred pieces of gold. When this is mentioned

to the Tsar, all he replies is, that in a few years time there will

be houses enough. But they won’t be needed then, at least not for our

people, who, for the most part, will probably have died.

They would not believe in Europe if they knew what poverty is ours. The

money for the maintenance of the Crown Princess is paid so irregularly

and scantily that it never suffices. At the same time everything is

frightfully dear here; we have to pay for things four times as much as

in Germany. We are in debt to all our tradesmen; they will soon stop

supplying us. To say nothing of servants, we ourselves are sometimes

short of candles, firewood, even food. Nothing can be got out of the

Tsar, he is always busy. The Tsarevitch is always drunk. “The world is

full of misery,” her Highness said to me to-day, “ever since the age of

six I have known no happiness, and no doubt Providence has still greater

misfortunes in store for me.” With an absent look, as if she already

beheld this future, she repeated: “I shall not escape it,” and with such

calm resignation that I found no words to comfort her and could only

silently kiss her hand.

* * * * *

Suddenly a cannon shot was heard. We were obliged to make haste and get

ready for a pleasure party on the Neva, a “Water Assembly.”

It is the custom here, on hearing the gun signal or seeing the flags hung

out at different parts of the town, for all barges, yachts, wherries,

boyers, to assemble at the fortress. A fine is imposed for non-appearance.

We set out at once in our boyer with ten oarsmen. Together with other

boats we kept rowing for a long time up and down the Neva, always

following the Admiral, daring neither to lag behind nor overtake, for

fear of being fined. Fines are imposed here for everything.

There was music; a band of trumpets and cornets. The bastions of the

fortress re-echoed the sounds of the music.

We were sad as the music was, and the cold, pale blue river with its flat

banks, the pale blue sky, transparent as ice, the gleam of the golden

pinnacle on the Church of St. Peter and Paul, (built of wood, but painted

yellow to suggest marble,) the melancholy chiming of the striking clocks,

all intensified our dejection, which was of quite a different nature from

anything I had hitherto experienced, except in this city.

And yet the view is pleasing enough. Along the low quay, paved with black

tarred piles, runs a line of pale pink brick houses of elaborate design,

resembling Dutch churches with pointed turrets, garret windows on the

high roofs, and spacious latticed vestibules. You might fancy a real

town lay behind them. But next behind them stand poor huts roofed with

birch-bark and turf, and, further back, a wilderness inhabited by wolves

and deer. On the sea front, windmills just as in Holland. Everything is

bright, almost dazzling, and, at the same time, pale and cheerless. It

seems to be run up, made just for the time being. It is a phantom town, a

dream.

The Tsar with all his family were in a special boyer; he stood at the

rudder and steered. The Tsaritsa and Princesses wore dimity jackets, red

skirts, round oil-skin caps, everything after the Dutch fashion—they

looked like real sailors’ wives from Saardam. “I am inuring my family to

the water; those who want to live with me must not be afraid of water,”

said Peter. He generally takes them with him; especially in cold weather.

He locks them in a cabin and steers the whole time against the wind,

until he has well rocked them, and “salvo honore,” made them sea sick;

then only is he content!

We were afraid lest it might be decided to go to Kronslot. Those who

took part in one such excursion last year (they think of it with terror

even to this day), were overtaken by a storm, and narrowly escaped

drowning; then they went aground fast on a sand bank, and remained there

for several hours up to the waist in water. At last they succeeded in

reaching an island, a fire was made, and, quite naked (they had been

obliged to take their wet clothes off), wrapped themselves in coarse

sledge covers obtained from the peasants, and in this way they spent a

whole night, warming themselves at the fire, without drink or food—new

Robinson Crusoes.

But this time Providence favoured us; the red standard on the Admiral’s

boyer was lowered, a sign that the excursion was over.

We returned along the canals, viewing the town. Canals are very numerous

here. “God grant me a long life, and Petersburg will become a second

Amsterdam!” boasts the Tsar. “Arrange everything as it is done in

Holland,” these are common words in the Tsar’s ukases, in reference to

the building of the town. The Tsar has a passion for straight lines,

everything that is straight and regular seems beautiful to him. If it

were possible he would have had the whole town built according to rule

and compass. The inhabitants are urged to build in lines, no building

either to exceed or fall short of a fixed line, so that the streets and

lanes may all be regular and straight. Houses which go beyond the line

are ruthlessly pulled down.

The Tsar’s pride is the interminably long, straight Nevsky Prospect,

which cuts through the town. The street is still quite waste amid

solitary marshes, yet it is already planted with three or four rows of

lime-trees, like an avenue. It is kept very clean, being swept every

Saturday by captive Swedes.

Many of these geometrical lines of imaginary streets are almost without

houses. Waymarks alone stand there; others, already built on, bear traces

of the plough and furrows of recent cultivation.

Though the houses are erected of brick, according to Vitruvius’

directions, yet so hurried and precarious has been the work that they

threaten to fall. When a carriage passes they tremble. The swampy soil

has no resistance. The Tsar’s enemies predict that some time the whole

town will be engulphed.

One of our companions, the old Baron Loewenwold, the High Commissioner of

Livonia, an amiable and clever man, told us a number of curious incidents

about the beginning of the town. In order to raise the first earth

rampart of the Peter and Paul fortress, dry earth was needed; none was to

be had anywhere near, all being marsh, mud and moss. Then they devised

the plan of carrying the soil for the bastions from distant places in

old bast sacks and mats, or even simply in the skirts of their tunics.

At this Sisyphean labour two-thirds of the poor wretches perished; more

especially in consequence of the godless peculation and faithlessness of

those in whose keeping they were. For months they never saw any bread,

which is often difficult to procure even for money in this forlorn place.

They lived on cabbage and turnips, suffered from diarrhoea and scurvy,

swelled with hunger, froze in their earthen habitats, which resembled

the holes of animals, and died like flies. The erection of the fortress

on the Pleasure Island (appropriate name!) cost the lives of hundreds of

thousands who were driven here by force like cattle from all parts of

Russia. In fact this unnatural city, this pleasant “Paradise,” as the

Tsar called it, is built on human bones! They pay no ceremonies here

either to the living or the dead. I myself have seen in various parts

of the town the body of a workman wrapped in a mat, carried on a pole

by men, or, bare as it was, simply laid on a sledge and taken to the

cemetery, where it was buried without any rite. Such a number of the poor

folk die here daily that there is no time to give them all Christian

burial.

One hot summer day, rowing on the Neva, we noticed grey patches on the

azure surface; they turned out to be masses of dead midges—which abound

in the neighbouring marshes. These came from Lake Ládoga. One of the

oarsmen scooped up a hatful of them.

While listening to Loewenwold’s tales about the building of Petersburg I

closed my eyes, and before me rose a vision of countless human bodies,

very grey and small, like these masses of dead midges floating on the

Neva, a mass without beginning or end, of persons whom nobody knows and

nobody remembers.

On my return home I sat down to write this diary in my small room, a

veritable bird’s cage, in the attic, just below the roof.

It felt close, I opened the window, in rushed the smell of spring, also

of tar and pine shavings. On the banks of the Neva two carpenters,

a young man and an old one, were repairing a boat. Nothing but the

hammering was heard, and the monotonous melancholy song which the younger

man was singing over and over again. Here are the few words I was able to

catch:

In the town Saint Petersburg

On the river Neva,

On the glorious Basil Isle,

A sailor rigged his ship, O!

Gazing up towards the evening sky, pale green, transparent and cold as

ice, I listened to this melancholy song, so like a wail, and myself was

moved almost to tears.

_May 3._

To-day her Highness went to see the Tsaritsa; she complained about

Gedeónoff, and also asked for a more regular payment of the money. I was

present at the interview.

The Tsaritsa was amiable as usual.

“Czaarishe Majestät Euch sehr lieb,” she said to the Crown Princess in

her broken German, during the conversation.

“Believe me, his Majesty is very fond of you. ‘Truly Catherine,’ said

he, ‘your daughter-in-law is exceedingly pleasing both in appearance and

temperament.’ ‘Your Majesty,’ said I, ‘you love your daughter more than

me.’ ‘No,’ he answered and laughed, ‘not more, but very soon I will love

her as much. My son,’ said he, ‘is really not worthy of so good a wife.’”

We concluded from these words that the Tsar was not over fond of his son.

When her Highness almost tearfully interceded for her husband, the

Tsaritsa promised to be his advocate, always with the same amiability,

assuring her that she loved her as her own child, and had she carried her

under her heart, she could not have loved her better.

I don’t like this Russian sentimentality: it is honey on the knife’s

point.

Yet it appears that her Highness does not deceive herself; she once said

in my presence that the Tsaritsa was worse than the rest: “pire que tout

le reste.”

To-day, coming home from the interview, she remarked, “she will never

forgive me if I bear a son.”

One day when our conversation had turned on the Tsaritsa, an old peasant

woman whispered into my ear, “She has no business to reign; she was

neither born to it, nor is she a Russian. And we know how she was taken

prisoner, brought into the camp with only a chemise on, and given into

custody. The man on duty, our officer, gave her a coat. The Lord alone

knows of what rank she is; they say she used to wash shirts in Finland.”

I could not help remembering this to-day when her Highness, in greeting

the Tsaritsa, was going to stoop and kiss her dress, according to court

etiquette. It is true the Tsaritsa did not allow it to come to that,

but herself embraced and kissed her. Yet, what an irony of fate, that a

Princess of Wolfenbüttel, heiress of the great Guelphs, who contested

the German Imperial Crown in days when the houses of Hohenzollern and

Hapsburg had never yet been heard of, should kiss the dress of this woman

who once was a laundress!

_May 4._

After warm sunny days it has suddenly turned wintry again, with cold

wind, wet, snow and rain. Ice from the Ládoga is floating down the Neva.

We are told, however, that snow falls here even as late as June.

Our palace has been so neglected that even its roof has proved unsound;

to-night, during a severe rainfall, water came through the ceiling in

her Highness’s bedchamber; a good thing it did not come on the bed; but

there was a pool on the floor.

The ceiling is decorated with a painted allegory; a burning altar

entwined with roses; on both sides Cupids bearing two coats of arms; the

Russian Eagle and the Brunswick Steed. Between them, two clasped hands

and the inscription, “Non unquam junxit nobiliora fides.” “Never did

fidelity join two nobler beings.” The damp has formed a black spot just

over the altar, and cold dirty water kept dripping from Hymen’s flame.

I remembered the wedding speech made by the archeologist Eckhardt, in

which he tried to prove that both bride and bridegroom descended from the

Byzantine Emperor, Constantine Porphyrogenitus. A fine country, where

rain falls on the nuptial couch of the descendant of the Porphyrogene!

_May 5._

At last the Crown Prince has appeared. He lives in the other half of the

house, quite separate from us, and often weeks pass by without our ever

seeing him. The pair have had a ‘scene.’ I heard it all from the adjacent

room where her Highness had expressly wished me to remain.

To all her prayers and complaints in regard to the Gedeónoff affair and

the keeping back of money, he answered, shrugging his shoulders,

“Mich nichts angehn. Bekümmere mich nicht an Sie. This matter is no

business of mine. I do not trouble myself about your money affairs.”

Then he burst out reproaching her for complaining to his father about him.

“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” sobbed her Highness. “Spare at least

your own honour! In Germany you would not find a cobbler or tailor, who

would allow himself thus to treat his wife.”

“You are no longer in Germany but in Russia.”

“I am only too well aware of this. Yet if only everything were carried

out that was promised.”

“Who promised?”

“Did not you with the Tsar sign the marriage contract?”

“Halten Maul! Ich habe sie nichts versprochen. Hold your tongue! I

promised you nothing. You very well know that you were forced upon me!”

He jumped up; the chair he had sat on fell to the ground.

I almost rushed to her rescue, I was afraid he would strike her. I hated

him to such an extent at that moment, that I believe I could have killed

him.

“Das danke ihnen der Henker! May the headsman reward you for this!”

exclaimed the Crown Princess, beside herself with anger and sorrow.

Swearing at her in an odious manner, he left the room, slamming the door.

It seems all that is wild and base in this country is incarnate in this

man. Only one thing I find hard to decide. Which is he, a fool or a

scoundrel?

Poor Charlotte! Her Highness, who daily shows me greater friendship,

quite beyond my deserts, has herself desired that I should so call her.

Poor Charlotte, when I came to her, she threw herself into my arms, and

remained silent for a long while, trembling all over. At last she said

sobbing:

“If only I were not with child and could, without hindrance return to

Germany, I would gladly agree to live there on dry bread and water. I am

well nigh losing my reason. I pray God to give me strength, so that I may

not be tempted to do something desperate!”

And after awhile she gently added, weeping in her wonted submissiveness,

which frightens me more than all her despair:—

“I am the unhappy victim of my family. They have profited nothing from my

sacrifice, while I myself am slowly dying of grief.”

* * * * *

We were both crying when they came to tell us it was time to go to the

masquerade. Suppressing our tears we began to dress. Such is the custom

here: willy nilly, be merry thou must.

The masquerade took place in the open air in the Troitsky Square, near

the “hôtellerie.” The square is very low, marshy, and covered with mud,

which never dries; part of it had been covered with beams, and wooden

planks on the top of these. On the platform thus formed the masqueraders

crowded. Happily the weather had again suddenly changed; it was a calm,

warm evening. But towards night a thick mist, white as milk, rose from

the river and enveloped the square. Many, and especially those ladies who

had on extremely thin costumes, were catching cold from the damp, and

began to sneeze and cough. Instead of medicine they were given brandy;

grenadiers as usual carried it round in buckets. In the white shroud of

mist, illumined by the greenish light of the slowly fading twilight—later

on in July twilight lasts the whole night through—all these masqueraders,

harlequins, pagliazzi, shepherdesses, nymphs, Chinese, Arabs, bears,

cranes, and dragons, seemed grotesque and terrible phantoms.

Here also, close to the platform on which we were dancing, black posts

with iron points were visible, and on them remained the almost putrefied

heads of decapitated criminals. The stench from these heads mingled with

the resinous perfume of young pine shoots and birch buds, which now fills

the city. And again it seemed, as it always does in this place, all was

but a mirage!

_May 6._

An unexpected reconciliation! When I approached the half open door,

leading to her Highness’s apartment, I saw by chance, in the mirror

that she was sitting in an arm-chair, while the Crown Prince, stooping

over her and holding her head with both his hands, was kissing her upon

the brow with deferential tenderness. I was going to retire, but she

too caught sight of me in the mirror and signed to me with her hand. I

understood that she wished me to stay, as I did last time, in the next

room. The poor girl probably wanted to parade her happiness.

“‘Der Mensch, der sagen, ich sie nicht lieb habe, lügt wie Teufel!’, He

who says, I don’t love you lies like the devil!” said the Tsarevitch;

I divined that they were talking of one of those slanders about her

Highness, which circulate here so freely, (she is even accused of

unfaithfulness to her husband). “I believe in you, I know you are good;

and those who speak evil about you are not worth your little finger.”

He enquired after her affairs, her troubles, her health, her condition,

with such sympathy, and his words and features were so full of

intelligence and kindness that he seemed to me quite another being. I

could scarcely believe my eyes and ears, remembering what had passed in

the same room only yesterday.

When he left and we were alone, Charlotte said to me:

“What a strange man he is, not in the least what he seems. Nobody knows

him. How he loves me! Ah, my dear Juliana, give me love, and all will be

well, I can endure everything! And when a child will be born unto me, I

pray God it may be a son, I shall be quite happy!”

I did not answer; I had not the courage to undeceive her; she was already

so happy, but for how long? poor, poor woman!

* * * * *

Perhaps I am unfair to the Tsarevitch? May be, he is really different

from what he seems.

He is the most reserved of men. When he is not drunk, he sits buried

among his old books: he is supposed to be studying Universal History, and

Theology, not only Russian, but also the Catholic and Protestant; he is

said to have read through the German Bible eight times: or else he holds

converse with monks, pilgrims, friars, and people of the lowest class.

One of his servants, a certain Fédor Yevarlakóff, an intelligent young

fellow, a great lover of literature—he borrows from me various books,

even Latin ones—told me one day something concerning the Crown Prince,

which I at once set down in my note book, a gift from dear Leibnitz,

which I always carry with me.

“The Tsarevitch is warmly attached to the priests and the priests to him.

He reveres them like God, and they call him a saint; they always beatify

him to the people.”

I remember Leibnitz telling me, that on being introduced to him in the

summer of 1711, at the ducal castle of Wolfenbüttel, he had a long

conversation with the Tsarevitch on his favourite subject: the union of

the East with the West, China and Russia with Europe, and that later

on he had sent him, through his tutor Baron Huissen, an abstract of

the letters about Chinese affairs, Leibnitz asserted that, contrary to

all rumours spread about the Tsarevitch, he is very clever, only his

intelligence is of a different kind to his father’s. “He probably takes

after his grandfather,” remarked Leibnitz.

Her Highness had shown me a copy of the letter received by the Duke

Ludwig Rudolf of Wolfenbüttel, her father, from the Berlin Royal Academy

of Science. This letter mentions the possibility of spreading real

Christian enlightenment throughout Russia in the near future, thanks to

the special and marked inclination of the Crown Prince to all science and

books.

I have also seen the report of meetings held by the same Academy, in

1711, when one of its members, the Co-Rector Frish, had declared: “The

Tsar’s heir loves the sciences even more than the Tsar himself, and in

his time he will patronise them no less.”

It seems strange! But I was looking at them both to-day in the mirror,

as it were the mysterious mirror of fate, I seemed to distinguish in

both faces, so unlike in appearance, one common trait—the shadow of some

impending grief, as if they were victims, and great suffering were in

store for them both. Or was this only fancy roused by that dark mirror?

_May 8._

To-day we were present at the launching of a large seventy-gun

man-of-war. The Tsar, dressed as a common shipwright, in a red knitted

jerkin daubed with tar, axe in hand, was clambering about the hull props,

seeing that all was in order, and paying no heed to danger:—only lately

two men were killed at a launching. I remembered the Tsar’s words: “I

toil like Noah at the Ark of Russia!” Taking his hat off before the chief

Admiral, like a subordinate to his chief, he asked whether it was time

to begin, and having received the order, he was the first to strike with

his axe. A hundred more axes began to cut the props, at the same time the

beams were drawn back which had supported the vessel on both sides in the

stays. She glided along the greased cradle foot, first slowly, then like

a dart, smashing the cradle foot into shivers, and floated out on the

water, rolling and cutting the waves for the first time to the sound of

music, cannon salutes, and shouting of the people.

A small boat took us to the new vessel. The Tsar was on board already;

he had changed into the uniform of a naval officer, and decorated with

a star and the pale blue ribbon of St. Andrew, he received the guests.

All standing on the deck, “the newly born” ship was baptized with a first

cup of wine. The Tsar made a speech. Here are some stray words I have

remembered:—

“Our people resemble children, who never will learn their A B C unless

they are made to; they grumble at the time, but once having mastered

it, they are grateful. The occurrences of to-day prove this. Has not

everything been done under compulsion? And yet words of gratitude are

already heard for those undertakings which have borne fruit. If you

disdain the bitter, neither shall you enjoy the sweet!”

Standing behind me, I overheard one of the fools, an old boyar, who was

probably drunk, whisper to his neighbour, “We would rather not have your

blessings when they have to be purchased by so many aches and pains.”

“We have,” continued the Tsar, “the precedents of the civilised nations

in Europe, who also began in a small way. It is time for us also to

make a start, first in little things, and later will come men who will

not recoil before the greater tasks. I know I shall neither do it, nor

see it done, for the number of our days is but short, yet will I make a

beginning, then those who come after me will find it easier. As for us,

we must content ourselves with the glory of having begun!”

I admired the Tsar, he looked so noble. We went down into the cabins,

the ladies sat part from the men in an adjacent saloon, where, during

the banquet, no man except the Tsar was allowed to enter. There was a

small round window, hung with red damask, in the partition between the

two saloons. I sat next to it; raising the curtain a little I could see

and partly hear what went on in the men’s apartment. Some of the things I

have put down in my note book.

Long narrow tables, arranged in the shape of a horse shoe, were laden

with cold dishes; pickles and fumados, anything that would create intense

thirst. The food is coarse, the wines are good. For the furnishing of

these banquets the Tsar allows the Admiralty from his private purse

one thousand roubles, a vast sum for this country. The guests sat down

anyhow, without any distinction of rank, common seamen next to the

highest dignitaries. At one of the tables presided the Kniaz-Pope, the

mock Prince-pope, surrounded by his cardinals. He solemnly pronounced

“Grace and peace be unto you, noble assembly! In the name of Bacchus, and

Ivaska Khmelnitsky, and the Spirit of wine. The drunkenness of Bacchus be

with you!”

“Amen,” responded the Tsar, who fills the position of Archdeacon to the

Pope.

All guests approached in their turn his Holiness, bowed low before him,

kissed his hand, and accepting a ladle of pepper-brandy drank it; this is

pure spirit of wine—spiritus vini—poured over red Indian pepper. I should

have thought that the mere threat of this brandy would be sufficient to

extract confessions from the most hardened malefactor,—here they compel

even ladies to drink it.

The health of all the members of the royal household was proposed; only

the Tsarevitch and his wife were omitted, although they were present.

Every toast was accompanied by the firing of cannon, and the shock of the

firing was so great that the glass in one of the windows cracked.

The guests grew speedily intoxicated, especially as brandy was being

secretly added to the wine. The air became close in the low cabins,

crowded with people. The guests threw off their waistcoats, and pulled

off one another’s wigs. Some huddled together and kissed one another,

others quarrelled, especially the ministers and senators, who accused one

another of bribe-taking, cheating and swindling.

“Your mistress costs you twice your salary!” screamed one.

“Have you forgotten the pickled cibarins?” retorted the other.

Cibarins were pieces of gold, which a cunning petitioner had offered in a

small barrel under the guise of mushrooms.

“And how much hemp supplied to the Admiralty did you take off at a gulp,

eh?”

“Ah, friends, what is the use of blaming one another? everybody longs for

what is good; whether honourable or swindlers, all men are sinners.”

“Bribes are mere accidents!”

“To accept nothing from the petitioners is against nature.”

“Yet by law——”

“What is law but a carriage pole? you can swing it whichever way you

like——”

The Tsar listened attentively. It is his custom, when all are drunk, to

double the guards and let no one pass out of the door. At the same time,

the Tsar, who is never drunk, much as he may take, tries purposely to

provoke quarrels among them. He then learns what he could never have

known otherwise. There is a proverb to this effect—“When rogues fall out

honest men come by their own.” The banquet develops into a public inquiry

into character.

The Most Serene Prince Ménshikoff quarrelled with the Vice-Chancellor

Shafiroff; the Prince had called the latter a Jew.

“I am a Jew, but you are a pieman,” retorted Shafiroff, “Your father had

not even a spoon to eat his soup with. You have been dragged up, ‘taken

from the mire you have been made a sire’”—

“You dirty Jew, I’ll crack you on my nail like a flea, and nothing but a

little moisture will remain.”

They went on railing at one another for a long time. Russians are as a

rule very versatile in ribaldry; I think it is impossible to hear more

obscene language anywhere else; the air is full of it. In one of the

vilest expressions used by young and old, the term mother is coupled with

the most obscene of terms: it is known as the ‘mother-word.’

Having exhausted their resources of abuse, the dignitaries began to spit

into one another’s faces, while the guests stood round looking on and

laughing. Here such scuffles are quite common, and involve no further

consequences.

Prince James Dolgorúki had a tussle with the Prince Caesar Romodanovsky.

These two venerable old men, both white with age, abused one another in

most insulting terms, then tore one another’s hair, and began strangling

and beating one another with their fists. When some of the onlookers

tried to separate them, they drew out their swords.

“Ei! dat ist nitt permittet,” exclaimed the Tsar in Dutch, coming up and

standing between them.

The Archdeacon Peter Mihailoff is commanded by the Pope “to pacify the

guests by word and act during the uproar.”

“I want satisfaction!” moaned Prince James, “I have been sorely

affronted.” “Comrade,” remonstrated the Tsar, “Where can you seek

judgment against Caesar but from God? I myself am but a subject, and

belong to his Majesty’s service. What is the affront after all? None

of the assembly has remained untouched by Bacchus. Sauffen-rauffen, we

drink, fight, sleep, and make friends.”

For punishment each of them was made to drink another bumper of

pepper-brandy. Soon they both were rolling under the table.

Buffoons were shouting, grinning, spitting, not only at one another

but also at decent people. A special chorus, called the Spring chorus,

imitated the singing of all birds from the nightingale to the warbler,

in such piercing, shrill notes that the walls resounded with a deafening

noise. A wild dance-song was heard; its words almost meaningless recalled

the screams of a witches’ sabbath—

Shinshan!

Shevergen!

Beat the pace, beat!

Don’t spare your feet!

In our ladies’ apartment the old drunken fool, the Princess Abbess

Rjévskaya, a veritable witch, whirled away in a dance, lifting her skirts

above her head and singing in a voice hoarse with drink:—

Tune up! tune up! my music sweet

Work on, work on my staff,

My father-in-law from the stove

Has fallen into a trough!

Had I but known this would occur

I would have placed him at the top,

And falling, he’d have broken his head....

The Tsaritsa, with her hair in disorder, covered with sweat, red and

flown with wine, was watching her, and beat the time with her hands and

foot, and laughed like mad. At the beginning of the orgie she tried to

persuade her Highness to drink, using some curious sayings, which appear

to be numerous on the subject in Russian. “Bumper on bumper is better

than stroke upon stroke!” “Even cabbages flag without water!” “Even

a hen must drink!” Yet, noticing that the Crown Princess was almost

fainting, she left off, and even secretly added water to her wine and

ours at the same time. To water wine is counted a great crime at such

banquets.

Towards the end of the night—we had remained at table from six in the

evening till four in the morning—the Tsaritsa several times went to the

door and beckoned to the Tsar, saying:

“Isn’t it time to go home?”

“Never mind, Katinka, to-morrow is a holiday,” answered the Tsar.

Each time I lifted the curtain I saw something new in the men’s apartment.

Somebody walking across the table had stepped with his boot into a dish

of fish brawn. The Tsar had only a moment before forced some of this

fish down the Chancellor Golóvkin’s throat. Golóvkin could not bear

fish; servants held his arms and legs; he struggled, choked, and grew

very red. Having done with Golóvkin, the Tsar turned to the Hanoverian

Resident, Weber; he fondled and kissed him, with one hand he supported

his head, with the other he held a bumper to his lips, begging him to

drink it. Then taking off his wig, he kissed now the front, now the back

of his head. He lifted his lips and kissed his teeth. They say the reason

of this tenderness was the Tsar’s desire to get out of the Resident a

diplomatic secret, Moussin Pushkin, who was being tickled below the neck,

squealed like a young pig brought to the knife. He is very ticklish. The

Tsar is trying to accustom him to it.

The great Admiral Apraksin burst into a flood of tears. The privy

councillor Tolstoi crept about on all fours; it turned out afterwards

that he was not so drunk as he pretended; he did it to escape more drink.

A bottle had cut open the Vice Admiral Cruis’ head. Prince Ménshikoff

had fallen to the ground; he seemed comatose; his face had grown livid.

People busied themselves round him and tried by rubbing to revive him,

lest he should die—death is not an unusual ending to such orgies. The

Tsar’s chaplain, the Archimandrite Theodosius, was sick; “I shall die,

holy Mother!” he piteously moaned. The Kniaz-Pope was snoring; his head

lay on the table in a pool of wine.

Hissing, roaring, the noise of breaking china, bad language, boxes on the

ear, which no longer called forth any attention, seemed to fill the air.

A stench prevailed as in the vilest tavern. Had anyone come down from the

outside he could not have helped vomiting.

My head swam. I seemed at times to lose consciousness. The human faces

all looked beast-like; the Tsar’s the most terrible of all. Large and

round, with staring eyes, slightly oblong and prominent, with pointed

moustaches standing out, it was the face of a tiger or a huge wild

cat. Calm and disdainful, his look was clear and piercing. He alone

had remained sober; and was now with curiosity peering into the vilest

mysteries, into the bared soul of human beings, which lay turned inside

out before him in this inquisition chamber, where the instrument of

torture was wine.

The Kniaz-Pope was roused and lifted from the table. The Kniaz-Caesar had

also had time to sleep off his worst. They were made to dance together;

incapable of standing on their feet they had to be propped up on both

sides. The pope wore a mock tiara crowned by a nude Bacchus, in his hands

he held a cross made of pipes. The Caesar, wearing a mock crown, held a

sceptre in his hand. The Tsarevitch lay on the ground dead drunk, between

these two fools, these phantoms of ancient dignity—the Russian Tsar and

the Russian Patriarch. What happened next I don’t remember, and will not

even try to recall, it was too disgusting.

On the neighbouring ships reveille was sounded. On ours too the roll of

the drum was heard. The Tsar himself, who is an excellent drummer, was

sounding retreat. This signified that a great battle had been waged with

Bacchus, and he had remained victor. Grenadiers were bearing away drunken

nobles, like bodies from a battle field.

When we saw the sky at last, it seemed to us we had escaped—to be

grandiose—from hell; speaking vulgarly—from a cesspool.

_May 9._

To-day the Tsar left Petersburg with a large fleet, he has gone to meet

the Swedes.

_May 20._

It is a long time since I wrote in this diary. Her Highness has been

ill after the entertainment. I have not left her. And besides there

is nothing worth writing about. Everything is so sad, that one feels

inclined neither to talk nor think; let come what will!

_May 25._

I was not far wrong, the truce did not last long. Again a black cloud has

come between the Tsarevitch and her Highness. Again they do not meet for

whole weeks. He too is ill. The doctors say it is consumption; I think it

is brandy.

_June 4._

The Tsarevitch came in dressed for a journey in a German travelling coat;

he talked about things in general, and all at once said:

“Adieu, ich gehe nach Karlsbad.”

The Crown Princess was so taken aback that she could say nothing. She did

not even ask for how long. I thought he was joking, but afterwards it

appeared that almost immediately on leaving us, he had taken his seat in

the coach and was gone. It is said he has really gone to Karlsbad for a

cure.

And now we are left alone without Tsar or Tsarevitch. Her Highness

does not receive any letters from her parents; they probably believe

the slanders circulated about her and are displeased with her. We are

forsaken by all.

_July 7._

A letter from the Tsar to her Highness. “I do not wish to trouble you,

nor act against my conscience, but the absence of your husband, my son,

compels me to do so, in order to prevent the idle talk of loose tongues,

which are wont to convert truth into lies. The fact of your pregnancy

has been spread abroad; and therefore a certain arrangement must be made

for the time when by God’s will you will be delivered. The Chancellor

Golóvkin will acquaint you with the details of what you will be expected

to conform to, and then the mouths of all slanderers will be closed.”

The arrangement was made. Her Highness was surrounded by three women:

the Vice Chancellor’s wife, General Bruce’s wife, and the old fool

Rjévskaya, the same who danced at the banquet. Her Highness was only

slightly acquainted with them. These three shrews are continuously about

her, ostensibly to take care of her, really to act as simple spies.

And what does all this mean? what are they frightened at? what deception

is possible? surely not an exchange; a boy for a girl, by those who would

like to see the inheritance assured to the offspring of the Tsarevitch.

Or is it only an excess of amenity on the Tsaritsa’s part?

Only now we realize how much we are hated and suspected. Charlotte’s

whole crime consists in being her husband’s wife. The father is against

his son, and we stand between them as between two fires.

“I will obediently submit to your Majesty’s wish with regard to the

appointment of these three women for my protection,” Charlotte replied,

to the Tsar, “all the more as the thought of deceiving you or the Crown

Prince had never entered my head. I am hurt by this strange and unmerited

treatment. I thought the love and clemency so often promised me by your

Majesty were sufficient safeguard against slander, and a warrant that

the guilty ones should meet with due punishment. It is grievous that my

enemies should be strong enough to incite such intrigues. God is my only

refuge in this foreign land, and when abandoned by everybody else, He

will hearken unto the sighs of my heart and put an end to my sufferings.”

_July 12._

This morning at 7 o’clock her Highness was successfully delivered of a

daughter. No news whatever from the Tsarevitch.

_August 1._

The news of a Russian victory over the Swedes on July 27, has arrived;

it is said an entire squadron under the command of Ehrenshild has been

captured. The whole day long the bells are ringing and cannon firing.

It is true they are not economical of their powder here; the most

insignificant victory, the taking of three or four rotten galleys is

sufficient excuse for firing off cannon, and at such a rate as though the

world had been conquered.

_September 9._

The Tsar has returned to Petersburg. Again a cannonade as though it were

a besieged city. We are almost deaf. Endless triumphal processions,

fireworks with boastful allegories: the Tsar is glorified as if he were a

conqueror of worlds, a Caesar or an Alexander. Again an orgie; we thanked

the Lord we were spared this time. Again, it is said, they drank like

swine. Rain and mud. A low, dark and, as it were, impenetrable sky looks

in through the windows. Wet crows perch cawing on the bare branches.

Dreariness! Dreariness!

_September 19._

I found the Crown Princess weeping over old letters the Tsarevitch had

written her during their engagement. Crooked, broken characters on pencil

lines, empty compliments, diplomatic amiabilities. And she, poor thing,

shed tears in looking over them!

We learnt by chance that the Tsarevitch lives incognito in Karlsbad and

will not return here before the winter.

_September 20._

In order to forget myself, and not to think about our affairs, I have

decided to write down everything I see or hear about the Tsar. Leibnitz

is right—“quanto magis hujus Principis indolem prospicio tanto eam magis

admiror”—The longer I watch this sovereign’s character the more I marvel

at it.

_October 1._

I have seen the Tsar forge iron in the dockyard smithy. The courtiers

ministered to him, made the fire up, blew the bellows, carried the coal,

soiling the silk and velvet of their gold-embroidered coats thereby.

“That’s right; that is as a Tsar ought to be! He does not eat his bread

unearned. He works better than a ‘bourlak,’” said one of the bystanders,

a common working man.

The Tsar was wearing a leather apron; his hair was tied up with a string;

his sleeves were turned up and showed his bare sinewy arms: his face

was smeared with soot. The tall smith, lit up by the red blaze of the

furnace, resembled a Titan. His hammer hit the white, hot iron so hard

that the sparks showered around, the anvil trembled and rang as if on

the point of being smashed into shivers.

I remembered the words spoken by an old boyar:

“Sovereign, thou would’st forge a new Russia out of Vulcan’s iron. Hard

work for the hammer! hard, too, for the anvil!”

“Time, too, is like hot iron; forge it at white heat!”

So runs one of the Tsar’s sayings. And he indeed forges Russia at white

heat. He never rests; he is always hurrying somewhither. It seems

as though he could not stop to rest even if he would. He is killing

himself with feverish activity, an incredible tension of strenuousness,

a ceaseless convulsiveness. The doctors say that his strength is

undermined; that he won’t live long. He is always taking the Olonetz iron

waters, yet at the same time he drinks brandy; thus the remedy does more

harm than good.

The first impression he leaves on the observer is rapidity. He is all

motion; does not walk, but runs. The Imperial Ambassador, Count Kinski—a

pretty solid man—assures us that he would rather take part in battles,

than have a two hours’ audience with the Tsar, because he is forced, in

spite of his stoutness, to run after him all the time, so that he is

bathed in sweat even in the severest Russian frost. “Time is like life,”

repeats the Tsar. “Loss of time is death.”

* * * * *

Fire and water are his elements, he loves them like one born in

them,—water like a fish, fire like a salamander. He has a passion for

cannonades, and for various experiments with fire and fireworks. He

always lights the fireworks himself, rushing into the flames; I was

present once when he singed his hair. He says he is inuring his people to

the smell of powder; but this is only an excuse, fire itself he simply

loves.

His passion is as great for water. Although the offspring of Muscovy’s

Tsars who never saw the sea, he yet began longing for it, when, but a

child, he was secluded in the close terems of the Kremlin Palace, like a

wild gosling in a hen-house.

He used to float in toy boats on artificial lakes. When at last he got to

the sea he could not tear himself away from it again. He spends most of

his time on water, he sleeps every day after dinner on his frigate; when

ill he lives on board altogether, and sea-air generally cures him. During

the summer he feels the lack of air, even among the large gardens of

Peterhof, so he fitted himself up a bedroom in Monplaisir, a small house,

washed by the Finnish Gulf; the windows of the bedroom look straight upon

the sea. In Petersburg the Observatory is built on a sandbank in the

mouth of the Neva. In the Summer Garden, also, the Palace is surrounded

on two sides by water. Steps lead from the door straight down into the

water, just as in Amsterdam and Venice. Once, during winter, when the

Neva had already put on her ice-chains, and only before the Palace

there remained a round, open ice-free space, about a hundred yards in

circumference, he sailed on it up and down in a tiny boat, like a duck

in a pool. When the whole river was covered with hard ice he ordered a

space, about a hundred yards long and thirty yards wide, to be daily

cleared and swept of the snow: I myself have seen him sliding along this

surface in small pretty boyers, fitted with steel skates and bulge-ways.

“We sail on the ice,” said he, “so as not to forget our nautical

exercises during the winter.” Another time, at Moscow, in the Christmas

holidays, he went along the streets in a huge sleigh—rigged in imitation

of a real sailing vessel. He loves letting young geese and ducks, which

the Tsaritsa gives him, go into the water. He delights in their glee as

though he himself were a water bird.

* * * * *

He says his first thoughts about the sea date from his reading the

narrative of the maritime expedition of Prince Oleg of Kieff to

Constantinople, recorded by the Chronicler Nestor. If this be true he is

only resuscitating the old in the new, the native in the foreign. From

the sea, across the land to the sea—this is Russia’s course!

* * * * *

Sometimes it seems to me that the contradictions of his two beloved

elements, water and fire, have merged in him into one being, strange

and curious. I know not whether kind or cruel, divine or diabolic—but

certainly inhuman.

A strange timidity occasionally besets him. I myself have seen him at

a pompous reception of Ambassadors sitting on the throne, confused,

blushing, perspiring, trying to gain courage by repeatedly taking snuff;

he did not know what to do with his eyes, and even avoided his wife’s

glances. When the ceremony was over and he was no longer obliged to

stay on the throne, he was as merry as a schoolboy. The Markgravine of

Brandenburg told me that at her first interview with the Tsar—who it

is true was quite young at that time—he turned away, covered his face

with his hands like a shy debutante, and did nothing but repeat, “Je ne

sais pas m’exprimer”—“I cannot talk.” He soon recovered, however, and

became almost too free. He expressed the desire to convince himself that

the German ladies’ hard waists, which so surprised the Russians, were

not caused by their bony nature, but by the whalebones in the stays.

“Il pourrait être plus poli”—“He might have been a little more polite,”

observed the Markgravine. Baron Manteuffel related to me the Tsar’s

interview with the Queen of Prussia: “He was so amiable that before

offering her his hand he put on a rather dirty glove. At the supper he

surpassed himself. He neither picked his teeth, nor belched, nor uttered

any other unbecoming noises (il n’a ni roté ni peté).”

When travelling about Europe he insisted that nobody should look at him,

and that the roads and streets he had to pass should be quite empty. He

entered houses and went out of them by secret ways; visiting museums

by night. One day, in Holland, when he was obliged to pass through a

hall where the members of the States-General were sitting, he asked

the president to make the whole assembly turn their backs to him as

he passed; and when respect for the Tsar would not allow them to do

so, he pulled his wig down to his nose, hurried through the room and

antechamber, and ran down the stair.

One day, rowing on the canal at Amsterdam, and noticing a boat with

inquisitive spectators attempting to approach him, he fell into such a

fury that he flung two empty bottles at the steersman’s head, and nearly

brained him. A real savage! A Russian demon in a civilized Europe! A

savage and a child! All Russians in general are children. The Tsar

only pretends to be grown up when among them. I shall never forget how,

at the village fair near Wolfenbüttel, the hero of Poltava rode on the

wooden horses of a second-rate roundabout, tried to catch brass hoops

on a stick, and enjoyed himself like a small schoolboy. Children are

cruel. The Tsar’s favourite diversion is to force people into doing

something for which they have an instinctive aversion. Those who cannot

stand wine, butter, cheese, oysters, or vinegar, are on every possible

occasion stuffed with them by the Tsar. Those who are ticklish are

tickled by him. Many, to please him, pretend that they are unable to

endure what he specially delights in administering. Sometimes these jokes

are fearful, especially during the festivities in the Christmas holidays,

the so-called Slavleniya. This amusement, an old boyar told me, is so

terrible, that many prepare for it as for death. People are dragged by

ropes from one ice hole to another; others are compelled to sit on the

ice bare-buttocked; others again are killed by excessive drink. This is

the way a creature alien to man, a faun or a centaur would play with men,

maiming them and killing them unawares.

In the anatomical theatre at Leyden he was one day watching how the

exposed muscles of a body were being saturated with turpentine. Noticing

a look of extreme repulsion on the face of one of his Russian companions,

the Tsar took him by the collar, bent him over the table, and insisted

on his tearing the muscles off the body with his teeth. At times it is

almost impossible to say where childish frolic ends and the cruelty of a

beast begins.

* * * * *

Coupled with strange awkwardness and timidity he displays savage

shamelessness, especially towards women. “Il faut que Sa Majesté ait dans

le corps une légion de démons de luxure.” “His Majesty must incorporate

a legion of sensual devils,” says the court physician Blumentrost. He

presumes that the Tsar’s scurvy is the outcome of an older ailment which

had troubled him in early youth.

To quote the expression of one of the “new Russians”—“The Tsar displays

a political leniency with regard to sexual immorality”—the more sinners,

the more recruits, and he needs recruits. He himself considers love to

be only a natural instinct. Once during his stay in England, when a

courtezan was not satisfied with her present of five hundred guineas, he

said to Ménshikoff: “You think I am as great a spendthrift as yourself.

For five hundred guineas old men serve me with zeal and brains, and this

jade has served me damnably badly, you yourself know in what way.”

The Tsaritsa is not in the least degree jealous. He relates to her all

his affairs of the heart, but always ends with the compliment, “and still

you are better than the whole pack of them, Catherine!”

Strange rumours are circulated and voiced abroad with regard to the

Tsar’s Denshiks. One of them, General Yagoushinsky, is supposed to have

gained his master’s favours in ways which cannot be well talked about.

The handsome Lefort, so says an amiable old gentleman about the Court,

was so intimate with the Tsar that they had one mistress between them. It

is rumoured that the Tsaritsa, before living with the Tsar, had been the

mistress of Ménshikoff. Ménshikoff, in his turn, had taken in Catherine’s

affections the place of Lefort. This man Ménshikoff, “risen from the

mire,” who, in the Tsar’s own words, was conceived in lawlessness, born

to sin, and is ending his life in rascality, has an almost inexplicable

power over Peter. The Tsar will sometimes beat him like a dog, throw

him to the ground, trample upon him; one would think it was all over,

and yet, the next moment, they have again made peace, and are even

kissing one another. I have myself heard the Tsar calling him his dear

Alexasha, his own darling, and Ménshikoff returned the compliment. This

ci-devant street pieman has become so insolent that he said one day to

the Tsarevitch (true, he was drunk at the time), “You will see as little

of the Crown as of your own ears. The crown is my property.”

_October 8._

To-day, a Dutch merchant’s wife, who died of dropsy, was buried. The

Tsar himself performed the operation of tapping her. They say her death

was caused less by illness than by the operation. The Tsar was present

at both funeral and commemoration banquet. He drank and enjoyed himself

vastly. He considers himself a great surgeon. Persons about him unlucky

enough to have a swelling or gathering do their best to conceal it,

for fear the Tsar should begin cutting it. He has a strange liking for

anatomy. He cannot see a body without having it dissected, and examines

post mortem all the bodies of his relatives.

He delights in drawing teeth, having learnt the art in Holland from a

travelling dentist. There is a bagful of rotten teeth extracted by the

imperial forceps preserved in the Kunst-Kammer here.

In the face of suffering he displays cynical curiosity and a cynical

kindheartedness. He has himself performed an intestinal operation on his

page, an Arab.

* * * * *

His whole nature is a combination of strength and weakness. This is

apparent at once even in his face: terrible eyes from which nothing

escapes, one look of which suffices to make people swoon; lips, thin,

delicate, almost feminine, with a cunning smile; a chin, soft, round,

plump, with a dimple.

We are positively sick of hearing about the hat pierced with bullets

at Poltava: I have no doubt that he can be brave, especially when

victorious. All victors are brave. But has he always been as brave as it

is believed?

The Saxon Engineer Hallart, who took part in the Narva campaign of 1700,

tells me, that when the Tsar knew of the approach of Charles XII, he

made over the command of the army to the Duc de Croy, with instructions

hurriedly written, bearing neither date, nor seal, quite unintelligible,

confused, and himself in great perturbation quitted the scene of action.

The Swedish prisoner, Count Pipper, has shown me a medal struck by the

Swedes; on one side the Tsar is warming his hands at the fire of his

cannons which are sending shells into the besieged Narva. The inscription

is—“And Peter stood at the fire and warmed himself,” an allusion to

the Apostle Peter in the court of the high priest! On the other side

Russians are represented retreating from Narva; Peter in front, his crown

tumbling from his head, his sword thrown away, wipes his tears with a

handkerchief; and the inscription runs—“And going out, he wept bitterly.”

All this may be slander; yet why has no one even dared to invent slanders

about Alexander or Caesar? Something similarly strange happened during

the Pruth campaign. At the most dangerous moment, just before the battle,

the Tsar was about to leave the army for the rear, under pretext of

bringing up fresh forces. That he did not leave was only due to the

retreat being cut off. He wrote to the Senate—that never, since he had

been in service, had he been in such despair. Does not this again almost

justify the legend that “going out, he wept bitterly?”

Blumentrost says that doctors know more about heroes than ever will

go down to posterity;—it appears the Tsar cannot endure the slightest

physical pain. During a serious illness which was expected to result in

death, he was anything but heroic. “It is hardly credible,” exclaimed

a Russian who had been praising the Tsar in my presence, “that a great

and fearless hero should be afraid of so insignificant an insect as a

cockroach.” When the Tsar travels about Russia, new huts are erected

for him to sleep in, as it is difficult to find in Russian villages a

dwelling without cockroaches. He is also afraid of spiders and other

insects. I myself once observed how at the sight of a cockroach he

trembled, his face became pale and contorted, as at a ghost or some

supernatural monster; another moment and he would have swooned or

fallen into a fit, like a tremulous woman. O to play a trick upon him,

like those he plays on others! He would probably die of fright if he

were stripped and half a dozen spiders and cockroaches were let loose

on him. No doubt historians would never believe that the conqueror of

Charles XII died from the touch of a cockroach’s legs. This dread in the

presence of a small harmless creature is astonishing in a great Tsar

before whom everybody trembles. I remembered the teaching about monads by

Leibnitz; it almost would seem that it was not their physical, but their

metaphysical pre-existent nature, which is alien to the Tsar’s nature.

His fear was not only ludicrous but awful to me: it seemed as though I

had suddenly penetrated some mystery.

One day a learned German, while making experiments before the Tsaritsa

with an air pump, had placed a swallow under the glass dome. When the

Tsar saw the little bird gasp, totter, and feebly flap its wings, he

said:—

“Enough! Enough! don’t take away innocent life, the bird has done no

harm.”

“I think her young ones are mourning for her in the nest,” added the

Tsaritsa, and taking the swallow to the window she released and let it

fly away.

Sentimental Peter! how strangely this sounds! And yet I saw something

closely akin to sentiment flit across those delicate almost feminine

lips, the plump and dimpled chin, when the Tsaritsa said in that

simpering voice with mincing smile, “her young ones are mourning for her

in the nest.”

Was it not on that very day that this terrible ukase was published? “His

Imperial Majesty has deigned to observe that the nostrils of convicts

sentenced to labour for life are only incompletely torn. His Majesty

orders the nostrils to be taken off to the bone, so that in case the

convicts should desert they could not hide themselves, but may easily be

recognised and brought back.” And this among the Admiralty Regulations:

“The body of him who commits suicide must be publicly hanged by the feet.”

* * * * *

“Is he cruel?” That is a question. “He who is cruel ceases to be a hero.”

This is one of those sayings ascribed to the Tsar, which I do not quite

believe; they seem to be uttered rather for posterity. Yet posterity

will know that he, while sparing a swallow, tortured a sister to death,

torments his wife, and it seems will, by degrees, murder his son.

* * * * *

Is he as artless as he seems? this too is doubtful. I know there are a

number of stories in circulation with regard to the Tsar carpenter in

Saardam. I must confess I never could listen to them without annoyance;

they are too instructive, too much like pictures with explanations.

“Verstellte Einfalt;”—“Sham naïvete,” said a witty German about him. The

Russians too have a proverb, “The simpleton beats the knave.”

In future all pedants and schoolchildren will certainly know that Tsar

Peter darned his own stockings, mended his boots for economy’s sake. But

it is doubtful whether they will ever be acquainted with a fact told me

lately by a Russian timber merchant.

He said that a huge amount of unused oak timber was lying near Lake

Ládoga, covered over with sand and rotting disused. And meanwhile men are

lashed and hung for the offence of cutting down and stealing oak. Human

life and blood are cheaper than oak wood. I might add, cheaper than torn

stockings.

“C’est un grand poseur”—some one had said about him. One ought to watch

him kiss the Prince Caesar’s hand when he has broken some buffoon’s

regulation,—“Forgive, sovereign, forgive! We rough sailors are not well

versed in ceremony.”

One can hardly trust one’s eyes; it is impossible to distinguish where

the Tsar ends and the fool begins.

He has surrounded himself with masks. The Tsar Carpenter! ’tis a

masquerade after the Dutch fashion?

And is not this new Tsar in his _simplesse_, in his carpenter’s disguise,

really further removed from the common people, than were the ancient

Tsars of Muscovy in their cloth of gold?

“Nowadays life is very hard,” complained the same merchant to me, “nobody

is allowed to say anything; the truth never reaches the Tsar. It used to

be much simpler in the old days.” I once heard the chaplain Theodosius

praise him to his face for the dissimulation which, it appears, political

teachers are supposed to lay down as the first duty of sovereigns.

I do not judge him; I only repeat what I hear and see. All see the hero,

few the man. And even if I gossip it will be forgiven me, for I am a

woman. Some one has said: “This man is very good and very bad;” as for

me, I must once more repeat: “I know not whether he is better or worse

than other men, but it sometimes seems to me that he is not quite human.”

The Tsar is pious. He reads the Acts, and sings with as much confidence

as the priests themselves, seeing he knows the lauds and liturgies by

heart. He composes prayers for the soldiers.

Sometimes during a conversation about military or state affairs he

suddenly lifts his eyes to heaven, crosses himself and says a short

prayer with evident devotion: “O God take not Thy grace from us in the

days to come!” or, “Lord grant us Thy mercy, for in Thee have we put our

trust!”

This is not hypocrisy. No doubt he believes in God, as he says he puts

his trust in the “Lord, strong in battle.” Yet it would seem as if his

God were not the God of the Christians, but of the pagans, Mars, or

Nemesis—Fate herself. Never breathed a human being less like a Christian

than Peter. What connection is there between the sword of Mars and the

lilies of the Gospels?

I have just read a curious new book published in Germany under the

title—_Curieuse Nachricht von der itzigen Religion I. K. M. in Russland

Petri Alezieviz und seines grossen Reiches, dass dieselbe itzo fast nach

Evangelisch-Lutherischen Grundsätzen eingerichtet sei_.

Here are a few extracts from it. “We are not far wrong in stating that

his Majesty’s conception of true religion takes the form of the Lutheran

faith.”

“The Tsar has abolished the Patriarchate, and, following the example of

Protestant Princes, he has declared himself the chief Bishop, that is

Patriarch of the Russian church. On his return from a journey to foreign

countries he at once entered into discussions with his priests, and being

convinced of their ignorance on questions of faith—indeed they could

hardly read—he instituted schools where they might apply themselves more

diligently to study.

“Now that the Russians are reasonably taught and educated in schools,

all the superstitious beliefs and customs must of themselves disappear,

for no one, except the most ignorant and simple-minded, can believe in

such things. In these schools the system of teaching is quite Lutheran,

and the young people are brought up according to the rules of true

Christian religion. The monasteries are reduced in number, and therefore

can no longer, as in olden times, shelter great numbers of idle folk,

who are a burden to the state and a danger in times of revolt. Now, the

monks are obliged to learn what is useful, and everything is ordered

in a praiseworthy manner. Miracles and relics no longer command the

reverence they formerly did; in Russia, as in Germany, people have begun

to believe that there is much swindling in connection with religious

ceremonial.”

I know the Tsarevitch has read this book. What must his feelings have

been during the perusal!

* * * * *

I was present one day when, while at their wine in the oakgrove of the

Summer Garden, where the Tsar likes to converse with the clergy, the

Administrator of Spiritual Affairs, the Archimandrite Theodosius, was

elaborating reasons: “Why and in what sense the Roman Emperors, both

pagan and Christian, termed themselves Pontifex and high priests of the

polytheistic faith.” It appeared that the Tsar was the head prelate, High

Priest, and Patriarch. This Russian monk very skilfully and adroitly

proved that, according to “_Leviathan_” by the English Atheist Hobbes,

the maxim “Civitatem et ecclesiam eandem rem esse”—“the state and the

church are one and the same”—certainly did not advocate converting the

state into a church, but on the contrary, the conversion of the church

into the state. The monstrous animal—Leviathan, fabric of the state—was

swallowing up the Church of God, so that there would remain no trace of

it. These discussions might serve as an interesting monument of monkish

cringing and flattery before the sovereign.

* * * * *

It is said that already at the end of last year, 1714, the Tsar called

together the spiritual and lay dignitaries, to whom he solemnly declared

that he wishes to be the sole head of the Russian Church, and leaves it

to them to establish a spiritual association under the name of the “Holy

Synod.”

* * * * *

The Tsar is planning a campaign against India, in the footsteps of

Alexander the Great. To imitate Alexander and Caesar, to unite the East

with the West, to found a new world-wide monarchy, these are the Russian

Tsar’s deepest and dearest desires.

* * * * *

Theodosius tells the Tsar, “You are the God of the Earth,” For this is

the meaning of Divus Caesar.

* * * * *

At the Poltava celebrations the Russian Tsar was represented on one of

the allegorical pictures as Apollo, the ancient Sun-God.

* * * * *

I learn that the dead heads which are still on the poles near Trinity

Church, opposite to the Senate-house, were the heads of Raskolniks who

have been beheaded for calling the Tsar “Antichrist.”

_October 20._

An old invalid, an army captain, comes sometimes into our kitchen. He is

a pathetic-looking moth-eaten creature; his head trembles, his nose is

red, and he has a wooden leg; he terms himself a “granary rat.” I treat

him to brandy and tobacco, and we talk about Russian military affairs.

He is very cheerful and sprinkles his speech with quaint sayings, such

as “A soldier serves a hundred years yet does not earn a hundred sous;”

“Grain is satisfying, water intoxicating;” “Shave with an awl, warm

thyself with smoke.” He has three doctors—brandy, garlic and Death.

When almost a child he became a drummer boy; he has taken part in all the

campaigns from Asoff to Poltava, and has been rewarded by the Father Tsar

with a handful of nuts and a kiss on the head. When speaking of the Tsar

he seems to become transfigured; and to-day he told me about the battle

near the Red Farm.

“We stood firm for the House of the Holy Virgin, the Serene Majesty our

Tsar, and the Christian Faith; we died for one another. We all cried with

a great voice: ‘Lord God! Help us!’ Then we beat the Swedish regiments,

both infantry and artillery, by the help of the prayers of the saints of

Holy Moscow.”

He also attempted to repeat the Tsar’s speech to his army.

“‘Children I have begotten you in the sweat of my toil. The state cannot

exist without you, any more than the body without a soul. You have shown

your love to God, to me, and your country; you have not spared your

lives.’” The old man suddenly started up on his wooden leg, his nose grew

redder yet, a tear hung on its tip like a dewdrop on a ripe plum, and

waving his old hat he exclaimed:

“Vivat! vivat! vivat! Peter the Great! Emperor of all the Russias!”

Up till now I had heard no one call the Tsar “Emperor,” yet I was not

surprised. Such fire lit up the dim eyes of the “granary rat” that a cold

shiver ran through me; a vision of ancient Rome seemed to flash before

me; I heard the rustle of victorious standards, the trampling of brazen

cohorts, the cries of soldiers, the acclamations of divine Caesar, ‘Divus

Caesar Imperator!’

_October 23._

We have been to the People’s market on the Trinity square, a long

whitewashed building erected by the Italian architect Tresina; it is

roofed with tiles and has arcades, such as are seen in Verona or Padua.

We went into the bookshop, the first and only one in Petersburg, which

has been opened by order of the Tsar; Basil Evdokimoff, a printer, is

the manager. Besides books, Slavonic and translated, there are sold here

calendars, decrees, primers, plans of battles, and “royal persons”;

that is, portraits, and pictures of triumphant entries. The books sell

badly. In the course of two or three years not a single copy of some

publications has been sold. Calendars and decrees in relation to bribes

sell better than anything else.

The director of the first printing press in Petersburg, a certain

Avrámoff, a strange but rather clever man, whom we chanced to meet in the

shop, told us how difficult it is to get the foreign books translated

into Russian. The Tsar is always in a great hurry, and demands, under

threat of severe lashing, that the book should be translated in an

impossibly short time, intelligibly and in good style. The translators

weepingly complain that it is impossible to hurry with the involved

German style, which is incomprehensible, confused and heavy. Sometimes

it has happened that despite incredible labour ten lines a day could not

be rendered successfully. Boris Wolkoff, the translator to the foreign

department, despaired of translating _Le Jardinage de Quintiny_, and,

fearing the Tsar’s wrath, killed himself by opening his veins.

Knowledge does not come easily to Russians.

These translations which cost so much sweat, and even blood, are neither

read nor needed by any one. Not long ago a number of books which did not

sell, and which were taking up too much room in the shop, were piled up

in the shed of the Armoury court. During the flood they were covered

with water, and they are now spoilt, partly by damp, partly by hemp oil,

which, for some inexplicable reason, has found its way among them, while

many are mouse-eaten.

_November 14._

We have been to the theatre. The large wooden structure, the “Comedy

House,” is not far off the Foundry. The performance begins at six p.m.,

for which tickets, printed on stout paper, can be obtained in a separate

office; the poorest seat costs forty kopecks. The audiences are scanty,

and, but for the court, the actors would die of starvation. The felt on

the walls does not prevent the building being cold, damp and draughty;

the tallow candles smoke; the poor music is always out of tune, and,

to crown all, the people in the pit noisily crack their nuts and rail

at one another the whole time. The comedy of “Don Juan and Don Pedro”

was the piece, a Russian translation from the German, which itself was

an adaptation from the French “Don Juan.” After every act the curtain

went down, leaving us in utter darkness during the scene shifting. My

neighbour, chamberlain Brandenstein, was very much put out by this. He

whispered to me: “_Welch ein Hund von Komödie ist das_?”—“What devil of a

comedy is this?” I could hardly restrain my laughter. Don Juan was in the

garden talking with the woman he had seduced.

“Come my love, let us recall that pleasant time when undisturbed we

enjoyed the delights of spring, the green buds of love. Let our rapture

be completed by the sight of these flowers and their delicious smell.”

I liked the song:

He who knows not love

Know not what deceit is.

They call a God, this love

Who torments more than death does.

Each act was followed by an intermezzo which generally ended in a scuffle.

Bibernstein, who had dropped asleep, had a silk handkerchief stolen from

his pocket; young Loewenwold a silver snuff-box.

Another piece followed, entitled “Daphne, pursued by the love sick

Apollo, is transformed into a Laurel tree.”

Apollo threatens the nymph:

I will force thee to submit,

I really cannot suffer it.

She answers:

You so rudely do behave,

That to love you I don’t crave.

At this moment some drunken grooms began fighting together at the

entrance. People hurried to separate them; they were whipped, and the

dialogue of the God and the Nymph was drowned amid groans and ribald

shouting.

At last the morning star Phosphoros announced: “The play is over, our

best thanks to you, ’tis time for bed.”

We were given a manuscript programme announcing a performance in another

tent: “For fifty kopecks each person will be entitled to witness the

performance of ‘Doctor Faustus’ by Italian Marionettes or Dolls, two

yards high, who will walk about the stage, and act almost as adroitly as

living actors. The Trained Horse will perform as before.”

I must confess, I never expected to see Faustus in Petersburg, much less

in the company of a learned horse!

Not long ago, at this same theatre, Molière’s “Précieuses ridicules”

was performed. I procured the translation and read it. The Tsar had

ordered one of his fools, the “King of the Samoyeds,” to make the

translation; the translator was probably drunk when he did it, for some

of the passages were quite unintelligible. Poor Molière! the monstrous

galanteries of a Samoyed are as graceful as those of a white dancing bear.

_November 23._

A hard frost with a piercing wind, a real ice-storm. The noses and ears

of pedestrians are frostbitten before they know it. It is said that in

one night 700 working men have been frozen to death between Petersburg

and Kronslot.

Wolves have appeared in the streets, even in the centre of the town; a

few days ago wolves fell on the sentinel at night near the foundry,

which is close to the theatre where “Daphne and Apollo” had been

performed. Another soldier came to his rescue, but he too was almost

instantly torn to pieces and devoured. A woman and her child have been

eaten by wolves in broad daylight, not far from Prince Ménshikoff’s

palace on the Basil Island.

Not less terrible than the wolves are the robbers. Sentry huts, barriers,

hunting poles, sentinels with large clubs and night watches, “like those

in Hamburg,” do not suffice to intimidate the robbers. Every night,

either some house is broken into, or some stealthy burglary or murder

takes place.

_November 30._

A moist wind—and the snow and ice have melted. The mud is impassable.

There is a stench of marsh, dung, and rotten fish. Epidemics abound.

_December 4._

Again frost—frost without snow. It is so slippery that one runs the risk

of breaking one’s neck at every step.

And these changes of temperature continue throughout the winter. Nature

seems not only cruel, but positively mad.

An unnatural city! How can art and knowledge flourish? They have a saying

here: “No time for luxuries—we can only just manage to live.”

_December 10._

Went to an Assembly—a rout at Tolstoi’s:

Mirrors, glass, powder, beauty spots, hoop-petticoats, and curtesies and

bows—just as we have in Europe, in Paris and in London.

The host himself is an amiable, learned man. He translates Ovid’s

_Metamorphoses_, and the political advice of Niccolo Machiavelli, the

noble citizen of Florence. He took me through the minuet, addressing me

with compliments from Ovid. He compared me to Galatea, because of my

skin, “white as marble,” and my black hair, “the colour of hyacinth”—an

entertaining old gentleman! clever, yet a thorough paced knave. I will

note down a few sayings of this modern Machiavelli:

“When good luck comes it is not enough to grasp it with both hands, try

also to catch hold of it with your teeth and swallow it.”

“To live in high favour is like walking on a glass floor.”

“A lemon which is too much squeezed will give bitterness instead of

flavour.”

“To know the human mind and character is the highest philosophy. It is

more difficult to understand men than to know many books by heart.”

Listening to Tolstoi’s witty remarks—he spoke to me, now in Russian, now

in Italian—to the delicate strains of the French minuet, I looked at the

polite gathering of ladies and gentlemen where everything was almost the

same as “in Paris or London,” yet I could not forget what I had just

seen on my way thither. Before the Senate on the Trinity Square rose

those gaunt poles, bearing the same heads as in May at the time of the

masquerade. They dried, grew wet, froze, melted, froze again, and still

they had not disappeared. A huge moon was rising from behind Trinity

Church, and the black heads stood out sharply against the red glow. A

crow perched on one of them, cawing and pecking at the skin. This vision

was before me all the evening. Asia was casting a shadow over Europe.

The Tsar arrived; he was not in a good humour. He shook his head and

shrugged his shoulders in such a way as to make every one present

tremble. On entering the dancing room he found it too hot, and wanted

a window opened. The windows were nailed up on the outside. The Tsar

ordered an axe to be brought, and together with two orderlies he set to

work upon it. He ran out into the street to see how the window had been

nailed up. At last he succeeded in getting the frame out. The window

remained open only for a short time, and it was not cold outside; snow

was again melting, and a west wind was blowing. Yet, nevertheless, it

caused a strong draught in the rooms, and the lightly dressed ladies and

shivery old men did not know what to do with themselves. This performance

had tired Peter and had made him perspire, but he seemed in better

spirits.

“Your Majesty,” said the Austrian Resident Pleyer, a very courteous

gentleman, “you have broken a window into Europe.”

* * * * *

The seal which was used for sealing the Tsar’s letters addressed to

Russia during his first journey abroad, represented a young carpenter

surrounded by a shipwright’s tools and the arms of war, with the

inscription:—

“I am a scholar, and what I ask for is teachers.”

* * * * *

Another emblem of the Tsar’s is Prometheus bringing a burning torch to

men from the gods.

* * * * *

The Tsar says: “I will create a new race of men.”

* * * * *

The following story was related to me by the “granary rat.” The Tsar

desires that oaks should be grown everywhere, and was himself planting

some acorns near Petersburg, along the Peterhof road. Noticing that one

of the bystanders, a dignitary, was smiling at his work, the Tsar angrily

remarked:

“I understand; you think I shall not live to see the full-grown oaks; you

are right. Nevertheless you are a fool: I set an example for others to

follow, so that our descendants may one day use these trees for building

ships. It is not for myself I toil; the welfare of the state comes first.”

* * * * *

Another story from the same source.

A decree of his Majesty commanded that all children of the nobility

should matriculate in Moscow at the Soukhareva Tower for the learning

of Navigation. The nobility, however, instead, enrolled their children

at the Spassky monastery in Moscow to learn Latin. On hearing this the

monarch was sorely angered and ordered the Governor of Moscow, Prince

Romodanovsky, to take all the children from the monastery and bring them

to Petersburg, where they were made to drive in piles along the Moika

for the foundation of hemp sheds. The Admiral, Count Fédor Apraksin,

Prince Ménshikoff, Prince James Dolgorúki, and other senators, not

daring to trouble his Majesty, petitioned his Majesty’s helpmate, the

Tsaritsa Catherine, on their knees, with tears in their eyes; yet it

was impossible to appease his Majesty’s wrath. Then Admiral Apraksin

conceived this plan: he set watchmen to let him know when the Emperor

should drive past the working children. Directly they informed him that

the Tsar was coming, Apraksin hurried up to the young toiling boys, took

off his decoration and kaftan, hung them on a pole, and began to drive

in piles with the children. The Tsar noticing the Admiral thus employed

stopped and said to him:—

“Fédor Matvievitch! you are an Admiral and a Knight. Why do you drive in

piles?”

To which the Admiral replied:—

“My nephews and grandsons are driving in piles, and who am I specially to

enjoy the prerogatives of rank? As for the decoration granted to me by

your Majesty, it hangs on the post, I have not dishonoured it.”

On hearing this the Tsar continued on his way to the palace, and

twenty-four hours later he published a decree liberating the young

nobles; yet at the same time he enrolled them to learn divers practical

crafts and arts abroad. He was angered; and so even after driving in

piles they did not escape technical instruction.

* * * * *

One of the few Russians, who are in sympathy with the new order of

things, said to me in reference to the Tsar:—

“Whatever you look at in Russia has been started by him; and anything

done in the future will be traced back to this origin. He has renewed all

things, has caused Russia to be born anew.”

_December 28._

The Tsarevitch has returned as unexpectedly as he went.

_January 26, 1715._

We had visitors; Baron Loewenwold, the Austrian Resident Pleyer, the

Hanoverian Secretary Weber, and the court physician Blumentrost. After

supper, over the wine, conversation turned on the new ways introduced by

the Tsar. They spoke freely, being among themselves, with no strangers or

Russians present.

“The Muscovites,” said Pleyer, “do everything because they are compelled

to do it. Should the Tsar die, farewell to all knowledge. Russia is a

country where everything is begun and nothing finished. The Tsar acts

upon his people like strong brandy on iron; he drives knowledge into his

subjects with the lash and the rod, believing in the Russian proverb:

‘the stick though dumb can teach.’ Puffendorf was right in describing

this people as: ‘a servile people who humble themselves like slaves, and

love to be kept in obedience by the cruelty of their rulers.’ To them

would also apply the words of Aristotle, as to barbarians in general:

‘quod in libertate mali, in servitute boni sunt.’ True enlightenment

inspires hatred of slavery. And the Russian Tsar is by the nature of

his power a despot; what he needs are slaves. That is why he zealously

introduces arithmetic, navigation, fortification, and other elementary

and useful knowledge to his people; yet he will never let his subjects

gain that true enlightenment which requires freedom. And, after all, he

himself neither understands nor likes it; all he seeks in knowledge is

utility. He prefers Perpetuum mobile, the absurd invention of Orphireus,

to all the philosophy of Leibnitz. Æsop he considers to be the greatest

philosopher. He has prohibited the translation of Juvenal, declaring that

the composer of a single satire will be liable to the severest torture.

Enlightenment stands in the same relation to the power of Russia’s Tsars

as sunshine to the snow. When feeble the snow shimmers and dazzles; when

strong the snow melts.”

“Who can tell,” remarked Weber with a meaning smile, “the Russians

in taking Europe for their pattern may have honoured her above her

deserts. Imitation is always dangerous. Vices are more easily imitated

than virtues, as a Russian well expressed it. The foreign infectious

corruption eats out the ancient health of Russian souls and bodies;

roughness of character has lessened, but only flattery and servility have

taken its place; we have outlived our old common-sense, but we have not

acquired any new sense; we shall all die fools!’”

“The Tsar,” rejoined Baron Loewenwold, “is far from being the humble

pupil of Europe for which many take him. One day, when French customs and

temperament were highly praised in his presence, he said: ‘It is well to

imitate their arts and science—as for the rest, Paris is rotten,’ and

then he added with a prophetic air, ‘I am sorry that the inhabitants of

that town will perish from its corruption.’ I have not heard it myself,

but I was told another saying of his which friends of Russia in Europe

would do well to remember, ‘L’Europe nous est nécessaire pour quelques

dizaines d’années; après quoi nous lui tournerons le dos.’—‘We need

Europe for some few decades, after which we will turn our backs upon

her.’”

Count Pepper gave some extracts from a book which had lately been

published, “_La crise du nord_” about the war between Russia and Sweden,

in which it was proved that the Russian victory was a sign that the end

of the world was drawing nigh, and that the insignificance of Russia was

necessary for the welfare of Europe. The Count also recalled the words

of Leibnitz which were uttered by the great philosopher before Poltava,

while he was still the friend of Sweden: “Muscovy will be a second Turkey

and will open the way to new barbarisms, which will annihilate all

European civilization!”

Blumentrost reassured us, saying that brandy, together with venereal

diseases, which had spread with amazing rapidity during late years from

Poland across to the White Sea, would depopulate Russia in less than a

century. “Brandy and syphilis are, so to speak, two scourges sent by

God’s providence to save Europe from a new invasion of barbarians.”

“Russia,” concluded Pleyer, “is a brazen Colossus on clay feet. It will

fall and break, and nothing will remain.”

I profess no great love for the Russians myself, but I did not expect

my compatriots to hate Russia so much. To me there seems behind this

hatred a secret fear; as if we Germans had a presentiment that one will

eventually swallow up the other, either we them, or they us.

_January 17._

“Well, Fräulein Juliana, what have you decided about me? Am I fool or a

knave?” The Tsarevitch stopped me this morning on the staircase with this

question.

At first I could not understand what he meant, and, thinking he was

drunk, I tried to pass without answering him. Yet he detained me, and

continued, looking me straight in the face:—

“It will be interesting to know _which of us will eat up the other, you

us, or we you_?”

Then only did I perceive that he had read my diary. I had lent it to her

Highness for a short time, as she had expressed the desire to read it;

the Tsarevitch had, probably, been in her room in her absence and seeing

the diary he had read it.

I was so confused, that I was ready to fall through the earth. I blushed

up to the very roots of my hair, almost crying like a school-girl

trapped in a fault. And he continued to scrutinise me in silence, as if

delighting in my confusion. At last, making a desperate effort, I tried

to escape, but he caught hold of my hand. My heart sank within me for

very fear.

“Well, you have been caught, Fräulein,” he laughed in a merry, kind way.

“Be more prudent in the future. It is well that I, and not somebody else,

read it. Your Ladyship has a tongue as sharp as a razor, I must say,

though all had their share. But, to be candid, there is much truth in

what you say about us; there really is. And though you don’t pat us on

the back, yet we ought to be grateful for your frankness.”

He stopped laughing, and with a bright smile he warmly squeezed my hand

like a comrade, as if he were really thanking me for the truth.

A strange man. These Russians are as a rule strange beings. It is

impossible to foretell what they will do or say next.

The more I think over it, the more it seems that there is something in

them which we Europeans cannot, and never will be able to understand. To

us they are the inhabitants of another planet.

_February 2._

When passing along the corridor this evening, the Tsarevitch hearing

my footsteps called, and asked me to come into the dining-room; he

was alone, sitting before the hearth in the dusk. He made me sit down

opposite to him, and began to talk to me, first in German, then in

Russian; he spoke affectionately, as if we had been old friends. He told

me things of considerable interest, but I will not put all down; it would

be dangerous both for him and myself while I am in Russia. Here are just

a few stray thoughts.

What amazed me most of all was to find that he is in no wise such a

zealous partisan of all that is old, and enemy of all that is new, as he

is generally believed to be.

He repeated me a Russian proverb, “Age always commends its own baldness.”

Wrong is deep seated in Russia, and unless the old edifice is taken to

pieces, and every log carefully scrutinized, it will be impossible to get

rid of the ancient rot and decay.

The Tsar’s fault lies in his hurry.

“My father will have everything done quickly; one, two, three, and a ship

is built! He won’t see that rapidity does not always mean durability.

A blow, a knock, the wheel is made. Take your seat, away we go, how

delightful! Suddenly a look behind—the loose spokes are all over the

ground!”

_February 18._

The Tsarevitch has a note book wherein he copies passages from The

_Chronicles of Church and State_, by Baronius, which he says apply

to himself, his father and others in such a way as to illustrate the

difference between what used to be and what exists now. He lent me the

notes to look at. They reveal a probing and liberal mind. In reference

to several legends in which the miraculous is obviously exaggerated (it

is true they belonged to the Roman Catholic period) I saw annotations of

this kind; “Compare with the Greek.” “Doubtful.” “This is hardly true.”

But I was most interested in those notes, in which he compared historical

facts and incidents of ancient Russia and foreign nations with the Russia

of to-day.

A.D. 395.—“The Emperor Arcadius ordered all those who in the least degree

deviated from orthodoxy to be called heretics.” (An allusion to the

non-orthodoxy of the Russian Tsar.)

A.D. 455.—“The Emperor Valentinian was slain for interfering with the

rights of the Church as to adultery.” (An allusion to the abolition of

the Patriarchate, and the Tsar’s marriage with Catherine during the

lifetime of his first wife, Eudoxia Lopoukhin.)

A.D. 514.—“Long coats were worn in France. Charles the Great ordered

short coats. Praised be the long coats, shame upon the short ones.”

(This was noted with reference to the present change of Russian dress.)

A.D. 814.—“A monk induced the Emperor Leo to reject the worship of

ikons.” (An allusion to the monk Theodosius, the Tsar’s chaplain, who, it

is said, advises the Tsar to abolish the reverence of ikons.)

A.D. 854.—“The Emperor Michael played with the Church sacraments.” (An

allusion to the institution of the conclave of drunkards, the wedding of

the mock Patriarch, and many other diversions of the Tsar.)

Here are a few more thoughts.

“In relation to the Papal power: Christ pronounced all His disciples

equal. To say that it is impossible to be saved without the absolution

of the Church is an obvious lie, for Christ said, ‘he who believes on

Me shall have life everlasting,’ not on the Roman Church, which did not

exist at that time. Many people were saved long before the Apostles’

preaching had even reached Rome.”

“The Mohammedan irreligion spread owing to women. Women have a liking

for false prophets.” These few words, worthy of the great sceptic Beyle,

reveal more about Mohammed than any of the learned researches.

* * * * *

Tolstoi said to me one day, with his sly foxy smile, in reference to

the Tsarevitch: “The best way to gain popularity is this, in case of

necessity to be able to don the skin of the stupidest of beasts.”

I did not comprehend his meaning at the time, only now am I beginning to

understand.

In a work by an antique English writer—I forget his name—entitled: “The

Tragedy of Hamlet the Dane,” this unhappy prince, persecuted by his

enemies, pretends to be either a fool or a madman.

Is the Russian prince following Hamlet’s example? Has he not donned the

hide of the simplest of the beasts?

* * * * *

It is rumoured that the Tsarevitch once had the courage to be candid with

his father, and pleaded before him the people’s intense suffering. He has

been in disgrace ever since.

_February 23._

He tenderly loves his little daughter Natasha.

To-day he spent the whole of the morning sitting with her on the floor,

building houses and huts out of small wooden logs. He crawled about on

all fours, making believe to be a dog, a horse, a wolf. He played at

ball, and when it rolled under the bed or cupboard he fetched it out

again, covering himself with dust and cobwebs. He took her to his room,

dandling her and showing her to everybody saying:—

“Is she not a fine girl? Where can you find another like her?”

He himself played with her like a little boy.

Natasha is clever beyond her age. When she wants to seize something

forbidden and you threaten to tell her mother, she at once becomes quiet,

but if you simply tell her to stop, she will begin to laugh and continue

all the more. When she sees that her father is in an ill-humour she is

very quiet and only gazes at him; if he turns to her she laughs loudly

and waves her hands.

She fondles him like a grown up person.

I have a queer feeling when I watch her doing this. The child not only

seems to love him, but also to pity him, as if she knew and saw something

about him which no one else is yet aware of. It is an uncanny feeling,

like that which I felt when I saw the father and mother in a dark

prophetic mirror.

_March 2._

“I know she loves me; she left everything for my sake,” he said once in

reference to his wife.

Now that I understand the Tsarevitch better, I no longer can attach all

the blame to him only for their hard life together. Both are innocent and

both at fault. They are too different, too melancholy, each in their own

way. Small common griefs unite, but grief great and intense divides.

They are like two persons seriously ill—wounded—lying on a bed together.

They cannot help each other: and the least movement of either causes pain

to both.

There are people to whom suffering has become second nature; without it

they feel out of their natural element. With such persons thoughts and

sentiments once having drooped will droop perpetually, like the branches

of a weeping willow. Her Highness is one of these beings.

The Tsarevitch has much grief of his own, and every time he sees his

wife, he sees another grief, a grief which cannot be allayed, so he

pities her. But love and pity are not one and the same; he who wants to

be loved must eschew pity. I know from personal experience what torture

it is to pity where no help can be given; at last one begins to dread him

for whom pity has so long proved in vain.

Yes, both are innocent, both are unhappy, and no one but God can help

them. Poor, poor couple! I dread what all this may lead to; yet it were

better if the end come soon.

_March 7._

Her Highness is again with child.

_May 12._

We are in Roshdestveno, the Crown Prince’s country house, seventy versts

away from Petersburg, in the Koporsky district.

I have been ill for a long time. They thought I should die. The thought

of dying in Russia was more terrible to me than death itself. Her

Highness brought me here to Roshdestveno to give me a rest and chance of

recovering my strength in the pure air.

Woods surround us; all is peaceful; nothing is heard save the rustling of

leaves and the warbling of birds. The small river Oredesh hurries along

like a torrent; its murmuring rises from beneath the steep slope of red

clay, which is now shrouded in a transparent haze of young birch leaves,

broken by the dark green of the firs.

The wooden country-house is built like the simple village huts. The

principal hall, two stories high with a terem like the Moscow palaces, is

not yet finished. Next to it stands a small chapel, with belfry and two

bells, which the Tsarevitch delights in ringing himself. At the gates an

old Swedish cannon and a small heap of iron balls which are covered with

rust and overgrown with grass and yellow spring flowers. Altogether this

is a real monastery—a kind of cloister in the woods.

The walls inside the houses are bare and show the beams; there is a scent

of resin, with amber drops trickling like tears everywhere. Holy lamps

are glimmering before the images. All is bright, fresh, clean, and

innocently young.

The Tsarevitch is fond of this spot. He says he would like to live here

always, and demands nothing better than to be left alone.

He reads, writes in the library, prays in the chapel, works in the garden

and the orchard, fishes and roams about the forest. At this moment I

see him from the window of my room. He has just been digging in the

beds, planting bulbs of tulips from Haarlem; now he stands resting on

the spade, as still, as if he were trying to catch some sound. Infinite

stillness reigns around. Only the axe of a woodcutter is heard somewhere

far, far away in the wood, and the call of the cuckoo. His face is calm

and joyous. His lips are moving; he is probably humming one of his

favourite prayers or hymns, the akathist of his saint, Alexis the Man of

God, or the Psalm:

“I will sing unto the Lord all the days of my life. I will sing unto my

God while I have my being.”

_May 16._

Nowhere have I seen such evening glows as here. To-day the sunset was

particularly strange; the whole of the sky bathed in blood, red clouds

were scattered like rags of bloodstained garments; it seemed as though a

murder or some sacrifice had been performed in the skies, and that blood

was running down from heaven upon the earth. Amid the jet-black pointed

needles of the firwood the patches of red clay showed like blood stains.

As I stood looking in amazement I heard a voice from somewhere above me,

coming as it were from this terrible sky:

“Fräulein Juliana!”

It was the Tsarevitch who called me, standing on the dove house, in his

hand a long pole, such as are used here to scare away doves. He is a

great lover of doves.

I went up the shaky ladder and on reaching the platform the white doves

started, like snow flakes to which the evening glow had given a roseate

hue, surrounding us with the wind and rustle of their wings.

We sat down on the bench, and, little by little, drifted again, as we had

repeatedly done of late, into a religious discussion.

“Your Martin Luther has allowed himself to be guided by the Spirit of the

world and by his own personal predilections, not by the steadfastness of

his soul. And you, poor things, have allowed yourselves to be caught by

the allurement of an easy life.

“You have believed the words of your seducer and you left the narrow

difficult path ordained by Christ Himself. Martin has shown himself to be

an universal fool; the great poison of the serpent of hell is hid in his

teaching.”

I have got used to Russian pleasantries and no longer take any notice of

them; reasonable proofs avail as much in arguing with such people, as a

rapier against a club. But this time I was roused, for some reason or

other, and I spoke out all that for a long time I had stored up within my

heart.

I began by showing that the Russians, while considering themselves

superior to all Christian people, lived in reality worse than heathens;

they confess the law of love, and yet practise such cruelties as are

met with nowhere else in the world; they fast, and during the fast

they drink like beasts; they go to church and use the most shocking

expressions there; they are so ignorant that in Germany young children

know more about religion than adults and priests in Russia. Hardly one

out of a dozen could say the Lord’s Prayer. A pious old woman answered

my question, who is the third person in the Trinity? by asserting he

was St. Nicholas the wonderworker. And really this Nicholas is a true

Russian God, and one might easily believe that they had none other God

but he. Not in vain did the Swedish theologian Botivid in 1620, discuss

the question in a thesis at the Upsala Academy, “Are the Muscovites

Christians?” I know not how much more I would have said had not the

Tsarevitch stopped me; he had the whole time listened with perfect

calmness, it was this calm that exasperated me.

“I have meant for a long time, to ask you, Fräulein: Do you believe in

the Divinity of Christ?”

“What do you mean? Does not your Highness know that all we Lutherans——”

“I do not speak generally now, I am asking you in particular. I had once

a talk with your teacher Leibnitz: he shifted and shuffled, avoiding a

direct answer, but, nevertheless, I at once saw that he did not truly

believe in Christ. And now what about you?”

He steadily looked at me. I cast down my eyes, and for some inexplicable

reason suddenly remembered all my doubts, my debates with Leibnitz, the

unsolvable contradictions of metaphysics and theology.

“I think,” said I, trying also to shuffle, “that Christ was the best and

wisest of the sons of men.”

“And not God’s son?”

“We are all sons of God.”

“And is He like unto the rest?”

Unwilling to lie I remained silent.

“Well, that is the point,” he said, with such an expression on his face

as I had never seen before. “Your people are wise, learned, strong,

honourable, famous. You have everything; but you don’t possess Christ,

and you don’t need Him, you save yourselves. We, on the other hand, are

stupid, poor, naked, drunk, repugnant, we are worse than barbarians,

worse than beasts, and are ever on the brink of falling. But we have the

Christ, our Lord with us, and with us He will remain from eternity to

eternity. It is by Him, our Light, that we are saved.”

He spoke about Christ as I had noticed the common people, the moujiks,

speak here, as if He were their own, one of their family, a moujik just

like themselves. I know not whether this is a sign of the highest pride

and blasphemous, or, one of the greatest humility and sanctity.

We both remained silent. The doves were returning to their house, and

settling down thickly between us, their white fluttering wings as it were

uniting us.

Her Highness sent for me. When I had come down, I turned round to have

a last look at the Tsarevitch; he was feeding the doves. They had

surrounded him, perched on his hands, shoulders, head. He stood there

high above the black charred wood in the red bloodstained sky, covered

with them, as if wrapt in white wings.

_October 31, 1715._

Now that all is over I will end this diary also.

We had returned to Petersburg from Roshdestveno towards the end of May.

About the middle of August—ten weeks before the time of her Highness’s

delivery, she fell on the stairs and hurt her left side. They say she

made a false step, because the heel of her slipper was broken, but in

reality she fainted. She had seen below in the courtyard the Tsarevitch

drunk, embracing and kissing his mistress, the serf-girl Afrossinia.

He had been living with her for a long time; he does it almost publicly;

on his return from Karlsbad he took her into the quarter of the house

which he inhabits. I did not mention this in my diary, afraid lest her

Highness should read it.

Did she know? Even if she did, she tried not to know, she did not

believe it till she saw it. A serf-girl is the rival of the Duchess of

Wolfenbüttel—the Emperor’s sister-in-law. “Things which never happen,

happen in Russia,” said a Russian to me. The father with a laundress, the

son with a serf-girl!

Some say she is a Finnish woman, taken prisoner by soldiers in the same

way as the Tsaritsa; others say she is a serf belonging to the tutor

of the Tsarevitch—Nikiphor Viasemski; the latter statement seems more

probable. She is handsome enough, yet her low origin is at once obvious.

She is tall, fair-skinned, and has auburn hair, her nose is slightly

turned up; her eyes are large, clear, slanting and almond shape like a

Kalmuck’s, with the untamed gaze of a wild goat. She seems, on the whole,

to have something goat-like about her, like the female satyr in Rubens’

picture of the Bacchanalia. It is one of those faces which revolt us

women, and almost invariably please men. The Tsarevitch is supposed to

be madly in love with her. It is said that when they first met she was

innocent, shy, tameless, and for a long time resisted him. He did not

please her at all. Neither promises nor threats would help. But once,

after a drinking bout, he met her in one of those fits of madness which

he, like his father, is subject to. He beat her unmercifully and nearly

killed her; then threatening to stab, at last seduced her. Russian

manners!

And this is the same being who looked so like a saint when in the woods

of Roshdestveno, sang the akathist to Alexis the Man of God, and,

surrounded by doves, spoke about the Lord Christ! For the rest, it is

a special Russian gift to unite such extremes—a gift which, thank the

Lord! has as yet not been revealed to us foolish foreigners.

The Tsarevitch himself once told me: “We Russians can never keep the

middle path, but are always roving either on the heights or in the

abysses.”

After the fall her Highness felt a pain in her left side. “I feel as

if pins were pricking my body all over,” she used to say, yet, on the

whole, she was calm, as if she had finally made up her mind, and knew

that nothing would alter her decision. She never talked to me about the

Tsarevitch again, neither did she complain of her lot. Only once she

said: “I know I am irrevocably doomed. I hope my sufferings will soon

end; I long for nothing in the world so eagerly as for death. Death is my

sole salvation.”

On October 12th she was safely delivered of a boy, the future heir to the

throne, Peter Alexeyevitch. The first days after her confinement she felt

well, yet when people congratulated her, and wished her good health, she

would grow angry and ask everyone to pray God to send her death. “I want

to die, and die I will,” she said, with that awful, calm determination

which never left her again. She obeyed neither doctors nor midwife; she

seemed purposely to do everything which was forbidden her. On the fourth

day she sat in an arm-chair, ordered herself to be carried into another

room, and gave the child the breast herself. That same night she felt

worse: fever set in, sickness, convulsions and such pains, that she cried

out more than at the time of her delivery.

When the Tsar, who himself was ill at that time, knew about it, he sent

Prince Ménshikoff and four court physicians, Areskin, Polikolo, and the

two Blumentrosts, to hold a consultation. They found her dying, in mortis

limine.

When they tried to persuade her to take medicine she tossed the glass to

the ground, saying: “Don’t torment me, let me go peacefully, I don’t want

to live.”

The day before her death she summoned Baron Loewenwold and communicated

to him her last will: none of her people were to speak ill of the

Tsarevitch, either here or in Germany; she was dying young, earlier than

she expected, yet she was content with her lot and blamed none.

Then she took leave of us all. She gave me her blessing like a mother.

The Tsarevitch did not leave her. His face was terrible to look at. He

fainted three times. She did not talk to him; it almost seemed that she

did not recognise him. Only just before all was over, when he pressed her

hand to his lips, she looked at him with a long look, and said something

in a low voice. All I could hear was:—

“Soon, soon we shall see each other again!”

She died as if she had fallen asleep. The dead face expressed more

happiness than it had ever shown in her lifetime.

By the Tsar’s order a post mortem examination was made, he himself being

present.

The funeral was fixed for October 27th. There was a long discussion

whether the rank of a Crown Princess demanded cannon to be fired at her

funeral; if so, how many guns to the salute. All the foreign ambassadors

were questioned on the subject. The Tsar troubled himself more about this

cannonade than he had ever troubled himself about the lot of her Highness

when alive. It was decided not to fire.

The coffin was borne along a narrow bridge constructed on purpose, from

the house to the Neva. The Tsar and Tsarevitch walked behind the coffin.

The Tsaritsa was not present—she hourly expected her delivery. A mourning

frigate stood waiting on the Neva; it was draped with black, and black

standards were hoisted on it. Slowly to the sounds of funeral music, the

ship bore us towards the Peter and Paul Cathedral, not yet completed,

where the grave of the Crown Princess had to remain under the open sky

until the closing of the vaulted roof. The sky wept over her when alive;

it will rain on her when dead.

The evening was dull and calm, the sky seemed like the vault of a grave;

the Neva, a dark gloomy mirror. The town, wrapped in mist appeared like

a phantom or nightmare. All I had experienced, seen, and heard in this

dreadful city, now, more than ever, seemed to me as a dream.

From the cathedral we returned at night to the house of the Tsarevitch,

for a commemoration banquet. Here the Tsar handed a letter to his son;

I learnt later that he threatened to disinherit and curse him unless he

reformed.

The next day the Tsaritsa was delivered of a son.

The fate of Russia wavers between those two children, the son and the

grandson of the Tsar.

_November 1._

I went in to the Tsarevitch last evening to talk over my departure for

Germany. He sat near the lighted stove and was thrusting in burning

papers, letters and manuscripts. He is probably afraid of some search.

He was holding in his hand and was just about to throw into the fire a

small booklet in a well worn leather binding, when—I am even now amazed

at my presumption—I inquired what it was. He handed it to me. I looked

inside. It was his diary and notes. The ruling passion of women in

general, and of myself in particular, is curiosity. It made me be guilty

of a still greater presumption, I asked if I might borrow it to read.

He thought for a minute, then looking at me, and with his sweet

child-like smile of which I am so fond:

“_Quid pro quo_—I read your diary, you can read mine.”

He made me promise that I would never talk to anybody about these notes

and would return them to be burnt on the morrow. I have sat up the whole

night with them; the booklet itself is really an old Russian calendar, a

church calendar printed at Kiev. It had been given to the Tsarevitch by

the late Metropolitan of Rostov, Demetrius, who is counted a saint by the

people. The Tsarevitch had put down his thoughts and the events of his

life partly on the margin and the blank spaces on the pages, partly on

separate leaflets either simply inserted or pasted in.

I decided to make a copy of the diary.

I will not break my word, during my lifetime and his. Nobody shall know

about his notes. But they must not be irrevocably lost.

God Himself will judge between father and son. But men have slandered the

Tsarevitch. Let this diary, should it ever reach posterity, accuse or

justify him, in any case reveal the truth.

CHAPTER II

THE DIARY OF TSAREVITCH ALEXIS

Crown with Thy loving kindness, O Lord, this year which now begins!

* * * * *

When on commissariat duties in Pomerania by order of the author of my

being,[2] I heard that at Moscow, in the church of the Assumption,

Stephen, the Metropolitan of Riazan, denounced the decree relating to

delators—informers in civil and church matters—and other laws contrary to

the Church, crying unto the people:—

“Be not amazed that rebellious Russia is agitated with bloody storms. How

great is the gulf between the laws of man and the laws of God!”

The Senators came to the Metropolitan and accused him of spreading revolt

among the people and of touching upon the Tsar’s honour. The whole

incident was reported to the Tsar.

I told the Metropolitan to reconcile himself with my father as best he

could. What advantage was there in their being at variance with one

another? I was anxious to see a reconciliation, for if Stephen was

deposed from his see, it would be difficult to find any one worthy to

replace him.

Previous to this exhortation he used to write to me and I to him; not

often, however, only on important affairs. But since then I have stopped

the correspondence, and broken off all intercourse with him, as my

father’s anger was kindled against him, and it became therefore dangerous

for me to write any longer. It is rumoured he will be deposed from his

see.

The Metropolitan concluded the above-mentioned sermon by praying to Saint

Alexis, the Man of God, with special reference to myself, a sinner:—

“O Saint of God! remember thy namesake, the chosen keeper of God’s laws,

thy most faithful follower, Tsarevitch Alexis Petrovitch! Thou didst

abandon thy house; he too wanders among strangers. Thou wert bereft of

slaves, subjects, friends and relatives; so it is with him. Thou art a

man of God; he, too, is a true servant of Christ. We beseech thee, O

Saint of God! deign to protect thy namesake, our only hope, shelter him

under the cover of thy wing, like a dearly beloved fledgeling, and keep

him, who is the very apple of our eyes, safe from all evil.”

* * * * *

During my stay in foreign parts, where by the will of the author of my

being I had to apply myself to the study of navigation, fortification,

geometry, and other arts, I greatly feared to die without confession and

the last rites of the church. So I have written to my chaplain, Father

James, on the subject as follows:—

“We have no priest with us, nor is there any possibility of our procuring

one. I entreat your holiness to find me a priest in Moscow and send him

here secretly. Make him discard all priestly insignia: shave his beard

and let hair grow over his tonsure, or else shave his hair too, and wear

a wig and foreign dress. Let him come under the guise of an orderly of

mine. Please father do it! Have mercy upon my soul, and let me not die

without the consolation of the church. This is all I want him for in case

of death, and should I live, he would be my confessor. It would be well

if he were a young man, unmarried and unattached. Let his departure from

Moscow be kept so secret that even his friends shall not know whither he

has gone. As to the shaving of the beard, let him have no misgivings on

the point; necessity alters even such laws; it is better to transgress in

minor things than to let a soul perish without absolution. See to this

without delay, and should you refrain from doing as I ask you, God may

have to call you to account for my soul.”

* * * * *

On my return to Petersburg from abroad, the author of my days welcomed me

graciously and inquired whether I still remembered what I had learnt? To

which I replied “Yes,” as if I really did; he then ordered me to bring

him my drawings. But I, fearing I could not please him, if asked to draw

in his presence, decided on injuring my right hand and thus disable it

for use. Loading a pistol, I took it in my left hand and fired across my

right palm; though the bullet did not touch my hand, yet the powder badly

scorched it. The bullet embedded itself in the wall of my closet where it

has remained visible even unto this day. The author of my being, noticing

my burnt hand, asked how it happened. I gave a false reason.

* * * * *

Chapter 7, Art. 63 of the military regulations: “Whoever makes himself

ill or breaks his limbs and thus unfits himself for service is liable to

have his nostrils torn, and be condemned to forced labour.”

* * * * *

From the laws of Tsar Alexis Michailovitch, Chapter 22, Art. 6: “And in

the case of a son petitioning against his father, no judgment shall be

given; but he, having been flogged for such petition, shall be delivered

up to the father.”

This is unjust, for though children are dependent upon their parents’

will, yet they must not be treated like dumb animals. The natural law is

not fulfilled by the procreation of children alone; humaneness forms also

part of a father’s duty.

* * * * *

I hear that the author of my days hates houses being built in Moscow, for

it is his will to live in Petersburg.

* * * * *

It lies not with one man alone to change national customs. The country

which changes its customs cannot endure. The Russian people have

forgotten the water in their own cisterns, and have begun to slake their

thirst with the turbid waters of strangers.

* * * * *

Job, the Archimandrite of Novgorod, told me: “Evil awaits thee in

Petersburg, yet I feel God will deliver thee. Thou wilt see what will

happen.”

* * * * *

God has so willed it with us sinners that foreigners do with us just as

it pleases them. We all suffer from a mania. This fatal illness is a

mad passion for foreign things and people, which has infected our whole

nation. Truly says the prophet Baruch: “Let a stranger come near thee and

he will destroy thee.” The Germans boast and have a saying, ‘he who wants

to eat bread without work, let him go to Russia.’ They call us barbarians

and choose to reckon us among the beasts instead of men. They try to make

us out before other nations as worse than dead dogs. It would be as well

to stop some of these foreign antics; they don’t come natural to us and

we only make a muddle in meddling with them. The foreign way becomes with

us the fool’s way. We degrade ourselves, our language, our nation; and we

expose ourselves to the ridicule of every one.

The intrusion of foreign languages has spoilt the purity of the Slavonic

tongue. I know not what need we have to use foreign words. It must be

only to make a boast of, there is little honour in doing it. Sometimes

they speak in a way that neither they themselves nor others can

understand.

* * * * *

Sit not down under a stranger’s hedgerow. Rather among nettles if they

are thine own. A stranger’s wit forsakes thee at the threshold. Keep

thine own counsel; thine own counsellors. Pleasant is the sound of the

tambours beyond the hill; but when brought hither they are but baskets of

bast.

* * * * *

Foreigners are far beyond us, I grant you, in knowledge; yet in natural

quickness of wit our people are, thank God, not worse equipped than they,

and they do wrong in railing at us. I am persuaded that God created us

Russians not inferior to other human beings.

* * * * *

I doubt whether it be really true that man’s welfare standeth on

knowledge or the sciences alone. For folk used to learn much less in the

old days, and were happier than we to-day with our much learning. It is

possible with much culture to be a rascal. Learning in a depraved heart

is a powerful weapon for evil.

* * * * *

We Russians can do without bread. We devour each other, and are satisfied.

* * * * *

The boyars are great withered trees; their massive trunks hide the people

from the Tsar. My father is exceedingly intelligent; yet Ménshikoff is

always hoodwinking him.

* * * * *

All administrators, whether young or old, are greedy of gain. The ancient

laws have fallen into desuetude: the new ones also count for nothing.

What a number are decreed! and to what purpose? Nothing is really

changed. I don’t see that much good will come of these reforms in the

future.

* * * * *

A sovereign’s duties:

Not to trust in one’s brilliancy of mind, but to be zealous to protect

the people, the land and the villages, and to love, be zealous for,

interested in the lesser brethren of Christ and to know their needs.

Severe shall be His judgment upon the great and mighty ones! The little

shall be forgiven, but torment awaits the mighty ill-doers. This I should

do well to remember, should God grant me to become Tsar.

* * * * *

On St. Eustace the martyr’s day we held high fête and got grievously

drunk. Our faces were well pummelled; Jibanda had a blow in the eye, the

Lasher lost a tooth. I don’t remember anything, and I hardly know how I

got away. I was exceedingly filled with the gifts of Bacchus.

* * * * *

In Roshdestveno I remained at home alone. The days flowed by like water;

nothing save utter stillness.

* * * * *

Time passes and brings us nearer death; the end of our days approaches; I

recognise the frailty of my life.

I await death, but without fear or desire.

* * * * *

A little drunk.

* * * * *

My wife is pregnant.

Eros, Eros, heathen god! Passions have harassed me from my youth up. I

accuse others of godlessness, and am myself the most godless of all.

Afrossinia! I know my iniquity and have not redeemed myself from shame.

Thy hand weighs heavily upon me, O Lord! When shall I come and appear

before God? my tears have been my meat, day and night; and my soul

fainteth for the courts of the Lord.

* * * * *

I am amazed at my father. Why does he love Theodosius? Is it because

the latter introduces Lutheran customs among the people and authorises

everything? He really is an atheist, and a deep enemy of the cross of the

Lord.

* * * * *

I have seldom seen so subtle a rogue. He is very adroit, he will never

do wrong openly. We must be on our guard with him and be careful and

stealthy in thwarting him, since we are obliged to live under his orders.

* * * * *

The zeal of thine house hath eaten me up, O Lord. I am sore afraid and

troubled lest Christianity perish entirely in Russia.

* * * * *

Theodosius, the heresiarch, and his crew have openly begun to wage

war against the Church; they abolish fasts, they treat confession and

self-immolation as nonsense; they ridicule celibacy, self-imposed

poverty, and change other strait and narrow ways of the Christian

life into the smooth broad ways which lead to eternal damnation. They

fearlessly teach a debauched self-indulgent life; they recognise no sin,

everything is holy, and by their teaching they have brought the children

of the world into such fearless voluptuousness, that many take up the

mere Epicurean attitude: “Eat, drink, and be merry. There is no account

to render after death.”

They call the holy icons idols, the church singing bulls’ roaring. They

destroy chapels, and where the walls have remained, they allow tobacco

and barbers’ shops to be opened. They take miracle-working icons away

on stinking dung carts under dirty mats, thus insolently defiling them

before the people. In this way they attack the Orthodox faith, under

the pretext that it is not Christianity, but only useless and harmful

superstitions which they are trying to uproot. What a number of clergy

have been destroyed, unfrocked and tortured under this pretext! If you

ask for a reason, the only answer you get is: they were superstitious,

bigots, sanctimonious humbugs! He who keeps fast is a bigot; he who

prays, sanctimonious; he who adores the icons, invariably (they say) a

hypocrite.

All this is done with such cunning, and the intention both to exterminate

the Orthodox clergy in Russia, and to introduce their newly invented

Lutheran and Calvinistic, priestless sects.

He is truly mad who does not detect in them the atheistic spirit.

* * * * *

The church bells have been altered, they no longer chime, but tinkle

as if sounding an alarm. And everything else is changed, the icons are

painted, not on wood but on canvas, after foreign models; for instance,

the image of Emmanuel the Saviour is quite like a German, fat, as if

conceived in the flesh; the fleshy type is preferred, the celestial

nature is ignored. The churches are no longer built after the ancient

style, but with pointed towers like those in Germany, and the chimes even

imitate Lutheran organs.

Poor Russia! Why dost thou set thy heart on German ways and actions?

* * * * *

There are to be no more monasteries; a decree is being prepared which

will prohibit the taking of fresh vows; retired soldiers will fill the

vacancies in the monasteries. It is written “He who comes to me I will

in no wise cast out;” but they consider the scriptures as nothing.

* * * * *

As there is a military code, so now there exists a code of faith.

What sort of prayer can that be, which is enforced by a decree, under

pain of punishment?

* * * * *

Beggars are to taken be up, ruthlessly beaten with rods, and sent to hard

labour, so that they may not eat their bread unearned. This is the Tsar’s

decree, while Christ says, “For I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat.

I was thirsty and ye gave me no drink, I was a stranger and ye took me

not in, naked and ye clothed me not. Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as

ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.”

* * * * *

The whole of Russia is dying of spiritual famine. The sower does not

scatter the seed, the earth does not receive it. The priests do not

keep watch over the people who go astray. The village priest cannot be

distinguished from a moujik. The moujik ploughs, the priest ploughs.

And meanwhile Christians die like cattle. Drunken priests use obscene

language and rail at one another within the sanctuary; they wear a pall

of gold, while their bast shoes are dirty; the holy loaves are made of

black rye flour; the Lord’s holy host is kept in exceedingly vile vessels

swarming with bugs, cockroaches, and grasshoppers. Monks have fallen into

habits of tippling and stealing.

The whole monastic and priestly system calls for thorough reform, as

there hardly remains a trace of the true priest and monk.

We are guilty of neither keeping our religion, such as it is, nor

maintaining our clergy in decency, but of living almost like brutes. I

doubt whether in Moscow one in a hundred knows what the Orthodox belief

is, or who God is, or how to pray to Him, or how to fulfil His holy will.

There is no sign of Christianity left to us except the name.

* * * * *

We have all lost our senses, we tremble in our faith, like a leaf on

a tree; we have gone astray in strange and diverse ways, some incline

towards the Roman faith, others towards the Lutheran; we, baptized

idol-worshippers, are maimed in both legs. We have forsaken the paps of

our mother Church; we are seeking nourishment instead from all kinds of

foreign and heretical sources. We are like blind puppies which have been

thrown away, we err in all directions; but where we shall finally arrive,

no one knows.

* * * * *

Fomka the barber, an iconoclast, has split up the image of St. Alexis the

Metropolitan with his iron axe, because he did not revere the holy icons,

the life-bringing cross, nor holy relics; the holy icons, said he, and

the holy cross are merely the work of man; and he did not believe that

relics brought pardon for his own transgressions. Neither did he accept

the Church dogma and traditions, nor did he believe the Eucharist to be

the true body of Christ, but simply bread and wine.

Stephen, the Metropolitan of Riazan, handed Fomka over to the church

anathema. He was burnt at the stake in the Red Square.

Then the gentlemen of the Senate, having summoned the Metropolitan to

Petersburg to account for his action, gave satisfaction to the heretics;

the iconoclast, Dmitri Tveretinoff, a physician, whose disciple Fomka

had been, they pronounced innocent, while driving Stephen, the saintly

bishop, with great contumely from the Judgment hall. He went out weeping

and saying:—

“O Lord Christ, our Saviour! Thou hast said: ‘They will persecute you,

even as they persecuted me.’ Now I am driven out, but not I, it is Thou

whom they are persecuting. Thou, who beholdest all things, wilt see that

their judgment is unjust; judge them Thyself!”

And when the prelate came out of the senate into the square, all the

people were moved with compassion towards him and wept. The anger of the

author of my being against Stephen has grown more intense.

* * * * *

The Church is more powerful than the Tsardom; but nowadays the Tsar rules

the Church.

The ancient Tsars bowed to the ground before the patriarch; now the

occupant of the Patriarchal throne signs himself in his letters to the

Tsar, thus: “Your Majesty’s slave and footstool, your humble Stephen, the

little Shepherd of Riazan!” The head of the Church the Tsar’s footstool!

* * * * *

Demetrius, the Metropolitan of Rostov, was a very saintly man; when the

author of my being made him drink Hungarian wine, and began questioning

him on clerical affairs, the saintly old man did not answer at all, but

silently and repeatedly blessed the Tsar with the sign of the holy cross,

and thus he succeeded in escaping.

The priests say, “It is impossible to swim against the stream; the whip

cannot break the axe.”

But the martyrs for the sake of the faith did not spare their lives!

* * * * *

The Tsar keeps his table for the bishops. “He whose bread I eat, his man

I am.”

* * * * *

The ancient Russian prelates stood up for their country, but the prelates

of to-day do not seek to obtain justice from the Tsar, but aim rather at

flattering and corrupting his pious rank and power.

* * * * *

If the people sin, the Tsar can divert God’s wrath; if the Tsar sins, the

people are helpless. God visits the sin of the monarch upon the whole

country.

* * * * *

Lately at a drinking feast, the “little Shepherd of Riazan” said to my

father: “You Tsars—gods on earth—are like unto the Heavenly Tsar,” and

the Kniaz-Pope, a drunken fool, reviled the prelate: “Though I,” said he,

“am but a mock patriarch, yet even I would not have spoken such words to

the Tsar! God is greater than the Tsar,” and the Tsar praised the buffoon

for saying this.

* * * * *

When in the course of the same feast, the bishops began to talk about

the widowed state of the Church and the need of a Patriarch, the author

of my being in great wrath unsheathed his short sword; all were terror

stricken, thinking he was going to kill them; he struck the table with

the flat of the blade, and shouted: “I am the Patriarch; Tsar and

Patriarch in one!”

* * * * *

Theodosius is trying to persuade the author of my being to assume the

title of Emperor, after the example of the ancient Roman Caesars.

* * * * *

In the year 1709, during the celebrations of the Poltava victory, the

clergy erected on the Red Square in Moscow an imitation of a Roman temple

with an altar, consecrating it to the virtues of the Russian god Apollo

and Mars, that is in honour of the author of my being, and over the

ancient temple ran the inscription:—“Basis et fundamentum reipublicae,

religio.”

But what religion? Faith in what God, or gods?

There was also represented an “Apotheosis of the Russian Hercules,” that

is, the author of my days slaying many animals and peoples, and, at the

end of these feats, being borne up to heaven in Jove’s chariot, drawn

by eagles along the Milky Way, with the inscription:—“Viamque affectat

Olympo.”

In the pamphlet, written by the arch-monk Joseph, the Prefect of the

Academy, the Apotheosis is described in the following words: “It should

be known that this is neither a church, nor a sanctuary built to a saint,

but a political or civil ceremony.”

* * * * *

Theodosius is trying to persuade my father to insert in the decree, which

ordained the holy Synod, or in the Russian oath of allegiance itself,

words declaring that, “The people should honour their ruler’s name as

head and father of their country equally with the name of Jesus Christ.”

* * * * *

Men want to usurp God’s glory and the honour due to Christ, the Eternal

and only King of kings. It is in the Roman Laws that these impious

sacrilegious words are found: “The Roman autocrat is the Lord of the

Universe.”

* * * * *

We confess and believe that Christ alone is the King of kings and the

Lord of lords, and there is no man Lord beside him.

Jesus Christ, the wondrous Rock, struck and destroyed the Roman Empire

and smashed its feet of clay. And we create and build up what God has

shattered. Does not this mean that we defy God?

* * * * *

Look at Roman History. The Emperor Caligula saith: Everything is allowed

to Caesar, “Omnia licent.” _Not only to Roman Emperors, but nowadays to

all knaves and servile creatures and quadrupeds, is everything permitted!_

* * * * *

Nebuchadnezzar the King of Babylon saith, “I am God,” and he became a

beast.

* * * * *

On Basil Island, in the house of the Tsaritsa Prascovie, there lives an

old monk, Timothy Arkhípich, he is the refuge of the desperate, the hope

of the hopeless, a mad man in the eyes of the world, yet he is intimately

acquainted with the griefs and hearts of men. I went over to see him a

few nights ago and had a talk with him. Arkhípich says Antichrist is a

pretender—a veritable cursed one—and that he is on his way. I read the

Metropolitan of Riazan’s _Signs of the Coming of Antichrist_, and a great

fear thereupon possessed me.

In Moscow, Gregory of Talitsa was burnt because he spoke to the people

about the coming of Antichrist. Talitsa was a man of great intelligence.

Basil Levin, a captain of the Dragoons who was with me on my way from

Lvoff to Kiev in 1711, the priest Lebedka, chaplain to Prince Ménshikoff

the clerk Larion Dokoukin, and many others think in the same way about

Antichrist.

* * * * *

A Raskolnik spilt Christ’s sacrament and trampled it under foot.

* * * * *

Near Lubetch a flight of locusts appeared; from midday to midnight it was

passing—“God’s Wrath,” the superscription on their wings.

* * * * *

The days are short and gloomy; old people say the sun shines no longer as

it used to.

* * * * *

I was drunk; we drank a large quantity of vodka. The Lord knows it is

fear which makes us drink, in order to forget ourselves.

* * * * *

The fear of death has come upon me. The end is at hand, the axe is at the

root, death’s scythe is over our heads.

* * * * *

Lord, help Russia! Thrice-pure Mother of God protect and intercede for us!

* * * * *

O martyrs of these latter days, Christ is about to rise again! Christ is,

and will dwell within you, and you will say, Amen! to His Kingdom.

CHAPTER III

THE DIARY OF FRÄULEIN ARNHEIM

With these words the diary of Tsarevitch Alexis closed. I was present

when he threw it into the fire.

_December 31._

To-day died the last Russian Tsaritsa. Marfa Matveevna, the widow of

Peter’s stepbrother, Fédor Alexeyevitch. At foreign courts she had

been considered dead long ago; ever since her husband’s death, during

thirty-two years, she had lived half mad, a prisoner in her rooms, and

never showed herself to anybody.

She was buried at dusk with great pomp. The funeral procession moved

between two rows of torches planted in the ice all the way along from her

house, (she lived next to us near the Church of All the Sorrowing) up to

the Peter and Paul Cathedral, across the Neva on the ice. It was the same

way along which her Highness’s body had been borne two months or more ago

in the frigate of death. Then the first foreign Princess was buried, now

the last Russian Tsaritsa.

First came the clergy in gorgeous palls, carrying candles and incense

burners, chanting funeral songs. The coffin was drawn on sleighs.

Behind it walked the Privy Councillor Tolstoi carrying a crown set with

priceless gems.

The Tsar had for the first time at this funeral prohibited the ancient

Russian custom of wailing; it was strictly ordered that none should cry

aloud.

All moved along in silence, the night was still, nothing was heard but

the crackling of the burning resin, the crunching of steps on the snow,

and the funeral chanting. This silent procession aroused a shudder of

terror. It seemed as though we were gliding along the ice after the dead,

ourselves also dead, into the black eternal gloom.

With this old Tsaritsa New Russia seemed to be burying Old Russia, and

Petersburg burying Moscow.

The Tsarevitch, who had loved the deceased as his own mother, was

terribly upset by this death. He sees in it a bad omen for himself, his

own fate. Several times during the ceremony he whispered to me, “The end

has come, the end of everything!”

_January 1._

To-morrow morning I leave Petersburg, together with the two Barons

Loewenwold for Riga, and then travel through Danzig into Germany. This is

my last night in the Tsarevitch’s house.

This evening I went to bid him good-bye; the way we parted made me feel

how much I love him, and that I will never forget him.

“Who knows,” said he, “we may meet again. I would like to pay another

visit to Germany and other foreign countries; I liked those parts, you

live in gaiety and light and freedom.”

“What holds your Highness back?”

He sighed heavily.

“I would like to go to heaven; it is my sins which keep me back.” And

then he added with his genuine child-like smile, “The Lord keep you,

Fräulein Juliana, do not remember my worst; greet the European countries

for me, and your old friend Leibnitz. May be he will prove to be in

the right, and that we shall, with God’s help, not eat, but serve one

another.”

He embraced and kissed my forehead with brotherly tenderness.

I could not help crying. Once more I turned round and had a last look at

him, and again my heart sank with a presentiment, just as on that day

when I saw in the dark, and as it were prophetic mirror, the face of

Charlotte and Alexis, when both had seemed to me to be victims doomed to

some great suffering. She had perished, now his turn had come. And then I

recalled him as he stood the last day in Roshdestveno, on the dove-cote,

high up over the sullen wood against the blood-red sky, as it were wrapt

in the white doves’ wings. So he will ever remain in my memory.

* * * * *

I hear that prisoners set free sometimes regret their prison. I

experience a kindred feeling at the present moment with regard to Russia.

I began this diary with curses. I cannot close it with blessings. I

will only say, what probably many in Europe would say, were they better

acquainted with Russia—“A mysterious country—a mysterious people.”

Book IV

THE FLOOD

CHAPTER I

The Tsar had been warned, when he contemplated building Petersburg, that

the site was not suitable for habitation, on account of the floods;

twelve years previously the whole country up to Nienshantz had been

under water, and similar disasters recurred about every five years. The

original inhabitants of the Neva Delta did not erect permanent houses,

but only small huts. Whenever a great flood, by one sign or another,

seemed to be threatened, they were taken to pieces, the logs and planks

were tied together in a raft and fastened to trees, while the people

themselves sought refuge on the hill Dooderhof. But to Peter, the new

city seemed a “Paradise” just because of the abundance of water which,

like a waterfowl, he loved; and he hoped that in this place, quicker than

anywhere else, he could accustom his subjects to a seafaring life.

At the end of October 1715, the Neva began to freeze, snow fell, the

sleighs were brought out and everybody was expecting an early, settled

winter. But quite unexpectedly the weather changed; it became warm again.

In one night all the snow and ice had melted. The wind brought a fog from

the sea, a putrid, yellow, suffocating mist, which caused much sickness

among the people.

“I pray God to deliver me from this place of perdition,” wrote an old

boyar to Moscow. “I am seriously afraid of falling ill; since the thaw

began we have been enveloped in such a balmy scent and such gloom, that

it is impossible to go out. Many die because of the infectious air in

this ‘Paradise.’”

The south-west wind continued to blow for nine days; the water in the

Neva rose; several times it began to overflow. Peter issued decrees by

which the inhabitants were bidden to empty their cellars of all goods, to

keep boats in readiness and to drive the cattle on to the higher ground.

But the water after mounting, receded every time. The Tsar, noticing that

his decrees only troubled the people, and having come to the conclusion,

by signs known only to himself, that there would be no great flood,

resolved to trouble himself no more about the rise of the water.

The first fashionable winter “Assembly” was fixed on November 6, in

the house of Fédor Apraksin, President of the Admiralty. The house was

situated on the quay opposite to the Admiralty buildings, and next to the

Winter Palace. On the eve of the Assembly the water rose again. People of

experience predicted that this time the calamity could not be escaped,

and various signs were quoted in support of this belief; the cockroaches

in the palace had begun to creep from the cellars up to the garret; the

mice had left the flour stores; the Tsaritsa had dreamt that Petersburg

had become a prey to the flames, and fire in a dream means flood. Not

quite recovered from her confinement, she could not accompany Peter to

the “Assembly,” and entreated him to stay at home.

Peter read in the looks of all that ancient dread of water, which all

his life he had vainly sought to overcome: “the sea brings sadness and

grief—where water is there is grief also—even the Tsar cannot appease a

flood.”

He was warned on all sides. At last he was so annoyed that he forbade

even the mentioning of a flood. He all but struck the Chief Constable

Devière with his club. An unknown peasant had terrified the whole town by

predicting that the water would rise above the high elm which grew on the

quay near the Trinity Church. Peter ordered the elm tree to be felled and

the peasant to be flogged on the site; during the performance a drum was

to be beaten and a persuasive exhortation addressed to the people.

Before the “Assembly” commenced, Apraksin came to the Tsar asking

permission to have it in the house itself, and not in the pavilion

generally used on such occasions, which stood out in the courtyard and

was connected with the main building only by a narrow glazed gallery,

far from safe in case of a sudden rise of water, when the guests might

easily be cut off from the staircase which led out to the upper rooms.

Peter thought it over, yet decided to have his own way, and ordered the

“Assembly” to be held in its usual quarter, the pavilion.

“An Assembly,” the decree explained, “is a free gathering not only for

pleasure but for work.

“The host is neither obliged to receive his guests nor to see them to the

door when they depart, nor is he expected to press them to eat.

“At the ‘Assembly’ people are free to sit, walk about, or join in the

games and no one has a right to interfere, or check another’s actions;

ceremonies, such as rising up to greet, conducting to the door, are

forbidden under penalty of the fine of the ‘Great Eagle.’”

Both the supper-room and the room for dancing were spacious, but with

exceedingly low ceilings; the walls of the former were covered with blue

tiles, after the style of Dutch kitchens, pewter dishes were ranged along

the shelves, the brick floor was strewn with sand, the large tiled stove

was overheated. One of the three long tables was spread with cold savoury

dishes, Peter’s favourite oysters, pickled sprats, lemons; on another

table, chess and draught boards were laid; on a third packets of tobacco,

baskets with clay pipes and piles of wooden splinters for pipe-lighters.

Tallow candles were faintly glimmering through the clouds of smoke. The

low room, packed with people, reminded one of a skipper’s saloon in

Plymouth or Rotterdam. The similarity was accentuated by a number of

English and Dutch ship captains. Their wives, fat, smooth, glossy, with

red cheeks, their feet tucked in fur warmers, knitted stockings, chatted

and evidently felt quite at home.

Peter, smoking a short clay pipe, sipping mulled ale mixed with cognac,

sugar and lemon juice, was playing chess with the Archimandrite

Theodosius.

Anton Devière, the Chief Constable, timidly approached the Tsar like

a guilty dog. It was difficult to decide whether he was a Jew or a

Portuguese; his feminine face expressed that combination of sweetness and

weakness found sometimes amongst southern faces.

“Your Majesty, the water is rising.”

“How much?”

“Two feet nine inches.”

“And the wind?”

“West south-west.”

“Nonsense, I myself have just registered it, South-west south.”

“It has changed,” replied Devière apologetically, as if he were

responsible for the direction of the wind.

“Never mind,” said Peter decidedly, “the water will soon fall. The

barometer points to fair; it won’t deceive, never fear.”

He believed in the infallibility of the barometer as he did in that of

mechanics in general.

“Your Majesty, is there no order?” Devière asked plaintively. “Otherwise

I really don’t know what to do. People are getting exceedingly

frightened. Intelligent experts say——”

The Tsar closely eyed him.

“One of these intelligent experts I have had flogged near Trinity Church;

and you too won’t escape, unless you give up talking nonsense. Go, fool!”

Devière, shrinking yet more, like the affectionate dog, Lizette, at the

sight of a stick, instantly disappeared.

“What is your opinion about this extraordinary ringing, Father?” Peter

turned to Theodosius, continuing their conversation about the Novgorod

church bells which, according to recent information, were tolling

miraculously at night: the rumour spread that this was a foreboding of

great calamities.

Theodosius stroked his thin beard, played with the double-faced panagia,

adorned with the crucifix and the Tsar’s portrait, cast a side glance at

the Tsarevitch Alexis, who was sitting next to them, blinked with one eye

as if taking aim, and suddenly his diminutive face, like the snout of a

bat, lit up with rarest subtlety:—

“Anybody can understand the meaning of this speechless droning. It

obviously comes from the fiend; Satan is sobbing because his reign

over the Russian people is coming to an end; he is cast out from the

possessed, the Raskolniks, the monks, the old hypocrites, whom your

Majesty has taken great pains to cure.”

And Theodosius led the conversation to his favourite topic, the

uselessness of the monks.

“Monks are parasites. They escape taxation in order to eat the bread of

idleness. What gain are they to society? They count their civil position

for nothing, describing it as part of the vanities of the world. They

have a saying to this effect:—‘He who becomes a monk no longer works for

the Tsar of earth, but for the Tsar of heaven. They lead an animal life

in the deserts. They seem incapable of realizing that the Russian climate

makes a real hermit life impossible.”

Alexis understood that this talk about hypocrites was aimed at him.

He rose. Peter looked at him and said, “Stay where you are!”

The Tsarevitch submissively returned to his seat, casting down his eyes,

as he felt, with the air of a hypocrite.

Theodosius was in his best vein. Stimulated by the attention of the Tsar,

who had brought out his notebook and was taking notes for future decrees,

he suggested measure after measure; ostensibly for the reform, but to

Alexis it seemed for the destruction, of monasticism in Russia.

“Establish in the monasteries regulation hospitals for discharged

dragoons, also schools for arithmetic, geometry; in the convents

foundling institutions for illegitimate children; the nuns should be

employed in weaving.”

The Tsarevitch did his best not to hear; yet stray words would reach him

like authoritative commands.

“The sale of mead and oil in churches must be finally forbidden, the

burning of tapers before icons placed outside the churches must be

stopped. Chapels must be closed up; no new relics to be announced.

Mendicants to be taken into custody and relentlessly beaten with rods; no

miracles to be invented.”

The wind rattled at the window shutters; a draught passed through the

room, and the candles flickered. A countless host of enemies seemed to be

besieging and breaking into the house; and in the words of Theodosius,

Alexis felt the same inimical force.

It was the attack of a storm from the west.

The walls of the dancing-room were hung with woven tapestry and pier

glasses; chandeliers with wax candles supplied the light. Musicians with

deafening wind instruments were placed on a small platform. The ceiling,

with its allegorical representation of “A journey to the Isle of Love,”

was so low that the naked Cupids with their fat calves and legs were

almost brushed by the wigs of the dancers.

The ladies in the intervals between the dances sat as if dumb; they

seemed dull and stupefied; in dancing, they hopped round like wax

figures; they answered all questions in monosyllables, and were quite

scared by compliments. Daughters seemed tied to their mother’s skirts;

while the mother’s faces clearly expressed: we would rather our daughters

were drowned than here.

William Mons was repeating a compliment, culled from a German book of

_savoir-faire_, to that same Nastenka, who was in love with a naval

officer and had been crying over a tender missive at the Venus Festival

in the Summer Garden.

“Through repeatedly meeting you, fair angel, such a desire to know you

better has arisen within me, that, unable to conceal it any longer, I

am compelled to lay it deferentially before you. I heartily wish that

you, my lady, might have found in me a person whose habits and agreeable

conversation could satisfy you; a person whose behaviour and conversation

might not displease you; but since nature has given me no advantages,

deign to accept instead my devoted faithfulness and service!”

Nastenka was not listening. The buzz of monotonously sounding words had

made her sleepy; later on, she complained to her aunt, that though her

partner seemed to speak Russian, yet with the best intention she could

not make out a single word.

The Secretary to the French Ambassador, George Proskóurov, son of a

Moscow clerk, who had lived for some time in Paris, and had become there

a “Monsieur George,” a perfect “petit maître” and “galant homme,” was

singing to the ladies a modern ditty about the coiffeur Frison, and the

street-girl, Dodun:

La Dodun dit à Frison:

Coiffez-moi avec adresse.

Je prétends avec raison

Inspirer de la tendresse.

Tignonnez, tignonnez, bichonnez-moi!

He also recited a Russian poem on the charms of life in Paris.

O beautiful city on flowing Seine

The gods have chosen thy fair domain.

The manners of boors are driven out hence

By thy most exquisite influence,

And never shall I in my soul forget

The town that I leave with such deep regret!

The old Moscow boyars, hostile to the new customs, sat a little way off,

warming themselves near the stove, holding converse with one another in

allusions and riddles.

“What do you think, my lord, of life in Petersburg, eh?”

“To the devil with you and your Petersburg life! These compliments and

reverences and obeisances of the woman-folk, and the foreign food, make

one’s head go round!”

“What’s to be done, friend, but bear it? One cannot leap into heaven, nor

bury oneself in the earth. Patience, patience!”

Mons was whispering into Nastenka’s ears a newly composed ditty:

Without love and passion,

All days are dreary.

Love sighs acquaint us

With all life’s sweetness.

What, say, is life for,

If one loves not?

Suddenly, it seemed to her that the ceiling was shaking and that the

naked Cupids were falling upon her head. She cried out; William Mons

reassured her; it was only the wind bulging out like a sail the canvas of

the picture nailed to the ceiling.

Again the shutters rattled, this time with such force that everybody

looked round in terror.

The polonaise began; the couples set out and music drowned the noise of

the storm. Only the shivering old nobles, warming themselves round the

stove, listened to the howling of the wind in the chimney, and whispered

to one another, sighing and shaking their heads. They seemed to hear in

the sounds of the storm, rendered more ill-omened still by the music, the

old words: “out of the sea sorrow, out of the water, grief!”

Peter continued his conversation with Theodosius; he asked him about

the heresy of the Moscow iconoclasts, Fomka the barber and Dmitri the

physician. Both heretics, in propagating their teaching, had referred

to the Tsar’s recent decrees: “Thanks be to God, nowadays in Muscovy

everybody is free to follow what faith he chooses.”

“According to their teaching,” continued Theodosius, with a smile which

made it impossible to infer whether he disagreed or sympathised with the

heresy, “the true faith is founded on the Scriptures and good works, and

not on miracles and traditions.

“People of any creed can be saved according to the apostle’s word: ‘In

every nation he that feareth God, and worketh righteousness, is accepted

with Him.”

“Very reasonable,” remarked Peter and the monk’s smile seemed to be

reflected on the Tsar’s face; they understood one another without words.

“And the icons,” continued Theodosius, “being but man’s work, according

to their teaching are idols. How can painted boards work miracles? You

throw them into the fire, they burn just like ordinary wood. It is not

the icons but God, who should be worshipped. And who gave the saints

ears so long as to enable them to hear the prayers said on earth? If,

say they, a son is slain by a stick or a knife, how can the slain man’s

father love that knife or stick? In the same way how can God love the

wood on which His Son had been crucified? And the Virgin, they ask, why

should she be honoured? She is like a plain bag filled with precious

stones and pearls. When the bag is emptied of its treasure what value

or honour remain to it? About the Eucharist, too, they use sophisms:

how can Christ be broken up, distributed and eaten at the services of

which such numbers are held all over the world on the same day? How can

the prayers of priests change bread into our Lord’s body, especially

as there are all sorts of men among priests: drunkards, sybarites and

veritable scoundrels. This is highly improbable and we very much doubt

it. The bread smells bread to us, and the blood, so far as our senses can

ascertain, is but red wine.”

“It is not right for us Orthodox even to listen to such heresy,” the Tsar

checked Theodosius.

The latter stopped short, yet his smile seemed to grow only more insolent

and more malignant.

The Tsarevitch raised his eyes and furtively glanced at his father. He

seemed to notice confusion in Peter’s look. The Tsar no longer smiled;

his face had grown serious, almost wrathful, yet at the same time

helpless and perplexed. Had he not a moment ago recognised the basis of

heresy as being reasonable? Accepting the basis how can he regret the

inferences? It is easy to forbid, but how refute? The Tsar is clever, yet

is not his cleverness exceeded by that of the monk; was not the latter

leading the Tsar, as an evil guide leads a blind man, straight towards a

precipice?

Thus thought Alexis; and the subtle smile of Theodosius found reflection

no longer on the father’s but on the son’s face. Now they too understood

one another without words.

“There is nothing to be wondered at in Fomka and Dmitri,” said Avrámoff,

breaking the awkward silence.

“‘The music sways the dance.’ The sheep do but follow the shepherd.” He

steadily eyed Theodosius; the same took the hint and quivered with rage.

At this moment some immeasurable force hurled itself against the

shutters, as if a thousand fists were beating at them. This something

hissed, howled, wailed, and then died slowly away in the distance. Then

the assailants seemed to return more and more formidably to the attack,

and to be breaking into the house.

Devière ran out every ten minutes to learn about the rise of the water.

The news was bad, the Mia and Fontanna were already in flood. The town

was panic-stricken.

Devière lost his head; several times he approached the Tsar, trying

to catch his eye and attract his notice, but Peter, engrossed in

conversation, did not pay any attention to him. At last, no longer able

to restrain himself, with desperate resolution he stooped and stuttered

in the Tsar’s ear:—

“Your Majesty!—the water!”

Peter without a word of warning, with a quick, almost involuntary

movement, gave him a slap in the face. Devière felt neither shame nor

insult, nothing except the pain, so used was he to such treatment.

“It is a privilege,” said Peter’s eaglets “to be struck by a monarch

whose blows are favours.”

Peter with a calm countenance, as though nothing whatever had happened,

turned to Avrámoff and asked him the reason why the publication of the

astronomer Huyghen’s work, _Contemplation or Description of Heavenly and

Earthly Bodies_, had been delayed so long.

For a moment Avrámoff was taken aback, but he instantly recovered and

looking straight into the Tsar’s eyes he said with firmness:—

“That book is exceedingly blasphemous; it has been written, not with ink

but with hellish charcoal, and therefore it is only fit to be burnt.”

“What does the blasphemy consist of?”

“The rotation of the earth round the sun is asserted, as well as the

existence of a plurality of worlds, and all those worlds are supposed to

be like ours, with human beings, meadows, fields, woods, animals, and

everything else just as we have it. And in this sly and subtle way the

author tries to glorify and establish Nature (which means self-existent

life), while a God-Creator is dispensed with.”

A discussion began: the Tsar began proving that Copernicus’ Chart of the

universe explained in a natural and suitable way all the life of the

planets.

Under the protection of the Tsar and Copernicus more and more daring

thoughts were expressed.

“To-day all philosophy can be reduced to mechanics,” suddenly declared

the naval councillor, Alexander Kikin. “The universe is believed to be

a clock on a large scale; everything acts in it by fixed motions, which

depend on a perfect arrangement of the automaton. The same mechanism

pervades the whole——”

“A senseless atheistical philosophy, a corrupt and unstable basis of

reasoning,” exclaimed the terrified Avrámoff; but nobody listened to him.

Each tried to outdo the other in learning.

“The ancient philosopher Dicaearchus taught that man’s being is in his

body, and that the word ‘soul’ is only an accidental meaningless term,”

added the vice-chancellor Shafiroff.

“The microscope has revealed in man’s seed animals very much like frogs

or tadpoles,” said Monsieur George with such a mischievous smile, that it

was obvious he meant to say there cannot be such a thing as a soul. After

the manner of all Parisian dandies, he had his own “Petite Philosophie,”

in expounding which he displayed the same polite frivolity as when

singing the coiffeur’s song: ‘Tignonnez, tignonnez, bichonnez moi.’

“According to Leibnitz we are but thinking hydraulic machines: the oyster

is far behind us in reasoning capacity.”

“Not far behind you,” somebody remarked; but Monsieur George continued

imperturbably:

“The oyster is far behind us in reasoning capacity. Its life is, so to

speak, limited to its shell, and hence it stands in no need of the five

senses. It is possible that creatures in other worlds possessing ten

or more senses are infinitely superior to us; that Newton and Leibnitz

excite no more wonder among them than the ape or spider among us.”

The Tsarevitch was listening, and it seemed to him, that this

conversation acted on his ideas, just as the Petersburg thaw on the

snow in spring; everything was unraveling, drifting, melting, growing

rotten; everything was changing into mud and mire under the influence of

the baleful western wind. Doubt in all things, negation of all things,

without regard, without reservation, rose like the Neva, which, swollen

by the wind, was threatening an inundation.

“Enough of this idle talk,” concluded Peter rising. “He who denies God

is either mad or a fool. He, who has eyes, ought to discern God in His

creations. Deniers of God bring shame to the country and must not be

tolerated, for they undermine the basis of law upon which rest vows and

the oath of allegiance.”

“The cause of lawlessness,” interposed Theodosius, unwilling to miss

an opportunity, “is rather to be sought in hypocritical zeal than in

atheism; atheists themselves insist that God should be taught to the

masses, else, say they, the people will revolt against authority.”

The whole building was now continuously shaking under the pressure of the

storm. Yet nobody noticed the sounds, they had grown used to them; the

Tsar’s face was calm, and his appearance reassured the others.

Somebody spread the report that the wind had changed round, and that

there was hope that the waters would abate.

“You see,” said Peter, and his face grew bright, “there was no reason to

get frightened. Never fear, the barometer will not lie!”

He went into the next room and joined the dancers.

When the Tsar was merry, he infected every one else with his merriment.

In dancing he stamped, jumped and performed various feats with such

enthusiasm that the most indolent were eager to join in.

In the English country dance the lady of each first pair invented a

new figure. The Princess Tsherkassky kissed her partner Peter Tolstoi

and pulled his wig over his nose, the rest of the ladies did likewise,

while the gentlemen had to stand motionless as logs. A general scramble,

laughing, all sorts of nonsense ensued, all were merry as school children

and Peter was the merriest of all.

Only the old princes continued to sit in their corner listening to the

howling of the wind. They whispered, sighed, and shook their heads.

One of them remembered a passage in the Holy Fathers against dancing;

“The twirling dances of women alienate people from God and hurl them into

the depths of Hell. Laughter will be turned into mourning; dancers will

be hung up by their navels.”

The Tsar came up to the old men and invited them to join the dance. Vain

were their refusals, the plea of their inability and of various ailments,

rheumatism, asthma, gout; the Tsar would take no excuse.

A solemn, quaint “Grossvater” was played; the sprightliest young ladies

were purposely chosen as partners for the old men, who at first hardly

moved, stumbled, and muddled both themselves and others; yet when the

Tsar threatened them with a glass of that terrible pepper brandy, they

jumped about as lively as the younger ones; they paid for it, however, at

the end of the dance, when they fell back on their seats half dead with

fatigue, groaning, puffing, and sighing.

They had hardly time to recover when the Tsar began a new dance more

intricate even than the first, known as the “Chain dance;” thirty

pairs, all tied together with handkerchiefs followed a fiddler, a small

hunchback who went skipping along in front of them.

The dancers first went round the two rooms of the wing, then across the

gallery they entered the main building; all over the house, from room to

room, from staircase to staircase the saraband swept along, shrieking and

laughing. The hunchback led the way, fiddling and leaping frantically,

making faces as though some evil spirit possessed him. He was followed

by the Tsar and his partner, the rest following after; as though the

Tsar were leading the captives while he himself, the giant, was led and

twirled along by the caprices of the little demon.

On their way back to the pavilion they saw people running towards them

across the gallery waving their hands in terror and crying:—

“The water, the water, the water!”

The couples in front stopped short, but they were crushed by those

running up from behind; a general confusion ensued.

They were hurled against one another, knocked down, dragging and tearing

at the handkerchiefs, which bound them to one another, to undo them.

The men swore, the ladies screamed; the chain was broken. A larger

number headed by the Tsar hurried back through the gallery into the main

building. A smaller number, those who were in front and in consequence

nearer the wing, tried to follow, but before they had time to reach even

the middle of the gallery, the shutter at one of the windows cracked,

quivered and fell, sending the window pane in shivers; a stream of

turbulent water rushed in after it. At the same time imprisoned air in

the cellar below pressing against the floor began raising and bulging,

and finally burst the floor up with a crash and rumble like the firing of

cannon.

Peter called out from the other end of the gallery to those who were cut

off:—

“Go back to the pavilion! Don’t be afraid, I will send boats.”

The words did not reach them, yet they understood his signs, and stood

still.

Only two went on running along the flooded floor of the corridor.

Theodosius was one of them. He had nearly reached the end where Peter

stood waiting for him, when suddenly a plank gave way. Theodosius the

monk fell through and began to sink. The other, a fat woman, the wife of

a Dutch captain, picking up her skirts jumped over the monk’s head, red

stockings flashed above his black hood. The Tsar hurried to the rescue of

Theodosius, seized him by the shoulder, pulled him out and carried him in

his arms like a little child. Theodosius was shivering and dripping all

over. The wide black sleeves of his mantle running with water made him

look like a wet bat. The hunchback fiddler too, on reaching the middle of

the gallery, had disappeared in the water; he came to the surface again,

tried to swim, but at that moment the middle of the ceiling gave way,

came down with a crash, and buried him.

Then the few who were left, numbering about ten, seeing they were

entirely cut off by water from the main building, hurried back into

the wing, their last refuge. But here, too, the water was fast gaining

ground. The waves were beating just below the windows, the shutters

creaked, cracked and threatened any moment to be torn off their hinges.

The water came in through the broken window panes and the cracks; it

oozed, gushed and gurgled down the walls, forming pools, flooding the

floor.

All lost their heads, save Tolstoi and Wilim Ivanovitch Mons, who with

presence of mind searched for another exit; they discovered a small

door hidden by hangings; it opened upon a staircase which led to the

garret. All rushed towards it. Even the gallantest cavaliers, now that

death stared them in the face, neglected, even jostled, the ladies; each

thought only of himself.

It was dark in the garret. Groping their way among beams, planks, empty

barrels and cases, they reached the furthermost corner partly protected

from the wind by a prominent chimney, which was still warm; they huddled

close to it and for some time remained in the dark, flurried and

stupefied by fear. The ladies in ball-dresses had their teeth chattering

with cold.

At last Mons decided to go down and find help.

Downstairs the grooms, up to their knees in water, were leading into the

room their master’s horses, which they had just saved from drowning in

the stables. The Assembly Room was changed into a stable, the mirrors

reflected the heads of horses; rags of canvas painted with the journey

to the “Isle of Love” were hanging down from the ceiling; the naked

Cupids bulged in mortal anguish. Mons gave money to the grooms, and they

procured him a lantern, a bottle of brandy and several sheepskins. They

told him there was no way out of the wing; the gallery was shattered,

the yard flooded, they themselves were obliged to seek refuge in the

garret. The promised boats never arrived; it turned out afterwards that

those sent by the Tsar were unable to get near the wing; the courtyard

was surrounded by a high fence and the only gateway was filled up by the

debris of a shattered building. Mons returned to his companions in the

garret; the light of the lantern seemed to give them a little courage;

the men drank some of the brandy, the women wrapped themselves in the

sheepskins.

The night seemed endless; the whole house was trembling under the

pressure of the waves, like a rotten vessel on the brink of destruction.

Overhead the storm tore off the tiles from the roof; now rushing past

with furious howls and stamping like a herd of wild beasts, now with

piercing hiss and rustle like a flock of gigantic birds; at times it

seemed as if the wind would tear off the roof itself and blow them all

away. In the voice of the storm they seemed to hear the cries of the

drowning; they expected the whole town would disappear at any moment.

One of the ladies, the wife of the Danish resident, who was with child,

was suddenly seized by violent pains and screamed most piteously; a

premature delivery was feared.

George Proskóurov kept praying: “Holy Father Nicholas, St. Sergius have

mercy upon us!” It was difficult to recognise in him the free-thinker who

had been expounding the non-existence of the soul. Michael Avrámoff was

also quaking with fear, yet seemed to rejoice at the misfortune which had

befallen them.

“How argue with God? His wrath is just. This town will be destroyed from

the face of the earth like Sodom and Gomorrah: ‘And God looked upon the

earth and behold it was corrupt, for all flesh had corrupted his way upon

earth. And God said: _The end of all flesh is come before me. And behold

I will bring a flood of water on the earth and destroy all flesh wherein

is breath of life from under heaven._’”

Listening to these prophecies the refugees felt a new, hitherto

unexperienced terror, as if the end of the world, the day of judgment

were at hand.

A glow of fire flashed in the black sky; the sound of a clashing bell was

heard through the noise of the storm; it was the alarm bell: the grooms

said that in the Admiralty dockyards close by, the workmen’s dwellings

and the rope and cable stores were on fire. Notwithstanding the abundance

of water the fire was especially dangerous in this high wind; burning

logs were blown about, and the whole city threatened to blaze up any

moment. Petersburg was perishing from these two elements: fire and water;

the prophecies were being fulfilled, Petersburg was doomed.

Towards dawn the storm subsided; in the grey transparency of the dim

light the gentlemen in wigs, covered with dust and cobwebs, the ladies in

“robes-rondes” and hooped skirts after the Versailles fashion, wrapped

in sheepskins, their faces blue with the cold, appeared like spectres to

each other.

Mons looked out of the garret window and saw in place of a town, a

limitless lake. This lake was agitated not only on the surface but seemed

to boil, seethe, and bubble up from the very bottom like water in a

kettle over a hot fire. This lake was the Neva, variegated like the skin

of a serpent’s belly, yellow, purple, black, but patched with white foam;

wearied, yet angry, under the terrible, low, leaden sky, grey as the

expanse below. Wrecks of barges, overturned boats, logs, planks, roofs,

the skeletons of complete houses, carcases of animals—all these were

floating slowly past on its waves.

Melancholy were the traces of human life in the midst of this triumphant

element; here and there above the water peered the towers, spires, domes

and roofs of flooded houses.

Mons perceived at a distance, opposite to the Peter and Paul fortress, a

number of rowing galleys and boyers; he took up a long pole, one of those

used for scaring pigeons, fixed Nastenka’s red silk neckerchief to it,

pushed it through the window and began to wave, making signs to attract

attention. One of the boats left the rest and coming straight across the

Neva, approached the Assembly Room pavilion.

Peter had worked without a break all the night through, rescuing people

from water and flames like a common fireman; his hair was singed; he

narrowly escaped being crushed by a beam; while helping to rescue the

chattels of poor people, who lived in cellar dwellings, he stood up to

his waist in water and was chilled to the bone; he suffered with all and

cheered all; wherever the Tsar appeared the work was done so heartily

that both water and flames receded. The Tsarevitch was in a boat with his

father, but whenever he ventured to offer help, Peter refused as if in

disdain.

When the fire was quenched and the water began to subside the Tsar

remembered it was time to go home to his wife, who had probably spent the

night in great anxiety about her husband. On his way back he could not

resist the desire to go round by the Summer Garden, and see what damage

the flood had done there.

The pavilion projecting over the Neva was partially ruined, but the

statue of Venus had remained whole. The pedestal was submerged, so that

the Goddess, the Foam-born, seemed to be again rising from the waves;

not the blue, tender waves of old, but the lurid, dark, waves, heavy as

though leaden, of the Styx.

At the foot of the statue a black speck was visible. Peter looked through

the telescope and found it was a man. By order of the Tsar a sentinel

watched night and day at this precious statue. Caught by the waters,

not daring to leave his post, he had climbed up the pedestal of Venus

and huddled himself close to her feet, embracing them; and thus he had

probably spent the whole night, starved with cold, half dead with fatigue.

The Tsar hastened to his rescue. Standing at the rudder, he steered the

boyer against current and wind. Suddenly an enormous wave seized the

side of the boat, swept over them showering them with spray and making

the craft heel over to such an extent that it threatened to capsize. But

Peter was an experienced helmsman. Setting his feet against the stern,

leaning with all his weight on the rudder, he overcame the danger, and

steered steadily towards his goal.

The Tsarevitch glanced at his father and suddenly, for some reason or

other, he remembered what his teacher Viasemski had once told him when

drunk:—

“Theodosius is wont to sing with the choristers before your father:

where God wills it the order of nature is conquered, and such like psalm

verses. They sing them to flatter your father, and he rejoices to be

compared unto God; forgetting that not only God but the devil also has

power over the elements; there are such things as demon miracles.”

Clad in a plain sailor’s jacket, with high leather boots and waving

hair—his hat had been carried off by the wind—the gigantic helmsman

looked at the flooded city, his face, calm and firm, like sculptured

stone, expressed neither confusion, fear, nor pity. There was something

superhuman in this man. Like fate he held in his power men and elements.

Men would bow before him, the wind would abate, the water would subside,

and again the city would stand where he ordained it should be. “The order

of nature is conquered, when he wills it.”

“Whose will,” the Tsarevitch asked himself, not daring to reply, “God’s,

or the devil’s?”

* * * * *

A few days later, when the usual aspect of Petersburg had well nigh

obliterated all traces of the flood, Peter wrote in a jovial letter to

one of his eaglets:

“Last week, the west-south-west wind beat up such a flood, as, they say,

had never happened before. In my apartments water stood twenty-one

inches high, while in the garden and on the opposite shore it was high

enough to boat on. It was very amusing to see people, men and women,

perched on roofs and trees as on Ararat at the Great Flood. The water

though high, didn’t do much damage.”

The letter was dated from “Paradise.”

CHAPTER II

Peter fell ill. He had caught cold during the flood when, in rescuing the

poor people’s chattels from the cellar dwellings, he had stood waist-deep

in water. At first he paid no heed to his illness, and tried to get over

it by ignoring it, but on November 15, he was obliged to take to his bed

and the Court Physician, Blumentrost, declared that the Tsar’s life was

in danger.

These days were to decide the fate of Alexis. On October 28, the day

of Alexis’ wife’s funeral, on their return from the Peter and Paul

Cathedral, Peter gave him a letter, “a declaration to my son,” which

demanded immediate reform on the threat of severe anger and the loss of

the crown.

“I am at a loss to know what to do,” the Tsarevitch kept saying to his

friends; “Am I to become a beggar and hide myself amongst outcasts for

the time being, or shall I retreat to some monastery; or shall I seek

refuge in some country where fugitives are safe?”

“Become a monk,” urged Kikin, an old confidant of Alexis. “The monk’s

hood is not nailed on his head; it will come off again; and meanwhile you

will at least have peace.”

“I have rescued you from your father’s axe,” declared Prince Basil

Dolgorúki. “Be of good cheer, there is nothing left for you to worry

about. Write a thousand letters of resignation—of renunciation of the

crown—if necessary. Time is with us. The old proverb says: ‘The snail has

started on its way, but there’s no knowing when it will arrive.’ Your

decision is not irrevocable.”

“It is well that you have not set your heart on the inheritance,” said

Prince George Troubetzkoi, trying to console him; “‘is not gold the

source of many tears?’”

With Kikin the Tsarevitch repeatedly talked over the possibility of a

flight abroad, where he might live simply, away from everything, in peace.

“If it must be,” advised Kikin, “go to the Emperor at Vienna. You will be

safe there. The Emperor said he would receive you like a son. Or else go

to the Pope, or the French Court, even kings find refuge there. It would

be easy for them to protect you.”

The Tsarevitch listened to these counsels, but unable to make up his

mind, he lived from day to day waiting till the will of God should reveal

itself.

Suddenly the whole situation changed. Peter’s death threatened to disturb

not only Russia but the whole world. He, who but yesterday was thinking

of hiding himself with beggars, might on the morrow ascend the throne.

Unexpected friends surrounded Alexis; they met, whispered, and consulted

together,

“We must wait and see.”

“What will be, will be.”

“Our turn will come!”

“The mice will bury the cat!”

On the night between the first and second of December, the Tsar’s

condition became so much worse that he ordered his confessor, the

Archimandrite Theodosius, to be summoned and received the last rites of

the Church. Neither Catherine nor Ménshikoff quitted the sick chamber.

The residents of foreign courts, Russian Ministers, Senators, spent the

night in the Winter Palace. When Alexis came in the morning to inquire

about his father, the latter did not receive him, yet the sudden hush of

the crowd which let him pass, the servile bows, the searching looks, pale

faces, especially of his stepmother and Ménshikoff, told Alexis of the

nearness of that which had always seemed to him so remote, so well-nigh

impossible. His heart sank, his breath came quick and short, whether from

joy or terror he knew not.

The same day, towards evening, he went to see Kikin, and the two had a

long talk together. Kikin lived on the outskirts of the town, hard by the

Ochta quarter. Thence the Tsarevitch returned straight home.

The sleighs dashed across the desert wood and wide empty streets, like

vistas in a forest, with scarcely noticeable rows of log buildings buried

in the snow drifts. The moon itself was invisible; but the air was

filled with bright moonlit sparks. The snow did not fall from on high.

The wind sent it in whirlwinds and in pillars like smoke. The luminous

snowstorm sparkled and foamed in the dull blue sky like wine in a goblet.

He breathed the frosty air with delight. He felt bright as though his

soul also was filled with a wild, luminous, intoxicating storm, and as

the hidden moon lit up the storm, so also was his brightness due to a

hidden thought, which though afraid to own, he yet felt to be the cause

of his heady fear and joy.

Dim lights were glimmering through the bluish moonlit mist. They came

from the frost-rimed windows of the huts, which, overhung with icicles,

suggested drunken eyes glowing from under hoary eyebrows.

“Perhaps,” he thought, looking at them, “people are there drinking my

health, the health of ‘Russia’s Hope’!” and his elation increased.

On his return, he sat down before the hearth where the embers were

faintly glowing, and ordered Afanássieff to prepare him a hot drink. The

room was dark, the candles had not yet been brought in. Alexis loved the

dusk. Suddenly in the glow of the embers there flared up the blue centre

of the spirit flame. The moonlit snowstorm peered with its blue eyes into

the room through the transparent faery designs of the frost. Behind the

window panes there quivered also a huge, living, blue, delirious flame.

Alexis was relating to Afanássieff his conversation with Kikin; it was

the outline of a plot drawn up in case flight was inevitable and return

only possible after his father’s death, which he thought would soon

happen—the Tsar was suffering from epilepsy, and such people do not live

long.

The Ministers, the Senators,—Tolstoi, Golóvkin, Shafiroff, Apraksin,

Streshneff, Dolgorúki, were all his friends, and would side with

him. Bauer in Poland, the Archimandrite Petchorski in the Ukraine,

Sheremetieff with all his forces.

“From the European frontier all would belong to me.”

Afanássieff was listening with his usual stubborn, morose expression,

which as much as said: The talk is all very fine, but how will it work?

“And what about Ménshikoff?” he queried, when Alexis had ended.

“Ménshikoff will be impaled.”

The old man shook his head.

“Why talk so rashly, my lord? What if some one should hear and report?

Curse not the king—no, not in thy thought—and curse not the rich in thy

bedchamber, for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which

hath wings shall tell the matter——”

“Oh, stop that meandering,” the Tsarevitch waved his hand in annoyance,

and yet with an unrestrainable sense of joy.

Afanássieff was roused.

“I am not meandering; I am only speaking the truth. It is as well not

to praise the dream before it has proved true. Your Highness indulges

in building castles in the air. You won’t listen to us humble folk; you

heed only those who deceive you. Both Tolstoi, the Judas, and Kikin, the

Atheist, both are traitors. Be on your guard, my lord, you are not the

first they have betrayed.”

“I spit upon them all, if only the people stand by me! When the time

comes and my father is dead, I will whisper to the prelates, and the

prelates to the priests, and the priests to their flock, and they will

make me Tsar, whether I will or no.”

The old man remained silent, his face still bore the same stubborn,

morose expression which clearly said, “This kind of talk is all very

fine, but how will it work?”

“Why don’t you say something?” said Alexis.

“What should I say, Tsarevitch, it is for you to decide. But as for

running away from your father, I do not advise it.”

“And why not?”

“Simply for this reason; it’s all very well if you succeed, but suppose

you fail, I shall have to bear the consequences. As it is you are ever

ready to vent your wrath on me. We are unimportant people, yet we, too,

can feel.”

“Be on your guard, Afanássieff, and don’t let any one know I told you.

No one, save you and Kikin, knows of my plans. But even if you should

report, you won’t be believed; I will deny everything, you will be

tortured.”

Alexis had made this addition about the torture just for the sake of

teasing the old man.

“When you are Tsar, will you then also threaten your faithful servants

with the torture-chamber?”

“Have no fear, Afanássieff! If ever I am Tsar, I will do my best by you——

But I shall never be a Tsar.”

“You will, you will.” retorted the old man with such conviction that

again Alexis was half-choking with joy.

Bells, the grating of sleighs on the snow, the snorting of horses, and

voices were heard under the windows.

Alexis exchanged looks with Afanássieff. Who could it possibly be at so

late an hour? Not from the palace, surely!

Afanássieff ran into the hall. It was the Archimandrite Theodosius. The

Tsarevitch, on seeing him, thought his father had died; he grew so pale,

that the monk, notwithstanding the darkness, noticed it while giving the

blessing, and faintly smiled.

When they were alone, Theodosius sat near the fire opposite to the

Tsarevitch, and silently looking at him with the same scarcely

perceptible smile, began to warm his hands over the fire, opening and

closing his fingers, which looked like bat-claws.

“How is my father?” at last Alexis asked, plucking up courage.

“Very bad,” the monk sighed heavily, “so bad that we don’t expect him to

live.”

The Tsarevitch made a sign of the cross.

“God’s will be done!”

“Man is like a cedar of Lebanon to look upon,” began Theodosius,

chantingly in the church style, “yet he passes and no trace is left. His

spirit will leave him; to earth will he return, and all his thoughts

will perish with him on the same day”—he stopped short suddenly, and

bringing his tiny shrunken face up to Alexis, he began to whisper in a

quick, insinuating voice—“God waits a long time, yet when He visits He

is severe. The Tsar’s illness has been brought about by his incessant

drinking and voluptuousness. It is God’s revenge for attacking the

clergy, whom he wanted to exterminate. No good can come while the

Church is overawed by tyranny. Can this religion of ours be called

Christianity; it might be the Turkish religion; yet even in Turkey such

things do not happen. Our Russian country is doomed.”

Alexis could scarcely believe his ears. He had expected anything from

Theodosius save this.

“But what were you prelates, guardians of the Russian Church, doing?

Whose business is it but yours to stand up for the Church?” the

Tsarevitch said, gazing intently at Theodosius.

“Ah, Tsarevitch, what power is left to us? Our prelates are so bridled

that they will follow whichever way you lead them. They have as much

power as the country police; they do the will of him who appoints them.

They turn whichever way the wind blows. They are not prelates, but a mob.”

And hanging his head, he added in a low voice, as if to himself, and to

Alexis it seemed to be the voice of the past, “We were all eagles, now we

have become bats.”

His black hood, the wide sleeves of his gown, his ugly pointed face lit

up by the blaze of the dying embers, all this made him look very much

like a huge bat; only in his clever eyes there glowed the light of an

eagle’s.

“It ill behoves you to talk and me to listen;” the Tsarevitch at last

burst out. “Who has brought the Church under the State? Who is trying to

introduce Lutheran customs among the people? Who has persuaded the Tsar

to destroy all the chapels, defile icons, and close the monasteries? Who

gives him dispensation for all this?”

He stopped. The monk continued to eye him with the same persistent,

penetrating gaze. Alexis felt uneasy. Was this not after all a trap? Had

Theodosius been sent to him as a spy by Ménshikoff, or by his father?

“Does your Highness remember a figure of speech called ‘the reductio ad

absurdum’ in logic?” said the monk, winking with an infinitely cunning

smile. “That is what I am doing. The Tsar has attacked the Church, yet

dares not oppose it openly, only secretly he destroys, corrupts, and

corrodes it. As for me, I had rather do a thing thoroughly, if I do it at

all, and quickly if it has to be done. I prefer honest Lutheranism to a

crooked orthodoxy; an avowed atheism to crooked Lutheranism. The worse

the better! That is my way. What the Tsar indicates I carry out. What he

whispers I openly declare to the people. I make him convict himself; let

every one know that the Church of God is defiled. By dint of patience one

can get used to anything; yet if this won’t work, the time will come when

we, too, will have our fling. The cat will have to pay for all the tears

it has caused the mice.”

“Now this is adroit,” laughed the Tsarevitch; he felt admiration for

Theodosius, though he did not believe a single word he said. “You are

sly, Father, sly as the devil himself.”

“Don’t disdain devils. Satan serves God’s purpose even against his will.”

“Does your holiness compare yourself to a devil?”

“I am a diplomatist,” modestly retorted the monk, “with wolves I howl

like a wolf. Dissimulation is not only recommended by political teachers,

but by God Himself; as a fisherman hides the hook with a worm, so did the

Lord hide His Spirit in the flesh of His Son, and casting His line into

the world’s pool, outdid and caught Satan the Fiend. Intrigue of divine

wisdom! Heavenly diplomacy!”

“May I ask you, Holy Father, do you believe in God?” Again the Tsarevitch

eyed him narrowly.

“How can a country be without a Church, and the Church without God?” And

then with a strange simper, half timid, half insolent, he added: “But

you, too, Alexis Petrovitch, are not a fool; you are more intelligent

than your father, the Tsar; though he is clever, yet he does not know

men; we often used to lead him by the nose. You will be a better judge

of men.” And suddenly he stooped and kissed Alexis’ hand so quickly and

adroitly that the latter had no time to pull it away; only a shudder

passed through him.

Though he could not help feeling that the monk’s flattery was only honey

on a knife, yet the honey was sweet.

He blushed, and in order to conceal his confusion, he continued with

feigned curtness: “Be careful, father, and don’t over-reach yourself.

The pitcher goes to the well till it breaks. As a cat tries to scratch a

bear, so you dare my father; but suppose the bear objects, and, turning

round, crushes you, where will you be then?”

The monk’s face fell, contracted, his eyes dilated, and looking round to

ascertain that no one was standing behind him, he began to whisper in a

hurried, disjointed, as it were feverish whisper:—

“Ah! your Highness, it is bad enough as it is, I always had a feeling

that he will kill me! When yet I was but a child I was brought to

Moscow, together with other nobles; we were led into a hall and allowed

to kiss the sovereign’s hand. I first went up to your uncle, the Tsar

Ivan Alexeyevitch; but when I came to kiss Tsar Peter’s hand, such fear

possessed me that my knees shook; I could hardly keep upright; and ever

since I have had the feeling that I shall die by that hand.”

Even now he was trembling with fear, yet hatred was stronger than fear.

He began talking about Peter in such terms that Alexis almost believed

them to be sincere. He discerned in this talk his own secret, wicked

thoughts about his father.

“He is called Great! but in what does his greatness reveal itself? He

reigns as a tyrant. He introduces civilization with axe and knout! And

the axe, too, is nothing extraordinary, anybody can buy one. He is ever

on the search for plots and rebellions. But he does not realize that he

himself is the source of all this unrest. He himself is the first rebel.

He breaks, knocks down, fells with all his might. But there is no method

in it. What multitudes have been executed, what quantities of blood have

been shed! Yet the wrong does not decrease. People’s consciences are

not bound. Blood is not water, it cries for vengeance! Soon God’s wrath

will come down upon Russia, and when civil war begins then the eyes of

every one will be opened. Such an uproar, such decapitations will be set

going—shwisk, shwisk, shwisk!”—he passed his hand across his throat and

tried to imitate the sound of an axe. “And only then, out of this sea of

blood will arise the Church of God, pure, whiter than the snow, like a

woman arrayed in the glory of the sun, reigning over all rulers.”

Alexis watched his face, disfigured by passion, his eyes flashing with

wild fire, and it seemed as if a madman was sitting before him.

He remembered hearing from a monk that Father Theodosius was sometimes

subject to melancholy; tormented by the evil spirit, he falls to the

ground and behaves like one beside himself.

“I anticipated this, and that is what I was leading up to,” concluded

Theodosius, “but it seems that God has shown mercy to Russia; the Tsar

is struck down, the people are spared. You are sent unto us, you are

our salvation, our joy, our bright son of the Church, the most pious

sovereign, Alexis Petrovitch, Autocrat of all the Russias, Your Majesty!”

The Tsarevitch started up in terror. Theodosius too had risen, fallen

at his feet, embraced his knees, and lifted up his voice in a frenzied,

inexorable, almost threatening prayer.

“Protect, have mercy on your servant! I will give you all! All I have

kept back from your father, all I have reserved for myself. I wanted

to become a Patriarch, I no longer want it. I want nothing. Everything

belongs to you, my darling, my joy, my heart’s delight. Aliósha! I love

you! You shall be Tsar and Patriarch! You will unite the earthly with the

heavenly, the white hood of Constantine with the crown of Monomachus. You

shall be greater than any other Tsar on earth. You, the first, you alone!

You and God. While I, I will be your slave, your dog, a worm under your

foot. Truly, your Majesty, I embrace your feet like those of Christ and

adore you.”

He bowed very low before him; the wide black of his pall spread on the

floor like the gigantic wings of a bat. The diamond-set panagia with the

portrait of the Tsar and the Crucifix fell to the ground with a clatter.

Abomination filled Alexis’ soul, a cold shudder ran through him as from

the touch of some vermin. He wanted to push him back, strike him, spit

into his face; yet he could not move, he was as if spell-bound by some

fearful nightmare. And it seemed to him that this was no longer the

miserable Theodosius, but someone strong, terrible, powerful, who lay

prostrate before him, some one who had been an eagle and had become a

bat; was it not the Church herself, dishonoured, dominated by the State?

And through this abomination, through this terror, a mad delight, a

giddying sense of power turned his head. It seemed that somebody was

lifting him on black, gigantic wings and showing unto him all the

kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, saying—“If thou therefore

wilt worship me, all shall be thine!”

The embers on the hearth were faintly glimmering under the thick layer of

ashes. The blue flame of the spirit had all but gone out. The blue flame

of the luminous storm had grown faint outside the windows.

Somebody pale with pale eyes was peering through the windows. And the

flowers wrought by the frost on the window panes stood out white, like

the phantoms of flowers.

When Alexis recovered he was alone. Theodosius had disappeared as if he

had fallen through the ground or melted away into the air.

“What has he been raving about,” thought Alexis, as if waking from a

sleep. “The white hood—the crown of Monomachus—madness—melancholy—and how

can he tell that the Tsar will die! Where did he get this from? How many

times did we despair of his life, God always showed mercy——”

And suddenly he remembered what Kikin had said to him this evening:

“Your father is not so ill as he seems. The last rites of the Church were

administered to him on purpose to make people believe he is very ill, but

it is only deception. He is only testing you and the others, trying to

see how you all will act after his death. You know the fable—‘The mice

gathered together to bury the cat, they pranced and danced when suddenly

up leapt the cat!—There was an end to the revel.’ As for his taking

communion, he has his own views on this subject.”

At the time these words had stung Alexis’ heart with shame and disgust.

Yet he purposely let them pass, he was in too good a humour to trouble

about anything.

“Kikin is right,” he now decided, and a dead hand seemed to grip his

heart. “Yes, all was deception, pretence, dissimulation, devil’s

policies, a game of cat and mouse—the cat suddenly leapt up and

grabbed—Nothing has been, nothing will be. All these hopes, rhapsodies,

dreams about glory, liberty, power were only visions, a delirium, a

madness!”

The blue flame lit up for the last time and then went out. Darkness

ensued, only the glowing embers peering from under the ashes seemed to

wink, smiling like an artful blinking eye. The Tsarevitch felt uneasy. It

seemed to him that Theodosius had not gone away, that he remained here

somewhere in a corner hiding, holding his breath; that at any moment

he would whirl round with his black bat-like wings, and whisper in his

ear, “All the power will I give thee and the glory of them, for all is

delivered unto me, and unto whosoever I will, I give it.”

“Afanássieff!” called out the Tsarevitch. “Bring a light! be quick!”

The old man coughed and grunted angrily at having to come down from his

warm couch.

“And what did I hope for?” the Tsarevitch questioned himself, for the

first time recovering full consciousness during those days. “Is it

possible?”

Afanássieff, pattering with his bare feet, brought in a snuffy tallow

candle. The light hurt Alexis’ eyes, it seemed blinding, dazzling after

the darkness. A light as it were flashed across his soul, he suddenly

saw what he neither wanted nor dared to face—the reason why he felt so

happy—the thought that his father would die. And he was horror-struck to

comprehend that he longed for that death.

CHAPTER III

“Do you remember, my Lord, how in your room at Preobrazhensky I asked you

before the Holy Gospels, whether you would regard me as your confessor,

your guardian-angel, God’s apostle—the judge of your actions; and whether

you believed that I, unworthy though I might be, possessed that holy

power of the priest to bind, or to loose, which Christ granted to his

apostles; and you answered ‘Yes’?”

So spake to the Tsarevitch the arch-priest Father James Ignatief, who had

come from Moscow to Petersburg, about three weeks after Alexis’ interview

with Theodosius.

Ten years before Father James had stood in the same relationship to

Alexis as the Patriarch Nicon had stood to his grandfather, the gentle

Tsar Alexis Michailovitch. The grandson had followed his grandfather’s

precept: “Let the clergy be first; submit to them without question, the

priesthood is higher than the Tsarhood.” Amid the universal desecration

and thraldom of the Church, the Tsarevitch felt it a sweet privilege to

bow before the humble priest James. In the pastor’s face he saw the face

of the Lord himself, and he believed that the Lord was Lord of lords, and

King of kings. The more absolute and severe Father James was, the more

humble was the Tsarevitch, and the more he rejoiced in his humility. He

bestowed upon his spiritual father all that love he could not give to his

father after the flesh. It was a jealous, tender, passionate friendship,

almost like that between lovers. “I take God for witness that in the

whole Russian Empire I have no other such friend as your holiness,” he

wrote to Father James from abroad. “I did not mean to say it, but, never

mind, I will now; may God grant you long life, and should you be called

to a better world I should have no desire to return to Russia.”

Suddenly it all changed. Father James had a son-in-law, the clerk Peter

Anfimoff. Yielding to the entreaties of his confessor, Alexis had taken

this Anfimoff into his service and entrusted to him the administration

of his estates at Poretzkoye, in the Government of Nishni-Novgorod. The

arbitrary rule of the clerk ruined the peasants, and almost drove them to

revolt. Many times did they write to Alexis complaining about Peter the

thief, but the latter always came out unscathed, thanks to the protection

of Father James. At last it dawned upon the peasants to send a messenger

to Petersburg, to their old friend and countryman, Ivan Afanássieff,

valet to the Tsarevitch. Ivan went himself to Poretzkoye to investigate

matters, and on his return, reported in such a way that no doubt whatever

remained of Peter’s dishonesty and villainy, and what was more important,

that Father James knew all about it. It was a severe blow to Alexis.

He was indignant, not because of the harm done to him or his peasants,

but because the Church of God seemed to him desecrated in the person of

her unworthy pastor. For a long time he would not see Father James, he

concealed his resentment and said nothing; but at last it burst out.

Under the nickname of Father Hell, together with Jibanda, Sleeper, the

Lasher and other boon companions of the Tsarevitch, the arch-priest was

wont to take part in the drinking bouts of the Most Drunken Conclave,

an imitation of Peter’s more famous association. At one of their orgies

Alexis began denouncing the Russian clergy, calling them Judas, the

Betrayers of Christ.

“When will the new prophet Elijah arise to break your backs, ye priests

of Baal?” exclaimed Alexis, looking straight at Father James.

“You speak wildly, Tsarevitch,” the latter interposed with severity, “it

ill becomes you to cast reproaches at us, your unworthy intercessors with

God——”

“Oh! we know your prayers,” interrupted Alexis, “You seek pardon and

in the same breath pray for God’s blessing on your knavery. My father,

the Tsar Peter, may God grant him long life! did well to clip your

wings! You deserve to be treated much worse than this, you Pharisees,

hypocrites, serpent brood.”

Father James got up from the table, came up to the Tsarevitch and asked

in a solemn voice:—

“Of whom do you speak, my Lord. Is it myself?”

At this minute Father James resembled the holy Father, the patriarch

Nikon, but Peter’s son no longer resembled the gentle Tsar Alexis

Michailovitch.

“You too are included,” answered the Tsarevitch, standing up and

continuing to look at Father James. “You too, Father, cannot be exempt

from the general rule; you too have sold your soul to the devil; and have

become a priest from motives of self interest. Why do you assume such

pride? You want the Patriarchate, no doubt? If so, you are a long way off

it. Wait, the Lord will soon cast you down from the pride of place which

your Church assumes, and you will fall into the mud, mud, mud!”

He added a ribald expression; all laughed. Father James lost control over

himself, he too was drunk, though not so much with wine as with anger.

“Hold your tongue, Alexis,” he cried. “Be quiet, you puppy.”

“If I am a puppy, you, Father, are a dog!”

Father James’ face became purple, he trembled all over, raised both his

hands over the head of the Tsarevitch, and with the voice in which he was

wont to pronounce the anathema against all heretics and apostates, he now

called out:

“I will curse you with the power given to us by the Lord Himself, through

the Apostle Peter——”

“Spare your breath,” retorted Alexis with a malignant smile. “Don’t

invoke Peter the Apostle, but Peter Anfimoff the clerk, the thief, your

beloved son-in-law, it’s he, Peter the vile, Peter the evil one, who

possesses you and cries within you!”

Father James dropped one hand and struck Alexis on the cheek: “Closing

the mouth of the evil one.”

The Tsarevitch fell upon him, with one hand he seized him, the other

was searching for a knife on the table. Distorted by anger, pale, with

flashing eyes, the face of Alexis bore a momentary, mysterious likeness

to his father Peter. It was one of those fits of fury which from time to

time the Tsarevitch was subject to, and while it lasted he was capable

of any crime.

The others started up and rushed to separate them; they seized the

combatants by hands and feet, and, after considerable effort, succeeded

in parting them.

This quarrel, like all similar quarrels, had no result: a drunkard is not

responsible for his deeds; it is a usual thing to drink, fight, sleep it

off and be friends again. They too made it up; but the old love did not

return. The priest had lost his authority over the grandson as he had

done over the grandfather.

Father James was the intermediary between the Tsarevitch and a whole

secret confederacy, almost a conspiracy, against Peter and his new town.

This society had for its centre the disgraced Tsaritsa Eudoxia, the first

wife of Peter, who had been banished to Sousdal. When the news spread of

the Tsar’s supposed fatal illness, Father James hurried to Petersburg,

bearing a message from Sousdal, where great things were expected when

Alexis should become Tsar. But things had taken a new turn by the time

the priest had arrived. The Tsar grew better so rapidly that his recovery

seemed almost miraculous, or else his illness had been feigned. Kikin’s

prophecy had been fulfilled: the cat which was supposed to be dead had

leapt up, and there was an end to the mice’s merry-making; all dispersed

and hid themselves. Peter had gained his end, and had learnt what his

son’s strength would be, should he, the Tsar, really die.

Rumours had reached Alexis that his father was very wroth with him. One

of the spies, was it Theodosius himself? had whispered, it was said,

to Peter, that the Tsarevitch was cheerful at the time of his father’s

illness and that his face was bright and joyous.

Again all forsook the Tsarevitch, avoided him as a leper. After having

dreamt of the throne he saw himself nigh to the scaffold, and he knew

that he should find no mercy. Daily he dreaded an interview with his

father. Yet hatred and revolt stifled fear. This deception, this

dissimulation, this feline slyness, this sacrilegious trifling with death

seemed vile to him. He could not help remembering another dissimulation

of his father’s. The letter threatening disinheritance, “a declaration

to my son,” which the Tsarevitch received on the day of his wife’s

funeral, October 22, 1715, had been dated October 11, the eve of his

son’s, young Peter Alexeyevitch’s, birth. At the time he had not noticed

the antedating; but now he saw the reason for this subterfuge. When a son

was born to him, Alexis, the Tsar could not very well have ignored the

same in his “declaration”; nor could he threaten absolute disinheritance

when a new heir had appeared. The substitution of dates leant an

appearance of legitimacy to what was in reality unlawful.

The Tsarevitch smiled bitterly, when he remembered how his father always

liked to pose as artless and straightforward.

He could forgive his father everything, all the great wrongs and

ill-doings, but he could not get over this petty cunning.

Father James found the Tsarevitch immersed in these thoughts. Alexis was

pleased to see him; he was lonely and welcomed any visitor. But Nikon’s

spirit was strong in Father James. Feeling that Alexis now more than ever

needed his help, he resolved to remind him of his wrongs.

“Tsarevitch,” continued Father James, “you have broken the vow made unto

me in Preobrazhensky before the Holy Gospels, treating it lightly and

with contempt. You no longer consider me your guardian angel, the apostle

of Christ, the judge of all your actions; on the contrary you have taken

upon yourself to judge and outrage us with reviling words. And much

misery did you bring into our household through this affair, between our

son-in-law and the peasants of Poretzkoye. And you have plucked me, your

spiritual father, by the beard, a thing your highness had no right to do,

if only for fear of the living God.... Though I be a vile sinner, yet I

am, nevertheless, a minister of the pure body and blood of Christ. The

Lord of lords will judge between us on the day of the great reckoning,

when there will be no dissimulation. Then the power of the world will

fade away, and the Tsar will stand before God simply as a man.”

Without a word the Tsarevitch raised his eyes to him; they expressed

neither grief nor despair, but such blank indifference that Father James

did not continue; he understood that this was not the right moment to

settle old accounts. He was warm-hearted and deeply attached to Alexis.

“Well, God will forgive you,” he said in conclusion, “and you, my friend,

forgive me also——”

Then he added, looking into his face with tender anxiety:

“Why are you so downcast, Alexis?”

The Tsarevitch hung his head and did not reply.

“I have brought you something,” Father James smiled with a cheerful,

mysterious air, “a letter from your mother. I have recently been to see

them. Their joy has invigorated me. Again they have had visions, voices,

saying: The time will soon come.” He searched in his pocket for the

letter.

“Don’t,” the Tsarevitch stopped him, “don’t, Father James. It would be

better not to let me see it. What good can it do? Life is particularly

difficult for me at this moment. This might be reported, my father could

get wind of it. We are surrounded by spies. Don’t go to see the religious

again, and bring me no more letters in future. We must not——”

Father James again looked at him long and anxiously.

“This is what they have brought him to ... _the son denies his mother_!”

“Can’t you get on with your father?” he asked in a whisper.

Alexis only waved his hand and his head sank lower still. Father James

understood it all. Tears filled the old man’s eyes, he bent over the

Tsarevitch, laid one hand on the young man’s, while with the other he

began gently to stroke his hair, as he would that of a sick child, saying:

“What is it, my little son? What is it, my son? the Lord be with thee! If

you have something on your mind, don’t keep it back; it will do you good

for us to talk it over together. I am your father, remember; though I am

but a sinner yet the Lord may give me wisdom.”

The Tsarevitch continued to be silent and avoided his gaze. But suddenly

his face fell, his lips quivered with a hollow tearless sob, he sank at

his confessor’s feet.

“It’s hard, Father, it’s hard! I know not what to do. I can bear it no

longer—— I wish my father——”

He was unable to proceed, he seemed frightened by what he was going to

say.

“Come into the chapel, come quickly, I’ll tell you all there, I want to

confess. Judge, Father, in the sight of God between my father and me——”

In the chapel, a small room next to the bedchamber, the walls were

covered with ancient icons, in gold and silver trimmings set with

precious stones; they were a heritage of Tsar Alexis. No ray of sunshine

ever penetrated here. Lamps lit the perpetual gloom.

The Tsarevitch knelt before the desk which held the Gospels. Father

James, robed, solemn, as it were transfigured, his face quite simple and

peasant like, slightly heavy, and bloated with age, yet from a distance

still handsome, reminding one of the Saviour’s face on old images—held

the cross, saying:—

“My son, Christ is invisibly present to receive thy confession; be not

ashamed, neither afraid; conceal nothing from me, but recount to me all

thy sins so that thou mayest receive the absolution of our Lord Jesus

Christ.”

And as the sins were named one after the other in the order of the

confession, the priest putting the questions, the penitent answering

them, Alexis’ heart grew lighter and lighter, as though some powerful

being were removing load after load from his soul, and, touching with

light finger the wounds of his conscience, healed them. He felt happy and

awed; his heart burned within him and it seemed to him, that not Father

James, but Christ Himself was standing before him.

“Tell me, son, hast thou willingly or unwillingly slain a man?”

This was a question the Tsarevitch was anticipating with dread.

“I have sinned here,” he replied in a scarcely audible voice, “not in

deed, nor in words, but in thought. I wished my father——”

And again, as before, he stopped short as if what he was going to say had

frightened him. But the All-seeing Eye penetrated the very depths of his

soul, and nothing could be hid from It.

With effort, trembling, pale and bathed in cold sweat, he concluded:

“When my father was ill, I longed for his death.”

He stopped and shrank together and bent his head lower still. He closed

his eyes so as not to see Him who stood before him; his heart sank

in an agony of dread, as though he were waiting for the last word of

condemnation, or absolution, which would peal forth like thunder as on

the day of Judgment, when suddenly he heard the familiar, ordinary human

voice of Father James, saying: “God will forgive thee, child. We all

desired it!”

The Tsarevitch lifted his head, opened his eyes, and saw the familiar,

ordinary, human face, not in the least alarming, with little wrinkles

round the brown eyes; kind and slightly cunning, a mole with three hairs

on the round plump cheek, the reddish grizzled beard, the same he had

once pulled in a scuffle, when in his cups. An ordinary priest, nothing

remarkable about him; yet, if a thunderbolt had fallen, Alexis would have

been less dumbfounded than by those simple words—“God will forgive thee,

we all desired it.”

And meanwhile, the priest continued, as if nothing had happened:—

“Tell me, my son, hast thou abstained from blood, carrion, from the flesh

of strangled animal, or those killed by the wolf, and smitten by the

bird? Hast thou ever defiled thyself by eating what has been forbidden in

the holy laws? Hast thou tasted in Lent, or on Wednesdays and Fridays,

butter and cheese?”

“Father,” exclaimed the Tsarevitch, “great is my sin, the Lord knows how

great it is!”

“Hast thou broken the Lenten fast?” asked Father James with anxiety.

“I did not mean that, Father; I speak of my father, the Tsar. How is it

possible? I am his son, flesh of his flesh. The son prayed for the death

of his father! He who longs for another person’s death is a murderer. I

am a parricide in thought. I am troubled, Father James, sorely troubled.

Verily, Father, I confess to thee as to Christ Himself. Judge me, help

me, be gracious unto me, O Lord!”

Father James looked at him, first in astonishment, then in anger.

“You repent for having revolted against your father after the flesh, but

you forget your revolt against your father after the spirit! Inasmuch as

the spirit is more than the flesh, by so much is the father after the

spirit greater than the father after the flesh——”

And again he talked in an empty, laboured, literary manner, insisting

again and again upon the honour due to the priesthood above all. “You,

my son, have rebelled. Like a frenzied man, like a mad goat you have

screamed at me. May God not count this unto you! It is not your own

doing, but Satan plays me false through you. He has saddled you like

a sorry jade and rides you proudly like a wild boar, according to the

vision of the holy Fathers, wherever he chooses, till at last he will

drive you into eternal perdition.”

And gradually he led the talk to the affair with the Poretzkoye peasants

and his son-in-law Peter Anfimoff. A veil like a cobweb, grey, wan and

sticky, spread before the eyes of the Tsarevitch, and the face which

stood before him seemed to dilate and double, as in a fog; another face

appeared instead, also familiar, with a red pointed nose ever scenting

the air, blear-eyed and sly, the face of Peter the clerk; and it seemed

as if the dignified face of the Most Reverend Father James, which

resembled the face of Christ as painted on ancient icons, merged and

mingled in a strange unholy way with the features of Peter the thief,

Peter the rogue.

“Our Lord Jesus Christ by the grace and abounding compassion of His love,

doth pardon and forgive thee, son Alexis, all thy sins!” recited Father

James, covering the young man’s head with the stole, “and I, unworthy

minister, unto whom He has given the power to pronounce pardon and

absolution, declare thee free of thy sins in the name of the Father, the

Son and the Holy Spirit!”

Alexis felt an emptiness in his heart. The words seemed to him

meaningless, powerless, without mystery, without awe. He felt that what

was forgiven here on earth would not be forgiven him in heaven; that

absolution received here was not absolution there.

The same day towards evening, Father James went for his vapour bath;

on his return, he sat down near the hearth opposite to the Tsarevitch,

and began to drink the hot “sbeeten,” boiled in a kettle of red copper,

which reflected the red face of the priest. He drank in leisurely

fashion, glass after glass, and mopped his brow with a large chequered

handkerchief. He took his bath and drank his drink as if performing a

rite. In the way he drank and munched the cracknels, he maintained the

same order and solemnity as when officiating at a Church service. He

manifestly was a respecter of ancient traditions, and in him appeared

the representative of the old Orthodoxy of Russia: “be immoveable like a

pillar of marble; bend neither to the right nor to the left.”

The Tsarevitch listened to detached arguments as to what bunches of twigs

were softest for use in a vapour bath, what herbs, mint or tansy, made

the best scent for a bath; then to a story of how the priest’s own wife

had nearly suffocated herself in a vapour bath last winter on the eve of

St. Nicholas’ day. Then to an exhortation drawn from the holy Fathers:

“The worm is exceedingly humble and lean, while thou art proud and

renowned; but if thou wilt be reasonable, destroy thy pride, remembering

that strength and power will be meat for the worms; fear vanity, eschew

anger.”

Again the affair with the peasants of Poretzkoye and the inevitable Peter

Anfimoff was introduced.

The Tsarevitch was sleepy, and it seemed to him, at times, that it was

not a man sitting and talking before him, but a cow, interminably chewing

the cud.

The twilight was falling. Outside, the snow was melting, the weather

was warm; a yellow dirty fog hung in the air; the pale lineaments of

the frost-flowers melted and wept on the window panes. The sky was

dull, watery and lowering like the sly, vile eyes of Peter the clerk.

Father James sat opposite the Tsarevitch in the place which, three weeks

ago, had been occupied by the Archimandrite Theodosius; and Alexis

involuntarily compared the two pastors, that of the Old and that of the

New Church.

“Not prelates but riffraff! we were eagles, we have become bats,” said

Theodosius. “We were eagles and have become beasts of burden,” the priest

James might have said. Behind Theodosius stood the eternal politician,

the ancient prince of the world; behind Father James there also was a

politician, the new prince of this world, Peter the rogue. One was worthy

of the other. The Old was worthy of the New. And could it be possible

that, screened behind these two persons, the past and the future, there

was a third, the unique image of the Church as a whole? He looked now

at the dirty sky, now at the red face of the priest. In both there was

something flat, trivial, eternally trivial; something which was ever

present and commonplace; and yet more awful than the wildest delirium.

The heart of the Tsarevitch was empty; he was weary with a weariness

bitterer than death itself. Again, as on another night, a bell was heard,

first far off in the distance and then louder and louder as it came

nearer. The Tsarevitch listened anxiously.

“Somebody is driving up; are they coming here?” said Father James.

The splashing of horses’ hoofs in the melted snow was heard, the squeak

of the sleigh runners on the bare stones, voices in the entrance, steps

across the hall; the doors opened and in came a giant with a handsome

stupid face, a strange mixture of a Roman soldier and a Russian, Ivan

the fool. It was the Tsar’s orderly, Alexander Ivanovitch Roumiantzev,

Captain of the Preobrazhensky Guards. He handed a letter to the

Tsarevitch, who broke the seal and read:—

“Son, we order thee to come to-morrow to the Winter Palace.

“PETER.”

Alexis was neither frightened nor surprised; he seemed to have foreseen

this interview and felt indifferent.

* * * * *

That night the Tsarevitch had a dream, which he often dreamt, and always

in the same way.

This dream was connected with a story he had been told in his childhood.

In the time of the executions of the Streltsy Tsar Peter ordered the body

of his enemy, the chief rebel leader, Boyarin Ivan Miloslavski, who was a

friend of Sophia, to be disinterred; it had remained for seventeen years

in St. Nicholas’ Church; the open coffin was then drawn by swine to

Preobrazhensky, and there placed in the torture chamber under the block

on which traitors were beheaded so that the blood should flow on the dead

man; then the body was ordered to be cut into pieces and buried in that

chamber under the block—“so that,” ran the ukase, “the vile parts of

the thief Miloslavski should be always watered by the blood of thieves,

according to the word of the Psalmist: ‘The Lord will abhor the bloody

and deceitful man.’”

In this dream Alexis seemed at first to see nothing, but only hear that

terrible song from the fairy-tale about the sister and brother, which

his grandmother, Peter’s mother, the old Tsaritsa Natalia Kirilovna

Naryishkin, had often told him in his childhood. The brother, changed

into a goat, was calling his sister Alionoushka, but in the dream Alexis

heard instead of “Alionoushka” his own name Alioshenka (diminutive for

Alexis).

Alioshenka, Alioshenka,

Hot fires are burning,

Cauldrons are steaming,

Knives are being sharpened,

All to butcher thee.

Before his eyes rises the vision of a lonely street of thawing snow,

a row of bleak log huts, the leaden cupolas of the old church of St.

Nicholas. It is an early, gloomy dawn; more like evening. On the horizon

a comet; a huge star with a tail red as blood. Fat, black pigs, spotted

with pink, are drawing a mock sleigh. On the sleigh stands an open

coffin; in the coffin lies something black stained with blood in the red

glow of the comet. The thin ice on the spring pools cracks under the

weight of the sleighs, and the black mud splashes like blood. Stillness

reigns in the air, as at the end of the world before the archangel’s

trumpet sounds; only the pigs grunt, and somebody’s voice, very much

like the voice of that old man in the green faded pall, St. Demetrius of

Rostov, whom Alexis remembered to have seen in his childhood, whispers in

his ear: “The Lord abhors a bloody and deceitful man,” and the Tsarevitch

knows that the bloody man is Peter himself.

He awoke from this dream as usual, in a tremor. A nearly dark gloomy

morn was visible through the window. The air was hushed as at the

approach of the Judgment day. Suddenly he heard a knock at the door and

the sleepy, grumpy voice of Afanássieff:

“Get up, get up, Tsarevitch, it’s time to go to your father.”

He tried to shout aloud and jump up; but his limbs seemed paralysed. He

felt as if his body was not his own; he lay as if dead. The dream was

continuing, and he had wakened up in his dream. At the same time he heard

a knock at the door, and the voice of Afanássieff saying:—

“It’s time to go to your father!”

And his grandmother’s voice, old and feeble, like the bleating of a goat,

was singing to him in a low voice that terrible song:

Alioshenka, Alioshenka,

Hot fires are burning,

Cauldrons are steaming,

Knives are being sharpened,

All to butcher thee.

CHAPTER IV

Peter was speaking to Alexis:—

“In the beginning of the war with Sweden what great reverses did we not

suffer because of our own ignorance? How much sorrow and patience did our

apprenticeship cost us, before we were found worthy to behold the enemy,

before whom we had trembled, tremble in his turn before us? All this has

been accomplished by my poor efforts and those of other true sons of

Russia. For to this day are we to eat our bread in the sweat of our brow,

as God commanded our forefather Adam. As far as it lay in our power we

all toiled like Noah to build the ark of Russia, guided by one thought

alone: that the glory of Russia should spread over the world!

“But when I, after contemplating this joy granted by God unto our

country, consider my successor, a grief well nigh strong as my joy gnaws

at my heart, for I know you to be incapable of directing the affairs of

the state.”

As he was ascending the staircase of the Winter Palace and passing the

grenadier who stood on guard at the door of the Tsar’s working room,

Alexis had felt, as always before an interview with his father, an

instinctive physical fear. His head swam, his teeth chattered, his legs

gave way, he was afraid of falling.

Yet as his father proceeded in a calm even voice with his long speech,

evidently prepared, and possibly committed to memory, Alexis’ fear

lessened. Everything within gradually subsided, hardened, and again he

felt indifferent, as if his father’s speech were neither addressed to

him, nor had regard to him. The Tsarevitch stood like a soldier, erect,

hands to his sides, listening yet not heeding, looking stealthily around

the room with a distracted, indifferent curiosity.

Lathes, carpenter’s tools, astrolabes, spirit levels, compasses, globes

and other mathematical instruments, accessories of artillery and

fortification, crowded the small workshop, giving it the appearance of

a ship’s cabin. Upon the walls panelled in dark oak, hung the seascape

views of Peter’s favourite Dutch master, Adam Silo, “Useful for the art

of seamanship.” All these objects were familiar to the Tsarevitch from

his childhood; they roused in him a flood of memories. On the Dutch

newspapers lay a large round pair of iron-rimmed spectacles, bound with

blue silk to prevent them hurting the bridge of the nose; next to them a

night cap made of white striped dimity with a green tassel, which Alexis

remembered to have torn off when playing with it, whereat his father had

not got cross, but had left off writing a decree and had sewed it on

himself.

Peter sat at a table covered with papers, in an old leather arm-chair

with a high back, near a hot stove. He wore a faded blue, threadbare,

dressing gown which the Tsarevitch remembered having seen before the

Poltava battle; he recognised the same coloured patch, only more

brilliant, on the place once burnt by his pipe; a red woollen waistcoat

with white bone buttons, one of which was broken and only half remained;

he recognised it at once and he counted, as for some reason he always did

during the long admonishing speeches of his father, and he saw that the

broken button was the sixth from below. The nether garments were made

of coarse blue woollen stuff; on his feet he wore grey worsted darned

stockings and old worn slippers. The Tsarevitch scrutinised all these

details, so familiar, yet so remote. Only his father’s face he could

scarcely see: through the window, behind which spread the white surface

of the Neva, a slanting ray of yellow winter sun fell between them, thin,

long, and pointed as a sword. It separated them and shut them off from

one another. In the luminous square on the floor made by the window,

right at the feet of the Tsar, lay coiled up asleep his favourite dog

Lisette.

The Tsar spoke in an even, monotonous, and slightly husky voice (for he

had a cold), as if reading aloud a written decree:—

“God is not responsible for your incapacity, since He has neither

deprived you of reason, nor robbed you of physical strength; though you

are not of a very strong build, neither are you weak. Yet you refuse to

interest yourself in military affairs and wars, which have led us from

darkness into light, and through which we, before unknown to the world,

are now known and respected. I do not wish you to make war without just

cause, only to love the military art and to try to excel in it. For this

is one of the agents of the two essential requisites of government, which

are order and defence. Contempt of war will lead to general ruin, as

the fall of the Greek Empire serves to show. Did it not perish because

it laid aside its arms, and, filled with the love of peace, desirous of

leading a quiet life, always yielded to the enemy, who brought it into

the never-ending bondage of tyrants? If you imagine that generals can do

the work by deputy, this is truly no valid reason, for everybody imitates

naturally his master; what the master aims at, all aim at; and what he

turns away from, no one cares for. Having no liking for military affairs

you studied nothing, you ignored everything. And being ignorant, how

can you command, how can you reward the deserving, punish the indolent,

seeing you know nothing about their work? You will be forced to wait,

gaping, with open mouth, like a fledgling. You make your weak health an

excuse for not performing your military duties. That is no sound reason.

I do not demand superhuman efforts, only goodwill, which no illness can

hinder. You think that there are many monarchs who do not personally

take part in war, and yet things go on just as well. That is true, but

though they don’t go themselves, at least they have an interest in it;

for example, the late king of France, Louis, was seldom present during

campaigns, yet he so loved it, and caused such valiant deeds to be done,

that his wars were termed the theatre and school of arms of the world;

and not only in his wars, but also in other affairs and industries he

showed great interest, and thus the renown of his country rose above

all others. Having laid this before you I will now return to your own

character, for I am only human, and liable to die at any moment——”

The sunbeam, which separated them, had faded away, and Alexis saw Peter’s

face. The face had changed, as if not a month, but years had passed

since their last interview, then Peter had been in the bloom and power

of manhood, now he was almost an old man. The Tsarevitch saw at once

that his father’s illness had not been feigned, and that, probably, he

had been nearer death than he himself and those around him had thought.

The bald head—the hair in front had fallen out—the swollen eyes, the

protruding jaw, the whole face pale, yellow, bloated as if dropsical—had

about it something heavy, motionless, like a mask taken from a dead face.

Only his eyes, brilliant, as it were inflamed, dilated like those of a

captive bird of prey, prominent, protruding, had something of the old

youthful expression, which seemed now indescribably weary, weak, almost

pitiable.

And at the same time Alexis understood that, notwithstanding all his

thought on the subject of his father’s death, although he had expected,

even wished that death, he had never realized it, as if unable to believe

that his father could really die. Now for the first time he believed

in the possibility of this death. In this new feeling there was new

perplexity, and a terror never before experienced, not for himself, but

for his father; what must death be to a man like that? How would he die?

“For I am only human, and liable to die,” continued Peter. “To whom

shall I leave what with God’s help I have begun to plant, and some of

which has already begun to take root? Shall it be to him who, like the

unprofitable servant of the Gospel, buried his talent in the earth, and

thrust away the gift God gave him? I refer to your wicked and obstinate

character. For how often have I remonstrated with you upon this, and not

only remonstrated with but flogged you; and how many years is it since I

gave up intercourse with you, but to no purpose. It’s all in vain, you

will do nothing, all you ask for is to live at home in indolence and

self-indulgence. There is something in you which thwarts all my projects.

On one side you have royal blood and a high station, on the other

plebeian thoughts like the lowest of the serfs. You are surrounded by

worthless people who can advance you in nothing except in actions which

are mean and depraved. And what return do you make to your father for

your birth? Do you help me in my arduous toils and anxieties, having now

reached manhood? Ah never! never! All know this. But what is worse, you

actually hate my work, which, I, not sparing my own life, have done for

my people, and it is plain you will destroy everything after my death!

And pondering over this in grief, seeing that I can in no way induce you

to reform, I have resolved to declare unto you my last testament, and

then wait a while to see whether you will not sincerely reform. If not

let it be known unto you——”

Here he was seized with a long painful fit of coughing, which the illness

had left him. His face grew livid, his eyes protruded, sweat stood on his

brow, his veins swelled. He choked, and like small children who have not

learnt to cough, he choked from his vain, frantic efforts to expectorate.

There was something ludicrous, and at the same time terrible, in this

mixture of childishness and old age. Lisette was roused, she lifted

up her head and looked at her master with wistful pitying gaze. The

Tsarevitch also looked at his father, and suddenly he felt a stab at his

heart, “The dog has some pity for him,” he mused, “while I——”

At last Peter got the phlegm up and spat it out. He swore, and mopping

his brow and eyes, continued where he had left off; his voice, though

huskier, was still passionless and even, as if he were reading aloud a

written decree:

“Once more I repeat, so that you may know——”

He dropped his handkerchief; he was going to pick it up, but Alexis

forestalled him; he stooped, lifted it, and gave it to his father. This

little action brought to his mind that shy, tender, almost loving feeling

he once had for his father.

“Father,” he exclaimed with such an agitated expression in his face and

voice, that Peter looked at him fixedly and then cast down his eyes,

“God is my witness that towards you I have been guilty of no vile action

or design. I do not feel fit for the throne, and fear to undertake

responsibilities which I could not fulfil. How can I? and am I, father

... for thee ... O Lord!”

His voice broke. He raised his hands convulsively in despair, as if

about to clutch his head, and so he remained, pale and trembling, with

a strange distracted smile on his face. He did not know himself what it

was, he only felt how something grew, rose, and was struggling forth from

his breast with terrible force. One word, one look, one sign from his

father and his son would have fallen at his feet, would have embraced

them and sobbed with such tears, as would have melted and broken down

that terrible wall between them, like sunshine upon ice. He would have

explained everything, he would have found words which would have made his

father forgive, understand how all his life through he had loved him, him

alone, and even now continued to love him with a love stronger than ever,

and that he wanted nothing but to be allowed to go on loving him, to die

for him had he but once caressed him and said, as he used to say to the

child, pressing him to his heart: “Aliósha, my darling boy!”

“Drop this childishness,” he heard Peter saying gruffly; yet it seemed

to be assumed roughness, in reality he was moved, and tried to conceal

his emotion. “Don’t try to find excuses, prove your faith by your deeds;

words cannot be trusted. It is written: ‘An evil tree cannot bring forth

good fruit.’”

To avoid his son’s gaze Peter looked aside, and yet there was something

flitting and trembling in his face, as if the true face, familiar and

loved by the Tsarevitch, were peering through a dead mask. But Peter

had already mastered his emotion; as he went on talking, his face grew

severe, his voice relentless:—

“Nowadays idlers are not high in my favour! He who eats bread and

is unprofitable to Tsar and country is like the worm, which brings

everything into decay, and confers no benefit upon mankind. Even the

Apostle saith: ‘If any man will not work neither shall he eat.’ You have

shown yourself to be an idler——”

Alexis did not heed the words; yet every sound wounded his soul, cut into

it with insufferable pain, as a knife stabbing a living body. This was

akin to murder; he meant to cry, stop his father, yet he felt that his

father would understand nothing, would hear nothing. Again the wall rose

up, an abyss yawned between them. Every word removed his father further,

further, more and more irrevocably from him, as the dead recede from the

living.

At last even the pain abated, again everything hardened within him. Again

he felt indifferent, and was only wearied by the drowsiness produced by

this lifeless voice, which no longer wounded, but only dragged over him

like a blunt saw.

To put an end to it and escape, he chose the first moment of silence

to give his answer which he had prepared long since, with the same

expressionless voice and face as his father’s.

“Most gracious Sovereign and Father, what else can I say, but that

should you, because of my unfitness, take from me the inheritance of the

Russian Crown, your will be done. I entreat you, my sovereign sire, most

humbly let it be so! I consider myself incapable and unfit for the task,

especially being deficient in memory, without which nothing can be done;

and having grown weak in consequence of numerous ailments in body and

soul, I cannot rule this great people, who need a stronger man than I can

ever be. This is why I would desire to renounce all claim to the Russian

throne even though I had no brother, but I have one, thanks to God. And

I therefore in the sight of God finally renounce the Crown, and, if

necessary, I am prepared to confirm the statement by my own handwriting.

My children I leave to your goodwill; as for myself, I only ask to be fed

till my death.”

Silence ensued. Nothing save the measured brass ticking of the hanging

clock broke the hush of the wintry day.

“Your resignation is only a means to gain time, and is not sincere,”

Peter said at last, “for if now you neither fear nor respect your

father’s commands, how would you keep your word after his death? Your

hardheartedness makes your oath of no value. David truly said, ‘All men

are liars.’ Even if you yourself should desire to keep it, you could

easily be influenced and prevailed upon by the ‘long beards,’ the priests

and monks, who, because of their indolence are at present not held in

high esteem, yet whom you favour exceedingly. It is impossible for you

to remain as you desire, for you will be then neither fish nor fowl, but

you must either change and clearly prove yourself worthy of a throne, or

else become a monk. We cannot rest unless this choice be made, especially

now that our health is giving way.”

Alexis remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ground, his face looking

as lifeless as Peter’s. One mask confronted the other, and both bore a

sudden, strange, phantom-like semblance; two contrasts resembled one

another. It seemed that Peter’s round, wide, swollen face, reflected in

the drawn haggard face of Alexis, as in a concave mirror, had become

strangely narrow and long.

Peter too remained silent; his right cheek, the corner of his mouth and

eye, the whole right side of his face began trembling, and twitching,

until at last a convulsion ensued which contracted his face, neck,

shoulder, arm and leg. Many supposed he was subject to epileptic fits, or

was even possessed, because of these convulsive spasms which generally

preceded fits of fury. Alexis could not as a rule look at his father

without terror at such moments, but to-day he was calm, as if protected

by an invisible, impenetrable armour. What more could his father do to

him? Kill him! What matter? Was not what he had just done worse than

murder?

“Why do you remain silent?” suddenly screamed Peter, banging his fist

on the table, in one of those convulsive seizures which shook his whole

body. “Take care, Alexis, you think I don’t know you? But I do, I see

you through and through! You have rebelled against your own blood, you

brat! you long for your own father’s death! O you hypocrite! You cursed

sanctimonious humbug! You have probably learnt such behaviour from

the priests and the monks! It was not for nothing that Christ ordered

his disciples to fear nothing except this: ‘beware of the leaven of

the Pharisees,’ which is no other thing than monkish hypocrisy and

dissimulation!”

A malicious smile scarcely perceptible lighted up the downcast eyes of

the Tsarevitch. He could hardly refrain from asking his father what was

the meaning of the substitution of dates—October 11 for October 22—in

the “Declaration to my son”? Where had the father learnt the arts of

dissimulation, this deception, worthy of Petka the clerk, Petka the

villain, or of Theodosius, the “Prince of this world,” with his “Divine

intrigue,” his “heavenly diplomacy”?

“This is my last warning,” continued Peter, his voice becoming hard

again, calm, passionless; he mastered his convulsions by a supreme effort

of will, “consider it all well and when you have made a decision inform

me at once of it, otherwise, be it known to you that I will disinherit

you. Should my finger become gangrenous would I not be obliged to cut

it off, though it be a part of my body? So also will I cut you off! And

do not think that I speak this only to frighten you, verily I repeat it

before God, I will do as I say, for I have not spared, nor do I spare,

my life in the service of my country and people, and why should I spare

you, who are worthless. Better a good stranger than a worthless son. This

is why I repeat it, so that you may know that you may have these two

alternatives clear: either mend your ways, or become a monk! And should

you fail to do either——”

Peter suddenly rose and stood before him in his full height. Again

convulsions came upon him, his head shook, his hands and feet trembled,

the death mask of a face, twitching with grotesque grimaces, and with

its immovable feverish glance, was truly terrible. The hollow roar of an

animal sounded in his voice:

“Should you fail to make a choice I shall proceed against you as against

a malefactor!”

“I wish to become a monk, and pray for your gracious sanction,” said the

Tsarevitch in a low firm voice.

He lied. Peter knew that he lied; and Alexis knew that he could not

befool his father. The wicked delight of revenge filled the soul of

Alexis. His unbounded submissiveness was nothing but unbounded obstinacy.

The son was now stronger than the father, the weak more powerful than the

strong. What good could accrue to the Tsar, if his son became a monk? The

monk’s cowl is not nailed to the head. It is possible to take it off.

Yesterday a monk, to-morrow a Tsar. His father’s body would turn in his

grave when his son should become Tsar; Alexis would scatter everything,

destroy everything, he would bring Russia to perdition. It was not enough

to seclude him in a monastery, he would have to be killed, exterminated,

wiped out from the face of the world.

“Go away!” moaned Peter with impotent fury.

The Tsarevitch lifted his eyes and stared at his father, without raising

his head, as a young wolf would look at an old one, showing his teeth

and bristling his hair. Their eyes met like two rapiers in a duel and

the father’s gaze dropped, as it were broke, like a blade against a hard

stone.

And again he groaned like a wounded beast; he raised his fist and with an

oath was going to throw himself on his son, beat and slay him.

Suddenly a small, delicate, strong hand was laid on Peter’s shoulder.

The Tsaritsa Catherine had for a long time been listening at the door,

trying to see through the keyhole what was going on. Catherine was

inquisitive. As usual she appeared at the most dangerous moment to save

her husband. She had pushed the door open noiselessly, and came up to him

from behind on tiptoe.

“Peter, Peter,” she began in a humble tone, slightly good humoured and

coaxing, such as kind nurses adopt towards stubborn children or invalids,

“don’t tire yourself, Peter, don’t excite yourself, my dear. Otherwise

should you wear yourself out you will again fall ill and be obliged to

lie up. And you, Tsarevitch, go, God be with you. You see the Tsar is

unwell.”

Peter turned round, he saw the calm, almost cheerful face of his wife,

and at once he regained control of himself; his raised hands dropped limp

at his side, and his huge, heavy body sank into a chair; fell like a full

grown tree cut at the root.

Alexis continuing to look at his father from under his eyelashes, stooped

bristling up like an enraged animal and slowly receded towards the door;

only on the threshold did he turn round; then he opened the door and

hurriedly left the room.

Meanwhile Catherine sat down on the arm of the chair, took Peter’s

head and pressed it against her large soft bosom, soft as the bosom of

a foster-mother. Next to the yellow, withered, almost old face of her

husband, Catherine looked quite young. She had a high colour and her

cheeks were covered with small downy moles which looked like beauty

spots, pleasing dimples, dark arched eyebrows, carefully curled rings

of black dyed hair on her low forehead, large protruding eyes and a

continuous smile, such as ever adorns the portraits of royalty. On the

whole, however, she less resembled a Tsaritsa than a German waitress,

or else the simple wife of a soldier, a laundress, as the Tsar himself

called her, who accompanied her husband on all his campaigns, washing and

sewing for him, and when he was ill made warm poultices for him, rubbed

his stomach with ointment, supplied by Blumentrost, and gave him medicine.

Nobody save Catherine knew how to tame these fits of fury, which were

dreaded by all around him.

Holding his head with one hand, she fondled his hair with the other,

repeating again and again the same words: “Peter, Peter, my dear one, my

heart’s treasure!” She was like a mother rocking her sick child, or like

a tamer of lions fondling her beast. Under the influence of this gentle

continuous caress the Tsar always grew calm, as it were fell into a dose.

The convulsions in his body abated, only his motionless face, now almost

quite rigid, with the eyes closed, continued to twitch from time to time,

as if grimacing.

A little monkey had followed Catherine into the room; it was a present

given to their youngest daughter Elizabeth by a Dutch captain. The

mischievous monkey, following the Tsaritsa like a page, was trying

to catch hold of the bottom of her dress. Noticing Lisette, it grew

frightened, jumped first on the table, then on a sphere which represented

the course of celestial bodies after the system of Copernicus, the thin

brass arcs bent under the weight of the little animal, the globe of the

universe gently tinkled, then higher still on to the very top of the

upright English clock which stood in a glazed box of red mahogany. The

last ray of sunlight caught the clock, and the moving pendulum flashed

like lightning. The monkey had not seen the sun for a long while. As

though trying to recall something, it looked with wistful amazement

at the foreign, pale, wintry sun and screwed up its eyes and made

grotesque faces, as if mocking the convulsions of Peter’s face, and the

resemblance between the grimaces of the little animal and those of the

great Tsar was terrible.

* * * * *

Alexis returned home.

He felt as one whose leg or arm had been amputated; recovering

consciousness he tries to feel for the missing limb and finds it gone.

In the same way the Tsarevitch felt in his soul, once filled with love

for his father, a void. He remembered his father’s words “I will sever

you—I will lop you off like a gangrenous limb,” and it seemed to him that

everything had gone when he lost the love of his father. He felt a void,

neither hope, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor joy, but a light terrible void.

He was amazed how swiftly and easily his wish had been fulfilled: for him

his father was dead.

Book V

THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

CHAPTER I

“It was the will of God, Your Highness, that a great fire should visit

Moscow in 1701, while the Tsar was at Voronesh building ships. In this

fire the whole of the Tsar’s residence in the Kremlin was burnt: the

wooden buildings, the inner parts of those built of stone; churches,

together with their crosses, roofs, screens and the holy images

themselves—all were ablaze. The belfry of the Great John Tower caught

fire, and the bell, weighing 8,000 poods, fell to the ground and broke.

So did that in the Cathedral of the Assumption and sundry other bells.

And in places the earth itself was burning.”

Thus spake to the Tsarevitch Alexis the sacristan of the Annunciation

Church, an old man of seventy.

Peter had gone abroad shortly after his illness on January 27, 1716;

the Tsarevitch remained alone in Petersburg. Receiving no further

intimation from Peter, he dallied with the alternative left him by his

father, either to fit himself for the duties of the throne or to become

a monk, and he continued to live from day to day “till God should order

otherwise.” He had spent the winter in Petersburg; spring and summer in

Roshdestveno; in the autumn he went to Moscow to see his relatives.

On September 10, the eve of his departure, he paid a visit to his old

friend, the sacristan, husband of his wet nurse, and together they went

to view the palace in the Kremlin, which had been destroyed by fire.

For a long time they wandered about the seemingly endless ruins, from

hall to hall and terem to terem. What the flames had spared time was

destroying. There were halls without doors, windows or floors, so that it

was impossible to enter them; and in the walls huge gaps appeared, while

the ceilings and roofs were crumbling. It was with difficulty Alexis

could find the rooms in which he had spent his childhood.

He divined the unexpressed belief of Father John, that the fire,

occurring in the same year in which the Tsar had begun to break down the

old ways, was a sign of God’s wrath.

They entered a dilapidated private chapel, where Ivan the Terrible had

prayed for the son he had slain.

A deep blue sky, such as only canopies ruins, peered through the rent in

the ceiling. Iridescent cobwebs bridged the gap, and through them could

be seen a cross which, snapped by the wind, was suspended by half-broken

chains, and so threatening to fall at any moment. The wind had broken the

mica windows, and crows flying in through the holes had built their nests

in the ceilings and messed the screens. White streams of their droppings

streaked the dark faces of the saints; one half of the holy gates was

torn off; in the sanctuary at the foot of the altar stood a pool of water.

Father John told the Tsarevitch how the priest of the chapel, a

centenarian, had long petitioned the Public Offices, Departments, and

even the Tsar himself, that the structure should be repaired, because,

owing to the age of the ceiling, the leakage had increased to a great

extent, there was danger the Eucharist would be exposed to the elements.

But nobody listened to him; he died of sorrow, and the chapel fell into

ruins.

Crows, scared by their entrance, flew up with ominous cries; through the

windows the wind moaned and sobbed. A spider ran to and fro in his web.

Something started from the altar—apparently a bat—and began to circle

round the head of the Tsarevitch. He felt terrified, and lamented the

state into which the church had fallen; to his mind came the prophet’s

words about “the abomination of desolation in the holy places.”

Passing the golden rails, along the front gallery of the grand staircase,

they descended and entered the Granovitaia Palace, which had been less

damaged than the others. But in place of the receptions to foreign

ambassadors, or levées, originally held there, the palace was now used

for the performance of new comedies and dialogues, and also for buffoon

weddings. And to prevent the old interfering with the new, the existing

writing on the walls had been covered with whitewash, and daubed over

with a gay ochre pattern in the new “German style.”

In one of the lumber rooms on the ground floor Father John pointed out

two stuffed lions. Alexis at once recognised them as the familiar objects

of his childhood. During the reign of Tsar Alexis Michailovitch the lions

were placed near the throne in the Kolomna Palace, where they bellowed,

rolled their eyes, and opened their jaws like live beasts. Their brass

bodies had been covered with sheepskins in lieu of lions’ skins. The

mechanism, which had once produced the “leonine roaring” and moved their

jaws and eyes, was secreted in a separate closet, where the bench with

bellows and springs had been fitted up. The lions had probably been

brought to the Kremlin for repairs, and forgotten here amid the lumber of

the storehouse; the springs were broken, the bellows torn, the skins had

fallen off; rotten bastwisp was protruding from their sides, and pitiful,

indeed, now looked these sometime terrible playthings of former Russian

autocrats—their muzzles expressing blank sheepishness.

In some of the halls, which had fallen into disuse, although they had

escaped the rages of the flames, new departments had been installed.

Thus in those facing the quay, formerly known as the “Obituary” and

“Responsory,” the Treasury was now established. Under the terems the

Senate Department. In the Commissariat the Salt Office, the Military

Department, the Uniform and War Offices. In the old stable was now the

Cloth and Ammunition Stores.

Each department had been installed, not only with its archives,

officials, porters and petitioners, but also with its prisoners, who

remained confined for years in the rooms on the ground floor. These

newcomers swarmed and wriggled in the old palace like worms in a dead

body, causing much foulness.

“All the dung and waste litter from privies, stables and prisoners,”

explained Father John, “pollute the air, and expose to no small danger

the Royal Treasury and costly plate, stored in the palace these many

years; because from all that filth there rises a fetid air, which might

harm the gold and silver vessels by tarnishing them. Would that the dirt

were cleared away and the prisoners located elsewhere! Much have we

begged and prayed, but no one heeds,” the old man concluded sorrowfully.

It was Sunday; the courts were empty. A heavy smell filled the air; on

the walls were the greasy marks of the petitioners’ backs, while ink

stains, ribald writings and drawings caught the eye everywhere. And

above, from the old faded gilt frescoes, the faces of prophets, Church

fathers and Russian saints remained to look down on the scene.

Within the precincts of the Kremlin, hard by the palaces and churches

adjoining the Tainisky Gate, stood the tavern called “The Roller.” It

was so named because of the steep and smooth descent of the Kremlin Hill

at this place. The tavern, which had grown up like a toadstool, was

frequented by the clerks and copyists. For many years it had flourished

in secret, notwithstanding the orders “to exclude from the Kremlin

the aforesaid tavern without delay, and that the income from the sale

of liquor might not suffer to permit the opening of other taverns at

discretion in more convenient and fitting places.”

The air was so close in one of the halls, the Tsarevitch hastened to open

a window. From the “Roller,” crowded with customers, rose up a wild,

almost bestial roaring, the noisy sound of dancing, music and drunken

song, and the words of a notorious song, one sung by the princess-abbess

at his father’s banquets:—

My mother bore me while she danced,

And christened me in the Tsar’s tavern,

And bathed me in the headiest wine.

To the Tsarevitch it seemed that “The Roller” was some dark yawning pit,

whence, together with this song thus degrading motherhood, and the smell

of drink, there was exhaled a stifling odour which filled the royal

halls, causing sickness, dizziness and a sinking at the heart.

He lifted his eyes to the vaulted ceiling of the hall. On its surface

were depicted “the heavenly bodies,” the lunar and solar circles,

angels ministering to the stars, and other works of God. There was also

a picture of Christ Emmanuel, enthroned on heavenly rainbows, with

many-eyed wheels; in his left hand the golden chalice, in his right the

staff; on his head a coigned crown, and on a gold field tinted with

green, ran the inscription:—

“Pre-existent Word of the Father, Thou who art in the image of God, and

through whom all things were made, grant peace to Thy churches, and

victory to the faithful Tsar!”

But from below there came again the song:—

“My mother bore me while she danced,

And christened me in the Tsar’s tavern.”

The Tsarevitch read the inscription in the solar circle, “The sun knew

the time of his setting ... and it was night.” These words flashed on

his mind with a new significance. The ancient sun of the Muscovy kingdom

knew the time of his setting in the dark Finnish bog, in the rotten

autumnal mire; and it was night, not the black, but the terrible white

Petersburg night. The ancient sun grew dim, the ancient gold crown and

“Barma of Monomachus” were tarnished in the new but noxious air. And the

abomination of desolation stood in the holy place.

As if to escape from some invisible pursuer he rushed from the palace,

and, without looking back, fled along corridors, galleries and down the

stairs, leaving Father John far behind, never stopping until he reached

the square, where once more in the open he could breathe freely. Here the

autumn air was pure and fresh, and the old white stones of the churches

seemed pure and fresh also.

In the corner by the walls of the Annunciation Church stood a low bench,

where Father John used often to sit, sunning himself.

On this bench the Tsarevitch dropped exhausted, while the old man went

in to prepare for his night’s rest. The Tsarevitch remained alone. He

felt terribly tired, as if he had journeyed a thousand miles. He could

have wept, but no tears would come. His heart was burning, and his tears

dried up, like water dropped on a glowing stone. The white walls were

bathed in a peaceful evening light. The golden cupolas of the churches

caught by the setting sun were ablaze, like living embers. The sky became

lilac-hued, and as it darkened it resembled the colour of a faded violet;

the white towers stood out like gigantic flowers with flaming crowns.

The old clocks rang forth the hour—the rapid ding-dong of many smaller

bells chiming in half-tones to the steady booming of the hour-bell—their

confused medley of sounds producing a solemn, if somewhat harsh, church

music. Meanwhile the modern Dutch clocks replied with melodious jingling

and modern dance music, “after the manner of Amsterdam.”

And all these old and modern sounds brought back to the Tsarevitch’s

mind his distant childhood. He closed his eyes, and his mind sank into

drowsiness—into that dark domain where, betwixt sleep and waking, hover

the shadows of the past. Visions floated before him, like motley shadows

on a white wall when a sunbeam enters a dark room through a chink. One

awe-inspiring image dominated them all—his father. And as a traveller,

looking back at night from a summit, beholds in a flash of lightning all

the road he has traversed, so the relentless light from that figure laid

bare his whole life.

CHAPTER II

He is six years old. They are watching the procession from an ancient

gilded coach with mica windows, which is as clumsy and jolting as a

farmer’s cart. The inside is hung with clove-coloured velvet and brocade

curtains. Here he sits on his grandmother’s knee amidst downy cushions,

with his nurses, and maids, plump as pillows. His mother, the Tsaritsa

Eudoxia, is there too, dressed in a stomacher and a pearl-embroidered

gown. Her round white countenance, like the eager face of a child, wore a

look of continuous surprise.

Through the curtain and the open window of the coach, he witnesses

the triumphal procession of the troops on their return from the Azov

campaign. He is delighted with the regular lines of the regiments as they

march past, the brass guns flashing in the sunshine, and the shields with

their roughly drawn allegories. He remembers two of them. One pictured a

pair of Turks chained together, bearing the inscription:—

“Calamity overtook us

When Azov was lost to us.”

The other depicted upon a sea of startling blue the god Neptune, a

red-hued man astride a monster with green scales. He is made to brandish

a harpoon and say:—

“We compliment you on the taking of Azov and tender you our submission.”

He admires the German scholar Vinnius, attired in Roman military dress,

who is declaiming Russian verses by the aid of a tube, four yards long.

In the ranks, side by side with the common soldiers’ walks a bombardier

of the Preobrazhensky Regiment. He wears a dark green coat with red

lapels and a three-cornered hat. He is taller than the rest, and is

conspicuous from a distance. Alexis knows him to be his father, but his

face is so youthful, almost child-like, that he seems in reality only an

elder brother, a dear comrade, a little boy just like himself. It feels

very stuffy in the carriage among the downy pillows and plump nurses. He

longs to get out into the sunshine, and join that bright, curly-headed,

quick-eyed boy.

The father sees his son, they smile at one another and Alexis’ heart

beats with joy. The Tsar approaches the carriage doors, opens them, and

takes his son almost by force from the grandmother’s arms, amid the

exclamations of the nurses—he embraces and kisses him tenderly, more

tenderly than a mother, then lifting him high in his hands, he shows him

to the army and the people, and finally placing him on his shoulders, he

bears him aloft above the regiments. At first quite near, then further

and further away, across the sea of heads, like a peal of thunder rolled

the joyful cry from thousands of voices:

“Vivat, vivat, vivat! Long live the Tsar and Tsarevitch!”

Alexis feels that they all look at him, that all love him. He feels

frightened and yet happy. He holds tightly to his father’s neck, and

nestles closer to him; his father carries him so carefully that there is

no fear he will drop him. And it seems to him that his father’s movements

are his, his father’s strength his too, and that he and his father are

one. He is ready to laugh and cry, so joyful are the shouts of the

people, the roar of cannon, the chiming of bells, the golden cupolas,

the blue sky, and the sun. His head goes round and round, he is short of

breath, he seems to fly straight up into the sky, towards the sun!

He sees his grandmother’s head leaning out of the carriage window, her

kind old wrinkled face looks so droll and yet so dear to him. She beckons

with her hand and calls out, beseeching almost in tears:

“Peter, Peter, dear, don’t tire Alexis!”

And again his nurses put him to bed, and cover him with a golden damask

quilt, lined with the softest sable; they fondle and caress him and

gently stroke his feet, to make him sleep the sweeter. They tuck him in

securely against the slightest breeze. As one guards the apple of the

eye, so they watched over him, the Tsar’s own babe. He is secluded,

like a fair maiden, behind the inevitable curtains which, when he goes

to church, surround him on all sides so that no one should see the

Tsarevitch, until he is “proclaimed,” according to an ancient custom, and

after his proclamation people will flock from distant parts to have a

look at him, as at some prodigy.

It is close in the low terem rooms; the doors, shutters, windows,

stoppers, all are carefully nailed round with felt to exclude the least

draught. The floor is also covered with felt for “warmth and quiet.”

The glazed stoves are overheated. The air is saturated with spirit of

yarrow and calamus, which is added to the fuel “for scent.” The daylight,

penetrating through the slanting mica panes, changes to a yellow-amber.

Little lamps glimmer everywhere before the images. Alexis feels languid,

but at the same time happy and snug; he seems to be ever dozing and

cannot wake. He dozes listening to the monotonous conversations about the

ordering of a godly household: everything should be kept in its place,

clean, swept, secured from all damage lest it might rot or go mouldy;

everything should be kept locked up, and not open to theft or waste; the

good should receive honour; and severity should be the lot of the evil

doers; and how to be careful with the scraps, how to twine bast round

split and dried fish, how to preserve different sorts of soaked mushrooms

in tubs, and how to maintain an ardent faith in the undivided Trinity.

He dozes while listening to the wailing sounds of stringed instruments

played by blind bards who are chanting old legends, and to the narratives

of old men whose tales had once amused his grandfather, Tsar Alexis

Michailovitch. He slumbers—and the tales of pilgrims and mendicants

bring him vivid visions, of Mount Athos, pointed like a fir-cone, on

its summit above the clouds, stand the Holy Virgin spreading her cloak

about it; of Simeon Stylites who allowed his body to rot till it was

alive with worms; of the place where the earthly Paradise stood, which

Moïsláv of Novgorod had seen afar off from his ship, and of many another

divine wonder and diabolic suggestion. When he feels dull, by order

of his grandmother all sorts of jesters, orphan girls, Kalmuck women,

blackamoors dance before him, fight, roll on the floor, pull at one

another’s hair, and scratch one another. Or again his grandmother would

take him on her lap, and begin to play with his fingers, touching them

one after another, starting from the thumb, repeating the little nursery

rhyme, “A magpie crow, having boiled some gruel, hopped to the door and

invited his guests. She gave to this and she gave to that and none was

left to feed the last.” And then she would tickle him, and he would laugh

and try to shield himself. She overfeeds him with rich pancakes, onion

patties, “levashnik,” sour apple fritters fried in nut oil, gruel boiled

in poppyseed milk, white gruel, pears and burrels in syrup.

“Eat! Alexis, eat, it’s good for you, my treasure!”

And when Alexis suffered from stomach-ache a wise woman would be

summoned, whose incantations were supposed to benefit the tender young.

She knew herbs which cure internal ailments and epileptic fits. Whenever

Alexis sneezed or coughed, they at once would give him raspberry tea, rub

him with camphorated wine-spirit or make him sweat in a bath prepared

with althea.

Only on the hottest days is he taken out for a walk in the beautiful

“Upper Garden,” laid out on a wooden platform inside the Kremlin. This

imitation of the hanging gardens is a continuation of the Terem. Here

everything is artificial: hothouse flowers in boxes, tiny ponds in tubs,

and tame birds in cages. He looks down and forth on Moscow which lies

spread at his feet; he sees streets he had never been in, roofs, towers,

belfries, the distant town beyond the Moscow stream, the bluish outlines

of the Sparrow hills, and over all the airy gilded clouds. And he feels

weary; he longs to get out of the Terem, out of the toy garden away to

real forests, fields and rivers, away into the unknown distance; he is

eager to run, to fly like the swallows whose flight he envies. It is very

close and heavy. The hothouse flowers, and medicinal herbs, marjoram,

thyme, savory, hyssop, tansy, fill the air with a spicy and sickly

perfume. A cloud of leaden hue creeps slowly up, fast thronging shadows

fall around him, a fresh breeze sweeps past and it begins to rain. He

stretches out his face and hands and greedily tries to catch the drops,

while his nurses in great agitation are already searching for him.

“Alexis, Alexis, come in, child, you’ll get your feet wet.”

But Alexis does not heed them; he hides among the sweet-briar bushes.

The air is now filled with a scent of mint, dill, and moist earth; the

foliage glistens in its fresh green, the double peonies glow like balls

of fire. A last ray of sunshine pierces the cloud, and the sun mingling

with the rain forms one tremulous net of gold. He is already wet through.

Yet he delights in watching the heavy drops break into radiant dust, as

they splash on the surface of the pools. He jumps, skips, and sings a gay

song to the patter of the rain, which resounds in the hollow vault of the

water tower—

“Cease, gentle rain,

Lest we should yearn in vain

To reach the river Jordan’s banks

And bring to God and Christ our thanks!”

Suddenly right above his head a blinding flash of lightning burst through

the cloud, the thunder rolled, a whirling wind rose and died away. He

felt again the same mingled sensation of joy and fear which once before

possessed him, when his father carried him shoulder high during the

triumph of the Azov campaign. To his mind came the bright curly-headed,

quick-eyed boy, and he felt his father loved him just in the same way as

he loved that terrible lightning. His breath came quick and short, he

was delirious with joy. He fell on his knees and stretched both hands

towards the black sky, fearing and yet wishing for another flash more

awful and more blinding; but trembling old hands already catch hold of

him, carry him indoors, undress him and put him to bed; he is rubbed with

camphorated wine-spirit and made to drink medicated vodka and lime-tea,

until he sweats seven times, and then they wrap him up and again he

sleeps. And he dreams about that terrible slate dragon, who lives in the

“Stone Mountains,” and has a maiden’s face, a serpent’s mouth and nose,

and the feet of a basilisk, with which he breaks the iron; he can only be

caught with the sound of a trumpet, for he is unable to bear it, and when

its blast rings out, he pierces his ears and dies shedding a blue blood

on the surrounding stones. Alexis dreams about the Siren, the bird of

Paradise, singer of royal songs, denizen of Eden, who tells of the joys

which the Lord has in store for the Righteous. Not every one in the flesh

can hear its voice, those who do, are so charmed that they follow its

lead and pass peaceably away listening to its strains. Alexis believes

that he too is following the singing Siren, and that while listening to

its sweet melodies he is dying, sinking into eternal slumber.

Then suddenly it seems as if a hurricane swept into the room, threw open

the door, curtains, hangings, tore the coverings off Alexis and sent a

chill over him. He opened his eyes and saw his father’s face. He was not

in the least frightened, not even surprised; he seemed to have known and

felt that he would come. The song of the Siren still ringing in his ears,

with a sweet half dreamy smile he stretched out his hands and cried,

“Daddy! daddy darling!” and threw his arms round his father’s neck. His

father embraces and hugs him, kissing his face, neck, naked feet and all

his little warm sleepy body. His father had brought him from abroad a

clever toy; in a wooden box with a glass cover, lo, four waxen figures,

three dressed as foreign women and one as a child, stand before a mirror.

Underneath is fixed a bone handle, which makes the women and child dance

to a tune. Alexis is pleased with the toy, yet he hardly looks at it:

his father absorbs all his attention. He soon notices a change in his

father’s countenance. The face has become thin and gaunt; he has grown

more manly and seems taller. Yet to the child’s gaze, tall as he is, he

still remains the curly-headed quick-eyed boy of old. A smell of wine and

fresh air comes from him.

“Daddy’s moustache is showing! But how tiny the hairs are, they can

hardly be seen.”

And with curiosity he passes his little fingers over the black down on

his father’s lip.

“And you have a dimple on the chin, just like Granny!”

He kisses it.

“Why are Daddy’s hands so hard?”

“It is from the axe, Alexis. I have been building ships beyond the seas.

Wait until you grow up and I’ll take you with me! Would you like to go

across the seas?”

“Yes, I would. Where daddy goes, I would like to go too. I want to be

with daddy always.”

“And are you not sorry for granny?”

Here Alexis notices in the half-open door the frightened face of his

grandmother, and his mother with a deadly pallor on her countenance. They

both watch him from that distance, afraid to come nearer; they bless him

and themselves with the sign of the cross.

“Yes, I am sorry for granny,” murmurs Alexis, and at the same time he

wonders why his mother is not mentioned.

“And whom do you love most, granny or me?”

Alexis does not answer immediately; it is difficult for him to decide.

Suddenly clinging closer still to his father, trembling and shrinking in

shy tenderness, he whispers in his ear:—

“I love daddy, love him more than any one!”

And suddenly all vanishes, the squat Terem, the downy bed, his mother,

grandmother, and nurses. He seems to have fallen into some dark hole,

like a bird from its nest, on to the hard frozen earth. He is in a large

cold room with bare walls and iron-barred windows. He no longer dozes.

On the contrary he is always longing for sleep; he cannot get enough, he

is roused so early. Through a fog, which makes the eyes smart, loom long

barrack buildings, earthen ramparts with pyramids of shot, muzzles of

cannon, the Sokolinki field covered with grey thawing snow, dotted with

wet crows and ravens, under a leaden sky. He hears the roll of the drums,

the drill commands: “Eyes _front_!” “Shoulder _arms_!” “Present _arms_!”

“Right _turn_!” the dry rattle of the musketry and again the roll of the

drums. His aunt, the Tsarevna Natalia Alexeyevna, is with him; an old

maid with sallow face, bony fingers which hurt so in pinching, and cross

piercing eyes which seems to eat him: She cries:—

“O scurvy brat of thy mother!”

It was not until long after he learnt what had actually happened. How

the Tsar on his return from Holland had banished his wife, the Tsaritsa

Eudoxia, to a nunnery, forcing her to take the veil under the name of

Elena, while he removed his son from the Kremlin residence to the new

Potíeshny Palace in the village Preobrazhensky. Side by side with this

palace were the torture-chambers of the Privy Chancery, where the trial

of the Streltsy Mutiny took place. They daily burnt more than thirty

wood fires, at which the rebels were tortured. Was his remembrance true

or only a nightmare? He could no longer tell. It was as if he were

stealing along the huge pointed piles of the wall which surrounded the

prison; groans issue from within, a streak of light reveals a chink in

the log-built wall. He put his eye to the hole and saw a veritable hell:—

Hot fires are burning,

Cauldrons are steaming,

Knives are being sharpened,

All to butcher thee!

Human bodies are actually roasting over the fires; they are slung on a

post and so stretched that their joints crack; their ribs are broken

with red-hot tongs, and their nails are scraped with red-hot needles.

The Tsar is among the torturers. His face is so terrible that Alexis can

hardly recognise him—himself and yet not himself, rather his double, his

“were-wolf.” He is examining one of the ringleaders, who in stubborn

silence endures all. His body already resembles a bloody carcase from

which the butchers had torn off the skin, yet he remains dumb and looks

defiantly straight into the Tsar’s eyes.

* * * * *

The boy Alexis swooned; soldiers found him in the morning lying at the

foot of the wall close to the moat. He lay unconscious for many days.

He had hardly recovered, when by command of the Tsar he had to be

present at the dedication of the Lefort Palace to Bacchus. He wears a

new German coat with stiff wired folds, and a huge wig which oppresses

him. His aunt is in a gorgeous “robe ronde”; they are in a separate

room, adjacent to the Banqueting Hall. Damask curtains, the last remnant

of the Terem seclusion, hide them from the guests. Yet Alexis sees all

that goes on among the members of “The Most Drunken Convocation,” whose

insignia were cups of wine, flagons of mead and beer, instead of the Holy

Vessels; in place of the Gospels, a case shaped like a Bible containing

different vodkas; for incense, tobacco smouldering in braziers. The high

priest, the Kniaz-Pope, attired in mock vestments imitating those of a

patriarch, trimmed with playing cards and dice, with a pewter mitre on

his head crowned by a naked Bacchus, and in his hand a staff decorated

with a naked Venus, blesses the guests with two pipes folded on the

cross. The orgy begins. The buffoons revile the aged boyars; punching

them, spitting in their faces, spilling wine over them, pulling their

hair, cutting their beards or plucking them out by the roots. The revelry

degenerates into an inquisition. As in some terrible nightmare Alexis

beholds all this. And again he cannot recognise his father; rather it is

his father’s double, his evil genius!

“His Serene Highness, the Tsarevitch Alexis, beginning with the alphabet,

and having in a short time mastered it, now, following the order of

instructions, is learning the breviary,” thus reported to the Tsar the

tutor Nikíta Viasemski, “his lowliest slave.”

It was according to the Domostroi that he taught Alexis how to approach

sacred things; the way to kiss wonder-working icons, and relics, taking

heed not to moisten them with lips, nor to tarnish them with the breath,

for the Lord dislikes our dirt and breath; how to eat the holy loaf

without scattering crumbs on the ground, or biting it with the teeth like

other bread, but breaking it into little pieces put them one by one into

the mouth and so eat in faith and fear. Listening to these instructions

of his tutor, Alexis could not help recalling how this same tutor at the

Lefort Palace amongst the buffoons, in a drunken frenzy was used to dance

before the foreign courtesan Mons, whistling and singing.

* * * * *

The learned German, Baron Huissen, presented a “Methodus instructionis”

to the Tsar. “A syllabus to which he who shall be instructed with the

education of the Tsarevitch must conform.” “In his feelings and heart,

at all times implant and strengthen love for virtue; also strive to

inculcate in him disgust and repulsion for all that is called sin before

God; adequately represent the heavy consequences that result from it, and

exemplify by application from Holy Writ and profane history.”

“Also instruct in the French language, which cannot be done better than

by daily use. Show coloured geographical maps. Gradually accustom

to the use of the compasses, and indicate the importance and utility

of geometry. Commence the preliminary military exercises, storming,

dancing, and riding. Develop a good Russian style. Diligently read on

all mail days the French newspapers and the ‘Historical Mercury,’ and

present political and moral reflections thereon. Always use ‘Fenelon’s

Telemachus,’ in the instructions of his Highness, as a mirror and guide

for his future government. And to prevent weariness by continual work

and instructions, use for diversion in a moderate measure the game

‘Truktafel.’ This scheme can easily be completed in two years, and then

his Highness without delay may proceed to perfect himself in general

knowledge, so that he may be equipped for the thorough study of the

world’s politics, the real needs of this empire, all the useful sciences

such as fortification, artillery, civic architecture, navigation, and

so on, to his Majesty’s complete satisfaction and his Highness’s own

immortal glory.” To carry out this programme they chanced to hit upon

a certain worthy named Martin Neubauer. He taught Alexis the rules of

“European Compliments and Politeness,” from a book entitled “The Youth’s

Mirror of Honour.”

“Children must, above all, greatly honour their father. When a son

receives instructions from his father, he should always stand hat in

hand, not in the same line with his father but a little behind to one

side, like a page or servant. When a son meets his father he ought to

stop at a distance of three paces; take off his hat and greet him in an

agreeable manner. It is better to be accounted a gracious cavalier, than

a proud blockhead. Do not lean on tables or benches, like a peasant who

delights to lounge in the sun. Youths must not sniff with their noses,

nor blink with their eyes. And this also is no small nuisance, to blow

one’s nose like a trumpet or sneeze loudly, and so startle people or

frighten young children at church. Keep your nails cut and don’t let

them suggest a velvet border. Behave well at table, sit upright; do not

pick your teeth with a knife, but with a tooth-pick, and cover the mouth

with your hand during the operation. Don’t munch over your food like a

pig; don’t scratch your head, for even so do the peasants. Youths should

always converse in foreign tongues among themselves to gain a ready

fluency, and also the better to distinguish themselves from the ignorant.”

Thus droned into his august pupil’s ear on one side the German; while

from the other the Russian repeated:—“Don’t spit to the right, Alexis,

for that is your angel’s side; always spit to the left, where Satan is.

In dressing don’t begin with your left foot, it is a sin. Carefully keep

the parings of your nails in paper, to climb Zion’s Hill with on your way

to Heaven.”

The German tutor sneered at the Russian and the Russian laughed at the

German, and Alexis knew not whom to believe. The touchy student, a

burgher’s son from Dantzic, hated Russia. “What language is this?” he

used to say. “It has neither rhetoric nor grammar. The Russian priests

are themselves incapable of explaining what they read in the churches;

only darkness and ignorance results from the Russian language.” He was

generally drunk, and in that state his diatribes increased.

“You know nothing, you are all barbarians! Dogs! dogs! rogues!”

The Russian mockingly called the German “Martin Marmoset,” and informed

the Tsar that instead of instructing the Tsarevitch he, Martin, set his

Highness a bad example; creating in him a repugnance for learning and a

horror of all foreigners. To Alexis both the Russian and German tutors

were equally humbugs.

Sometimes Martin would weary him to such an extent during the day

that even at night in his dreams he would come to him in the shape

of a learned ape, which grimaced according to the rules of “European

Compliments and Politeness” in front of “The Youth’s Mirror of Honour.”

Around stood the figures from the Golden Hall, Moscow’s ancient Tsars,

patriarchs and saints. The ape mocked and railed at them, “Dogs! dogs!

rogues! None of you know anything, you are all barbarians!” And Alexis

seemed to discern a likeness between this monkey face and another

disfigured by convulsions, belonging not to the Tsar, but to that awful

double of his, the were-wolf, his evil genius. And Alexis felt the shaggy

paw stretched out to grasp him and drag him away.

And again the scene changed. Now it is the very end of the world, a flat

seashore, bogs with mossy hillocks, a pale lurid sun, and a low hanging

oppressive sky. All is misty, phantom-like, and he himself seems but a

phantom, who dead long ago, has descended into the realm of shadows.

At the age of thirteen the Tsarevitch joined the bombardier regiment and

took part in the Noteburg campaign. From Noteburg to Ládoga, from Ládoga

to Jamburg, Koporie and Narva he was dragged everywhere with the baggage

waggon and train to familiarise him with military life. Although but a

child, he shared dangers, privations, cold, hunger and weariness with the

men. He saw the bloodshed, squalor and all the horrors and abominations

of warfare. He caught glimpses of his father from afar; and every time he

beheld him, his heart beat in wild anticipation, he might come to him,

he might call for him, he might caress him. Just one word or a look and

Alexis would have been roused to new life and have understood what was

expected from him. But his father had no time to spare; his hand was ever

occupied, now with a sword, now a quill, now a compass, now an axe. He

waged war against the Swedes, and at the same time he was pile-driving

for the first dwellings at Petersburg.

“My gracious Lord Father,—

“I pray thee grant me a favour and let me be informed by letter for my

joy, about thy health, of which I always anxiously desire to hear.

“Thy son Alexis invokes thy blessing and presents his homage.

“Written in Petersburg, August 25, 1703.”

He dared not add a single genuine word, whether of endearment or

complaint, to the letters dictated by his tutor. He grew up a cowed,

timid, lonely boy, like a weed in the moat round the arsenal wall.

Narva had been stormed. The Tsar celebrated the victory by reviewing

his troops with music and salutes from the guns. In front stood the

Tsarevitch, watching the young giant with his bright awe-inspiring face

coming towards him, no longer his double, his evil genius, but himself,

his own dear father. The boy’s heart beat quicker, and again it throbbed

with eager hope; their eyes met, and it was as if a lightning flash had

blinded Alexis. His desire had been to rush to meet his father, to throw

his arms round his neck, embrace him, kiss him in a paroxysm of joy.

But sharp and decisive, like the rattle of the drum, were the words that

greeted him, words so familiar in rescripts and articles.

“Son, the reason I took you with me on this campaign was to show you that

I shrink from neither toil nor dangers. Being only mortal and liable to

be summoned this day or to-morrow, I charge you to remember that you

shall taste little joy if you shun to follow my example. Shun no toil for

the common weal! But should you cast my advice to the wind, and refuse to

do as I bid you, then I will deny you as my son, and will implore God to

punish you in this life and the life to come.”

The father takes hold of the boy’s chin between his two fingers and looks

intently into his eyes. A cloud passes over Peter’s face. He seems to see

his son, such as he really is, for the first time: this weakly lad with

sloping shoulders and narrow chest, with his stubborn and morose looks—is

he indeed his only son, the heir of the throne, with whom the culmination

of all his schemes and toil will rest? Can it be? Whence came this puny

starveling, this raven, into the eagle’s nest? How could he be the father

of such a son?

Alexis shrank into himself and strove to efface himself, as if he guessed

his father’s thoughts, and was guilty before him of some crime unknown

and irreparable. He felt so ashamed and terrified that he was ready to

burst out crying like a child before the assembled army. But mastering

himself with a supreme effort, he uttered in a trembling voice the

salutation he had been made to learn.

“Most gracious Lord Father, I am very young at present and do what I can,

but your Majesty may be assured that, as a dutiful son, I will strive

with all my might to imitate your actions and example. May God keep you

for many years to come in perfect health and thus grant that I may long

continue in the enjoyment of so illustrious a parent!”

And then, according to the instructions of Martin, uncovering his head

in an agreeable manner, like a gracious cavalier, he makes a German bow,

saying:—

“Meines gnädigsten Papas gehorsamster Diener und Sohn.” He knew he

looked like a puny, deformed, silly monkey, in front of this giant,

handsome as a young god. The father proffers his hand, the son kisses it.

Tears burst from the boy’s eyes, and it seemed to him that his father

feeling the warm tears pulls away his hand in disgust.

At the triumphal entry into Moscow on December 17, 1704, to celebrate the

Narva victory, the Tsarevitch marched with the Preobrazhensky regiment

shouldering his gun like a common soldier. The frost was intense. The boy

was nearly starved to death with the cold. In the palace at the usual

orgies he drank a glass of vodka to warm himself, and at once became

drunk. His head went round, it grew dark, blurred red and green circles

danced before his eyes; only one thing he saw clearly, the face of his

father who was looking at him with a disdainful smile. Alexis was cut

to the quick. He got up and with unsteady steps, lurched towards his

father; he looked at him furtively like a young wolf at bay, tried to say

something, but suddenly turned pale, shrieked, staggered forward and fell

at his father’s feet.

CHAPTER III

“Already my earthly life is drawing to a close: my voice is going, I am

growing deaf and blind. I beseech you to relieve me from my office of

sacristan, grant me permission to end my days in a monastery!”

The Tsarevitch, lost in dream-memories, scarcely noticed the monotonous

wail of Father John, who returning from his cell sat down beside him on

the bench.

“My small house, chattels and superfluous furniture, could be sold; my

two orphaned nieces placed in some nunnery, and the little money I have

scraped together, I would bring as my gift to the monastery. Thus I would

not live on the bounty of others; and my offerings might be acceptable

to God, like the two mites of the widow. Then I might live for a little

while in silence and repentance, until God wills to take me from this

into eternal life. I feel that I have reached the end of my span, for

even so did my parent die at the same age——”

Awakening, as from a deep slumber, the Tsarevitch saw it was night. The

white church towers, tinged with palest blue, more than ever suggested

gigantic flowers, huge lilies of paradise; the golden domes shone silvery

in heaven’s dark blue vault, studded with stars. The Milky Way glimmered

but faintly. And the fresh breezes of heaven, even as the breathing of

a slumberer, seemed to bring with them from the heavens a foreboding of

eternal rest, and unbroken quietude. The slow murmuring words of Father

John mingled with the stillness:—

“Give me but leave to go to my resting place, a holy monastery, and let

me live in silence until the time that I shall be taken hence——”

He continued to mumble for some time, stopped, again resumed, went away;

and soon returning called the Tsarevitch to supper. Alexis had again

closed his eyes and fallen into that dark dreamy abode, where twixt sleep

and waking hover the shadows of the past. Again memories, visions, image

after image passed before him, like a long chain, link after link; above

them all towered one awe inspiring image, his Father. And as a wanderer

looking back at night from a summit beholds in a flash of lightning all

the road he has traversed, so the relentless light from that figure laid

bare his whole life.

* * * * *

He is seventeen, at the age when in olden days the Tsarevitch was

proclaimed to the people, who would flock from all parts to gaze at him,

as at some wonder. But on Alexis a man’s toil is imposed, too heavy for

his young strength; he is perpetually travelling from town to town,

buying provisions for the army, felling and despatching timber for the

fleet, printing books, casting cannon, writing ukases, levying armies,

searching for young deserters under penalty of death—himself only a lad

relentlessly executing the law on those of his own age; he supervises

everything to prevent defalcations of any kind.

He hurries from German declensions to fortifications, from garrisons to

orgies; from orgies to deserters, until his brain is in a whirl. The

more he attempts the more is demanded. He has neither leisure nor rest.

He feels ready to drop like an over-ridden hack. And at the same time he

knows that his efforts are all in vain; it is impossible for him ever to

please his father.

At the same time he continues his studies, as if he were a schoolboy.

“Two weeks shall be devoted to the German language, to master well the

declensions, and then attention shall be given to French and arithmetic.

Instruction to take place each day.”

At last his strength gave way. During the severe frost in January

1709, he was bringing to his father, then at Suma in the Ukraine, five

regiments from Moscow which he had himself levied and which were destined

to take part in the battle of Poltava. On the journey he caught cold,

fell ill, and lay for weeks insensible. His life was despaired of.

He regained consciousness one sunny morning, early in spring. Slanting

rays of sunlight flooded the room. Snow was lying outside, wet drops hung

already on the icicle tips. Brooks were murmuring on their way, and from

the sky the lark showered his song in melodious strains. Alexis sees his

father’s face bent over him, the one so dear to him in years gone by, a

face full of tenderness.

“My son, my love, do you feel better?”

Too weak to answer Alexis can but smile.

“Well, glory and thanks be to God!” exclaims his father piously. “The

Lord hath shown mercy upon me and heard my prayer. Now you will soon be

well!”

Alexis was told later that his father never left him during the whole of

his illness. Neglecting all other work, he had spent night after night

without sleep. When the patient grew worse, he ordered the celebration of

mass and made a vow to erect a church in the name of “St. Alexis, the man

of God.”

Then came the slow joyful days of convalescence. To Alexis his father’s

caresses were as health-giving as the warm bright sunshine. In blissful

lassitude, with a pleasurable weakness in his body, he would lie the

whole day long without moving. He was never tired of looking at his

father’s grand open countenance, his bright, fierce yet tender eyes,

and the charming, slightly cunning smile on those finely-curved lips.

The father could not do enough to show his love to Alexis. Once he

brought him a small snuff-box carved by himself out of ivory, with

the inscription, “A small gift, but from a loving heart.” Many a year

the Tsarevitch had kept it, and every time he looked at it, something

burning, poignant, akin to measureless pity for his father would surge up

within him.

Another time while gently caressing his son’s hair, Peter said in a timid

shy voice, as if excusing himself, “If ever I said or did anything that

hurt you, for God’s sake remember it no longer and do not sorrow over it.

Forgive me, Alexis! Petty annoyances are sufficient to arouse anger in an

arduous life, and my life is indeed hard. I have no one to consult, not

even a single helper.”

Alexis, as in the days of his childhood, threw his arm round his father’s

neck and all trembling and melting in shy tenderness whispered in his

ear:—

“Daddy darling, I love you; I love you!”

But in proportion as he returned to health, so his father once more

receded from him. There seemed to be a merciless fate upon them both, to

be companions and yet strangers; secretly loving, while openly estranged

and hating one another.

And again all things fell back into the old ruts: the collection of

provisions, detection of deserters, casting of cannon, felling of

timber, building battlements, wandering from town to town. Again Alexis

toiled like a convict and his father remained as ever dissatisfied,

even suspecting his son of laziness, “leaving off work, running after

idleness.” Sometimes Alexis would like to remind him of what happened at

Suma, but he could never bring himself to do it.

“Son, we instruct you to depart for Dresden. During your sojourn in

that city we command you to live honestly and apply yourself diligently

to studies: especially languages, geometry and fortification, and also

partly to political science. And inform us by letter when geometry and

fortification have been successfully acquired.”

Abroad the Tsarevitch lived like an exile, neglected by everyone. His

father again forgot his existence; he did not remember him save when

he wanted to marry him to Princess Charlotte of Wolfenbüttel. The

Tsarevitch had no liking for his bride; he had no wish whatever to marry

a foreigner. “Why did they force this devil of a wife on me?” he used to

cry out when flushed with wine.

Before the nuptials he had to conduct humiliating negotiations about his

bride’s dowry. Peter was eager to squeeze as much money as possible out

of the Germans.

Six months after his marriage Alexis left his wife for another tour: from

Stettin to Mecklenburg, from Mecklenburg to Abo, from Abo to Novgorod,

from Novgorod to Ládoga—again interminable fatigue, interminable fears.

The dread he felt before each interview with his father developed into a

nervous terror. Approaching the door of his father’s room he would mutely

repeat a prayer: “Remember, O God, King David and all his humility!” He

would jerk out disconnected fragments of lessons on navigation, it being

beyond his power to remember the barbarous terminology of such words as:

“krup-kamer, balk-vegerse, haigen-blok (anchor-stock),” and he would

fumble for his amulet, the gift of his nurse, a blade of grass embedded

in wax, with a paper bearing an ancient charm to soften the anger of a

father:—

“On a momentous day was I born. I fenced myself with iron, and went unto

my father. My parent became wrathful, began to break my bones, to pinch

my body, to trample on me with his feet, and drink my blood. Bright sun,

clear stars, still sea, ripe fields! Ye all stand peaceful and still. May

my father throughout all his hours and days, his nights and midnights, be

as quiet and still as ye!”

“Well, my son, I must say this is a first-rate fortress,” said his father

with a shrug of his shoulders, looking at his son’s plan. “You have

apparently learnt a great deal abroad.”

Alexis grew only more confused, and winced like a guilty schoolboy before

the rod.

To escape such torture at times he used to take medicine and “feign

illness.”

Terror was merging into hatred.

Just before the Pruth campaign, Peter fell seriously ill, “he did not

expect to live.” When the news reached Alexis he experienced for the

first time a feeling of pleasure at the possible death of his father.

This joy frightened him; he banished it but could not destroy it; it hid

itself at the bottom of his heart, ready to spring forth like a lurking

beast.

One day at a feast when Peter, as was his wont, made his drunken guests

quarrel with one another so that he might learn from their recriminations

the thoughts of those around him, Alexis, also drunk, began to talk

about the state of the empire, and the oppression of the people. All

grew silent, even the buffoons stopped their shouting. The Tsar listened

attentively. Alexis’ heart was beating with hope, what if he were heard?

understood?

“Enough of this nonsense!” the Tsar stopped him suddenly with that

mocking smile, so familiar and hateful to Alexis. “I perceive, my boy,

that you know as much about political and civic affairs as a bear does of

a hand-organ.”

And turning aside Peter signed to the fools to resume their shouting.

Ménshikoff with other nobles, all drunk, began to dance. The Tsarevitch

continued to speak in a high-pitched voice. But his father, paying him no

attention, was stamping, clapping and whistling to the dancers:—

“Tare-bare, rastobare!

White snow was falling,

Grey hares were running,

Hurry! hurry up!”

His face was that of a soldier, unrefined, the rugged face of him who

wrote: “The enemy received such good treatment from us that only a few

infants survived.”

Suddenly Prince Ménshikoff, breathless with dancing, stopped short before

the Tsarevitch, his hands on his hips and on his lips an impertinent

smile—a reflection of the Tsar’s.

“Tsarevitch,” he cried, pronouncing the word, so that it meant an insult,

“Tsarevitch, why are you melancholy? Come, join our dance!”

Alexis grew pale and seized his sword, then bethought himself, and turned

aside ejaculating:—

“Rapscallion!”

“What? What did you say, puppet?”

Alexis turned round and, looking him straight in the face, said in a loud

voice:—

“I said, ‘Rapscallion!’ A rascal’s look is worse than defilement!”

At the same moment his father’s face, contorted, flashed before him.

He struck his son so hard in the face that the blood gushed from mouth

and nose; then he caught him by the throat, threw him on the ground and

began to strangle him. The senior nobles, Romodanovsky, Sheremetieff,

Dolgorúki, who were authorized by the Tsar himself to restrain him in his

attacks of madness, fell upon Peter, seized him, and dragged him away

from his son, lest he should murder him.

“In order to give satisfaction” to Ménshikoff, the Tsarevitch was sent

from the hall and placed on sentry duty at the doors like a naughty

schoolboy who is sent into the corner. It was a cold winter’s night,

frosty and snowing; he had only his kaftan on, and no fur coat. Tears

and blood froze on his face. The wind moaned and whirled round and

round, like a drunkard dancing and singing. And behind the lighted

windows, in the room he had left, that old buffoon, the drunken

princess-abbess Rjévskaya was also dancing and singing. The wild moans of

the storm mingled with the wild strains of the song:—

My mother bore me while she danced,

She christened me in the Tsar’s tavern,

And bathed me in the headiest wine.

Such anguish filled Alexis that he felt like braining himself against the

wall.

Suddenly some one crept up to him in the dark and, throwing a fur-lined

coat round his shoulder, fell on his knees before Alexis and began to

kiss his hands like some affectionate dog; it was an old soldier of the

Preobrazhensky regiment, who happened to be on the same watch—a secret

Raskolnik.

The old man looked up with such love to Alexis as though he would

sacrifice his soul for him; he cried and whispered to him as in

adoration:—

“Lord Tsarevitch, our light and sunshine, poor orphan, no father nor

mother! May the Heavenly Father and the pure Virgin protect and keep

thee!”

Alexis had often been beaten, with or without ceremony, with fist or

cane. In everything else the Tsar followed the new ideas. Only his son

he beat according to the old tradition, following the advice of Father

Sylvester, author of the Domostroi, councillor to the Tsar Ivan the

Terrible, (who killed his son, you remember).

“Do not let your son gain mastery in his youth, but beat him as he grows.

Strike him with a stick, it won’t kill, but make a man of him!”

Alexis shrank in bodily fear from the blows, “He will kill, maim me”;

but the moral suffering and shame he had grown used to. At times a hard

joy kindled within him, “Well! what of it! Strike me, it is you who are

shamed, not I,” he seemed to say to his father, fixing on him a look at

once infinitely submissive and infinitely insolent.

His father probably divined this, for he ceased beating him and devised

another punishment. He broke off all intercourse with him. When Alexis

addressed him, he remained silent, pretended not to hear, looked past

him, as into space. The silence would last weeks, months, years. Alexis

was conscious of it at all times and wherever he went. It grew more

intolerable, more insulting than scolding, more terrible than blows. He

felt it to be slow murder, a cruelty which neither man nor God could wipe

out.

This sheer silence was the end of everything. Beyond, there was nothing

but darkness, and through the darkness he saw the immovable face of his

father, motionless as a stone mask, as it had appeared at their last

interview. And the terrible words coming from lips that were dead to him:

“I’ll cut you off like a gangrenous limb!”

* * * * *

The thread of reminiscence snapped; he opened his eyes The night was as

quiet as ever; the white church towers were still wrapped in a bluish

haze. The golden domes shone silvery in heaven’s dark blue vault, studded

with stars; the Milky Way glimmered but faintly; and the fresh breezes of

heaven, even as the breathing of a slumberer, seemed to bring with them

from the heavens a foreboding of eternal rest, infinite quietude.

Alexis seemed to experience in this moment the weariness of his whole

life. His back, hands, legs, his whole body was an ache, his bones were

full of pain.

He wanted to get up but had no strength left. He could but raise his

hands to heaven and moan, as if calling to Him who could respond:

“My God, my God!”

But no one answered. Silence reigned on earth as in heaven, it seemed

his Heavenly Father had forsaken him, like his earthly one. He hid his

face in his hands and leaning with his head against the stone bench he

began to weep, first quietly, plaintively, as do neglected children, then

louder and louder, more poignantly. He sobbed, beat his head against the

stone, crying from the insult, indignation and terror. He cried because

he had no father now, and in that cry was the cry from Golgotha—the

eternal cry of the Son to the Father:—

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Suddenly he felt, just as that night when posted as sentry, some one

approach in the darkness, stoop over and embrace him. It was Father John,

the old sacristan of the Annunciation.

“What ails you, my lord? The Lord be with you. Who has grieved you?”

“Father! Father!” was all that Alexis could utter.

The old man understood it all. He sighed heavily, remained silent for a

while, and then began to whisper in the spirit of hopeless resignation.

The time-worn wisdom of the past was speaking through him.

“What can be done, Alexis? Submit yourself my child. The whip cannot

outdo the axe, neither can you vie with the Tsar. God is in the heavens,

the Tsar on earth. The Tsar’s will must not be questioned. He is

responsible to God alone. And to you he is not only the Tsar but our

parent ordained by God.”

“Not a father but a villain, a torturer, a murderer,” cried Alexis,

“curse him, curse him, the monster!”

“Lord Tsarevitch, your Highness! Invoke not God’s wrath, use not such

violent language. Great is a father’s power. It is written: Honour thy

father——”

Alexis suddenly stopped weeping, turned round abruptly and fixed on the

old man a searching look.

“But something else too, is written: ‘Think not that I am come to send

peace on earth; I came not to send peace but a sword. For I am come to

set a man at variance against his father.’ Do you heed, old man? God it

is who turned me against my father; I have been sent from God as a sword,

an enemy, to pierce the heart of my parent, I am his heaven-sent judgment

and execution. I stood up not for my own sake, but for the sake of the

Church, the Empire, the whole Christian people. Zealous, I was zealous

for the Lord. No! I will not humble myself, nor submit, not even if it

should mean my death. The world cannot hold us both. Either he or I!”

The face distorted by convulsions, the trembling jaw, the fierce fire in

the eyes, suddenly bore an unsuspected likeness to his father.

The old man gazed at him in terror, as at one possessed, he made the

sign of the cross, shook his head and with his time-worn lips mumbled the

words of time-worn wisdom:—

“Submit! submit! bow before your father’s will”

And it seemed as if the ancient Kremlin walls, the palaces, churches, yea

the very ground itself, together with the tombs of the patriarchs, echoed

the words: “_Submit_! _Submit_!”

When the Tsarevitch entered the house of the sacristan, the latter’s

sister, who had been nurse to Alexis, Martha by name, glancing at his

face thought him ill. Her anxiety only increased when he refused to share

their supper, but went straight to his chamber. The old soul offered to

give him lime-tea and to rub him with camphorated spirit. To pacify her

he was obliged to take some brandy. With her own hands she put him to

bed, on a couch softer, with its mountain of eiderdown and pillows, than

any he had slept on for an age. The holy lamps burned peacefully before

the images; the air was saturated with the familiar scent of dried herbs,

cypress and myrrh. So soothing was the monotonous babbling of his nurse,

while relating the old tales about the Tsar John and the grey wolf, about

the Cock with the golden comb, about the Bast shoe, the baboon and the

wisp of straw, who wanted to cross the river together—the straw broke,

the bast shoe sank, and the baboon swelled until it burst—that it seemed

to Alexis in his half-sleep he was only a little boy and was lying in

his tiny bed in his grandmother’s terem, and that all which had been was

not; that it was not Martha, but his granny, bending over him, covering

him up, tucking him in, blessing him and whispering, “Sleep darling,

sleep, may God watch over thee.” And all is still and peaceful. Only the

siren bird, denizen of Eden, is again singing its royal songs, and as

he listens to its melodious strains, he seems to die, to sink into an

eternal, dreamless slumber.

But just before the break of day he dreamt he was walking inside the

Kremlin, across the Red Square, through the throng of people.

It was Palm Sunday and Christ’s entry into Jerusalem was being

solemnised. Arrayed in regal robes, with the golden mantle and crown and

barma of Monomachus, he leads by the reins the ass on which sits the

patriarch, a white-bearded old man, all in white and radiant in his

whiteness. But looking more closely, Alexis perceives that the figure

is no longer an old man, but a youth, in robes whiter than snow, with

a face luminous as the sun—Christ Himself. The crowd does not see or

cannot recognise Him. They all have terrible, lurid, corpse-like faces.

All are silent, so silent that Alexis can hear his own heart beat. And

the sky is also terrible, a livid grey, as if before an eclipse of the

sun. At his feet there lolls a hunchback, in a three-cornered hat and a

clay pipe in his mouth, who puffs straight into his face stinking Dutch

tobacco. He babbles something, grins insolently, and points with his

finger to a place whence comes a noise growing nearer and louder, like

the rumbling of an approaching storm. And Alexis perceives that it comes

from a procession. The Archdeacon of the ‘Most Drunken Convocation of

Tsar Peter’ leads by the reins not an ass but some outlandish beast. Some

one with a dark face rides on the beast. Alexis cannot distinguish it but

it seems to resemble, only more terrible and repulsive than they, the

scoundrel Theodosius and Peter the thief. Before them walks a shameless

wench, naked; it might be Afrossinia or else the Petersburg Venus. All

the bells are ringing, including the great bell of the John tower, called

the Roarer, and the people shout as they had done some time before at the

wedding of the Kniaz-Pope:—

“The Patriarch is married! The Patriarch is married!” Falling on their

knees, they worshipped the beast, the wench and the low scoundrel.

“Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he that cometh!”

Abandoned by every one, Alexis remains alone with Christ, alone amidst

the maddened throng. The wild procession hurries straight upon them, with

shouts, shrieks, bringing with it smoke and stench, which tarnish the

gold of the royal robes and even dims the very sunlight of Christ’s face.

Now the roysterers will be upon them, trampling, crushing, sweeping all

before them, and great will be the abomination of desolation in the holy

place.

And all disappears. He stands on the banks of a wide dreary river, it

seems to be the highway from Poland to the Ukraine. It is late in a

mid-autumn day. Wet snow and black mud. The wind sweeps the last leaves

from the trembling aspens. A beggar in tattered rags, blue with the cold,

plaintively asks a kopeck for Christ’s sake; some branded one too, thinks

Alexis, as he notices his hands and feet covered with bloody wounds,

probably a recruit who has deserted. He pities the youth and decides to

give him, not merely a kopeck but a seven gulden piece. And he remembers

in his dream, how he had entered in his diary along with other expenses:

“November 22. For transport across the river three gulden, for quarters

at a Jewish tavern five gulden, for a young lad starving seven gulden.”

Already he is holding out the coins to the beggar when suddenly a rough

hand is laid on his shoulder and a gruff voice, probably that of the

sentinel, speaks, “For bestowing alms, a fine of five roubles; the beggar

after due castigation and torture to be sent off to the Rogerwick.”

“Have pity!” pleads Alexis. “Foxes have holes, the birds of the air have

nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His head.” And looking

closer at the deserter, the shivering lad, he perceived that his face is

like the sun. The lad he dreamed was Christ Himself.

CHAPTER IV

“My Son,—When I said good-bye to you, and asked about your

resolution concerning a certain matter, on which you always

gave me the reply that owing to your weakness you were not fit

for the throne, but would prefer the monastery, I again told

you to think it well over, and communicate to me your decision.

I have waited for it these seven months, but to this day you

have written me nothing. Now, therefore, as you have had ample

time for consideration, on receipt of this letter, decide at

once one way or the other. Should you choose the throne, do not

tarry longer than a week, but come to me here, for you will

yet be in time to take part in the campaign. But should you

choose the monastery, write me when and where and what day,

so that knowing what I may have to expect from you, my heart

may be at rest. To this messenger entrust the final answer.

Should it be the first, state the day of your departure from

Petersburg; should it be the second, the date of your entry

into the cloister. And again we emphasize that this choice must

be final, for I perceive that, as usual, you are spending your

time to no purpose.”

The courier Saphnov brought this letter to Roshdestveno, where Alexis

had returned on leaving Moscow. The Tsarevitch sent his father word that

he was coming to him at once, but in reality decided nothing. To him the

two alternatives, either to become a monk or to prepare himself for the

duties of the throne, were but a double trap. To become a monk with the

idea that the hood was not “nailed to the head” would mean to lose his

soul before God by a false vow. And as to fitting himself for the duties

of a future monarch in the sense his father demanded, it was like asking

him to enter his mother’s womb and be born anew.

The letter neither frightened nor grieved Alexis. It found him in that

senseless, listless torpor which had of late repeatedly laid hold of him.

When in that condition he spoke and did everything as in a dream, never

knowing a moment beforehand what he would say or do next. His heart was

light and empty; whether from reckless cowardice or despairing insolence,

it was difficult to say.

He went to Petersburg and put up at his house near the church dedicated

to the Virgin of all the Sorrowing. He ordered his valet, Ivan

Afanássieff, to pack what he needed for the journey like the last time he

went abroad.

“Are you going to join your father?”

“I am going, the Lord knows best, either to him or somewhere else,”

Alexis said drowsily.

“Tsarevitch! How somewhere else?” The valet was frightened, or else

feigned to be so.

“I should like to see Venice,” began Alexis smiling, but in the next

moment he added in a mournful voice, as if to himself, “I only do this to

save myself. Yet, mind you keep silence. There is no one else besides you

and Kikin who know anything about it.”

“I will keep your secret,” answered the old man in his usual gruff

manner, though at this moment his eyes lit up with devotion. “Only we’ll

have a rough time of it when you have left. Bethink yourself what you

intend doing——”

“I did not expect any message from my father,” continued the Tsarevitch

in the same drowsy tone, “and it never came to my mind; but now I see it

is God who guides me. I dreamt last night that I was building churches,

which means I have a journey to take——”

He yawned.

“Many in your station have sought refuge in flight,” remarked

Afanássieff, “but it has never happened in Russia within the memory of

man.”

From his house Alexis went straight to Ménshikoff and informed him that

he was going to join his father. The Prince spoke amiably, and before

parting asked:—

“And where will you leave Afrossinia?”

“I’ll take her as far as Riga and then send her back to Petersburg,”

answered Alexis at random, hardly realising what he said; afterwards he

marvelled at his instinctive cunning.

“Why send her back?” said Ménshikoff looking him straight in the face,

“better take her with you.”

Had Alexis been more attentive he would have been surprised. Ménshikoff

must have known that a son “desirous of fitting himself for the throne,”

could not appear in his father’s camp, “to study military duties” with

his mistress Afrossinia. What did the advice mean? When in the course

of time Kikin heard about it, he suggested that Alexis should thank

the prince by letter for his advice: “Your father might chance to find

the letter at the prince’s house, and suspicion at his having been an

accomplice in your flight might be aroused.”

Ménshikoff told him to come to the Senate for the passport and money for

the journey before leaving.

In the Senate all vied with one another in trying to render a service

to the Tsarevitch, as if they wanted to show secretly a sympathy for

him, which they did not dare to confess openly. Ménshikoff provided him

with 2,000 gold roubles; the Senate another 1,000, and at the same time

arranged with the High Commissioner of Riga for a loan of 5,000 in gold,

and 2,000 in small money. No one asked awkward questions; they all seemed

to have agreed not to inquire why Alexis should need so much money. After

the meeting was over, Prince Basil Dolgorúki took him aside: “Are you

going to your father?”