_A LATE VISITOR._
The evening of the 1st of December, 1775, was particularly wet and
windy. The snow which had fallen in the morning was now all melted;
there were pools of water everywhere; the few and far between carriages
and pedestrians gloomily splashed along the streets. There was a storm.
The wind howled over the house of the priest, shaking the shutters, and
bending the enormous trees in the garden of the Hetman. The Neva was
swollen; an inundation was imminent. From time to time could be heard
the gloomy sound of the cannon from the fortress.
Father Peter was in the attic with the girls, and very thoughtful. The
conversation could not be kept up to the accompaniment of the howling
wind; it frequently had to be broken. Vâra was telling the cards; Irena
appeared very displeased, and was relating with a very discontented
face what leeches the secretaries in the Foreign Department were, the
interpreters, and even the very scribes. Notwithstanding the orders
and personal interest of Count Pânin, they had as yet done nothing
in Spain or on the islands. Projects were made on paper, copied,
translated, everything, only to drag on.
“You should just oil a little … through the servants, or somehow,” said
the priest.
“Oh! she gave without stint,” answered Vâra for her friend.
“Oh! those laggards,” said Father Peter. “Yes, it’s high time our
empress should return from Moscow. We are badly off without her.”
The rain beat furiously on the windows like hail. The poor trembling
drenched dog had hidden himself in his kennel, as though acknowledging
that in such a storm, and with the cannon firing, no one would take
the trouble to disturb him. All at once, after one of the booms of the
cannon from the fortress, the dog began to bark most angrily, and,
above the roar of the wind, the noise of the shutting of the gate was
distinctly heard. Both girls shivered.
“Axenia is asleep,” said Father Peter, speaking of the cook. “Some one
wants me, I suppose, and could not make himself heard at the front
door.”
“Uncle, I’ll go and open it,” said Vâra.
“Oh! with your courage! You’d better sit still.”
The priest, taking the candle in his hand, went down and opened the
door. There entered a not very tall, but stout man, with a red face.
He had a cocked hat and sword, and seemed as if he had got rather wet
while waiting at the _perron_ to have the door opened.
“Secretary to the commander-in-chief, Oushakoff,” said he, shaking
himself. “I am come to you on a secret mission.”
The priest felt a little frightened. He remembered the papers brought
by Rakitina. He shut the door, and invited his guest into the study,
lighted a second candle, and having given his visitor a chair, took one
himself and sat down to listen.
“‘The Sermons of Massillon’?” said Oushakoff, rubbing his cold hands,
and looking at the book of celebrated sermons lying on Father Peter’s
table. “Then I suppose you know the French language well?”
“I understand it a little,” said the priest, thinking within himself,
“What can he want with me at this late hour?”
“Very probably, Batiushka, you understand German also; and, who knows,
perhaps Italian?”
“I learnt German, and of course Italian resembles Latin very closely.”
“Consequently,” continued the stranger, “you know a little of those
languages?”
“Well! here’s a Preceptor come to examine me,” thought the priest.
“Yes! a little,” he answered.
“Is it not strange, Father Peter, such questions; especially in the
middle of the night?” said the stranger. “Now, confess; you do find it
strange?”
“Yes! it is rather late,” said the priest, gaping and looking at him.
Oushakoff crossed one leg over the other, and looking up to the wall,
saw a portrait of the then disgraced Archbishop Arsénia Matzaevitch,
and thought to himself, “Ah! well, he sympathises with that scoundrel.
I shall have to be very determined with him, very brusque!”
“I will not delay any longer,” said he. “This is what it is. His Grace,
the commander-in-chief, desires your Right Reverence to take all the
necessary vessels, and immediately, without any delay, to follow me …
to a foreigner--of the Grecian Faith.…”
“But what is all this about?”
“To celebrate two Sacraments.”
“But which?”
“Excuse me, but is it necessary for you to know, beforehand?” answered
Oushakoff. “There must be no hesitation. The orders come from high
powers.”
“I must get everything ready,” answered the priest, “so I must know
which.”
“First Baptism, then Confession, and Holy Communion,” answered
Oushakoff.
“Now, in the night?”
“Just so. A carriage is waiting.”
“May I take the clerk?”
“The orders are, ‘without any witnesses.’”
“Where is it, if I may ask?”
“I cannot answer. You will know all afterwards. Now, only one thing;
there must be no delay, and the most profound secrecy,” said Oushakoff,
with a haughty inclination of his head, although in earnest of his
request, he pressed with both his hands his cocked hat, dripping with
the rain, to his breast.
“May I at least tell my household, and allay their anxiety?”
Oushakoff knit his brows, and silently shook his head. The priest took
the cross and books, called to Vâra in the attic to shut the door, and
by the time his niece had descended, the carriage was rolling noisily
away in the street. Driving up to the palings of the church, Father
Peter woke up the clerk, went into the church, and took the chalice.