CHAPTER I
To Alexis the Church was no longer the true church after he became acquainted with the Tsar’s ukase, whereby the seal of the confessional was no longer inviolate. It seemed to him that the Lord had, without doubt, abandoned His Church since He allowed its humiliation.
When the Moscow trial was ended, Peter returned to Petersburg on March 24, the eve of Lady Day. He applied himself with so much zeal in his “Paradise” to the building of ships, the establishing of Government offices and the transaction of general business, that many in his official circle thought that the inquiry had really ended, and that the whole affair was to be consigned to oblivion. The Tsarevitch, had, however, been brought from Moscow under guard, together with the other convicts, and lodged in a separate house next to the Winter Palace.
Here he was kept a close prisoner, being allowed neither to go out, nor to see any one. It was rumoured that he had gone out of his mind through excessive drinking.
The Easter holy week came. For the first time in his life Alexis refused to prepare himself for Communion. Priests were sent to try and persuade him, but he declined to have anything whatever to do with them; he took them all as spies.
Easter fell on April 13. The Easter midnight service was celebrated in the Cathedral of the Troïtsa, one of the oldest buildings in Petersburg, and as small, low and dark as a simple village church. The Tsar, the Tsaritsa and the Ministers and senators were present. Alexis at first refused to attend, but he was brought thither by the Tsar’s orders.
In the semi-dark church the tomb of Christ with a picture of the dead was installed according to custom, and the Psalm of the great Saturday, chanted over the representation, sounded like a funeral dirge.
The officiating priests came out of the sanctuary still robed in their black lenten vestments; they raised the tomb with the representation of our Lord, bore it into the sanctuary and closed the doors: they had laid the Lord in the grave.
The singers intoned the last verse of the Canticle:—
“When thou didst descend unto death, Eternal——”
Silence ensued.
Then suddenly the crowd began to sway and move as though hurriedly preparing for some event. The wax taper which each one bore was lighted from that of his neighbour. The Church was filled with a soft light, and in this luminous hush there was the expectation of great joy.
Alexis lighted his candle at that of his neighbour, Count Peter Andreitch Tolstoi—his Judas Iscariot. The delicate light brought back to him all that he used to feel at the early Easter Mass; but he thrust these feelings aside, he no longer cared to recall them, he even dreaded them. Gazing absently at Prince Ménshikoff’s back as he stood in front of him, he tried to fix his attention on how to avoid dropping some of the melted wax upon the gold embroideries of the Prince’s dress.
From behind the closed altar gates came the voice of the deacon:—
“Thy Resurrection, O Christ, our Saviour! is chanted by angels in heaven.”
The gates opened and two choirs sang in response:—
“Grant unto us, who are on earth, to glorify thee with a pure heart.”
The priests, now arrayed in light paschal vestments, issued from the sanctuary and the procession was formed.
The great bell of the Cathedral began to peal; it was answered by the bells of the other churches. Rejoicing peals then burst forth from all sides, accompanied by the thunder of cannon in salute from the Peter and Paul fortress.
The procession left the Cathedral and the outer doors were closed. The sanctuary had become empty and again every sound was hushed.
The Tsarevitch remained standing motionless with down-dropt head, gazing always in the same absent way: he forced himself to hear nothing, to see nothing.
From without came the voice, broken and feeble, of the Metropolitan, Stephen:—
“Glory be to the Holy Trinity which maketh alive, one and indivisible, now and for ever, throughout all ages.”
Then came other voices, low and subdued as though from a distance:—
“Christ hath risen from the dead!”
Then louder and louder, nearer and more joyous they sounded.
At last the doors of the Cathedral opened wide, and together with the noise of the returning multitude rang forth the triumphant song, which shook the very earth and the heavens:—
“Christ hath risen: by His death He hath overcome death, and hath given life to those who were in the darkness of the grave.”
And such fulness of joy was in this hymn that nothing could resist it: it was as though all those things were about to be accomplished, which creation had been awaiting from the beginning of time; as if a miracle were about to take place.
The Tsarevitch grew pale, his hands trembled, he very nearly let his candle fall. In spite of himself his whole being was pervaded by an all-pervading sense of joy. Life, suffering, death itself seemed to him to fade and become of no account before it.
He burst into tears, and, in order to conceal his emotion, he went out upon the flight of steps in front of the Cathedral.
The April night was mild and serene. A smell of thawing snow, of moist bark and of unopened buds filled the air. The church was surrounded by people; below, in the dark square, the wax tapers shone like stars, while above, in the dark heavens, the stars gleamed like tapers. Clouds, light as angels’ wings, floated past. The ice was thawing on the Neva. The joyous sound of the rumbling of breaking ice floes mingled with the peal of church bells. It seemed as though both earth and sky were chanting: “Christ is risen!”
After Mass, the Tsar, coming out upon the Cathedral steps, exchanged the Easter Greeting not only with the Ministers and senators but also with all his servants, down to the meanest kitchen boy.
The Tsarevitch looked at his father from a distance, not daring to draw near. Peter, however, saw his son and himself came up to him:—
“Christ is risen, Aliósha,” he said, with the old kindly smile.
“Truly He is risen, father!”
And they exchanged three kisses.
Alexis felt the familiar touch of the plump, clean shaven cheek, of the soft lips; he recognised also the familiar odour. And again, just as in the days of his childhood, his heart began to throb furiously, and the wild hope: “What if he should really forgive and spare me!” almost took away his breath.
Peter was so tall that he had to stoop nearly every time that he gave the kiss, and so, as his neck and back began to ache, he withdrew to the sanctuary from the besieging crowd.
At six o’clock, when daylight had just broken, they went from the Cathedral into the Senate House, a low, long, whitewashed building, like barracks, which adjoined the church. In the narrow audience halls tables had been spread with Kulitchi and Paschi; eggs, wine and vodka to break the fast.
At the entrance to the Senate House, James Dolgorúki overtook the Tsarevitch and whispered to him that Afrossinia would shortly arrive in Petersburg, that she was well, but that her delivery was daily expected.
In the vestibule the Tsarevitch met Catherine the Empress; she looked young and pretty in her gorgeous robe made of white brocade, which had the double eagle worked in pearls and diamonds on the front; she wore the pale blue St. Andrew’s ribbon across her shoulder and a diamond star. Her face, slightly touched up by rouge and powder, looked young and attractive. Receiving her guests, she, like a good hostess, greeted them all with her uniform, affected smile. She had a smile for the Tsarevitch also, and he kissed her hand. She embraced him three times, and they exchanged the Easter greeting, the red eggs. Just as she was about to leave him, suddenly he fell at her feet, and cast upon her a glance so distraught that she retreated slightly from him.
“Sovereign Lady! Have pity upon me! intercede with my father on my behalf, so that he may allow me to marry Afrossinia. I ask nothing else. God is my witness! My life will not be for long. I should wish to withdraw myself far from you, and to die in peace. Have compassion, Mother! for this joyous holy day’s sake!——”
And again he looked at her in such a fashion that she grew afraid. Suddenly her face trembled and she began to cry. Catherine was not averse to shedding tears, and was in fact a mistress in the art. Russians were in the habit of saying that she had the gift of tears; and foreigners, who were not deceived, declared that she could melt the heart as surely as any Andromache on the stage. Yet now her tears were not feigned; her pity was really stirred for the Tsarevitch.
She bent down to him and kissed his forehead. Under the low dress he perceived the ample white bosom with two charming little dark moles—beauty spots perhaps.
“Poor, poor boy! would I not do it for you? But what is the use? Would he allow himself to be influenced in the least degree? I should only injure your cause the more.”
And casting a furtive glance around to make sure that no one was listening, she brought her lips close to his ear and hurriedly whispered:—
“Your case is desperate; my poor boy; so bad that you ought to fly at once; leave everything and fly!”
In came Tolstoi. Catherine, leaving the Tsarevitch, quickly dried her tears with a lace handkerchief and turned to Tolstoi with her usual cheerful face, and asked him whether he had seen the Tsar, and why he delayed his coming.
On the threshold of the door leading from the adjacent hall appeared the tall, angular figure of a German lady, dressed with no pretention to taste; she had a long, narrow, old-maidish face, shaped somewhat like a horse’s head. She was a princess of East Friesland, ex-maid of honour to the late Crown Princess Charlotte, and was now acting as governess of her two orphan children. She had such a decided, commanding air that all involuntarily made way before her. She carried the little boy Peter in her arms and led Natasha, now four years old, by the hand.
The Tsarevitch scarcely recognised his children; it was so long since he had seen them.
“Mais, saluez donc monsieur votre père, mademoiselle!” whispered the old lady to Natasha, who had stopped evidently unable to recognise her father. The little boy first stared at Alexis in curiosity, then turned away, waved his little arms and started to cry aloud.
“Natasha, Natasha, darling!” said the Tsarevitch stretching out his arms to her.
She raised to him her large sad eyes, pale blue, like her mother’s, smiled, ran up to him and threw her arms round his neck.
In came Peter: he glanced at the children and said in an angry voice to the Princess, in German:
“Why have you brought them here? This is no place for children. Go away!”
The governess looked at the Tsar and indignation gleamed in her kind eyes; she was about to reply, but seeing that the Tsarevitch had submissively let Natasha go, she shrugged her shoulders, shook the little boy, who had not yet ceased his cries, angrily caught the little girl’s hand, and silently went out, with the same commanding air which she had borne on entering the hall.
As she was passing out, Natasha turned round and looked at her father with a glance which reminded him of Charlotte. The child’s look expressed, like her mother’s, resigned despair. Alexis’ heart contracted. He felt that he would never see his children again.
They sat down to table. The Tsar between Feofan Prokopovitch and Stephen Yavorski. Opposite to them the Kniaz or mock-Pope with the entire “Most Drunken Conclave.” They had found time to break the fast, and were already beginning to squabble.
For the Tsar this was a double festival: Easter and the breaking up of the ice on the Neva. Dreaming about the launching of new ships, he cheerfully looked though the window upon the white ice blocks, which, bathed by the morning sun, floated like swans on the blue surface.
The talk centred round ecclesiastical affairs.
“Father,” asked Peter, addressing Feofan, “will our Patriarch soon be ready.”
“Soon, your Majesty! I have almost completed his cassock,” answered the prelate.
“And I have already finished his hat,” laughed the Tsar.
The “Patriarch” was none other than the Holy Synod, the “Cassock” signified the ecclesiastical regulations which Feofan was drawing up; the “Hat” the ukase which instituted the Holy Synod.
When Feofan began to speak of the utility of this new college every feature of his face lighted up and began to twinkle with almost exaggerated merriment: it sometimes seemed as if he himself were laughing at his own words.
“A College will exercise a more liberal spirit than is possible to any single director. The fact also should not be overlooked, that a College presents no spirit of antagonism to the government. For the people do not recognise the difference which exists between the Spiritual and the Temporal powers, and when they behold the glory and honour which surrounds a pontiff, they think that he is a second Tsar, co-equal, or even greater than he. And when a dispute arises between the two, all will range themselves on the side of the Spiritual, rather than worldly lord, flattering themselves that by so doing they are serving God’s cause, and that far from defiling, they are even sanctifying themselves by the shedding of blood. The evils which this error calls forth are indescribable. A survey of the history of Constantinople, prior to the time of Justinian, proves this. The Papacy gained ascendancy by no other means; it divided the Roman Empire, arrogated to itself immense power, and brought about the ruin of several kingdoms. There is no need to recall similar facts in our own history! Such evils are impossible in an ecclesiastical college. The people will become peaceable and will abandon all hope of winning the support of the clergy in their rebellions. Lastly, a spiritual college will be to a certain extent a school of clerical administration, where the members can learn with ease the science of politics. Let us hope that in Russia, with the help of God, the time will soon come when the clergy will lose their uncouthness, and that the future will bring us great goodness as the result of our labour.”
The bishop looking straight at the Tsar with an obsequious smile, in which cunning curiously bordered on impertinence, and concluded with the solemn words:—
“Thou art Peter, and upon this rock will I build My Church!”
Silence followed. Only the fraternity of the “Most Drunken Conclave” continued their uproar; the honest Prince James Dolgorúki murmured, so that no one could hear him:—
“Render to God the things that are God’s, and unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”
“And you, Father, what think you of this business?” said the Tsar to Stephen.
While Prokopovitch was speaking, Stephen had kept his head lowered, his eyes closed, as though asleep; and his old bloodless face seemed dead. Yet Peter thought that he discerned in this face what he most feared and hated: the quiet spirit of the rebel. Hearing the Tsar’s voice the old man started up, as though awaking from a doze, and gently said:—
“How can I, your Majesty, speak on such a subject as this! I am old and foolish. Let the young talk, we old ones will listen.”
He inclined his head lower still and added in a murmur:—
“It is impossible to sail against the wind.”
“Old man! You are always whining,” retorted the Tsar, shrugging his shoulders in vexation; “what do you want? Out with it!”
Stephen looked at the Tsar and seemed to shrink within himself. His whole bearing expressed humility, without a shade of the rebellious spirit. He began to speak in a hurried eager voice, as though afraid the Tsar would not hear all he had to say:—
“Most gracious Sovereign! Give me leave to retire in peace and quietness! My services are known to God, partly also to your Majesty, and I have spent on them my strength, my health, and I might say my life. My eyesight is growing dim, my limbs weak; gout has wrung my fingers, and I suffer from other maladies. Your Majesty’s favour and fatherly protection have hitherto sustained me in the hours of trial, and thereby all sorrow seemed to lose its bitterness. Yet now I see your face turned away from me, and your graciousness is withdrawn. Sire, whence comes this change?”
Peter had long before this ceased to listen to him. He was absorbed in the performance of the princess-abbess Rjévskaya, who kept bending almost to her knees and then darting forward one foot after the other to the accompaniment of many drunken voices:—
Come beat a livelier strain!
Blow loudly now my pipe!
“Give me leave to retire to the Donskoi monastery or wherever your Majesty chooses to permit,” continued Stephen in a plaintive tone, “and should you have doubts as to my motives, I pray that God’s means of grace may serve only for my undoing, if I harbour any evil designs. Whether it be at Petersburg, at Moscow, or at Riazan, I shall still remain in your sovereign power, from which I should neither be able to escape, nor have cause for desiring to do so.”
Meanwhile the singing continued in full swing:—
Come beat a livelier strain!
Blow loudly now, my pipe!
For my father-in-law has tumbled asleep,
From the stove to the log-heap, O!
Oh, if I had only known,
Or had this chance foreseen;
He’d have got a longer drop,
And cracked his skull I ween!
O, my luck, O!
The Tsar stamped his feet and thumped his knee, whistling the air:
Ah, burn, burn——
The Tsarevitch glanced at Stephen; their eyes met. The old man stopped short as though coming to himself. With a shamefaced expression he cast down his eyes, and lowered his face, while two tears rolled along his wrinkles. His face again wore the lifeless expression. Feofan, the new red-faced Silenus archbishop, was scornfully smiling.
The Tsarevitch involuntarily compared the two faces. The one reflected the Church’s Past; the other bore the promise of its Future.
The air was becoming close in the small, low halls, and Peter ordered the windows to be opened. A cold wind coming from Lake Ládoga blew across the Neva, a common occurrence at the time of the breaking up of the ice. Spring had all at once changed to Autumn. The clouds, which in the night had seemed light as the wings of angels, had become lowering, dark and heavy like great boulders; the sun grew weak and its rays wore a sickly aspect.
From the taverns, which were very numerous in the neighbourhood of the Gostinny Dvor, and on the further side of the Royal works in the Food and Tolkoolchi markets, rose a sound of voices like the roaring of wild beasts. Somewhere near a fight was in progress and a voice cried:—
“Hit him again! He is too well-fed and sleek, that fellow!”
And the deafening sound of the church bells, which entered through the open window together with this drunken uproar, seemed also drunk, coarse and insolent.
In front of the Senate House, in the middle of the square, a moujik was standing over a dirty pool on which floated the red shells of Easter eggs. He had nothing on except his shirt, the rest of his clothing had probably been pawned at the wine shop. As he staggered along he appeared to be trying to make up his mind whether or no he should tumble into the pool: his speech was freely interlarded with oaths, and broken by hiccoughs. Another poor wretch had fallen into a ditch, and his bare legs sticking out waved helplessly in the air. The rigorous authority of the police was, on this day, quite powerless to cope with the drunkards, whose prostrate bodies lay about in the streets as thickly as the slain on a battlefield. The whole town was nothing but an immense tavern.
The Senate House where the Tsar sat feasting with his Ministers was part of this tavern. Here also the guests were shouting, reviling and fighting one another.
The Kniaz-Pope’s burlesque choir, was attempting to rival the cathedral choir. The one sang:—
Christ hath risen!
The other replied with:—
Come beat a livelier strain!
Blow loudly now, my pipe!
The Tsarevitch recalled the holy night, the holy joy, the depth of past emotion, the expectation of a miracle, and he felt as if he had fallen from heaven itself into the mire; like the sot who was lying in the gutter without. Bitter feelings took possession of him. What was the good of beginning Easter as they had done, if this was to be the close? There is not, neither will there be, any miracle, but only the “abomination of desolation” in the Holy Place, to the very end!