CHAPTER III
“Quiet River Don,
Loved father mine,
Wash thou me!
Earth so cool and moist,
Loved mother mine,
Cover me!”
Afrossinia was singing, sitting at her window in the fortress of St. Elmo. She was busily unpicking the red damask lining of her sand-coloured suit of disguise; nothing on earth, she had declared, would ever induce her to deck herself out in this ridiculous manner again.
She wore a dirty silk gown with all the buttons torn off; on her naked feet slippers, embroidered in silver and worn down at the heels. The pewter workbox before her contained various bits of stuff and ribbon, a small fan, gloves, love letters written by the Tsarevitch, envelopes with scented powder, an amulet given her by a saintly old man, “poudre Maréchal” from the celebrated hairdresser Frison, of Rue Saint Honoré, a rosary from Mount Athos, Parisian beauty-patches, and jars of pomade; she spent hours in painting her face, which was absolutely unnecessary, as her complexion was faultless. The Tsarevitch sat at the same table writing letters, which were destined to be anonymously circulated in Petersburg, and also handed to archdeacons and senators.
“Honoured Gentlemen of the Senate,—
“Your lordships, as well as the whole Russian nation, I presume, must be surprised at my unexplained absence and the mystery which surrounds me. My conduct was prompted by the way in which my behaviour was persistently misunderstood, and especially by what has happened since the beginning of last year, when I was almost forced to take the monk’s habit, without any misdeed on my part, a fact which is well known to everybody. But the all merciful Lord, moved by the prayers of the Holy Virgin, comforter of all the afflicted, and all the saints protected me and gave me shelter away from my beloved country, which, but for this sad occasion, I would never have left. At present I am in good heath, under the protection of a powerful Emperor, until the time when the Lord, who saved me, will command me to return to Russia, in which case I ask you to stand by me.
“If any report is circulated about me with the view of uprooting my memory from the minds of the people, if, for instance, it is said, that I am no longer among the living, or that some other mischief has befallen me, believe it not, and also try to prevent the nation believing it. Alive by God’s protection, I remain, wishing you and the whole nation well.
“Faithfully yours, to my grave,
“Alexis.”
He glanced through the open door of the balcony towards the sea, which lay quivering below the fresh north breeze. A haze seemed to rise from the boiling deep, shrouding the sparkling surge and the white sails, like the breasts of proud swans. The Tsarevitch mused that this was the same blue sea which took Oleg and his “droushina” to Constantinople and which is sung about in the Russian lore.
He took out a couple of folded leaflets filled with his own laboured handwriting in German. There was a note on the margin, “Excuse my bad writing, but I have done my best.” This was a long letter addressed to the Emperor, an accusation against his father. He had begun it some time ago, but was always altering it, crossing out, re-writing, and somehow or other he could not bring himself to finish it. What seemed right in thought no longer appeared so when expressed in words. There was some insurmountable barrier between thought and expression, and no words could be found to convey adequately the essential point.
He revised some stray passages:
“The Emperor must save me. I am innocent before my father. I have always loved, honoured and obeyed him according to God’s law. I know I am only a weakling, but the fault lies with Ménshikoff’s training. He never taught me anything; always tried to separate me from my father, and throughout treated me no better than some serf or a dog. They did their best to make a drunkard of me. My spirit was broken by continuous drunkenness and persecution. Albeit, my father on occasion used to be kind to me. He entrusted me with administration; all for a time went well and he was pleased with me. But ever since my wife began bearing children—the new Tsaritsa had also borne a son—they began to treat the Crown Princess badly, forced her to perform the duties of a servant, and she died of grief. Then Ménshikoff and the Tsaritsa systematically irritated and set my father against me. They are both filled with malice, knowing neither God nor conscience. If left to himself, the Tsar is kind and just; but he is surrounded by intriguers, while at the same time he is incredibly passionate; he believes that like God, he has the right of life and death. He has shed much innocent blood, and often he has tortured and put victims to death with his own hands. If the Emperor were to deliver me to my father, it would be my certain death. Even should my father spare me, my stepmother and Ménshikoff would not rest until they succeed in killing me either by drink or poison. The abdication of the throne was extorted from me; I have no desire to become a monk; I have sufficient brains to govern. God is a witness that I never even so much as contemplated rousing the people to revolt, though it would have been an easy task for me to do so. The people are affectionate towards me, and dislike my father for his unworthy wife, his cruel and debauched favourites, the desecration of churches and the abolition of old customs, and also because he spares neither money nor blood, because he is the tyrant and enemy of his people.”
“Enemy of his people?” repeated the Tsarevitch. He thought over his words, then crossed them out; they no longer seemed true. He was well aware of his father’s love for the nation, though this love was often more pitiless than hatred: a loving father does not spare the rod. It were almost better if he loved less. He loved him, his son, also. But for this love he would not chastise or torture him. And again, as always, when re-reading this letter he vaguely felt that it was just and yet not completely just. Wholly guiltless? Wholly guilty? there was an imperceptible shade of discrimination still to observe in order to keep the balance true; he seemed to always, though unconsciously, fail to seize this fine line of justice in his accusations. Each of them seemed to grasp a distinct truth; and the two truths were doomed to remain eternally contradictory, eternally irreconcilable. It was impossible for both him and his father to remain supreme. Yet it mattered little which of the pair gained ascendancy, the conqueror would always be in the right, the conquered in the wrong.
And he himself could only vaguely formulate all this to himself, much less could he explain it to others; and even then, who could understand or would believe him? Who except God could judge between father and son?
Laying the letter on one side with a heavy heart, with a secret longing to destroy it, he sat listening to Afrossinia’s song. She had finished her work, and was now standing before a mirror, trying to adjust her new French face-patches. This continuous, subdued singing all through the monotonous days of her prison life, seemed as involuntary as the singing of a caged bird. She sang as she breathed, unconsciously. Yet the Tsarevitch could not help feeling a quaint contrast between this playing with French patches and the melancholy Russian song:—
Earth so cool and moist,
Loved mother mine,
Cover me!
Forest nightingale,
Loved brother mine,
Sing of me!
Cuckoo, woodland bird,
Loved sister mine,
Call for me!
Birch, as white and slender
As a fair young maiden,
Rustle thou for me!
Along the echoing passages of the fortress steps were heard, the call of sentinels, the noise of locks and bolts. The officer on duty knocked at the door, and announced Weingart, the secretary of the Imperial Viceroy in Naples.
An asthmatical, stout man entered the room with many bows; his face was the colour of raw beef, the under lip drooped, his small eyes like those of a pig seemed lost in his fat face. As with many rascals, he had an artless good-natured look about him. Æsop’s verdict on him was, “a wily beast!”
Weingart presented the Tsarevitch with a case of Moselle; observing the incognito, he addressed him as “His Excellency the Count.” For Afrossinia, whose hand he kissed with much gallantry, he had brought a basket of fruit and flowers. At the same time he handed over letters which had arrived from Russia and communicated a verbal message from Vienna:—
“In Vienna they were pleased to learn that His Excellency the Count was enjoying good health. Much patience is required, and now more than ever. The latest piece of news, which might be of interest, is a rumour apparently fast gaining ground, that the Tsarevitch has disappeared. Some suppose he escaped from his father’s cruelty, others believe he has been put to death by the Tsar’s instigation, others again fear he has fallen among murderers and lost his life on the journey. But no one knows precisely where he is. Here is a report of the Imperial Resident Pleyer to that effect, if your Excellency is at all curious as to what are the current views in Petersburg on the subject. The Emperor’s exact message is as follows: ‘We advise our beloved Tsarevitch, for his own good, to observe strictest incognito, for, on his return to Petersburg, the Tsar will inaugurate a thorough investigation.’”
Then stooping down to Alexis he whispered in his ear:—
“Fear not, your Highness! My information comes from most reliable quarters. The Emperor will not forsake you; and should there be need for it after your father’s death, he is prepared to help you to the throne with armed force.”
“No! no! what are you talking about?” The Tsarevitch stopped him, that feeling again taking possession of him which a few moments since had prompted him to lay the Emperor’s letter aside, “I do hope for God’s sake it will never come to that! war will never be caused by me. It is not this I asked you for, only your protection. I did not even desire anything else. However, I am much obliged to you. May God reward the Emperor for the kindness he has shown to me!”
He ordered one of the Moselle bottles to be opened, in order to drink the Emperor’s health. He went out of the room to fetch some important letters, and on his return he found Weingart engaged in politely explaining to Afrossinia, more by signs it is true than by words, that she did wrong in giving up her man’s clothes which had so admirably suited her.
“L’Amour même ne saurait se présenter avec plus de grâces,” he concluded in French, fixing on her with his little pig’s eyes that look which was so particularly odious to the Tsarevitch.
When Weingart was announced, Afrossinia had hastened to alter her outward appearance. Thus he found her wearing a beautiful new damask surcoat, which concealed her dirty dressing gown; a cap of loveliest Brabant lace covered her dishevelled hair; she had powdered herself, and had even found time to fix a beauty spot above her left eyebrow, as she had noticed a Parisian courtesan wear hers in Rome driving in the Corso. The expression of dulness had disappeared from her face; she had brightened up; though she understood not a word of either French or German, she knew full well that Weingart was talking about her recent disguise. She smiled roguishly, blushed and hid her face in her sleeve after the manner of a Russian peasant girl.
“With this German, a pig’s carcass, the Lord forgive me! she has found a nice person to flirt with,” the Tsarevitch thought, annoyed. “Ah, bah! it’s all the same to her; all she requires is some novelty, anything will do so long as it is new. Eve’s daughters are all alike. A woman, a devil, they keep the balance even.”
After Weingart had gone, Alexis began reading the letters; the most important was Pleyer’s report.
“The regiments of the Guard, which consist for the most part of nobles, together with the rest of the army, have organized a plot in Mecklenburg: they propose killing the Tsar, bringing the present Tsaritsa and her three children back here where they will be shut up in the same convent which for so long has cloistered the former Tsaritsa, who will be liberated, and the government entrusted to her son, the legitimate heir.”
The Tsarevitch tossed off two glasses of Moselle and began to pace up and down the room, murmuring something to himself, and gesticulating with his arms. Afrossinia’s eyes were following him silently and intently, while apparently quite indifferent. After Weingart had left, her face had lapsed into its habitual expression of dulness.
At last, pausing in front of her, he exclaimed:—
“Well, dearest, soon all the dainties you desire shall be at your disposal. This is good news! God will soon grant us a safe and joyous return!”
He carefully explained to her Pleyer’s report. The last words he read out in German, they evidently delighted him beyond measure, “Alles zum Aufstand allhier sehr geneiget ist—All here are greatly inclined to revolt. There is a general complaint about nobles and peasants being treated alike, made without distinction to serve in the army and navy. As to the villages, they are positively ruined by the building of ships and towns.”
Afrossinia listened without a word of comment, her face manifesting the same dull indifference, and only when he had finished, she asked in her characteristic, languid, lazy tone:—
“Alexis, suppose the Tsar is killed and you are sent for, will you side with the revolutionists?”
She glanced at him sideways, with a look which, had he not been so entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts, would have amazed him, or even made him aware of a secret sting in this question; but he noticed nothing.
“I don’t quite know yet,” he answered, after a short silence. “Should the summons come, I might side with them. But why build on probabilities? God’s will be done——” He stopped short, as if now only realizing what he was saying. “I only tell you this, Afrossinia, to show you how God works. My father plans one course, God follows His own!”
Exhausted with joy he sank into a chair, and, oblivious of Afrossinia’s presence, began talking to himself.
“There is printed information that the Swedish fleet has started for the Lithuanian shores to land troops. If this be true, great mischief will ensue. In Petersburg our Senators and Prince Ménshikoff will not work harmoniously together; and meanwhile our main forces are far away; there are quarrels and rivalries, the Swedes will be able to do great mischief. Petersburg lies within their reach; mind we don’t lose it as we lost Azov. Either the Swedes will take it from us, or else of itself it will fall into ruins. Petersburg will be destroyed, destroyed!“ he repeated with gusto his aunt’s habitual prophecy.
“And this apparent lull is also a bad omen. My uncle, Abraham Lopoukhin, writes that people of all ranks and classes inquire after me, sympathize with me, and are ready to stand by me; that there is already beginning a ferment round Moscow, also lower down along the Volga, the people will not remain unaffected. Is this to be wondered at? Have they not remained patient for so long! Ah, but it won’t pass by this time! I am sure their longsuffering will give out, and they will act in some way or other. Add to this the conspiracy in Mecklenburg, the Swedes, the Emperor, myself. Calamity threatens on all sides! the whole edifice is crumbling, tottering. It will, indeed, be a severance. Ah! father! you won’t have the best of it!”
For the first time in his life he felt himself to be a power, dangerous to his father. Joy was again well-nigh stifling him, as on that memorable night, during Peter’s illness, when, behind the frosted window in the moonlight, a wild turbulent snowstorm, a luminous blue chaos, was tossing itself about as in some mad delirium. Joy had intoxicated him even more than the wine of which he continued to drink glass after glass, his eyes fixed on the distant sea, also blue, luminous, and as it were throbbing with mad joy.
“In the German papers it is reported that my youngest brother, Petinka, had a narrow escape from being killed by a thunderbolt this summer at Peterhof. The nurse, who was carrying him, almost died from the shock; the soldier in attendance was actually killed. The babe’s health has suffered ever since. And yet what attention, what care has been bestowed on him! It is evident he won’t live long. Poor Petinka! his young soul is innocent before God. He is suffering, not for his own, but for his parents’ sins. Lord have mercy upon him. Here again is a clear manifestation of God’s will. I cannot understand how my father does not see it. It is awful to fall into the hands of the living God!”
“Who of the senators will espouse your cause?” suddenly queried Afrossinia; again that same strange spark flashed in her eyes and instantly died, as if a candle had been carried behind a curtain.
“And why should you trouble your head about it?” The Tsarevitch looked at her with surprise, he seemed to have entirely forgotten her presence, and only now realized that she had been listening to him the whole time. Afrossinia did not repeat her question; yet they both felt that a scarcely perceptible cloud had passed between them.
“Though they are not all my enemies, yet being cowards, and hankering after my father’s goodwill, they all pretend they are.” continued the Tsarevitch. “Never mind, I am in no particular need of them. I spit upon them all, if only the common people are staunch to me!” This was his favourite expression. “When Tsar, I will turn all the old senators out and replace them by new ones of my own choice. I will lighten the peasants’ burden, give them a chance to breathe. I will reduce the Boyars’ snug incomes; they have been fattening on them for long enough; I will provide for the peasantry, the weaker and poorer. They are the lesser brethren of Christ. I will institute a Church and a Zemski Sobor drawn from all classes: let everybody freely and fearlessly inform the Tsar of what is true, so that both State and Church could be reformed by a general council and under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, henceforth and for ever more.”
He dreamt aloud, and his dreams grew more and more misty, less and less real. Suddenly a cruel, poignant thought stung his heart like a gadfly: “All this is idle talk, nothing like it will ever happen. The blue tit spread his own fame far and wide, yet when it came to action he failed to set the sea on fire.”
He saw himself side by side with his father, the giant who was forging a new Russia; while he with his dreams was but a boy blowing soap-bubbles. How could he possibly vie with his father?
But he resolutely shook this thought off like some tiresome fly. Nothing can happen without God’s will. Let my father go on forging his iron—he only does what pleases him—meanwhile God has His own purpose. The iron will burst like a soap bubble, if God wills it.
The Tsarevitch again abandoned himself to visions. The sense of power had given way to a general feeling of languid weakness. With a smile, more and more serene, he sat listening, as in a trance, to the dull roaring of the sea; and there was something familiar in the roaring; something he had heard long ago seemed again to strike his ear; was it his grandmother’s lullaby? or was it the siren bird pouring forth her melodious strains?
“And after I have provided for the country and eased the lot of the peasants, I will set out with a large army and fleet for Constantinople, drive away the Turk, free the Slavs from the yoke of the unfaithful, and reinstate the cross on St. Sophia. Then I will call an oecumenical council to bring about the union of all churches; I will give peace to the world, and nations from all corners of the world will flock towards St. Sophia, the Wisdom of God, unto the holy kingdom, to meet the coming Christ.”
Afrossinia had long since left off listening; she had been continuously yawning and making the sign of the cross over her mouth. At last she got up, stretching and scratching herself. “I feel tired; waiting for that German this afternoon cost me my sleep. Hadn’t I better go to bed, Alexis?”
“Yes, my dear one, do go, God protect you. I too may come after a while; only I must first feed the doves.”
She went into the adjoining room, their bedchamber, while the Tsarevitch went out on the balcony, where the doves were already collecting, waiting to be fed. He threw some crumbs and grains to them, calling in a low gentle voice: “Coo! coo! coo!” And just as in Roshdestveno, the doves flocked to his feet, wheeled in circles over his head, perched on his shoulders and arms, covered him as it were with wings. He looked down upon the sea: in the tremulous waving of wings he imagined he was flying away into that boundless space, across the blue deep, towards the luminous, bright Hagia Sophia, the Wisdom of God. The sensation of flight was so real, that his heart sank and his head grew dizzy. He got frightened. He closed his eyes, and convulsively gripped the balustrade. It seemed to him he no longer was flying, but falling.
With faltering steps he returned to the room. At the same moment Afrossinia came in; she had undressed, and was wearing nothing but her chemise; climbing on to a chair she trimmed the little lamp before the holy image. It was an old representation of the Mother of all the Sorrowing, beloved by the Tsarevitch, who never parted from it.
“What a fault! To-morrow is the Heavenly Queen’s Assumption, and I had forgotten all about it. Fancy leaving her, our Lady, without a lamp! Will you read the lauds, Alexis? Shall I get the reading desk ready?”
On the eve of each great feast, as he had no chaplain, he used to officiate himself, reading the lauds, and chanting the psalms.
“No, not yet, dearest, perhaps a little later on. I feel tired, my head aches.”
“You should drink less wine, Alexis.”
“It is not the wine, but my thoughts; the news was so joyous.”
Afrossinia, on her way to the bedroom, stopped at the table to select from the basket which the German had brought her, a ripe peach; she enjoyed eating a dainty before going to sleep.
The Tsarevitch came up and embraced her.
“Afrossinia, my dearest, aren’t you glad? You will be queen—and he, the babe——”
He was persuaded that Afrossinia would bear him a son. She was the third month with child. “You are my gold, and the boy will be our silver,” he would tell her in moments of tenderness.
“Yes, you will be the Tsaritsa, your boy the heir. We will call him Ivan, the most pious Tsar, Ivan Alexeyevitch, Autocrat of all the Russias.”
She gently freed herself from his embrace, looked across her shoulder to see whether the lamp was burning all right, took a bite from her peach, and then calmly answered him:—
“You are talking idly. How can I, a servant, become a Tsaritsa?”
“I’ll marry you, then you can’t help being one! My father did just the same. His wife, Catherine, belongs to no distinguished family; she used to wash linen with the Finnish women, her companions; a chemise was all she wore when taken a prisoner, and yet she reigns. You, also, Afrossinia Fédorevna, will be a Tsaritsa, and no worse than others.”
He wanted to tell her all he felt, yet knew not how to express it. He wanted to tell her the main idea of his life—that it was just because she was of the people he had loved her; though he was the son of the Tsar, he felt he too belonged to the people. He did not share the noble’s pride, but loved the simplicity of the common folk. It is from them that he would accept the crown. Good must be repaid by good. The common people will make him Tsar, and he will make her, Afrossinia, the serf-girl, a Tsaritsa.
She remained silent, her eyes cast down, and her face revealing little beyond an unmistakeable longing for sleep. But he pressed her closer and closer to himself, conscious of the freshness of her naked body concealed by the thin material. She resisted, and tried to free herself. Suddenly by accident he caught the chemise which was kept together by a single button on the shoulder. It gave way, and the chemise slipped off and fell to her feet.
She stood before him naked, amidst the brilliancy of her tawny golden hair alone. The beauty spot over her left brow was strangely enticing. Again there was something faun-like, shining, mysterious and wild in her almond-shaped eyes.
“Let me go Alexis, I am ashamed, let me go!”
If she felt shame, she did not feel it very acutely. She turned aside her head a little with her usual indolent, slightly mocking smile; and remained, always under his caresses, cold, innocent, almost virginal, notwithstanding the scarcely perceptible swelling curve which revealed her pregnancy. Her body seemed to glide out of his embracing arms, to become ethereal and melt away like a phantom.
“Afrossinia!” he whispered, trying to retain the vision, and suddenly he fell on his knees before her.
“For shame,” she repeated, “on the eve of a holy day, and when the lamp is burning, sin! sin!”
Yet the next minute she raised with listless indifference a peach to her parted lips, red and fresh as the fruit itself.
“She is right, it is sin,” the old thought flashed across his mind. “With woman began sin, root of all our death.”
Involuntarily he too glanced back at the holy image; just such an image as this had fallen out of his father’s hands one stormy night in the Summer Garden and broken at the foot of the Petersburg Venus, the white she-devil.
Afrossinia stood against the door which opened on the blue sea, and her body, glowing and white like the foam of waves, seemed to have freshly left them and arisen from the surging deep. In one hand she held the fruit, with the other she shielded her nakedness, like the Foam-born. Behind her frothed and sparkled the blue sea, an ambrosial cup, and the noise of its ripples suggested the eternal laughter of the gods.
It was that same girl Afrossinia, who, one evening in early spring, bending low over her naked feet, had been washing the floor in the house of Viasemski. It was that girl and the goddess Aphrodite merged into one.
“Venus, Venus, the White Witch!” thought the Tsarevitch, almost ready to flee from her. But from the body of this innocent sinner, as from an open flower, there came to him a familiar, intoxicating, awful perfume; no longer master of himself he bent lower still and kissed her feet, and, looking into her eyes, whispered as in prayer:
“Tsaritsa, my Tsaritsa.”
Meantime the dim flame of the little lamp was flickering to and fro before the sacred and sorrowful Face.