CHAPTER IV
Count Daun, the Imperial Viceroy of Naples, invited the Tsarevitch to an evening interview at the royal palace on September 26.
During the last few days the atmosphere had indicated the approach of the sirocco, that African wind which carries with it clouds of hot sand from the depths of the Sahara. The storm was probably already raging in the upper regions of the air, while on the earth there was absolute calm; the leaves of the palms and branches of mimosa hung motionless. The sea alone was agitated; huge foamless ridges swelled up and broke on the shore with heavy rumbling. The distance was shrouded in dense gloom, and the sun in the cloudless heavens was seen dimly as through a smoked opal. The air was permeated with the finest dust which penetrated everywhere, even into well-closed rooms; it covered white sheets of paper and the pages of books with a grey layer; it made the teeth gritty, it inflamed eyes and throats. It was close, and hourly became more stifling. In nature there was the same feeling as in the body round a tumour. Men and animals were restless, tossed about in distress. The people were expectant of some calamity; war, or pestilence, or perhaps an eruption of Vesuvius.
And really in the night from the 23rd to the 24th September, the inhabitants of Torre del Greco, Resina and Portici felt the first underground shocks. Lava appeared. The glowing avalanche was already nearing the uppermost vineyards, planted on the slopes of the hill. To appease God’s wrath penitential processions were inaugurated, with burning candles, subdued singing and loud sobbing. But God’s wrath was not appeased.
A thick black smoke rose from Vesuvius in the daytime, as from some furnace, spreading out in the shape of a long cloud from Castellamare to Posilippo. At night the red flames were visible like the glow from some great subterranean fire. The peaceful altar of the gods was transformed into the terrible torch of the Eumenides.
At last in Naples itself the first rumble of the earthquake, like underground thunder, was heard. The ancient Titans were again awaking. The town was terror-stricken. The days of Sodom and Gomorrah were recalled. At night when all was quiet, somewhere in the chinks of the window, or under the door, or in the chimney there would rise a low-pitched piping like the hum of a mosquito. It was Sirocco beginning his song. The noise grew louder and stronger, and at the moment when it was expected to burst into furious howling, suddenly died away, and again stillness ensued, only more death-like. It seemed as if the evil spirits below held converse with one another about the terrible day of the Lord.
During these days the Tsarevitch felt indisposed; but the doctor reassured him that this was only the ordinary effect of the sirocco upon those not used to it, and prescribed a cooling medicine, which seemed to ease him.
On the appointed day and hour he drove to the palace for his interview with the Viceroy. The officer on duty met him in the antechamber and gave him a polite excuse from Count Daun, asking his Highness to wait a few moments in the reception hall, as the Viceroy had been obliged to absent himself on some urgent business. Alexis entered the huge, lonely reception hall furnished with a gloomy, almost sinister, Spanish luxury: blood-red silk tapestries, an excess of heavy gilt decorations; cupboards carved in black wood resembling tombs; mirrors, so dim that they reflected spectres. On the walls large dark canvasses, religious paintings by old masters: Roman soldiers, looking very much like butchers, were burning, kicking, sawing and in sundry other ways torturing Christian martyrs; it reminded one of a slaughterhouse or a torture chamber of the Holy Inquisition. Across the ceiling amid the gilt scrolls and shells was a representation of the Triumph of the Olympian Gods. This abortion, bastard offspring of some follower of Titian and Rubens, marked the end of the Renaissance, in which refined effeminacy had become a barbarian savagery, brutalizing art. Masses of nude bodies, nude flesh, fat backs, puffed-out pleated bellies, sprawling feet, monstrous breasts; these swine-fed gods and goddesses, and the little amoretti very much like sucking pigs, all this beast-like Olympus seemed predestined for the Christian shambles; for the torture-instruments of the holy Inquisition.
The Tsarevitch walked up and down the room for some time; at last he got tired and sat down. Dusk was creeping in through the windows and grey shadows, like spiders, were spinning their webs in the corner. Only here and there a bright gilt lion’s paw, or the pointed breast of a griffin, supporting the bloodstone or malachite slabs of tables, broke the gloom; the candelabra, shrouded in muslin, dimly glittered with their crystal pendants, like gigantic cocoons beaded with dew. This mass of nude fleshy bodies, fat and pagan on the ceiling, suffering Christians round the walls, only seemed to augment the stifling effects of the sirocco. His attention was arrested by a picture, which, unlike the others, was a bright spot among them; it represented a girl nude to her waist, with auburn hair, an almost child-like innocent bosom, clear yellow eyes and a vacant smile on her lips. In the raised corners of her mouth the wild natural smile and the almond-shaped eyes there was something resembling Afrossinia. All at once there came to him an indistinct feeling that there was some connection between this smile and the stifling oppressiveness of the sirocco. It was a poor picture, a copy of an old work belonging to the Lombard school, probably by a pupil of Leonardo’s pupil. This vacant yet still mysterious smile was a last reflection from the face of Naples’ noble citizen Monna Lisa Gioconda.
The Tsarevitch was surprised at having to wait so long for the Viceroy, who was always so exceedingly polite; and where was Weingart? Why this death-like stillness in the castle?
He wanted to get up and call for candles; but some strange torpor paralyzed him. That grey cobweb, which the shadows, like spiders, had woven in the corners, twined and clung round him; he was too lazy to move; his eyes were heavy, he vainly tried to keep them open, nevertheless he fell asleep. It was for a few moments only, yet when he woke it seemed to him he had slept a long time. He had dreamt something unpleasant, something he could no longer recall, but which had left a feeling of untold weariness in his soul, and again there was somehow a link between this dream, the vacant smile of the red-haired girl, and the growing suffocation caused by the sirocco. When he opened his eyes he saw just in front of him a pale, spectre-like face. For a long time he could not make it out; at last he recognised his own face reflected in the dim pierglass before the arm-chair in which he had fallen asleep. The same mirror reflected a door just behind his back. Was not the dream going on? The door will suddenly burst open and let in something terrible, something he cannot define, yet dimly remembers.
The door opened noiselessly; on its threshold appeared lighted tapers and figures. Still looking at the glass without turning round he recognised one face, then another, then a third. He jumped up and held his hands out in the desperate hope that all this was only an apparition, but the same figure stood before him as in the mirror, and a cry of boundless terror escaped his breast:—
“It is He! He! He!——”
Alexis would have fallen had not the secretary Weingart supported him.
“Water! water! the Tsarevitch is ill.”
Weingart led him back to the arm-chair, and Alexis saw bending over him the kind old face of Count Daun, who gently stroked his shoulder and held some spirit to his nose.
“Calm yourself, for God’s sake calm yourself! Nothing bad has happened. We bring the best of news.”
Alexis drank the water, his teeth knocked against the glass. Unable to take his eyes off the door, he was trembling all over as in a high fever.
“How many came in?” he asked Count Daun in a whisper.
“Two your Highness—only two.”
“And the third, I saw a third.”
“You have probably imagined it.”
“No, I saw him, where is he?”
“Who?”
“My father!”
The old man looked at him in amazement.
“The sirocco is responsible for this,” explained Weingart. “A flow of blood to the head; it often happens so. Ever since this morning blue rings dance before my eyes. Be bled, and you will soon be relieved.”
“I saw him,” repeated Alexis. “By God, it was no dream! I saw him, Count, as plainly as I see you now.”
“Dear me,” exclaimed the old man with sincere sorrow, “had I but known that your Highness did not feel well I would never have allowed—— Even now it is quite possible to defer the interview.”
“No, no, it’s all the same. I want to know,” murmured Alexis. “Let the old man alone approach me! Don’t let the other one come near.”
He gripped his hand.
“For God’s sake don’t let that one come near me; look at him—— He has been sent by the Tsar to kill me! I know it!”
His face expressed such terror, that the Viceroy said to himself. “Who can depend on these barbarians? It might really be true,” and he remembered the Emperor’s words in the original instructions:
“Special precautions must be taken during the interview so that any assault may be frustrated. (The Muscovites are a desperate people, capable of anything.) However, I myself do not anticipate anything of the sort.”
“I pledge my life and honour that no harm will come to you. Trust me, your Highness.”
The Viceroy whispered to Weingart to have the sentinels doubled.
Meanwhile Peter Tolstoi was approaching the Tsarevitch with inaudible gliding steps, arched breast, a deferential air and lowest courtesies. His companion, Roumiantzev, Captain of the Guards, the Tsar’s orderly, of giant stature with an open handsome face resembling a Roman soldier and the Russian national hero, stopped at some distance near the door, at a sign from the Viceroy.
“Gracious Lord Tsarevitch, your Highness! a letter from your father,” said Tolstoi, and bending lower still so that the left hand almost touched the ground, he tendered with his right the letter.
The Tsarevitch recognised his father’s handwriting in the laconic “To my Son,” on the outside. He broke the seal with trembling hand and read:—
“My Son,—
“It is generally known what disobedience and contempt for my will you have shown, and that neither words nor punishment could persuade you to follow out my instructions. Before I went you succeeded in deceiving me by vows; and what came next? You left, and, like a traitor, placed yourself under a stranger’s protection! A thing unheard of, either among our children or among our subjects. Having thus caused grief and annoyance to your father, and shame to your country, I send you now this last message, that you should conform to my will, and do as M. Tolstoi and Roumiantzev will tell you. If you do as I wish you, I give you hope and promise in the sight of God that no punishment shall be inflicted on you. I will show you even greater love should you obey and return to me. If on the contrary you remain obstinate, then I, your father, by the power given to me by God, will curse you for all eternity. As your sovereign I will declare you a traitor, and I will employ all means to pursue you. God will help me in the work.
“Remember also, that so far, I have not used violence with you; if I had, why should I have depended on your good will? I would have acted as pleased me.
“Peter.”
Having read the letter, Alexis again glanced at Roumiantzev who bowed and tried to come nearer. But Alexis, pale and trembling, rose from his chair and said: “Peter Andreitch, don’t let him come near me, else I will at once leave you. Don’t you hear the Count also forbids him to come near.”
Tolstoi made a sign to Roumiantzev, who stopped short; his handsome but unintelligent face looked perplexed.
Weingart offered a chair. Tolstoi drew it near to the Tsarevitch and sat down in a respectful attitude; he stooped, looked into his eyes with an open confident gaze and began to talk. He spoke as if nothing special had happened and they had just met for a friendly chat.
Tolstoi had remained the same elegant chevalier, his excellency the privy councillor. Black velvety eyebrows, a soft velvety look in his eyes, an amiable velvety smile, an insinuating velvety voice, all smooth and velvety, yet velvet with a fang.
The Tsarevitch listened to his conversation with pleasure, though he could not help remembering his father’s saying, “Tolstoi is a clever man; but in speaking with him it is well to keep a stone ready in your sling.” His sensible, business-like words calmed Alexis, roused him from those terrible dreams and brought him back to reality. Everything seemed to be smoothed over and softened down; it seemed possible to arrange matters that the wolves should be satisfied and the sheep remain whole. He spoke like some experienced old surgeon who tries to convince his patient that a difficult operation is insignificant, almost pleasant.
“Use kindness and threats; for the rest employ arguments appropriate to the circumstances,” ran the Tsar’s instruction, and had Peter heard him he would have been well pleased.
Tolstoi confirmed in words what was written in the letter—absolute pardon and grace should the Tsarevitch return. After that, Tolstoi quoted at length the Tsar’s words from his own instructions bearing on the interview with the Emperor; there was a new accent of firmness sounding in his usually pleasant and amiable voice.
“Should the Emperor say that, our son, having placed himself under his protection, he cannot deliver him up against his will, or should he bring forward any other such excuses and fanciful apprehensions, put it before him, that we cannot but feel hurt that he tries to arbitrate between us and our son; when by natural law, and especially by the law of our country, no one can interfere between father and son, not even in private families: the son must obey his father. And we, an autocratic monarch, are in no wise subject to the Emperor, and he has no right to interfere, but ought to send our son to us. We, as a father and sovereign, following the dictates of our duty, will graciously receive him and forgive him this, his misdeed, and will instruct him so that he, forsaking his old sinful ways, may walk in the paths of virtue and follow out our intentions, could then regain our fatherly affection. His Imperial Majesty will benefit him, as well as earn a recompense from God and gratitude from us. Our son too will in the end be more thankful for this than for being kept, as he now is, under strict watch, a prisoner or malefactor under the name of some treacherous Hungarian Count, to the injury of our honour and name. Yet should the Emperor flatly refuse, then declare, that we take this to be an open breach and rupture, and we shall carry our complaint before all the world, and will then seek and strive to revenge such an insufferable insult.”
“Bah!” interrupted the Tsarevitch, “my father will never wage war against the Emperor because of me.”
“I don’t think there will be war,” agreed Tolstoi. “The Emperor will give you up without war; he does not benefit by your stay in his dominions; on the contrary, grave difficulties arise from it. He has fulfilled his promise towards you; he has protected you until you were pardoned by your father; and now the pardon has come, the Emperor has no further obligations; he is not obliged to keep you against all rights and begin a war with the Tsar, especially as he already has two wars on hand—with the Turks and the Spaniards; you probably know yourself that the Spanish fleet is now stationed between Naples and Sardinia, ready to attack Naples, for the nobility have arranged a plot, preferring Spanish to the Imperial rule. If you don’t believe me, ask the Viceroy! He has received a letter in the Emperor’s own handwriting to use all measures to persuade you to follow your father’s wishes; or at any rate to leave his dominions. And should they not give you up freely, the Tsar is willing to use arms. This is why he keeps his army in Poland. He will quarter them for the winter in Silesia, and from there it is not far to the Emperor’s dominions.”
Tolstoi looked into his eyes with still greater kindness, and gently touched his hand:—
“My Lord Tsarevitch, listen to your parent’s entreaties; return to him! ‘And we will,’ these are his exact words, ‘receive him back into our favour and promise to keep him in freedom and plenty, without anger or constraint.’”
The Tsarevitch remained silent.
“Should he refuse,” continued Tolstoi with a heavy sigh, “declare to him in my name that for such disobedience, we will proclaim him, after having cursed him, a traitor to the state. Let him consider what his life will be then. Let him not think he will be out of danger, no, not unless he is in lifelong imprisonment and under strict watch. Thus he will earn not only suffering for his soul in the future, but bodily pain in this present life. We shall not tire in discovering all possible ways and means to punish him. Even if it must be, we will with arms force the Emperor to deliver him up. Let him consider the consequences.”
Tolstoi stopped, waiting for an answer, but the Tsarevitch remained silent. At last he lifted his eyes and intently gazed at Tolstoi.
“How old are you, Peter Tolstoi?”
“Since there are no ladies present, I may confess I am past seventy,” replied the old man with an amiable smile.
“If I remember rightly, seventy is the limit of man’s life, according to the Scriptures. How could you, Peter Andreitch, with one foot in the grave, undertake such a mission as this? I always thought you had some affection for me.”
“And so I have, God knows it; I am ready to serve you to my very last breath. I only have one desire, to reconcile you to your father. It is a good work; it is written ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’”
“Don’t tell lies, old man! Do you really think I don’t know why you both have been sent here? I am not surprised at Roumiantzev, but you, Tolstoi, to lift your arm on the future Tsar and sovereign? You are both murderers. My father has despatched you to kill me.”
Tolstoi raised his hands in terror.
“God is your judge, Tsarevitch.”
There was such sincerity in his voice and face, that, notwithstanding his close acquaintance with him, Alexis wondered if he had been mistaken in him and wronged an innocent old man. But suddenly he laughed, even his anger passed away, there was so much singleheartedness, innocent bewitchery, in this lie; it was like the artfulness of women, and the play of a great actor.
“You are a sly fox, Tolstoi, only no slyness will succeed in luring the sheep into the wolves’ jaws.”
“Is it the father you believe to be a wolf?”
“Wolf or no wolf, if ever I should fall into his hands not one of my bones will remain whole. Why should we two try to mystify one another? You know the truth as well as I do.”
“Alexis Petrovitch, it is all very well doubting my words, but see here, in the Tsar’s own handwriting, ‘I promise before God—’ Don’t you hear, he swears by God. Will it be possible for the Tsar to break his oath in the sight of Europe?”
“What does he care for oaths?” interrupted Alexis, “if he cannot get out of them himself, Theodosius will absolve him. The archdeacons won’t lag behind, and the absolution will be granted by the Council. It is something to be a Russian autocrat. Two people on earth consider themselves gods, the Tsar and the Pope. They do exactly what pleases them. No, Tolstoi, don’t waste words! You won’t get me alive.”
Tolstoi took from his pocket a golden snuff-box. On its lid was depicted a shepherd loosening the girdle of a sleeping shepherdess. Without any haste, in his usual way he took a pinch, lowered his head on his breast, and said, as if to himself, deliberately:
“There is nothing for it, then; do as suits you best. You will not listen to me, may be you will listen to your father, he will be here ere long himself.”
“Where! Here? are you again lying?” gasped the Tsarevitch, growing pale and looking round at the door.
Tolstoi leisurely, put the pinch first in one nostril, then in the other, sniffed, shook off the dust with a handkerchief from his lace front, and said:—
“I had no orders to inform you about it, still it seems I have let it out. I received some time ago a letter from the Tsar, telling me of his immediate departure for Italy. Who can prohibit a father interviewing his son? Don’t imagine this to be impossible, there is not the slightest difficulty, everything depends on the Tsar’s own wish, and for the rest, you know yourself of the Tsar’s desire to visit Italy. And now this circumstance has quite decided him.”
He hung his head lower still and his face suddenly seemed to contract and grow old; he seemed on the verge of crying, a tear appeared; and again the Tsarevitch heard words he had often heard: “Where can you hide yourself from your father, only in the grave—he will find you everywhere else. The Tsar’s arm reaches far. I am sorry for you, my dear Alexis Petrovitch.”
The Tsarevitch had again risen and as at the beginning of the interview trembled all over.
“Wait Peter Andreitch, I must say a word or two to the Count.”
He took the Viceroy’s hand and together they left the room. Having ascertained that the doors were locked, the Tsarevitch retold his conversation with Tolstoi, and then, seizing the old man’s hands with his cold hands he asked:—
“Suppose my father will demand me with arms, can I still depend on the Emperor’s protection?”
“Don’t be troubled, your Highness; the Emperor is strong enough to defend those under his protection at all costs.”
“I know, Count, but I don’t speak to you now as the Viceroy, but as a noble chevalier and a kindhearted man. You have always been good to me, tell me the whole truth. Don’t hide anything from me, Count. Leave politics alone, tell me the truth, oh God! you see how I suffer.” He burst into tears and gazed at him with the look of a hunted animal. The old man involuntarily cast down his eyes.
Count Daun, tall, haggard with a pale thin face, slightly reminding one of Don Quixote, was a weak indecisive man. An assistant and politician, he was continually wavering between the old traditions, chivalrous but antipolitical, and the new duties, political but antichivalrous. He felt deep sympathy with the Tsarevitch, yet he feared to entangle himself in some responsible affair—it was the fear of a swimmer, himself in difficult straits, gripped by a half-drowning man.
Alexis fell on his knees before him:—
“I implore the Emperor in the name of God and all the saints not to forsake me! It is awful to think what will happen once I get into my father’s hands. No one else knows what manner of man he is. I know.”
The old man bent over him. Tears stood in his eyes.
“Get up, get up, your Highness! I swear by the Lord that I tell you the plain truth, without any politics. So far as I know the Emperor, nothing will induce him to deliver you up to your father. Such an action would be degrading to the honour of his Majesty and against universal justice, a sign of barbarism.” He embraced the Tsarevitch and kissed him with fatherly tenderness.
When they returned to the Reception Hall, Alexis’ face, though still pale, was calm and resolute. He approached Tolstoi, and neither sitting down himself nor inviting him to do so, gave him to understand that the audience was over, saying:—
“It is dangerous to return into my father’s angered presence. The reason why I dare not return I will explain in a letter to my protector, his Imperial Majesty. I may also write to my father in reply to his letter, which will be my definite answer. At present I can say nothing, for this matter requires consideration.”
“If your Highness has any conditions let me know them,” Tolstoi began in his insinuating voice, “I believe your father will consent to everything. He will even permit you to wed Afrossinia. Think it well over; you might see it in a different light to-morrow morning. We shall have enough time to talk it over, we have not met for the last time.”
“There is nothing for us to discuss, and nothing to meet for. How long do you intend staying here?”
“I am ordered,” replied Tolstoi in a low voice, and the Tsarevitch thought he saw his father’s look in Tolstoi’s eyes, “I am ordered not to leave this place without you. And should you be removed somewhere else I must follow you.”
Then he added in a lower voice:
“Your father will not rest until he has got you, either alive or dead.”
The velvety paw had shown its claws, and then promptly drawn them in again. He again made a deep bow, even tried to kiss Alexis’ hand, but the latter pulled it away.
“Your lordship’s most devoted servant!”
He retired with Roumiantzev through the same door by which they had come in.
The Tsarevitch followed them with his eyes; and then for a long time stared at the door, as if some fearful vision had again flashed upon him. At last he sank into a chair, covered his face with his hands, shrank and stooped as under some terrible load.
Count Daun put his hand on his shoulder; he tried to say something consoling, but feeling there was nothing to be said, he silently joined Weingart.
“The Emperor insists” he whispered, “that the Tsarevitch should rid himself of that woman he has with him. I had not the courage to tell him this to-day. Will you tell him at some better opportunity?”