CHAPTER V
“I am confronted with great difficulties in the execution of my plans,” wrote Tolstoi to the Resident Vesselóvsky in Vienna. “Our child will never dream of leaving unless he despairs of protection. Hence much would be gained if your grace would have the report widely circulated that he will not be protected by arms, for this is what he has staked his hopes upon. We must be grateful to the Viceroy for his zealous help, but, none the less, we cannot break that cursed stubbornness. I can’t write more just now because I am going to our prey and the post is leaving.”
Tolstoi had before now been in great difficulties, but he always succeeded in getting out of them unhurt. When young he took part in the Streltsy mutiny; all others perished, he alone escaped.
At fifty, with a wife and children, being at the time a governor of a province, he offered together with “the young scions of Russia” to go abroad to learn navigation; and he learnt it. During his ambassadorship at Constantinople he was thrice imprisoned in the dungeons of the Castle of the Seven Towers, and thrice he came out; and later gained the Tsar’s special favour. Once his private secretary charged him in writing with having appropriated money belonging to the state; but the sudden death of the secretary took place before the despatch of the letter.
Tolstoi explained thus: “Timothy, the clerk, became acquainted with the Turks and thought he would join the infidels. By God’s help I learnt about it. I called him to me, talked seriously to him, and then locked him up in my room until evening; during the night he drank a glass of wine and died soon afterwards. In this fashion God saved him from his crimes.”
It was to some purpose that he studied and translated into Russian the Political Discourses of Niccolo Machiavelli, the noble Florentine citizen. Tolstoi himself passed for a Russian Machiavelli. “O head, head, if I had not known you to be so clever I should have cut you off long ago!” said the Tsar in reference to him. And that was why Tolstoi was now afraid lest in this business with the Tsarevitch this clever head should prove itself foolish and the Russian Machiavelli a dupe. And at the same time he had done all that could have been done; he had enmeshed the Tsarevitch in a fine though strong net; he had made all believe that all secretly desired his extradition, but that, through fear of breaking faith, each was thrusting the responsibility upon others. The Empress was reckoning upon the Emperor, the Emperor upon his chancellor the chancellor upon the Viceroy, the Viceroy upon his secretary. To the last named Tolstoi had given a present of £32, and promised to add more should he succeed in convincing the Tsarevitch that the Emperor would no longer protect him. But all efforts were wrecked by the “cursed stubbornness.” The worst was that he had himself asked to be sent on this mission. “Every one should recognise his star,” he used to say; and it seemed to him that his star would be the capture of the Tsarevitch, which would be the crown of his official service, he would be decorated with St. Andrew’s ribbon, receive the title of Count, and thus become the ancestor of a new house—the Counts Tolstoi, a dream which he had cherished all his life. What would the Tsar say, if he returned alone, without him? Just now, however, he did not think about the loss of the Tsar’s favour, the St. Andrew’s ribbon, nor the title. Like a true sportsman, forgetting everything else, he had one thought only, that the prey would escape him.
A few days after his first interview with Alexis, Tolstoi was sitting sipping his chocolate at breakfast on the balcony of his luxurious apartments at the Three Kings Hotel, in one of the liveliest streets of Naples, the Via Toledo. He looked very old, almost decrepit, in his dressing gown, with no wig to cover his smooth skull, which showed a scanty remnant of grey hair at the back.
Ovid’s “Metamorphoses,” which he was still translating into Russian, lay on the table in front of the mirror, together with his own metamorphosis—his youth—a small jar, brushes, and a beautiful wig with youthful coal-black curls.
He was very uneasy. But as always in moments of deep musings about political affairs, he wore an unconcerned, almost heedless expression. He exchanged glances with his pretty neighbour who was also sitting on her balcony across the road. She was a black-eyed Spaniard, one of the class who according to Æsop “are not very much inclined to live by manual labour.” He smiled across at her with gallantry, though his smile reminded one of the grin of a death’s head; and hummed a love song of his own, “To the maiden,” an imitation of Anacreon:—
Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so!
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily’s snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!
Captain Roumiantzev was telling him about his love adventures in Naples. According to Tolstoi, Roumiantzev was a man with a cheerful disposition, and made life pleasant by his company; yet all he had was the courage of a good soldier—in short, he was a fool. But Tolstoi did not despise him for that reason; on the contrary he always listened to him; and would even sometimes act on his advice. “The world is kept going by fools,” remarked Peter Tolstoi. “Cato, the Roman senator, used to say that fools are more necessary to clever men, than clever men to fools.” Roumiantzev was abusing a certain damsel, Camille, for having already lightened him in one week of more than hundred pieces of gold:
“These ladies are too fond of money.”
Peter Tolstoi remembered how he had once had a love affair in Naples, many years ago; he always related the story in the same words:—
“I was inamorato with Signora Francesca, and she was my mistress during the whole of that visit, I was so enamoured that I could not do without her, not even an hour, and she cost me a thousand gold pieces in those two months. I felt keenly leaving her; even to this day the affair remains for me the tenderest of recollections.”
He sighed languidly and smiled across to the pretty neighbour.
“And what about our ‘prey?’” he suddenly asked with a nonchalant air, as though it were a matter of very secondary importance to him. Roumiantzev related to him a conversation he had had yesterday with the sailor, Youroff, “nicknamed Æsop.” Frightened by Tolstoi’s threat to send him to Petersburg as a deserter, Youroff, notwithstanding his devotion to the Tsarevitch, agreed to become a spy, to report all he saw or heard in the latter’s house. Much of what Roumiantzev had heard about the great love of Alexis for Afrossinia proved to be of considerable interest and importance for Tolstoi’s calculations. The girl holds him by his sensuous nature; she is his confidant night and day; she has gained such power over him that he dare gainsay her in nothing. She has absolute mastery over him, he does exactly as she bids him, he wants to marry her, only he cannot find a priest; else they would have been wedded long since. He also told about his interview with Afrossinia, an interview which owing to Æsop and Weingart, had been arranged without the knowledge of the Tsarevitch, during his absence.
“A distinguished-looking woman, taking her all round, only red-haired; in appearance very meek and harmless as a dove, but in reality probably unmanageable; still waters run deep.”
“And how did it seem to you,” asked Tolstoi, on whom a sudden thought had flashed, “is there any chance? Is she the sort to fall in love?”
“With a view to make our ‘prey’ jealous as the devil?” rejoined Roumiantzev, “well, she’d probably be like the rest of women; only there is no one for her.”
“Why not yourself, Roumiantzev? Don’t be afraid, it would flatter any woman to associate with a fine fellow like you,” cunningly suggested Tolstoi.
The captain laughed, and complacently twisted his moustache, which imitated the fashion set by the Tsar.
“Camille is enough for me, what should I do with two mistresses?”
Tolstoi sang:
“Double flames make virtue vain!
Though thy heart love ladies twain
New love need not old love smother,
First serve one and then the other.
Capture one, then two, and then
All the rest, though there be ten!”
“What a wag your Excellency is,” laughed Roumiantzev, showing two rows of white, even teeth, “Grey hair in the beard, but a devil of a fellow inside!” Tolstoi replied by another ditty:—
“The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has passed away.
“Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,
“Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they are withering too!”
Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,
I’m sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And since I’ve but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I give!”
“Listen Roumiantzev,” he continued, growing serious; “instead of wasting your time with Camille, why not make love to that distinguished young lady? It might help us with the matter in hand. We might so entangle our child in jealousy that he, unable to find a way out, would fall into our clutches. For us cavaliers there is no allurement like a woman!”
“Peter Andreitch, what are you thinking about? Good gracious, I thought you were joking, and here you are quite serious. It is a ticklish job. Suppose he becomes Tsar and learn about this little adventure, my neck won’t escape his axe.”
“Oh, nonsense! that Alexis will ever be Tsar is written on water; that Peter will reward you most handsomely is quite certain. Roumiantzev, my friend, render me this service and I will never forget you.”
“Really, your Excellency, I don’t know how to tackle a job like this.”
“We’ll tackle it together. It is not very difficult. I’ll teach you how. All you will have to do is to obey.”
Roumiantzev vainly sought to get out of it, yet at last yielded. Tolstoi explained to him the plan of action.
When he had gone, Tolstoi fell once more into musings worthy of a Russian Machiavelli.
For some time past he had had a vague idea that only Afrossinia could, if she would, persuade Alexis to return. The night bird can outsing the day bird; she at any rate was their last hope. He had written the Tsar: “It is impossible to exaggerate the passion he has for this girl, and how much he thinks about her.” He also remembered Weingart’s words: “He dreads returning lest his father should separate him from that girl. I would like to use the threat, that she will immediately be taken from him if he refuses to return to his father. Although I cannot put my threat into execution without a special decree, yet we can see what the result would be.”
Tolstoi decided to go at once to the Viceroy, and ask him to command the Tsarevitch, in accordance with the Emperor’s will, to send Afrossinia away. “Besides, there is Roumiantzev’s love affair!” thought he, and such hope possessed him that his heart began to beat faster and faster. “Aid us, Mother Venus! Where clever politicians fail, a foolish lover may succeed.”
He had grown quite cheerful, and looking at his Spanish neighbour hummed with unassumed playfulness:—
See how fair in posies
With white lilies twineth
Red of roses!
And the little coquette, hiding her fan, and showing from under her black lace skirt a pretty foot in silver slippers, and pink stockings embroidered with golden arrows, ogled, and smiled slyly. And it seemed as though in this girl, Dame Fortune herself, as so often before, was again smiling, promising him success, decoration, and the title of Count.
Going inside to complete his toilette, he threw a kiss across the road with the most gracious of smiles.
The bald head smiled at wanton Fortune.
The Tsarevitch suspected Æsop of being a spy and in secret communication with Tolstoi and Roumiantzev. He sent him away and forbade him to come near him; but one day when he returned home unexpectedly he ran against him on the staircase. Æsop on seeing him grew pale and quaked like a captured thief. The Tsarevitch perceived that he was stealing up to Afrossinia with some secret message, and taking him by the collar, threw him down the stairs. A round tin box which he had been carefully concealing fell from Æsop’s pocket. The Tsarevitch picked it up. It was a box of chocolates; in its cover lay a note which began:—
“Gracious Lady Afrossinia Fédorevna!
“Since my heart is not a block of wood but has been endowed with the tenderest of feelings.” And ended with the verses.
I cannot quench this fire
Sick with a vain desire.
Without thee, O believe me,
Wasting am I and dull,
If thou deny me, life is null,
Vesuvius shall receive me!
Instead of a signature the initials, A. R. “Alexander Roumiantzev,” guessed the Tsarevitch.
He had sufficient courage and resolution to conceal his discovery from Afrossinia.
The same day Weingart informed him of the Emperor’s decree that should the Tsarevitch desire further protection he must without delay send Afrossinia away. In reality no such decree had come. Weingart was only carrying out his promise to Tolstoi. “I will try to frighten him; and though I cannot put the threat into execution without a special decree, yet we can see what the result will be.”