CHAPTER V
The Moscow inquiry ended on March 15. The verdict of the Tsar and ministers, given in the supreme court of Preobrazhensky, sealed the fate of the culprits.
The ex-Tsaritsa, Sister Helen, was to be sent to Old Ládoga and there shut up in a convent, the Tsarevna Marya to Schlusselbourg; both to be rigorously confined and closely watched. Abraham Lapoukhin was taken to the Peter and Paul fortress at Petersburg to await a fresh inquiry. The others were to suffer death.
The executions began that same morning on the Red Square. The iron pikes, on which had remained for twenty years the heads of the Streltsy, decapitated in 1698, were cleaned and made ready to receive other heads.
Stephen Gleboff, the Tsaritsa’s lover, was impaled. He was seated on a small board. The iron spike issued from his skull. To prevent his freezing, and to prolong his tortures as much as possible, he was given a fur coat and cap. There priests watched him day and night, in the hope that he would reveal some secret before his death. One of them reported: “From the moment that Stephen was impaled, he confessed nothing to us; all he did was to ask the arch-monk Marcellus to give him the communion secretly; and while receiving it he gave up the ghost, on March 16, eight hours after midnight, during the second watch.”
Demid, the unfrocked Bishop of Rostoff, was broken on the wheel. It was said that the secretary, to whom the execution had been entrusted, made a mistake. Instead of having the bishop beheaded and his body burnt, he had him broken on the wheel.
Kikin suffered the same death. He was tortured slowly, at intervals; his legs and arms were broken one after the other; his torture lasted for more than twenty-four hours. His agony was increased by the fact that he had been roped so tightly to the wheel that he could not move in the least: he cried and moaned, praying to be finished off. It is reported that the Tsar, passing by on horseback, stooped down towards him and said:
“Alexander, you are an intelligent man. How came it that you dared to take part in such an affair?”
“Intelligence loves space, and you, you stifle it!” Kikin is supposed to have answered.
The third to suffer on the wheel was the ex-Tsaritsa’s confessor, Theodore Poustinni, who had been an intermediary between her and Gleboff.
Those who escaped death, had their noses and tongues slit, or nostrils torn off. Several, who had only heard about the Tsaritsa’s seclusion and had seen her in secular dress, were pitilessly flogged!
On the Square a white stone pillar was erected six feet high, flanked with iron spikes; the heads of the victims were stuck on these spikes. The pillar was crowned by a large flat slab, bodies were laid on it, among them Gleboff’s, surrounded as it were by his accomplices.
The Tsarevitch was forced to be present at all these executions.
Larion Dokoukin was the last to be broken on the wheel. When roped to it, he declared he had something to communicate to the Tsar. He was unbound and taken to Preobrazhensky. When the Tsar came up to him, he was already in delirium, muttering something about the coming Christ. Then for a moment he seemed to recover consciousness, looked steadfastly at the Tsar, and said:—
“If you put your son to death, his blood will fall on you and on all your descendants, from father to son, to the last of the Tsars. Have pity on your son! have pity on Russia!”
Peter said nothing, left him, and ordered his head to be cut off.
On the day after the executions, the eve of Peter’s departure for Petersburg, a midnight orgie of the “Most Drunken Convocation” was to be held at Preobrazhensky.
In these bloody days, just as during the Streltsy executions and all the blackest days of his life, Peter more zealously than ever gave himself up to buffoonery, as if trying to deafen himself with the sound of laughter.
A new Kniaz-Pope Peter Ivanovitch Bourtourline, “Metropolitan of St. Petersburg,” had been recently elected in place of the late Nikíta Zotoff. The election of the “Priest, Imitator of Bacchus,” had taken place at Petersburg, his consecration at Moscow, on the very eve of the Tsarevitch’s arrival. Now at Preobrazhensky the enrobing of the newly elected pope was to take place in mitre and cassock, burlesques of the patriarchal robes.
The Tsar found time during the legal inquiry to draw up the entire programme for this ribald ceremony.
The midnight orgie or “service” took place in a large wooden hall, hung with red cloth, illuminated with wax tapers, close to the court of judgment and the torture chamber. The long narrow tables were arranged in the shape of a horse-shoe. In the centre was a raised platform with steps on which were seated the chief cardinals, priests, and other members of the convocation. A throne, surmounted by a velvet canopy, was built of casks, and decorated from top to bottom with bottles and glasses.
When all were assembled the sacristan and the cardinal archdeacon—no other than the Tsar himself—solemnly brought in the new pope. Before him were borne two huge flasks of “very strong wine,” one gilt, the other silvered, and two dishes, one with cucumbers, the other with cabbage, finally, an obscene icon, the naked Bacchus. The Kniaz-Pope, bowing thrice to the prince-caesar and to the cardinals, offered to his Majesty the flasks and the dishes.
The Archimage questioned the pope.
“Why have you come, and what do you require from our Intemperance?”
“To be arrayed in the robes of our father Bacchus,” answered the pope.
“How do you keep the laws of Bacchus, and what are your merits in that respect?”
“O, Most Drunken Father! On rising, while yet dark, before the break of dawn, sometimes even about midnight, I drink two, three bumpers of wine, and during the day I employ myself in the same way, and fill my belly with various drinks, like a barrel. So it happens that the trembling of my hand and the darkness which fills my eyes prevents me from finding my mouth when I try to eat. This is what I do, and this is what I promise to teach to those entrusted to me. And all those who think differently and wage war against drink I will as strangers utterly deny and anathematize. Amen!”
The Archimage proclaimed:—
“May the drunkenness of Bacchus, which passeth all understanding, in complete lack of steadiness, uprightness, and sanity be with thee all the days of thy life!”
The cardinals led the pope on to the platform, and arrayed him in vestments; burlesque imitations of the cassocks, omophorium, stole, and epigonation, embroidered with dice, cards, bottles, pipes and nude figures of Venus and Bacchus. Instead of a panagia, clay flasks with bells were hung round the neck, the book-cask, containing flasks of various kinds of vodka, and a cross of pipes were handed to him. He was anointed on the head and round the eyes with strong wine.
“So may your head go round and circles dance in various shapes before your eyes henceforth unto the end of your life.”
Both his hands and the four fingers which held the bumper were then anointed.
“So may your hands tremble all the days of your life.”
In conclusion the Archimage set a tin mitre on his head.
“May this crown of the mistiness of Bacchus ever remain on your head! I a drunkard crown this toper:—
In the name of all drunkards,
In the name of every bottle,
In the name of all the fools,
In the name of all buffoons,
In the name of all the grapes,
In the name of all the hops,
In the name of all the casks,
In the name of all the hogs,
In the name of all tobacco,
In the name of all pothouses,
Homes of our father Bacchus.
Amen.”
The assembly shouted:
“Axios!—He is worthy.”
The pope was then enthroned on the barrels. Just above his head hung a small silver Bacchus astride of a cask. Bending it towards himself the pope conveniently could draw brandy either into his glass or straight into his mouth.
Not only the members of the convocation but all the other guests approached His Holiness in their turn. They bowed low before him and received, instead of a blessing, a blow on their head with a pig’s bladder soaked in brandy, and then partook of the pepper brandy offered in a huge wooden spoon.
The priests chanted:—
“O most honourable father Bacchus, born of the burnt Semele, reared in Jupiter’s thigh, dispenser of the joys of the Vine! We call on thee in the company of all this most drunken assembly. Multiply and direct the steps of this world-wide-ruling prince-pope so that he may walk in thy ways. And thou, most glorious Venus——”
Here followed obscene adjurations.
At last the guests sat down to table. Opposite the prince-pope sat the real chief ecclesiastic; Feofan Prokopovitch had taken his place, Peter next to him, then Theodosius; Alexis sat opposite the Tsar his father.
The Tsar began talking over with Feofan the news which had just reached them of the thousands of Raskolniks who had burnt themselves alive in the forests of Kerjenetz and Tchernoramensk, near the Volga. The drunken songs and shouts of the buffoons hindered the conversation.
At a sign from Peter the priests stopped short in their chant in honour of Bacchus; all were hushed, and in this sudden silence Feofan’s voice was heard saying:—
“What cursed madmen, what frantic martyrs! insatiable in the vanity of their desire for torture! They throw themselves into the flames of their own free will, flinging themselves recklessly into the abyss of hell, showing others the way. To call them mad were too little; there is no adequate name for such an evil! May all disown them and spit on them.”
“But what can be done with them?” asked Peter.
“It ought to be explained to them, your Majesty, in an exhortation, that not every suffering is acceptable before God, but only suffering ordained by law. For the Lord does not simply say, ‘Blessed are the persecuted,’ but, ‘Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.’ And such persecution for righteousness’ sake can never threaten Russia, which is an orthodox country; it is impossible for such a thing to happen——”
“Explain to them?” cried the superseded Theodosius, with a malicious smile, “of what use in the world would that be? The jaws of apostates should be broken. If in the Old Testament it was ordained that rebels must be put to death, how much is this so in the New Testament, where direct truth takes the places of images and shadows? Better is it for heretics themselves, better to die; to kill them is an act of kindness; the longer they live the more they sin, and the more seductions they invent to mislead. There is not much difference between killing a sinner with weapons or with prayer.”
“That is a bad argument,” calmly replied Feofan, without looking at Theodosius. “Cruelty is more liable to exasperate than to subdue folks bent on being martyrs. People must be brought to the Church, not by force and fear, but by the charity of the Gospels.”
“True, true,” agreed Peter; “we do not wish to hinder freedom of conscience, and gladly leave each individual to work out his own salvation. In my opinion let every man believe what he pleases; if arguments fail to convert him, fire and sword will prove utterly useless. And the maniacs for martyrdom neither benefit the country, nor themselves receive the crown of glory.”
“Slow and sure, everything will settle itself by degrees,” rejoined Feofan. “Nevertheless,” he added in a subdued voice, leaning over to the Tsar, “it would be as well to impose a double tax on the Raskolniks, so as to bring back to the Holy Church those who are afraid of fines. Also, when punishment is inflicted, some obvious civil transgression, other than their heresy, should be found, and then, having flogged them and torn their nostrils, they should, according to law, be sent to the galleys; yet when there is no obvious civil fault exhortations alone should be resorted to.”
Peter acquiesced with a nod. The Tsar and the priest understood each other.
Theodosius looked as if he would reply, but said nothing; a sarcastic smile distorted his little face, which resembled the snout of a bat, and he shrank back into himself, green with rage, as if he had taken poison. Well he understood what “exhortation” meant. Pitirime, the bishop sent to Kerjenetz to convert the Raskolniks, had only recently reported to the Emperor: “They have been tortured with exceeding cruelty; even their entrails came out.” And the Tsar in his ukase forbade that father Pitirime should be blamed for his “apostolic work.” It is easy to speak about love, but in reality, as the Raskolniks complained, “Dumb teachers stand in the torture chambers, in their hands they hold the knout instead of the Gospels, and fire takes the place of Apostles to instruct them.”
This was, however, the same ecclesiastical policy of dissimulation Theodosius himself had been preaching; but Feofan had out-run him and he felt his reign was over.
“There is nothing to be astonished at,” continued the prelate in a loud voice, “if uncultured peasants, in their extreme ignorance, err from the right way and commit mad acts. What is astonishing is that among the great nobles, among the Tsar’s servants, some are to be found, who in their wisdom and feigned humility are worse than Raskolniks. It has come so far that even the most worthless insolently take part in vile actions. Already the scum of the people, unprincipled men, born for nothing else than to be fed by the labour of others, rise up against their Tsar, against the Lord’s Christ. When they receive their daily bread, they ought to wonder and say, ‘Whence cometh this to us?’ The story of King David is repeating itself; David, against whom the blind and lame rebelled. Our pious monarch who has done so much for Russia, by whose providence all have received security and honour, has only earned himself a bad name, and his life is full of sorrows. Having prematurely aged himself by hard toil, and when unmindful of his health, thinking only of the country’s welfare, he is rushing, as it were, on to his death, there are yet those who say, ‘He lives too long.’ O sorrow, shame on thee, thee, O Russia! let us beware lest the whole world say of us: ‘The Tsar is worthy of such an empire, but the people are unworthy of such a Tsar.’”
When Feofan had finished, Peter said:—
“God, who sees my heart and conscience, knows how dear to me is my country’s welfare. But the diabolic work against me. Never has a ruler been confronted with so many attacks and calamities as I have. Foreigners say I govern slaves. But English freedom is out of place here. It would do as much good as peas thrown against a fortress wall. You must first know a people before you can decide how to govern them. It is difficult for any one to judge me who does not know everything. God alone knows the truth. He is my judge——”
Nobody listened to the Tsar. All were drunk. He stopped without having said all he meant to say, made a sign, and the priests resumed the hymn to Bacchus, the fools began shouting. The “Spring Chorus,” imitating the different birds, from the nightingale to the warbler, was so piercing that the walls re-echoed with its shrill noise.
Everything went on as usual. The guests drank and ate till they lost their senses. The dignitaries fought, pulled one another’s hair, and then making peace rolled together under the table. Prince Shakhovskoi, knight of the burlesque order of Judas, received for money, boxes on the ear. An old boyar, who refused to drink, had brandy poured down his throat through a funnel. The Kniaz-Pope vomited, from the height of his throne, over the wigs and coats of those sitting under him. The drunken fool, the princess-abbess Rjévskaya, danced skittishly, catching hold of the bottom of her skirts, and sang in a husky voice:—
Shin, shen shivargen!
Once, once, again!
Speed, speed, speed, round,
Burn! burn!
The guests whistled and stamped in time, making a frightful dust.
Everything was just as usual. Yet Peter felt weary of it all. He drank as much as possible of the strongest English pepper and brandy on purpose to get drunk. Yet he did not succeed. The more he drank, the more weary he became. He rose, sat down, rose again; he wandered among the bodies of drunken guests, strewn like corpses on a battlefield, and could not find rest. His heart began to beat in mortal anguish. Should he run away, or should he drive away this rabble?
When the cold cheerless light of the winter morn mingled with the stinking gloom and the dim light of candles burnt-down, the human faces grew yet more hideous, more beast-like, monstrous, fantastic.
Peter’s gaze was arrested by his son’s face.
The Tsarevitch was drunk. His face was deadly pale. The long thin tufts of hair stuck to his sweaty brow, his eyes had grown dim, his lower jaw hung down. He was trying not to spill his wine, but the fingers which held the glass trembled like those of an inveterate drunkard.
“Wine is not like grain, once spilt it can’t be picked up,” he muttered raising his glass. He drank it, made a face, cleared his throat, and wanting to take the taste away by a salted mushroom, vainly sought to catch one with the fork. He did not succeed, gave it up, took a piece of black bread and began to chew it slowly.
“Dear friend, am I drunk? tell me the truth, am I drunk?” he repeatedly asked Tolstoi who was sitting close by.
“Drunk, quite,” asserted Tolstoi.
“Now that’s all right,” continued the Tsarevitch, hardly able to move his thick tongue. “What does it matter to me? As long as I don’t taste wine, I have no craving whatever for it; but once I taste it, were it only a glass, I am lost. I can’t refuse whenever it is offered. It’s well I am not violent when drunk.”
He laughed a low drunken laugh and suddenly turned to his father.
“Daddy, daddy, why are you so sad? Come here, let us have a drink together! I will sing to you a song. You will be more cheerful, really!”
He smiled at his father, and there was something familiar, sweet and child-like in that smile.
“An imbecile, a simpleton! How is it possible to kill such a one!” thought Peter, and suddenly a wild, terrible pity clutched his heart like a beast.
He turned away, pretending to be listening to Feofan, who was telling him about the establishment of his Holy Synod, yet heard nothing. At last he called an orderly and told him to get horses ready to start at once for Petersburg; meanwhile he again began striding up and down, weary and sober, among the drunkards. Unconsciously, as though drawn by some magnet, he approached the Tsarevitch and sat down next to him, but turned his head, pretending to be engrossed in a conversation with Prince James Dolgorúki.
“Daddy, daddy,” the Tsarevitch gently touched his father’s hand. “Why are you so sad? Does he offend you! Ram a pike down his throat! that’ll finish him.”
“Who is he?” Peter turned to his son.
“How do I know, who he is?” answered Alexis with a smile which made even Peter shudder. “All I know is that now you are yourself again, and that other, the devil knows who he is, a mere pretender, a beast, a were-wolf——”
“Alexis, Alexis, what’s the matter with you?” Peter looked closely at him. “You should drink less.”
“Whether I drink or not, die I must! Better, then, drink and die! For you also it will be better if I die; it will save you killing me,” and again he grinned, quite like a fool, and suddenly began singing in a low, scarcely audible voice, which seemed to come from a distance:—
A maiden, I will wander
Through the fields of peace.
And there blue flowers I’ll gather,
For the blue flowers are his:
And coming back towards the river,
Into a wreath my spoil I’ll twine,
And throw this little wreath of mine
To the stream, remembering my lover.
“I had a dream lately, daddy; Afrossinia was sitting at night on a snow-covered field; naked and sad to look at, as though dead, and she was rocking a babe which also seemed dead. She was singing with tears in her voice this very song:
It sinks, it sinks, does my blue wreath!
It sinks, sinks, does my heart’s breath!
The flowers have gone to their death
With him, who was my light!”
Peter listened, and pity, wild, terrible, cruel pity, gnawed at his heart like some fierce beast.
The Tsarevitch sang and wept. Then he laid his head on the table, knocking over the wine glass. A blood-red stain spread on the tablecloth. He put his hand under his head, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Peter gazed for a long time at this pale lifeless face resting on the blood-red stain.
The orderly entered and announced that the horses were ready. Peter got up, he glanced for the last time at his son, bent over him and kissed his brow. The Tsarevitch did not open his eyes, yet in his sleep he smiled at his father with just that tender smile, as when a child the father used to take him in his arms asleep.
The Tsar left the hall unnoticed. The orgie continued. He took his place in the carriage and started off for Petersburg.