As he was ascending the staircase of the Winter Palace and passing the grenadier who stood on guard at the door of the Tsar’s working room, Alexis had felt, as always before an interview with his father, an instinctive physical fear. His head swam, his teeth chattered, his legs gave way, he was afraid of falling.
Yet as his father proceeded in a calm even voice with his long speech, evidently prepared, and possibly committed to memory, Alexis’ fear lessened. Everything within gradually subsided, hardened, and again he felt indifferent, as if his father’s speech were neither addressed to him, nor had regard to him. The Tsarevitch stood like a soldier, erect, hands to his sides, listening yet not heeding, looking stealthily around the room with a distracted, indifferent curiosity.
Lathes, carpenter’s tools, astrolabes, spirit levels, compasses, globes and other mathematical instruments, accessories of artillery and fortification, crowded the small workshop, giving it the appearance of a ship’s cabin. Upon the walls panelled in dark oak, hung the seascape views of Peter’s favourite Dutch master, Adam Silo, “Useful for the art of seamanship.” All these objects were familiar to the Tsarevitch from his childhood; they roused in him a flood of memories. On the Dutch newspapers lay a large round pair of iron-rimmed spectacles, bound with blue silk to prevent them hurting the bridge of the nose; next to them a night cap made of white striped dimity with a green tassel, which Alexis remembered to have torn off when playing with it, whereat his father had not got cross, but had left off writing a decree and had sewed it on himself.
Peter sat at a table covered with papers, in an old leather arm-chair with a high back, near a hot stove. He wore a faded blue, threadbare, dressing gown which the Tsarevitch remembered having seen before the Poltava battle; he recognised the same coloured patch, only more brilliant, on the place once burnt by his pipe; a red woollen waistcoat with white bone buttons, one of which was broken and only half remained; he recognised it at once and he counted, as for some reason he always did during the long admonishing speeches of his father, and he saw that the broken button was the sixth from below. The nether garments were made of coarse blue woollen stuff; on his feet he wore grey worsted darned stockings and old worn slippers. The Tsarevitch scrutinised all these details, so familiar, yet so remote. Only his father’s face he could scarcely see: through the window, behind which spread the white surface of the Neva, a slanting ray of yellow winter sun fell between them, thin, long, and pointed as a sword. It separated them and shut them off from one another. In the luminous square on the floor made by the window, right at the feet of the Tsar, lay coiled up asleep his favourite dog Lisette.
The Tsar spoke in an even, monotonous, and slightly husky voice (for he had a cold), as if reading aloud a written decree:—
“God is not responsible for your incapacity, since He has neither deprived you of reason, nor robbed you of physical strength; though you are not of a very strong build, neither are you weak. Yet you refuse to interest yourself in military affairs and wars, which have led us from darkness into light, and through which we, before unknown to the world, are now known and respected. I do not wish you to make war without just cause, only to love the military art and to try to excel in it. For this is one of the agents of the two essential requisites of government, which are order and defence. Contempt of war will lead to general ruin, as the fall of the Greek Empire serves to show. Did it not perish because it laid aside its arms, and, filled with the love of peace, desirous of leading a quiet life, always yielded to the enemy, who brought it into the never-ending bondage of tyrants? If you imagine that generals can do the work by deputy, this is truly no valid reason, for everybody imitates naturally his master; what the master aims at, all aim at; and what he turns away from, no one cares for. Having no liking for military affairs you studied nothing, you ignored everything. And being ignorant, how can you command, how can you reward the deserving, punish the indolent, seeing you know nothing about their work? You will be forced to wait, gaping, with open mouth, like a fledgling. You make your weak health an excuse for not performing your military duties. That is no sound reason. I do not demand superhuman efforts, only goodwill, which no illness can hinder. You think that there are many monarchs who do not personally take part in war, and yet things go on just as well. That is true, but though they don’t go themselves, at least they have an interest in it; for example, the late king of France, Louis, was seldom present during campaigns, yet he so loved it, and caused such valiant deeds to be done, that his wars were termed the theatre and school of arms of the world; and not only in his wars, but also in other affairs and industries he showed great interest, and thus the renown of his country rose above all others. Having laid this before you I will now return to your own character, for I am only human, and liable to die at any moment——”
The sunbeam, which separated them, had faded away, and Alexis saw Peter’s face. The face had changed, as if not a month, but years had passed since their last interview, then Peter had been in the bloom and power of manhood, now he was almost an old man. The Tsarevitch saw at once that his father’s illness had not been feigned, and that, probably, he had been nearer death than he himself and those around him had thought. The bald head—the hair in front had fallen out—the swollen eyes, the protruding jaw, the whole face pale, yellow, bloated as if dropsical—had about it something heavy, motionless, like a mask taken from a dead face. Only his eyes, brilliant, as it were inflamed, dilated like those of a captive bird of prey, prominent, protruding, had something of the old youthful expression, which seemed now indescribably weary, weak, almost pitiable.
And at the same time Alexis understood that, notwithstanding all his thought on the subject of his father’s death, although he had expected, even wished that death, he had never realized it, as if unable to believe that his father could really die. Now for the first time he believed in the possibility of this death. In this new feeling there was new perplexity, and a terror never before experienced, not for himself, but for his father; what must death be to a man like that? How would he die?
“For I am only human, and liable to die,” continued Peter. “To whom shall I leave what with God’s help I have begun to plant, and some of which has already begun to take root? Shall it be to him who, like the unprofitable servant of the Gospel, buried his talent in the earth, and thrust away the gift God gave him? I refer to your wicked and obstinate character. For how often have I remonstrated with you upon this, and not only remonstrated with but flogged you; and how many years is it since I gave up intercourse with you, but to no purpose. It’s all in vain, you will do nothing, all you ask for is to live at home in indolence and self-indulgence. There is something in you which thwarts all my projects. On one side you have royal blood and a high station, on the other plebeian thoughts like the lowest of the serfs. You are surrounded by worthless people who can advance you in nothing except in actions which are mean and depraved. And what return do you make to your father for your birth? Do you help me in my arduous toils and anxieties, having now reached manhood? Ah never! never! All know this. But what is worse, you actually hate my work, which, I, not sparing my own life, have done for my people, and it is plain you will destroy everything after my death! And pondering over this in grief, seeing that I can in no way induce you to reform, I have resolved to declare unto you my last testament, and then wait a while to see whether you will not sincerely reform. If not let it be known unto you——”