Peter suddenly rose and stood before him in his full height. Again convulsions came upon him, his head shook, his hands and feet trembled, the death mask of a face, twitching with grotesque grimaces, and with its immovable feverish glance, was truly terrible. The hollow roar of an animal sounded in his voice:
“Should you fail to make a choice I shall proceed against you as against a malefactor!”
“I wish to become a monk, and pray for your gracious sanction,” said the Tsarevitch in a low firm voice.
He lied. Peter knew that he lied; and Alexis knew that he could not befool his father. The wicked delight of revenge filled the soul of Alexis. His unbounded submissiveness was nothing but unbounded obstinacy. The son was now stronger than the father, the weak more powerful than the strong. What good could accrue to the Tsar, if his son became a monk? The monk’s cowl is not nailed to the head. It is possible to take it off. Yesterday a monk, to-morrow a Tsar. His father’s body would turn in his grave when his son should become Tsar; Alexis would scatter everything, destroy everything, he would bring Russia to perdition. It was not enough to seclude him in a monastery, he would have to be killed, exterminated, wiped out from the face of the world.
“Go away!” moaned Peter with impotent fury.
The Tsarevitch lifted his eyes and stared at his father, without raising his head, as a young wolf would look at an old one, showing his teeth and bristling his hair. Their eyes met like two rapiers in a duel and the father’s gaze dropped, as it were broke, like a blade against a hard stone.
And again he groaned like a wounded beast; he raised his fist and with an oath was going to throw himself on his son, beat and slay him.
Suddenly a small, delicate, strong hand was laid on Peter’s shoulder.
The Tsaritsa Catherine had for a long time been listening at the door, trying to see through the keyhole what was going on. Catherine was inquisitive. As usual she appeared at the most dangerous moment to save her husband. She had pushed the door open noiselessly, and came up to him from behind on tiptoe.
“Peter, Peter,” she began in a humble tone, slightly good humoured and coaxing, such as kind nurses adopt towards stubborn children or invalids, “don’t tire yourself, Peter, don’t excite yourself, my dear. Otherwise should you wear yourself out you will again fall ill and be obliged to lie up. And you, Tsarevitch, go, God be with you. You see the Tsar is unwell.”