Thus droned into his august pupil’s ear on one side the German; while from the other the Russian repeated:—“Don’t spit to the right, Alexis, for that is your angel’s side; always spit to the left, where Satan is. In dressing don’t begin with your left foot, it is a sin. Carefully keep the parings of your nails in paper, to climb Zion’s Hill with on your way to Heaven.”
The German tutor sneered at the Russian and the Russian laughed at the German, and Alexis knew not whom to believe. The touchy student, a burgher’s son from Dantzic, hated Russia. “What language is this?” he used to say. “It has neither rhetoric nor grammar. The Russian priests are themselves incapable of explaining what they read in the churches; only darkness and ignorance results from the Russian language.” He was generally drunk, and in that state his diatribes increased.
“You know nothing, you are all barbarians! Dogs! dogs! rogues!”
The Russian mockingly called the German “Martin Marmoset,” and informed the Tsar that instead of instructing the Tsarevitch he, Martin, set his Highness a bad example; creating in him a repugnance for learning and a horror of all foreigners. To Alexis both the Russian and German tutors were equally humbugs.
Sometimes Martin would weary him to such an extent during the day that even at night in his dreams he would come to him in the shape of a learned ape, which grimaced according to the rules of “European Compliments and Politeness” in front of “The Youth’s Mirror of Honour.” Around stood the figures from the Golden Hall, Moscow’s ancient Tsars, patriarchs and saints. The ape mocked and railed at them, “Dogs! dogs! rogues! None of you know anything, you are all barbarians!” And Alexis seemed to discern a likeness between this monkey face and another disfigured by convulsions, belonging not to the Tsar, but to that awful double of his, the were-wolf, his evil genius. And Alexis felt the shaggy paw stretched out to grasp him and drag him away.
And again the scene changed. Now it is the very end of the world, a flat seashore, bogs with mossy hillocks, a pale lurid sun, and a low hanging oppressive sky. All is misty, phantom-like, and he himself seems but a phantom, who dead long ago, has descended into the realm of shadows.
At the age of thirteen the Tsarevitch joined the bombardier regiment and took part in the Noteburg campaign. From Noteburg to Ládoga, from Ládoga to Jamburg, Koporie and Narva he was dragged everywhere with the baggage waggon and train to familiarise him with military life. Although but a child, he shared dangers, privations, cold, hunger and weariness with the men. He saw the bloodshed, squalor and all the horrors and abominations of warfare. He caught glimpses of his father from afar; and every time he beheld him, his heart beat in wild anticipation, he might come to him, he might call for him, he might caress him. Just one word or a look and Alexis would have been roused to new life and have understood what was expected from him. But his father had no time to spare; his hand was ever occupied, now with a sword, now a quill, now a compass, now an axe. He waged war against the Swedes, and at the same time he was pile-driving for the first dwellings at Petersburg.
“My gracious Lord Father,—
“I pray thee grant me a favour and let me be informed by letter for my joy, about thy health, of which I always anxiously desire to hear.
“Thy son Alexis invokes thy blessing and presents his homage.