The short fat Shafiroff sighed with relief and mopped his brow. Golóvkin, long and thin as a pole, quaked, blessed himself with the sign of the cross and murmured a prayer. Jagushinski had fallen back in an arm-chair and groaned; fear had given him the colic.
Little by little, as the angry voice of the Tsar and the monotonous plaintive voice of Ménshikoff reached them from the door—it was impossible to distinguish the words—all grew calmer. Some even rejoiced: it is nothing new for the Most Serene; he can stand a good deal, he has been used to the Tsar’s cudgel from his youth, it is nothing to him, he will manage to get over it.
Suddenly shrieks and moans came from inside. The door flew open and out dashed Ménshikoff. His gold embroidered kaftan was torn, the blue St. Andrew’s ribbon was tattered, the decorations on his breast dangled, half torn off, the wig of royal hair—Peter at one time as a mark of friendship gave him his hair every time he had it cut—was all on one side; his face was bleeding. The Tsar came tearing after him, with an unsheathed short sword, and a fierce cry:
“I’ll catch you, son of a bitch!”
“Peter! Peter!” rang out Catherine’s voice; as usual she had appeared just in the nick of time.
She caught hold of him at the door, locked it and pressing her whole body against him, she clung to him, hanging on his neck.
“Let me go, let me go! I must kill him,” he screamed, quite beside himself.
But she only huddled closer to him, repeating, “Peter! Peter! calm yourself, my sweetheart. Throw the knife away, the knife, throw it away, you will do some harm with it.”
At last the little sword dropped from his hands. He threw himself into an arm-chair, his body twisted in violent convulsions. And again, as at the time after the last interview between father and son, Catherine sat down on the arm of the chair, took his head between her hands and pressed it against her breast and began to gently stroke his hair, fondling and caressing him, as a mother her sick child. And gradually the gentle caress soothed him. The convulsions grew weaker. He continued to shudder, but less and less frequently. He no longer screamed, only moaned as if sobbing, crying without tears.
“It is hard, ah, so hard Catherine! I can bear it no longer! There is no one with whom I can talk things over. Not one helper. Always alone, alone! Is it possible for one man? Not even an angel, much less a man could stand it—— the burden is too heavy!”