Here on the river’s bank, close to the Trinity Church, stood a small, low house, one of the first buildings erected by the Dutch carpenters, in the earliest days of Petersburg—this was Peter’s first palace; it resembled the modest huts of sailors in Saardam. The frame work was made of pine, grown in the wild Keivoussary bog on the Birch Island; it was painted to imitate the colour of bricks and roofed with wooden shingles instead of tiles.
The rooms were low, small, and only three in number. On the right side of the hall was the small working-room, on the left, the dining-room, and beyond, the bedroom, the smallest of the three, only about four yards long and three wide, hardly large enough to turn round in. The furniture was simple but homely, in the Dutch style. The ceilings and walls were covered with white canvas. The leaded windows were wide, low, and provided with oak shutters on iron hinges. The doors were hardly made for Peter; he had to stoop in order to prevent his head knocking against the lintel.
After the Summer and Winter Palace had been built, this little house stood empty. The Tsar seldom slept in it; only when he wanted to be quite alone, even without Catherine. On entering the hall, he woke the servant, who lay snoring on the felt carpet, ordered a light to be brought, and passed into the working-room, turned the key, placed the light upon the table, sat down in the arm-chair, and took out of his pocket the letters sent by Tolstoi, Roumiantzev and the Tsarevitch. Yet before unsealing them he again stopped, as if hesitating; he listened to the measured, sonorous chimes of the Troïtsa Church clock. It struck nine. When the last sound had died away, a silence ensued as in those days when Petersburg was not in existence, and when there had stretched to the horizon only endless forests and impenetrable marshes.
At last he broke the seal. While reading, his face slightly paled, his hands trembled. When he reached the last words in his son’s letter: “and will leave Naples together with your envoys in a few days for Petersburg,” joy took his breath away; he could not read any further. He blessed himself with the sign of the cross.
Was not this again a miracle, a sign of God? He had been despondent, miserable, thinking God had forgotten him, and here again God’s hand was revealed.
He felt again strong and vigorous, years younger, equal to any work or exploit.
Then hanging his head, and looking at the flickering flame of the candle he fell into a reverie.
When his son returned what should he do with him? “Kill him,” he used to think in his fury, when there seemed to be no hope of his return. But now that Alexis was returning his fury had abated, and for the first time he asked himself the question, quite calmly, collectedly, “What shall I do?”
All at once he remembered the words written in his first letter, sent to Naples by Tolstoi and Roumiantzev: “I promise and declare in the sight of God that you shall suffer no punishment, but great love will be shown unto you, should you return.” Now that his son had trusted to this oath, it acquired an awful power.
But how to fulfil it?