“Now that’s all right,” continued the Tsarevitch, hardly able to move his thick tongue. “What does it matter to me? As long as I don’t taste wine, I have no craving whatever for it; but once I taste it, were it only a glass, I am lost. I can’t refuse whenever it is offered. It’s well I am not violent when drunk.”
He laughed a low drunken laugh and suddenly turned to his father.
“Daddy, daddy, why are you so sad? Come here, let us have a drink together! I will sing to you a song. You will be more cheerful, really!”
He smiled at his father, and there was something familiar, sweet and child-like in that smile.
“An imbecile, a simpleton! How is it possible to kill such a one!” thought Peter, and suddenly a wild, terrible pity clutched his heart like a beast.
He turned away, pretending to be listening to Feofan, who was telling him about the establishment of his Holy Synod, yet heard nothing. At last he called an orderly and told him to get horses ready to start at once for Petersburg; meanwhile he again began striding up and down, weary and sober, among the drunkards. Unconsciously, as though drawn by some magnet, he approached the Tsarevitch and sat down next to him, but turned his head, pretending to be engrossed in a conversation with Prince James Dolgorúki.
“Daddy, daddy,” the Tsarevitch gently touched his father’s hand. “Why are you so sad? Does he offend you! Ram a pike down his throat! that’ll finish him.”
“Who is he?” Peter turned to his son.
“How do I know, who he is?” answered Alexis with a smile which made even Peter shudder. “All I know is that now you are yourself again, and that other, the devil knows who he is, a mere pretender, a beast, a were-wolf——”