With his gaze fixed on the gloomy distance he piloted the vessel with a firm hand. The huge body of the frigate trembled under the pressure of the waves, yet The Old Oak was strong and obeyed the rudder like a good horse obeys the bridle; she was tossed from wave to wave; sometimes the colourless deep would all but engulf her, it seemed well-nigh impossible for her to come up again; yet every time she reappeared—triumphant.
Peter was thinking about his son. For the first time he thought about all that had happened as belonging to the past. There was infinite sadness in his reflections, but no dread, no anguish, no repentance. He felt here, also, just as all through his life, the manifestation of the divine will.
He remembered his son’s words addressed to the Senate: “Peter is great, very great, but he is heavy, he crushes. The earth groans under the burden.”
How else could it be? thought Peter. The anvil groans under the hammer. He, the Tsar, was only the hammer with which God was forging Russia. He had roused her with a massive blow; but for him Russia would be still sunken in a deep sleep.
And what would have happened had the Tsarevitch remained alive?
Sooner or later he would have come to the throne, and returned the power to the priests, the monks, the “long-beards,” and they would have turned away from Europe back to Asia, extinguished the light of civilization, and Russia would have slowly crumbled and perished.
Peter had founded the new empire; but he had knowingly sealed that foundation-stone in the blood of Alexis, his son.
“There will be a storm,” said the old Dutch captain, approaching the Tsar.
Peter made no answer and continued to gaze into the distance.
Darkness was swiftly approaching. The black clouds descended lower and lower towards the black waves.