“Indeed,” said the Emperor, who could hardly conceive of a life of such austerity, “if he has never been drunk or in love or in a passion, he is hardly human—and the more dangerous.”
“He is neither invulnerable nor invincible,” remarked Mentchikoff.
Peter suddenly flashed him a warm smile.
“You are jealous for my dignity, Danilovitch,” he said. “I love you for it. And it is true that I am not defeated yet, nor old nor sick, and I have still to try conclusions with the Swede. Twenty times has he driven me out of Poland—and twenty times have I returned.”
But his heart was not as brave as his words; despite himself his continued ill-success had induced in him a conviction of the invincibility of Karl whom he admired for possessing all the qualities he would have wished for in his own character, and whose glory, now at its most dazzling height, a little blinded the eyes of Peter. He alone knew the magnitude of the task that he had undertaken, the chaos of his armies, and the factions in his court and among his people.
Not even Mentchikoff could gauge the difficulties on which Peter labored on that long hard road, unenlivened by any success or encouragement, which he had set himself to travel.
CHAPTER III
IF the splendor of Karl’s achievements dazzled even Peter, to the rest of the world it was indeed overwhelming.
This monarch, still in the first flower of his youth, found himself in a position unique in the history of the modern world.
Louis XIV had begun his reign by conquests perhaps as considerable, but his victories had been won by proxy; his cause was not so fine nor his behavior so remarkable, and his vanity had taken a form more ordinary, his pride had assumed the proportions to which men are most accustomed.