An imperial lover

by Mary Imlay Taylor

The blessing of the river was a ceremony as old and as sacred in the eyes of the Moscovite as the holy white city of Moscow itself. Four years before, Peter had made one of those changes which shocked the conservative Russian. It had been the custom to begin the year on the 1st of September, dating from the beginning of the world, for the Russians believed that the earth was created in the autumn with its perfected fruits. By an imperial decree, his Majesty ordered the year to begin on the 1st of January, dating from the birth of our Blessed Lord, as all the nations of Europe were accustomed to date it. This was in 1700, and his people received the change with as little favor as they received the czar’s other innovations. The custom of blessing the river fell upon the Feast of Epiphany, and was a solemn event. The patriarch and all the clergy of Moscow were present with the czar and the court officials, foreign ministers and residents; rich and great, poor and humble, assembled on the banks of the river to witness the benediction.

The day was fair; the sun shone on the white walls and buildings of the Kremlin and on domes of gold and green and azure, and on a myriad cupolas, all studded with stars and surmounted by crosses, and everywhere touched by the white hand of the snow; and circling around them, soaring high overhead, flew the ravens of the Kremlin, their croaking voices making a strange monotone through all the ceremonies, their black forms now sweeping around some tower, now floating, with suspended wings, above some great cathedral. The city was full of activity, its narrow streets thronged with people, crowding toward the one spot, until every avenue was choked with the masses. M. de Lambert and I were fortunately placed, and could look down upon the scene. It was an orderly assembly, for the Russian has a deep reverence for holy things, and there was no confusion even where the populace pressed close upon the soldiers. The river was frozen, and the troops were drawn up upon its bosom, phalanx after phalanx, war-worn veterans and raw conscripts, Russian and Cossack, presenting a curious spectacle to the eyes of the foreigners. I marked the great improvement in organization, in bearing, in clothing. Here was an army where there had been none, and it was due to the untiring energy and ambition of one man. The sun flashed on polished arms, on coats-of-mail, on helmets, and on the blades of Damascus, as the troopers waited there upon the ice, a great, compact, unwavering mass of men; and in their midst, mounted on his favorite horse, Lisette, was the czar, more like an image than a man, his great stature and huge limbs seeming to make other men diminutive. The center of all the pomp and panoply of war, surrounded by his glittering staff, he wore the simple uniform of a Colonel of the Preobrazhensky regiment, his personal guards, and there was no order, only the Greek cross on his breast. The Preobrazhensky regiment was the outgrowth of those boy soldiers that the common people had called the Potieshnie Koniukhi, “troops for sport,” and Peter had risen from the rank of bombardier sergeant, having enlisted in that capacity under the name of Peter Alexéief. It was his peculiarity to court a simplicity that was sometimes an offence to the pride of the Russians accustomed to look upon the person of the czar as sacred. That day, the expression of his face was stern and even sad. He was subject to seasons of melancholy, and for the time was under the shadow of some depression. A man who stands above his fellows, not only by virtue of his rank but by a certain greatness of soul, is alienated from their sympathy,—isolated in his elevation. Peter was a reformer, and since the world began reformers have been more or less hated by their contemporaries. I think the czar felt peculiarly alone, and there was, too, some shadow on his soul that no human sympathy could reach. He sat there on his splendid horse, a solitary figure amidst those tens of thousands, a soldier, a statesman, an emperor, and alone in the presence of his people. Every eye in that vast assembly was upon him, but he was as unconscious as a statue. Near him was the patriarch, his pontificals blazing with gold and silver and jewels, his miter surmounted by a jewelled cross,—an imposing figure surrounded by his priests in their Byzantine robes, their copes of silver and gold, and the acolytes in vestments of nacarat velvet and gold. They went down into the little open chapel that had been erected over the square cut through the ice to the dark water below; the slender pillars of the chapel supported a dome in which was suspended the dove with its golden rays, and about it stood the silent, statuelike guard of soldiers, and in the biting cold every head was bare. In the silence that falls upon a multitude when hearts are stirred, the priests chanted the solemn service, and at the final moment the cannon boomed heavily upon the air, then again came the low, even chant of the priests. The patriarch’s voice, though clear and loud, did not reach the outskirts of the vast assembly, and many there could only follow the ceremony by his gestures; but the responsive tones of the people rose in low deep notes, one mighty wave of sound, which was echoed from the battlements of the Kremlin and rolled away toward those vast plains that, surrounding the city, extend as far as the eye can reach to be lost in the horizon. Yet, impressive as was the ceremony, splendid as was the figure of the patriarch, all were alike insignificant beside that silent man upon his horse; the ruler of the Russias held the throng fascinated by that peculiar power that made Peter always the central figure; something about his individuality that was more than the mere habit of command and was born with him, constituting one of those influences which exalted his personality in the estimation of his people, in spite of a hundred faults and weaknesses that would have ruined a lesser man.

The scene left an enduring impress upon my mind; the clear atmosphere, the pale blue sky, the white Kremlin, the frozen river, and the brilliant assemblage, blazing with gold and jewels, against the background of the populace in their dark and often ragged clothing, brightened here and there with a touch of scarlet or of blue.

After the ceremony was concluded, there was a procession to the churches, and a banquet at the Kremlin, at which the czar entertained all the ambassadors and the nobility,—one of those tedious and interminable feasts which were so burdensome with their ceremonial and their inevitable termination in carousal, for the Russians and the Germans, of whom there were many, were heavy drinkers. I noted a significant indication of the drift of intrigue in the presence of the Councillor Zotof in the personal circle of the czar, and saw that Mentchikof was as uneasy and watchful as his opponent was complaisant. Zotof was one of those blatant fools who congratulate themselves too soon on an apparent victory, and was not keen enough to measure the wit and the resources of the favorite. The czar’s gloomy mood cast a shadow upon the fête, and I observed that he did not respond at all to M. de Lambert’s obeisance,—another sign of the times. King Augustus’ private envoy had departed, and I could not avoid some speculation about the Swedish spy. I fancied that he had either followed the Pole or was still loitering about the court in quest of valuable information. We had so happily escaped all responsibility in regard to him that I congratulated myself on my good fortune in finding a solution of the difficulty.

In the course of the day Alexander Mentchikof found an opportunity to speak to me privately.

“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I thank you for your visit to my house. Mademoiselle Catherine told me all, and I shall not forget your friendship. Tell M. de Lambert to be of good cheer; the game is not yet lost, and it will be many a day before I yield to that old fool across the way.”

He referred to Zotof, who was standing opposite, talking to a group of his friends, and the picture of self-satisfaction.

“Mademoiselle Shavronsky is well?” I inquired courteously, anxious to avoid a too personal conversation.

The favorite smiled, and gave me a keen glance. “Mademoiselle is under a cloud at present,” he said significantly, “but there must be a change erelong, unless we surrender at discretion, and you know how probable that is.”

“I cannot imagine it, monsieur,” I replied dryly, “and you have my good wishes.”