"Oh, your room is quite full of lilies-of-the-valley! Who sent them to you?"
"Who else than father?"
Sophie had no secrets from Bethsaba. She openly called the Czar "father" to her.
"Has he been here?"
"Yes; all last evening. It was a very sad one. I begin to feel quite afraid of him."
"Did you do anything to vex him?"
"Oh no! It is his great love for me which makes me begin to feel frightened of him. When he stands so long, looking silently at me, my hands in his, I feel as if I cannot endure the silence; then I ask him, 'What is it, father? What is grieving you?' And he answers, 'My grief is that I have no one to whom I can tell my troubles.' 'Can so great a man as you have any trouble for which there is no help?' Then, pointing to his heart, he said, 'Here is the trouble!' Upon which I coaxed him, and begged him to tell me all his trouble. Who could tell—perhaps even my childish simplicity might find a way to heal or lessen his sorrows? Then he drew me again to his heart, laid my head on his shoulder, and said, 'I am ill, Sophie; and there is no physician in the wide world to whom I can tell my ailment. There is something weighing on my heart, and there is no confessor to whom I can confess it. By night my dreams make me tremble; by day, my thoughts. I dread solitude, and I dread mankind. I know that no one loves me; I know that I am condemned.' 'By whom?' 'By God and man. Every one flatters me; only that which beats within me tells me the truth and accuses me.' 'And does not this, too, that beats within me tell the truth?' I cried; 'and does it not live, love, and worship you? Let those two hearts of ours fight it out together!' Then he embraced me, and whispered, 'Be it so. There is no one on whom I have wrought such ill as you. Why should I not confess to you? You are my martyr; if you can give me absolution, I am indeed absolved.' And kneeling before me, he said, oh! such sorrowful words, 'Look! I ascended the throne over my father's body. I accepted the crown at the hands of his murderers, and placed it upon my head. I wept no tears when I heard of his death; I felt relieved. I had no longer to dread his wrath, for he had parted from me in anger. On how many a battle-field have I since sought expiation! It was not for me. It was written upon my brow that the bullets that whizzed about me should not strike me; it was spoken of me that my punishment should be as my sin. As a son, my heart was cold as stone to my father. How was I to suffer in my children? I have borne them all to the grave. You are my last and only one! I am ground down to the earth under the iron hand of Fate when I think of you, when I look into your dear face. Are you, too, to be condemned for my great sin?' I tried to console him. 'I want for nothing, father dear,' I said; 'I am happy, quite happy, and mean to grow strong, and love you ever so long.' And we both burst into tears. 'It is not for myself I tremble,' he whispered. 'I see the sword hanging over me. I hear, in the watches of the night, how the knife is being sharpened against the corner-stone of my palace. I am ready. Through blood I ascended the throne; in blood I must descend it. But it is for you that I tremble! God's sentence upon me must not strike your head too!' Then I made him rise, and said such wise things to him that I quite astonished myself; I am usually such a silly child. I comforted him in a hundred ways, so that at last I won a smile to his lips, and he said, 'Then give me absolution. Say, Christe eleison!' I was so brave that I even began to talk politics with him—actually got to matters of state! I said, 'Why torment yourself with such fancies? Your people are not as bad as those of other countries. I know something of the world! I have seen Frenchmen, Italians, Germans. When they drink hard on holidays, they grow noisy and quarrelsome; but your subjects, when they drink at holiday-time, only stagger about, and laugh and embrace each other.'"
"Did not that make him laugh?"
"He only kissed me, telling me I was a wiser stateswoman than either Talleyrand or Metternich; then grew grave again. 'So it used to be in former times; and the distinction your wise little head draws did then exist. But nowadays there is something in the air which seems to infect the most peace-loving people; so that what you are sure of one day you cannot be the next. I will tell you what happened to me on my recent journey. It is not talked about, and newspapers and parliamentary reports will be dumb about it. It was growing dusk as I neared the military colony of Petrowsk; the setting sun was tinting bright crimson the fleecy clouds covering the sky. It looked like a ragged imperial mantle.' Here I, scolding him, asked who had ever seen a ragged imperial mantle? And he, answering me, said, 'Among others, Julius Cæsar.' 'I remarked that it was a sky which presaged storm. "A mere fancy," returned Araktseieff.
"'In the light of the crimson sky the triumphal arch erected in the street of Petrowsk looked like a bower of molten gold. The other triumphal arches under which we had passed had been of fir, which, taking no reflection from the sun, looked gloomy, however brightly it might be shining. What was this made of that it shone so brightly? An immense throng surrounded it. As I drew nearer I discovered of what it was composed. Oh, I have passed through many a triumphal arch erected in welcome of me. They have been made of velvets and satins in my honor; I have seen the two side pillars formed of cannon conquered from the enemy; the arch decorated with standards wrested from them; the crown in the centre formed of the orders of fallen heroes; the glittering aureole around of the swords of the generals who were our prisoners. But the triumphal arch of Petrowsk exceeded them all.