Scientific men themselves do not know; how, then, can poor ordinary mortals?
A comet is the herald of pest, of war, of downfall! Let him who does not believe this show reason why he is unbelieving. In wine-growing countries it is true that a comet year is said to promise a good wine year. But that does not affect the people of St. Petersburg, where they only make brandy. And a comet has no influence upon the increase of brandy. On the contrary, when there is any trouble brewing in the empire there is always but little brandy consumed. It is a peculiarity of the Russian that he does not drink when in great trouble. When the head of the police learns that in St. Petersburg, instead of a daily consumption of five thousand casks of brandy, only two thousand are being consumed, he redoubles the patrols.
The appearance of the comet only heightened the general feeling of excitement. A comet is the prophet's material symbol concerning which he can cry, "Look! the fiery sword has appeared too in the heavens!"
When Czar Alexander was leaving Peterhof he gave orders that the Lord Chamberlain should precede the Czarina, to see that her apartments were in order on her arrival.
It was evening when the Czar, with a small retinue, neared the capital. Arrived at Alexander Nevski Monastery, he called a halt, and, going into the church, commanded that a mass for the dead should be read the next day. As he left the church, standing on the terrace, he cast one long look at the capital, lying before him veiled in mist. The distant sounds came up to him like the roar of the sea; the traffic in the streets, the murmur of voices mingled together like the buzz of a beehive.
He stood there a long time, lost in meditation. The giant conflicts of a quarter of a century rose before his eyes out of the sea of mist, and he experienced that agony almost beyond human endurance—the consciousness of an approaching end, the mighty tasks of his life still unaccomplished. He had risen so high that he had half thought himself a god; he had fallen so low that there was not a man who would have changed places with him. Napoleon and he had been the dominating personalities of that quarter of a century.
Nor did that lonely figure on St. Helena look with other feelings on the ocean surrounding him than does Czar Alexander on the mist falling thickly over his capital. This mist is vaster than the ocean, because it is formed by the breath of man; and as many breaths, so many curses against him—against him, once so idolized.
The only difference between them is that Napoleon's people ardently yearn to have their conquered hero back, while this conquering hero has become a weariness to his country.
And that comet in the sky is like an illuminated pen with which an invisible hand is writing the fate of empires and their rulers amid the stars. Alexander's spirit was ever inclined to mysticism. He was filled with forebodings and terrors. He was a believer in fate and its portents. Comet and moon had both sunk beneath the horizon of the thick sea of mist.
The Czar had an old coachman, known to every one by his long, gray beard, which reached down to his girdle. This coachman always drove the Czar long distances; he was the most faithful servant he had. As, on returning to his three-horsed troika, Alexander asked: