The historians' history of the world in twenty-five volumes, volume 17

by Unknown

The appalling episode we have just related was so far from engrossing the thoughts of the czar that it hardly interrupted the course of his ordinary occupations. Nay, as if to darken still more the tragic horrors of the year 1718, by mingling with them the coarsest and most disgusting buffoonery, it was in that very year he instituted the crapulous burlesque of the Conclave. The occasion of it was this: During the czar’s visit to Paris, the doctors of the Sorbonne addressed him with the view of effecting a union between the Russo-Greek church and that of Rome, and they presented to him a memorial full of learned arguments against the schismatical tenets of his co-religionists. This memorial only gave great offence to the court of Rome, without pleasing either the emperor or the church of Russia.

“In this plan of reunion,” says Voltaire, “there were some political matters which they did not understand, and some points of controversy which they said they understood and which each party explained according to its humour. There was a question about the Holy Ghost, who, according to the Latins, proceeds from the Father and the Son; and according to the Greeks, at present, proceeds from the Father, through the Son, after having, for a long time, proceeded from the Father only. They quoted St. Epiphanius, who says that ‘the Holy Ghost is not the Son’s brother, nor the Father’s grandson.’ But the czar, at leaving Paris, had other business than to explain passages from St. Epiphanius; however, he received the Sorbonne’s memorial with great affability. They also wrote to some Russian bishops, who returned a polite answer; but the greater number received the overture with indignation.” It was to dissipate the apprehensions of this reunion that, after expelling the Jesuits from his dominions, he instituted the mock conclave, as he had previously set on foot other burlesque exhibitions, for the purpose of turning the office of patriarch into ridicule.

There was at his court an old man named Sotov, an enormous drunkard, and a court-fool of long standing; he had taught the czar to write, and by this service imagined that he deserved the highest dignities. Peter promised to confer on him one of the most eminent in the known world: he created him kniaz papa, that is to say, prince-pope, with a salary of 2,000 roubles, and a palace at St. Petersburg, in the Tatar ward. Sotov was enthroned by buffoons; four fellows, who stammered, were appointed to harangue him on his exaltation; his mock holiness created a number of cardinals, and rode in procession at the head of them, sitting astride on a cask of brandy, which was laid on a sledge drawn by four oxen. They were followed by other sledges loaded with food and drink; and the march was accompanied by the rough music of drums, trumpets, horns, hautboys, and fiddles, all playing out of tune; and the clattering of pots and pans, brandished by a troop of cooks and scullions. The train was swelled by a number of men dressed as monks of various Romish orders, and each carrying a bottle and glass. The czar and his courtiers brought up the rear, the former in the garb of a Dutch skipper, the latter in various comic disguises.

When the procession arrived at the place where the conclave was to be held the cardinals were led into a long gallery, part of which had been boarded off into a range of closets in each of which a cardinal was shut up with plenty of food and intoxicating liquors. To every one of their eminences were attached two conclavists—cunning young fellows, whose business it was to ply their principals well with drink, carry real or pretended messages to and fro between the members of the sacred college, and provoke them to bawl out all sorts of abuse of each other and of their respective families. The czar listened eagerly to all this ribaldry, not forgetting in the midst of his glee to note down on his tablets any hints of which it might be possible for him to make a vindictive use. The cardinals were not released from confinement until they were all agreed upon a number of farcical questions submitted to them by the kniaz papa.

The orgie lasted three days and three nights. The doors of the conclave were at last thrown open in the middle of the day, and the pope and his cardinals were carried home dead drunk on sledges—that is to say, such of them as survived; for some had actually died during the debauch, and others never recovered from its effects. This stupid farce was repeated three times; and on the last occasion especially it was accompanied with other abominations, which admit of no description. Peter himself had his death accelerated by his excesses in the last conclave.

From 1714 to 1717 Peter published ninety-two ordinances or regulations; in 1718 alone, in that year of crime, thirty-six ukases, or regulations, were promulgated, and twenty-seven in 1719. The majority of them related directly to his new establishments. The council of mines dates in its origin from that period, as do also the uniformity of weights and measures, the institution of schools for teaching arithmetic in all the towns of the empire; that of orphan-houses and foundling-hospitals, of workshops for the poor, and of manufactories of tapestry, silks, linens, and cloths for soldiers’ clothing; the founding of the city of Ladoga; the canal of the same name, which he began with his own hands; that of Kronstadt; the plan of another, which now unites the Baltic to the Caspian by the intermedium of the Volga; besides numerous measures of detail, including the police, the health of towns, lighting and cleansing, founded upon what he had remarked during the previous year in the great cities of Europe.

At this sanguinary epoch it was that, by this multitude of establishments for the promotion of all kinds of industry, he gave the most rapid impulse to the knowledge, commerce, and civilisation to which he sacrificed his son; as though, by thus redoubling his activity, he had sought to escape from himself, or to palliate, by the importance of the result, the horror of the sacrifice. In several of these ordinances it is remarkable that, either from the inconsistency which is inherent in our nature or from the pride of a despot, which believes itself to be detached from and above everything, he required respect to be paid to religion, at the very moment when, with such cruelty, he was paying no respect to the sanctity of his own oath; and yet the importance of keeping sworn faith must have been well known to a prince who one day said, “The irreligious cannot be tolerated because, by sapping religion, they turn into ridicule the sacredness of an oath, which is the foundation of all society.”

It is true that, on this occasion, pushing right into wrong, as he too often did, he mutilated and banished to Siberia a miserable creature who, when drunk, had been guilty of blasphemy. So intolerant was he against intolerance. The raskolniks were, and still are, the blind and uncompromising enemies of all innovation. One of them, at that period, even believed that he might avenge heaven by an assassination. Under the guise of a suppliant, this fanatic had easily penetrated into the chamber of the prince; he was already within reach of him, and, while he feigned to implore him, his hand was seeking for the dagger under his clothes, when, fortunately, it dropped and betrayed the assassin, by falling at the feet of the czar.

This abortive crime had made the persecution rage with redoubled fury when, all at once, a frightful report was spread; it was soon confirmed that several hundred of these wretched beings had taken refuge in a church, and, rather than abjure their superstitions, had set fire to their asylum, leaving nothing but their ashes to their persecutor. A horrible sacrifice, which, however, was not useless. Peter saw his error; his intolerance was only political—it was enlightened by these flames, which religious intolerance witnessed with such atrocious joy.

Yet, unable to forgive these sectaries an obstinacy which was victorious over his own, he once more tried against them the weapon of ridicule. He ordered that they should wear a bit of yellow stuff on their backs, to distinguish them from his other subjects. This mark of humiliation, however, they considered as a distinction. Some malignant advisers endeavoured to rouse his anger again, but he replied, “No; I have learned that they are men of pure morals; they are the most upright merchants in the empire; and neither honour nor the welfare of the country will allow of their being martyred for their errors. Besides, that which a degrading badge and force of reason have been unable to effect will never be accomplished by punishment; let them, therefore, live in peace.”