Chapter 18

Three hours later, when the fleet and docks had been inspected, the Czar and Jaen Scheerborck sat in a seamen’s tavern. The cabriolet stood without, and was “anchored” to a thatched roof. Brandy was on the table, and their pipes had filled the room with smoke. The two friends had discussed serious matters. The Czar had paid six visits, one to his staff of generals, from which he returned in a very excited state to the waiting captain. But, with his extraordinary capacity for shaking off what was unpleasant and for changing his moods, he now beamed with hilarity.

“You ask whence I shall get the inhabitants for my new town. I first brought fifty thousand workmen here. That was the nucleus. Then I commanded all officials, priests, and great landowners to build houses--each of them, one--whether they intended to live in it or not. Now I have a hundred thousand. I know they talk and say that I build towns, but don’t dwell in them myself. No! I build not for myself, but for the Russians. I hate Moscow, which smells of the Khan of the Tartars, and would prefer to live in the country. That is no one else’s affair. Drink, old man! We have the whole day before us till five o’clock. Then I must be sober.”

The old man drank cautiously, and did not know exactly how to behave in this grand society, which was at the same time so nautical.

“Now you must tell me some of the stories which the people relate about me. You know lots of them, Jaen.”

“I know some certainly, but it is not possible....”

“Then I will tell some,” said Peter, “Do you know the story of the pair of compasses and the cheese? No? Well, it runs thus: ‘The Czar is so covetous that he always carries a box of drawing instruments in his pocket. With a pair of compasses he measures his cheese, to see whether any of it has been stolen since the last meal!’ That is a good story! Here is another! ‘The Czar has a Tippler’s Club. Once they determined to hold a festival, and the guests were shut up three days and three nights in order to drink. Each guest had a bench behind him, on which to sleep off his intoxication, besides two tubs, one for food and one for ... you understand?’”

“No, that is too absurd!”

“Such are the stories they like to tell in Petersburg. Have you not heard that I also extract teeth? In my palace, they say, there is a sack full of them. And then I am said to perform operations in hospital. Once I drew off so much water from a dropsical woman that she died.”

“Do the people believe that?”

“Certainly they do. They are so stupid, you see; but I will cut off their asses’ ears and singe their tongues....”

His eyes began to sparkle, and it was plain what direction his thoughts were taking. But however confidential he might be, there always seemed to be secret checks at work, so that, even when intoxicated, he always kept his great secrets though he told unimportant ones.

Just then an adjutant came in, and whispered something to the Czar.

“Exactly at five o’clock,” answered the Czar in a loud voice. “Sixty grenadiers, with loaded guns and cutlasses! Adieu! Jaen,” continued the Czar, giving a sudden turn to his thoughts, “I will buy your loom, but I will not give more than fifty roubles for it.”

“Sixty, sixty.”

“You Satan of a Dutchman! You skinflint! If I offer fifty, that is an honour for you! Indeed it is!”

The Czar’s anger rose, but it was connected with the adjutant’s message, not with the loom. The pot was boiling, and the cover had to fly. “You miserable peddlers of groceries! Always fleecing people! But your time is past! Now come the English! They are another sort!”

Jaen the seaman became gloomy, and that annoyed the Czar still more. He wanted to enjoy Jaen’s company, and therefore sought to divert his thoughts. “Landlord,” he cried, “bring champagne!”

The landlord came in, fell on his knees, and begged for mercy, for he had not the luxurious drink in his store-cellar. This superfluous word “store-cellar” might sound ironical and provocative, though unintentionally. Still it was welcome as an occasion for using the stick.

“Have you a store-cellar, you rascal? Will you tell me that the keeper of a seaman’s alehouse has a cellar of spirits!” And now the stick danced. But as the Dutchman turned away with a gesture of disapproval, the Czar’s fury broke loose. From time to time his disposition necessitated such outbreaks. His sabre flew out of its sheath; like a madman, he broke all the bottles on the dresser and cut all the legs off the chairs and tables. Then he made a pile out of the fragments, and prepared to burn the landlord on it.

Then a door opened, and a woman entered with a little child on her arm. When the child saw its father prostrate with his neck stretched out, it began to scream. The Czar paused, quieted down, went to the woman, and accosted her. “Be easy, mother; no mischief is going on; we are only playing at sailors.”

Then he turned to the landlord: “Send the account to Prince Menshikoff; he will pay. But if you scratch me.... Well, I forgive you this time.... Now let us go, Jaen. Up with the anchor, and stand by the sheet!”

Then they drove into the town. The Czar ran up into various houses and came down again, until it was noon. They then halted before Menshikoff’s palace. “Is dinner ready?” asked the Czar from the cabriolet.

“Yes, your Majesty,” answered a lackey.

“Serve up for two! Is the Prince at home?”

“No, your Majesty.”

“Never mind. Serve up for two.”

It was the Czar’s habit thus to make himself a guest in his friends’ houses, whether they were at home or not, and he is said once to have thus quartered himself upon somebody, with two hundred of his courtiers.

After a splendid dinner, the Czar went into an ante-room and laid down to sleep. The captain had already gone to sleep at the table. But the Czar laid a watch beside him; he could wake whenever he wished.

When he awoke, he went into the dining-room, and found Jaen Scheerborck sleeping at the table.

“Bring him out!” commanded the Czar.

“Is he not to accompany your Majesty any more?” the chamberlain, who was a favourite, ventured to ask.

“No! I have had enough of him; one should not meet people more than once in a lifetime. Carry him to the pump--that will sober him, and then take him to his ship”--and with a contemptuous glance he added, “You old beast!”

Then he felt whether his sabre was secure, and went out.

After his sleep, Peter was again the Emperor--lofty, upright, dignified. He went along the promenade, serious and sedate, as though to a battle. When he had found Number 14, he entered at once, sure of finding his fifty men there. On the right hand ground-floor towards the courtyard, all the windows stood open. There he saw the conspirators sitting at a long table and drinking wine. He stepped into the room, saw many of his friends there, and felt a stab at his heart.

“Good-day, comrades!” was his cheery greeting.

The whole company rose like one man. They exchanged looks and put on faces for the occasion.

“Let us drink a glass together, friends!” Peter threw himself on a chair; then he looked at a clock in the room, and saw it was only half-past four. He had made a mistake of half an hour. Was it his own error, or was Menshikoff’s clock wrong?

“Half an hour!” he thought to himself, but in the next second he had emptied a huge glass, and began to sing a very popular soldiers’ song, keeping time by knocking the glass against the table.

The effect of the song was magical. They had sung it as victors at Pultowa; they had marched to the accompaniment of its strains; it carried their memories to better, happier times, and they all joined in. Peter’s strong personality, the winning amiable air he could assume when he liked, had an attractive power for all. One song led to another, and singing relieved the terrible embarrassment. It was the only possible way of avoiding a conversation. Between the songs the Czar proposed a health, or drank to an old friend, reminding him of some experience which they had shared in common. He dared not look at the clock lest he should betray himself, but he found the half hour in this den of murderers intolerably long.

Several times he saw two exchanging glances, but then he threw in a jesting word and the thread was broken. He was playing for his life, and he played well, for he misled them with his cheerfulness and naivete, so that they could not tell whether he knew anything or not. He played with their irresolution.

At last he heard the rattle of arms in the courtyard, and with one bound he was out of the window.

“Massacre!” was his only word of command, and then the blood-bath began. He himself stood at the window, and when any one tried to jump out, the Czar struck off his head. “Alles tot!” he exclaimed in German, when it was all over. Then he went his way in the direction of the Peter-Paul Fortress.

He was received by the Commandant, and had himself conducted to Prince Alexis, his only surviving and eldest son, on whom he had built his hope and Russia’s destiny.

With the key in his hand, he remained standing before the cell, made the sign of the cross and prayed half-aloud:--“O Eternal God of armies, Lord of Hosts, who hath put the sword into the hands of rulers that they may guide and protect, reward and punish, enlighten thy poor servant’s understanding that he may deal righteously. Thou hast demanded from Abraham his son, and he obeyed. Thou hast crucified Thine own Son in order to redeem mankind. Take my sacrifice, O Terrible One, if Thou requirest it. Yet not my will be done, but Thine. May this cup pass if it be Thy will. Amen! in the name of Christ, Amen!”

He entered the cell, and remained there an hour. When he came out again, he looked as though he had been weeping; but he said nothing, handed the key to the Commandant, and departed. There are many varying rumours regarding what passed that evening between father and son. But one thing is certain: Alexis was condemned to death by a hundred and twenty-seven judges, and the verdict was entered on the State records. But the Crown Prince died before the execution of the sentence.

* * * * *

The same evening, about eight o’clock, the Czar entered his country-house and sought Katherine. “The old has passed away,” he said. “Now we will begin the new--you and I and our children.”

The Czarina asked no questions, for she understood. But the Czar was so tired and exhausted, that she feared lest he should have one of the attacks which she knew so well. And the only way of quieting him was the old customary one.

She sat down in the corner of the sofa; he laid down resting his head on her capacious bosom; then she stroked his hair till he fell asleep. But she had to sit for three hours without moving.

A giant child on a giant bosom, the great champion of the Lord lay there, his face looked small, his high brow was hidden by his long hair; his mouth was open, and he snored like a little child asleep. When at last he awoke, he looked up at first astonished, to find himself where he was. Then he smiled, but did not say Thank you, and did not fondle her.

“Now we will have something to eat,” was the first thing he said. “Then something to drink, and then a great firework. I will light it myself down on the shore. But Jaen Scheerborck must be present.”

“You have thrown him out.”

“Have I? He was drunk, the fellow. Send for him at once.”

“You are so strange, Peter! Never the same for two minutes together.”

“I will not be the same; it would be too monotonous. Always something new! And I am always new. What! I do not weary you with everlasting sameness.”

His orders were carried out. Jaen was brought, but had to be bound first; he was angry with Peter because of his ducking at the pump, and refused to come. But when he landed, he was embraced and kissed on the mouth, and then his wrath blew over.

They ate and drank and had their firework display, which was a great pleasure for the Czar.

So ended the fateful day which secured the succession to the throne to the house of Romanoff. And such was the man who termed himself “the Great, the Self-ruler, the Emperor of All the Russias.”

The Barbarian, who civilised his Russia; who built towns and did not dwell in them himself; who beat his wife, and allowed extensive liberty to women,--his life was great, copious, and useful on the public side of it; in private, as it might chance to be. But he had a beautiful death, for he died in consequence of an illness contracted when saving a life from shipwreck--he who, with his own hand, had taken the lives of so many!

THE SEVEN GOOD YEARS

Monsieur Voltaire, gentleman-in-waiting to Frederick the Great, possessor of the much prized Order Pour Le Mérite, Academician, and many other things besides, had been for three years a guest at Sans-Souci, near Potsdam. He was sitting this beautiful evening in the wing of the castle where he lived, busy writing a letter. The air was still and warm, so that the sensitive Frenchman, who was always shivering, could leave the window open.

His letter, only half written, was directed to the Marquise, the friend of Cardinal Fleury, who carried on a sort of superior spy-service by means of correspondence with foreign countries.... “Everything is transitory,” he wrote, “and it was plain that this would not last. I have to act as a tutor and correct his bad verses, though he knows neither German nor French properly. Malicious as an ape he has written satires on all the ruling heads of Europe which are certainly not fit for printing, but are quite vulgar and unjust. With a view to the future dear friend, I have caused his pamphlet to be copied, and at the moment when he strikes, I shall strike back. If you only knew what this Prussia is, and threatens to become! It is an eagle sketched in outline with the tip of one wing resting on the Rhine, and the other on the Russian frontier. There are gaps here and there in the outline, but when they are filled up the whole of North Germany will hang like a vulture over Austria’s two-headed imperial eagle. France must control her hatred against the House of Hapsburg, and not compromise with the Hohenzollerns, for you know not what you do. One hears much talk of plans here, but I dare not write them all down, for he is not to be jested with.”

At this point there was heard from the castle the penetrating sound of a flute, which executed trills and shakes. The old man (for he was now in his sixtieth year) first put his fingers in his ears, but then continued to write.... “And then his confounded flute! He is playing on it just now ... that means we are all to dance to his piping. But still worse than the flute is something which they call a fugue; I do not know whether one can call it music, but yesterday Sebastian Bach was here--‘the great Bach’ of course--and had his son Philipp Emanuel with him. The whole afternoon they played so-called fugues, so that I had to go to bed and take medicine. As regards his plans, I will only indicate some of them. One plan is to divide Austria between France and Prussia, but he is too cunning to do so, for he needs Austria to help him against France. A second plan is, to divide Prussia between Russia and Austria, and I have heard rumours of a third to divide Poland between Russia, Prussia, and Austria. (The flute is silent, and a heavenly stillness spreads over Sans-Souci, which for the future I shall write ‘Cent-Soucis,’ for a hundred petty vexations threaten to shorten my life here.) Our Round Table, which hitherto only consisted of men of talent, Maupertuis, La Mettrie, Algarotti, D’Argens, and their like, is now recruited by guardsmen from Potsdam, and is in course of degenerating into a tobacco-club. Ziethen and his Dessauers wear greasy leather boots, and brag of their ‘five victories.’ The day before yesterday they took liberties, silenced all intelligent conversation, and finally tried to make me the butt of their jests. What annoyed me the most was that _he_ could not hide his pleasure at it. Altogether, the procession of the leather boots means war--as might be expected--against the lady Maria Teresa. The other lady, the Empress Elizabeth of Russia, he denotes by another uglier name.... He has become a women’s hero, the nasty woman-hater. His wife, Elizabeth Christine, is still confined in Schönhausen.”

A head looked in at the window, and the King greeted him, “Good evening, Monsieur; so busy?”

Like a boy surprised in cribbing, the writer threw his papers into disorder, and drew half a sheet of Dutch vellum over them.

“Yes, sire, I have just finished a poem to the Emperor Kian-Loung, which is an answer to his ‘Eloge de Mukden.’”

“To the Emperor of China! You have grander acquaintances than I.”

“But you have me, sire.”

This he said with a superior air of satirising himself, as though he would make game of his own notorious vanity.

The King took the jest as it was intended. “Yes, Monsieur Voltaire belongs to my most honourable acquaintances, but I would not say to the grandest.”

“May I now read my poem to the Chinese Emperor? Do you allow me, sire?”

“Would it be any use, if I did not allow it, you pushing man?”

“Very well:

“‘Recois mes compliments, charmant roi de la Chine.’”

“But he is an Emperor.”

“Yes, but that is a politeness towards you, sire, who are only a King!”

“Only!”

“I continue:

“‘Ton trône est done placé sur la double colline On sait dans l’Occident, que malgre mes travers J’ai toujours fort aimé les rois qui font des vers!’”

“Thank you.”

“‘O toi que sur le trône un feu céleste enflamme Des moi si ce grand art don’t nous sommes épris, Est aussi difficile à Pekin qu’à Paris.

Ton peuple est-il soumis a cette loi si dure, Qui vent qu’avec six pieds d’une égale mesure

De deux Alexandrins, côte à côte marchants L’un serve pour la rime, et l’autre pour le sens? Si bien que sans rien perdre, en bravant cet usage, On pourrait retrancher la moitié d’un ouvrage.’”

“Bravo! Very good!” broke in the King, who felt the sting of the satire but could control himself.

“But do you think that the Emperor will understand that--at any rate as you intend it?”

“If he does not understand it, then he is a blockhead....”

“But if he does, you may expect a declaration of war.”

“China against Voltaire!”

“What would you do then?”

“I would beat them, as you do, with my troops, of course.”

“But if the Emperor has more troops than you?”

“Then I should flee, of course, like you do, sire, or I let myself be put to flight, and so save my honour as a soldier.”

The King was accustomed to Voltaire’s impertinences, and he pardoned them for the moment, but stored them in his memory.

“But now, don’t stick poking about in your room, Monsieur. Come out for a walk with me. We will philosophise in the cool of the evening. I have so much to say, and must put my thoughts in order for the great work.”

“Sire, I will come immediately.”

“No, now; I am waiting.”

Monsieur Voltaire became nervous, and began to tidy his desk; he pulled out drawers, and protracted the business. But the King stood as if on guard, and watched him. At last the old man had to stop tidying up and come out, but his limbs twitched, and he shook himself, as though he wished to shake off something. The King led him down the third terrace, and turned to the right into the park, where they found a long avenue which led to a small circular open space. Here there stood the Temple of Friendship.

There was an embarrassing silence between them, but Frederick, who had learnt self-control, was the first to find the thread which they had lost. But he had to introduce the conversation by commencing with their present surroundings.

“What a peaceful evening, Monsieur! Peace in nature and in human life! Have you noticed that there has been no war in the world for seven years--that is, since the Peace of Aachen?”

“Now I have not thought about it. Well, you can now expect the seven lean kine--I mean years.”

“Who knows! You spoke just now of Kian Loung, the peaceful prince who philosophises and writes verses on tea-plant blossoms; who serves his people and makes them happy. His neighbour Japan has enjoyed peace for a hundred years. In India the French and English are rivalling each other in trade. That is the great East, which we shall soon have to take into account--. If we consider our portion of the world, with which I reckon Egypt, the latter lies asleep under Pashas and Mamelukes. Greece, our motherland, has entered its last sleep. The Athens of Pericles is an appendage of the Sultan’s harem, and is ruled by black eunuchs. Rome, or rather Italy, is parcelled out between Lorraine, the House of Bourbon, and Savoy. But in Rome is my friend Benedict XIV; he is also a man of peace, and the first Pope, moreover, who acknowledges the King of Prussia. He tolerates Protestants, helps forward science, and has allowed latitude and longitude to be measured....”

“And expelled the Jesuits, whom you, sire, have received. You ought not to have done that.”

“What do you know of the Jesuits? In Spain we have Ferdinand VI, who encourages mining, combats the Inquisition, fosters the sciences.”

“The itch for writing seems to be spreading over the earth like a pestilence.”

“In England my uncle George, the pupil of Adam Smith, is working solely for the commercial prosperity of his country. The others we know. But we ought to remember the great discoveries of our century--fire-machines, thermometers, lightning-conductors, anchor-watches. In fact it is the Golden Age which has returned at this late epoch.”

“Think only of the fire-machines which they now call steam-engines. And of the telegraphs! What may we not next expect!”

“War, of course.”

“I have never loved war, as you know, but I have been driven to it.”

“With the stick.”

The King was not angry, but he was troubled that a remarkable man, who had been his friend and teacher, should commit such a _bêtise_.

“You are right; it was my father’s stick, and I bless it. But although I do not believe that the Golden Age is before the door, yet I do see a brighter future in the distance.”

“I see only clouds which foretell earthquakes. France is undermined; America is moving; all Europe is prepared to discard Christianity as a crab its shell; Economics are reduced to a science; nature is ransacked; we are on the verge of something novel and tremendous; I feel it already in my corns.”

“I also! My leisure-time is drawing to an end, my Tusculum will be closed, and dreadful things are about to happen.”

On the King’s face at this moment there was such an indescribable expression of pain, as though he had foreseen the Seven Years’ War which followed immediately on the seven years’ of peace, and he seemed to be bowed to the earth bearing the destiny of his country and the future on his shoulders.

“Sire, at such moment, you need some religion.”

“My duty is my religion. My God is the Providence which guides the destinies of the nations but leaves individuals to themselves! What are men that you should take notice of these ants?”

The conversation was interrupted by a person who appeared in the background and resembled a judicial official. Voltaire saw who it was, and became furious: “Your Majesty, how can you allow this rag-tag and bob-tail to enter the castle-park? Why do you not enclose it with iron gates and railings?”

“No,” answered the King; “I am not the master of my own person, still less of this castle, but all have rights over me!”

“But this is atrocious! Can I not drive him away?”

“No, you cannot!”

The King beckoned, and the stranger approached with his hat in his hand.

“What do you want, my friend?” asked the King.

“Only to deliver a document to Monsieur Voltaire, your Majesty.”

“Then do your duty.”