CHAPTER I

The short Russian summer was in the commencement of its glory; a clear sunshine penetrated the groves of beeches and firs, the thickets of lilac and senna plant, and shone on the brilliant flowers that carpeted the woods which spread about the wide estuary at the mouth of the Neva. Here and there, through the radiant blossoms, could be seen a glimpse of cold blue sea; the sky was of the pale green tint peculiar to the last hours of the day; no sound disturbed the peace of the little house on the lake in the woods, the residence that it pleased the Czar of Russia to call “Marli,” in imitation of the French King, and which was one of his favorite places of retreat, being, indeed, more suited to his tastes than the gorgeous palaces he had built in Russia and the antique magnificence of the Kremlin.

It had also the advantage of being near to Cronstadt, the port he was building and in which he took such a personal interest, where he kept the nucleus of the Navy he was creating and of which he was so intensely proud, and where he had personally worked at some of the twenty-six trades that he had learnt in his journey through Europe.

Save during the brief loveliness of the summer there was little beauty in these marshy woods; neither birds nor animals seemed to inhabit them and the stillness and the vastness added to the melancholy of the solitude.

Marli was a two-storied house with a tiled roof, a door with plain steps and a window above with a balcony.

It had no defined garden but stood solitary in the woods; it was not far from the swamps where the Czar had resolved to build his new capital, nor from the spot where his favorite Mentchikoff was raising a superb palace, but it had, despite the bright flowers and the sunshine, an air of solitude that was dreary.

There was no sign of cultivation round the lake, and the wild flowers grew up to the very door, bending over the shallow steps; the yellow plaster front of the house was stained with damp and the windows were without curtains, the shutters being all fastened back. The door stood open and there was no sign of servants or of any domestic work being in progress.

At the edge of the lake and looking up at the house was a man whose appearance and attire were in entire contrast to his surroundings.

He was tall and stoutly built, with dark hair and eyes and an expression of some fierceness, his locks were cut short into his neck, and he was attired in native Russian costume untouched by European fashion.

His long coat of fine gold-colored silk brocade, shot with blue and red flowers, was open on a vest of fine muslin, fastened with sapphire buttons, and belted above the full skirt with scarlet leather.

His full breeches of pale blue velvet were gathered into high vermilion leather boots, much polished and soft.

He carried a short sword of Oriental design, the hilt studded with tourmaline and rose quartz, and wore a close cap of scarlet silk round which was twisted a fine gold chain which held in place a buckle of diamonds that clasped a long white osprey. After looking at the little house thoughtfully this personage went slowly round the lake and in at the open door.

The two front rooms were closed; the newcomer went to the back and looked into the kitchen; it was here very hot, for the cooking stove was lit and several dishes stood on it from which exhaled an odor of onions, cabbages, and rancid grease.

On a side table stood pots and pans and dishes containing fish under vinegar and salted gherkins, also some jams and jellies and a few fine spoons of silver gilt; flies and mosquitoes buzzed over everything; all was dirty; the floor and the stove filthy with dropped grease and spillings of food.

A Tartar servant with a flat yellow face was watching the cooking; he wore a soiled blue blouse and trousers; his throat and chest were bare and the perspiration rolled from under his oily hair.

He regarded the newcomer with a look of complete stupidity and turned his gaze again to his cooking.

He appeared to be no more impressed by the gentleman’s brilliancy than the gentleman was by his dirt and disorder. Only, as that person was leaving the kitchen, the taciturn servant vouchsafed a warning.

“If you come with unpleasant news, Danilovitch Mentchikoff, you had better keep them for a while.”

“He is in a bad humor?” asked the Prince quickly.

“He was drinking all night,” replied the Tartar. “And now he seems to be in a melancholy. What am I to do about the dinner, Danilovitch Mentchikoff? He will not bear me in the room--and as for you, he will beat you like a dog.”

“Well, when he has beaten me, we will have dinner,” replied the Prince, and he turned away and went upstairs.

He entered the front bedroom which was that with the balcony over the door; a good-sized chamber very plainly furnished with a low bed, a table, a few chairs, and one or two half-open boxes filled with clothes.

The pale melancholy light streamed in uninterrupted through the curtainless window and lit every crevice of the apartment.

Above the bed was an ikon of the Saviour, very dark and indistinct and adorned with plates of silver; two candles in sticks of violet jasper stood on a shelf beneath this; on the stove was the unfinished model of a ship in wood; these were the only remarkable objects that the room contained.

The one occupant was a young man who sat in a low chair by the stove, and who was intent on carving with a small knife a large fir cone.

Peter Alexievitch, Emperor of Muscovy and Czar of all the Russias, was at this time twenty-eight years of age, and it was not long since he had been recalled by rebellion at home from that extraordinary journey in disguise round Europe whereby he had sought to learn the various means by which nations secure prosperity and greatness, that he might instruct his subjects; he had since gained some glory by a victory over the Turks, but his present league with Poland and Denmark against Sweden was his first real entry into war and politics, the first attempt to put into practise the schemes by which he sought to render his vast Empire secure and mighty.

He did not look up as Prince Mentchikoff entered, but continued, with ostentatious disregard of a presence he was certainly aware of, to chip at the pine cone.

His friend, standing inside the door, eyed him with some apprehension.

The Czar’s appearance was as remarkable as his character and his history.

Unlike the Prince, he wore European clothes, a shirt of very fine linen, much ruffled, faded green cloth breeches, white cotton stockings and leathern shoes, and over all a full dressing-gown of brown wool which was tied round his waist by a cord.

Even as he sat so, doubled up on a low chair, it was noticeable that he was of gigantic height, and slender and graceful in his proportions; the hands that were busy with his minute work were slim and elegant, his head was of a noble shape and covered with smooth short curls of a dusky brown color; his face, of an Asiatic type, was singularly beautiful, though already marred by passion and vice.

The short blunt features were finely formed, the dark eyes, large, lustrous, and full of sweetness, eagerness, and ardor, the complexion of a warm brown, darkened by exposure to sun and wind; a close mustache outlined the full lips; for the rest he was well shaven, and there was something both robust and boyish in the smooth contours of his face.

He was extremely attractive and gave the impression of being simple and lovable to an almost childish degree; his complexion, naturally so smooth and clear, was now rather pale, the eyes heavy and stained beneath; the hand that held the knife very slightly shook.

Mentchikoff noticed a dirty glass full of flies on the floor beside him and a number of bottles, mostly empty, scattered about, a strong smell of brandy being in the air.

“I come, as you bade me, to dine with your Majesty,” said the favorite.

Peter did not even look round; he took a pinch of clay from a board on top of the stove and began to model it on to the fir cone.

The Prince was vexed by this reception; he had begun to think he could do what he liked with the Czar, who had raised him from the position of a pastry cook’s lad to that of greatest noble in all the Russias.

“Well, Peter Alexievitch,” he said drily, “there is some news that you must hear. But I would keep it till after dinner.”

Peter turned now; one side of his face twitched in a slight convulsion.

“Why did not this news come to me?” he asked sullenly.

Mentchikoff saw that whatever his potations had been he was now sober, and went warily accordingly; the Czar sober was not so easy as the Czar drunk.

“Who dares to come to your Majesty when you are withdrawn into your solitude? Therefore the dispatches from Moscow were brought to me.”

“Is it bad news?” asked the Czar gloomily; he turned again to his work, and began coloring the clay with his finger dipped in rough pigment which he had arranged on the same board as the clay.

“Well,” said Mentchikoff, “I certainly think that your Majesty should be at Moscow.”

And irritated at his reception he seated himself near the window with an air of impatience.

“I will not go to Moscow,” said the Czar, in a tone of suppressed violence. “I wish to be here--this is where I will build my city and my fort. Why cannot I be alone here? I care nothing for your news.”

“Well, then,” replied Mentchikoff exasperated, “it will not destroy your appetite, Peter Alexievitch. The King of Sweden has defeated Denmark, taken back Holstein-Gottorp, and signed a victorious peace.”

Peter stared.

“The King of Sweden!” he ejaculated.

“Yes, that boy who was to be so easily despoiled. Europe remembers nothing like it. In fifteen days he has ended the campaign.”

The Czar’s face was a ghastly color.

“This is greatness,” he said.

With the mechanical movement of one who has received a shock he continued his work, staring at the clay he continued to mold and color.

“Eighteen years old,” added Mentchikoff, “and his first campaign.”

“Tell me about it,” said Peter, in an agitated and humbled manner.

“Do you really want to hear?” asked the Prince in some surprise; he had known the Czar to have messengers of ill-tidings knouted.

“I want to hear,” replied Peter, without looking up.

“Well, the Swedes made a descent on Copenhagen and joined the Anglo-Dutch fleet by Spaelland--they sailed through the Eastern Channel of the Sound, a thing not before thought possible--and then they landed and attacked Copenhagen by land.”

“The King led them?”

“The King led them--he was the first to land, and waded with the water to his waist and his sword in his hand--under the musket fire of the Danes, you perceive. There was a short engagement in which the Swedes were completely victorious, and Copenhagen lay at their mercy.”

“Where was King Frederick?” asked Peter.

“I do not know--still besieging Tönning, I suppose--at least he sent to negotiate.”

“To negotiate!” cried the Czar, looking round.

“Sire--the Baltic Sea was covered with the Swedish ships, King Karl master of Seeland, Copenhagen beseeching mercy--but our young hero must do the magnanimous--he fought not for conquest, he said, but justice. In brief, there was a congress called at Tarrenthal and there is a peace to be signed this month.”

“And what are the terms?”

Mentchikoff shrugged his shoulders.

“Sweden wants nothing for himself--Gottorp is to get his indemnity and his Duchy, and Denmark is never to meddle again against Sweden.”

Peter was silent a moment he was still very pale and one side of his face twitched convulsively.

“What news from Poland?” he asked at length.

“There were those dispatches yesterday, but you would not listen to them.”

“Tell them to me now.”

“Augustus has raised the siege of Riga.”

“Why?” demanded the Czar, trembling all over.

“The excuse is that the town is full of Dutch merchandise and Poland would not offend Holland. The truth is that Augustus could not take the town.”

“Curse Augustus and curse Frederick,” said the Czar heavily.

He put down the little toy he was making and clasped his head in his hands.

“So of all the enemies of this young man there remains but yourself, Peter Alexievitch.”

The Czar was silent; he could have imagined no greater blow than this appearance of a rival to his glory in Northern Europe, a man ten years younger than himself who had already achieved what he never had.

How often had not Peter dreamed of dictating terms to a conquered city and setting conditions of peace to vanquished Kings, of seeing a great many obey his commands and thousands of fine soldiers march behind him to conquest; all things that this youth had experienced in a few days, while he, Peter, had been indulging himself in a sullen retirement broken only by those drunken debauches with which he sought to cure the terrible melancholy that periodically assailed him.

A bitter scorn of himself, a bitter envy of the King of Sweden, a wild yearning to be other than he was, settled on him like the mantle of despair.

“Tell me what this young man is like,” he asked, in a muffled voice; his curiosity as to what was admirable and good and great was insatiable; even now it dominated his emotion.

Prince Mentchikoff did not know much; this young hero, whose name was now in everyone’s mouth, was a new figure in Europe.

“He is very austere and prides himself on his justice, they say, and his army is so disciplined that they are at prayers twice a day, and they pay for all they take and do not despoil the dead. But this young man must be ambitious--he will lose his head.”

“You know nothing about it, Danilovitch,” replied Peter, “they are brave and cold, the Swedes. And this boy was well-trained and taught,” he added enviously.

“Well,” said the Prince, “he is something to be reckoned with--and I hear from Stockholm that he is angry with the four envoys you have sent. He thinks that when you are at war you should drop the pretense of peace--he is of a rigid honor.”

“Oh!” said Peter.

He glanced up at the toy he had made; it represented an old woman in cap and shawl, the cone being her skirt and the upper part being cunningly fashioned of clay.

“That is what I can do,” he added fiercely.

The Prince swung on his heel with some impatience. “You should be in Moscow,” he declared. “Will you wait till the Swede is over the frontier?”

The Czar did not reply.

“The Saxons have left Livonia,” continued Mentchikoff goadingly. “Patkul has proved a poor statesman and the treaty of Préobrapenskoè a failure--you can go on building Cronstadt and St. Petersburg, for this war is over.”

The Czar gave his friend an ugly look; his hands trembled on his knees.

“Do you think that this boy has vanquished me?” he cried.

“I think that he may, Peter Alexievitch.”

The Czar sprang to his feet.

“Faithless, insolent, and foolish!” he shrieked, in an instant at the height of passion. “Where did you find the courage to presume on my kindness! Have you forgotten that I am Peter!”

The Prince stood passive, only holding up his hands to protect his face; the Czar grappled with him and flung him down; Mentchikoff prostrated himself at his master’s feet, face downwards on the dirty floor.

Peter was not mollified by this submission; he took off his belt and beat the shoulders of the favorite until the gay brocade was torn to ribbons.

He ceased as suddenly as he had begun, and staggered out into the head of the stairs, dragging his shirt open at the throat.

The Tartar servant was coming up with dishes on a tray; Peter gave one glance at the food then tipped it all out of the man’s hands so that cabbage, soup, and fish rolled down the stairs; then he gave a great cry that seemed like a shout for air and fell backwards; a little foam flecked his lips and his eyes turned in his head.

The Prince and the Tartar with the air of men doing a usual thing, dragged and pushed him somehow to his bed.