CHAPTER III

When the last glow of the sun had faded, the air of desolation, of vast gray spaces isolated from the world, returned.

The nightingale had ceased to sing and there was no other living creature abroad; the swamps beyond the wood were devoid of life, the night sky had the lead-colored look of the North, and there was no moon; there was no sense of summer now that the moon was gone.

Peter turned away; the sea being hidden from his view, he had no interest in the landscape; he moved slowly and with a ponderous step through the last trees of the woods, until he came to the chain of lilac thickets, now past their blooming, that led to Danilovitch Mentchikoff’s house, Oranienbaum, a palace that he was erecting near to his master’s cottage of Marli.

The night air refreshed the Czar; he was now perfectly sober and completely master of himself, but his spirit was plunged in a profound melancholy and his mental vision filled by the cold mighty figure of the young Scandinavian who had so suddenly crossed and blocked his path.

He felt no hatred towards this rival and no common envy, but a sad sense of his own failure beside the triumph of this heroic youth.

He had a long walk to the palace of Mentchikoff, which was situate almost at the mouth of the Neva, and on the opposite shore to where the fort of Cronstadt was being raised; but the exercise pleased him and he would not go to Marli for a horse, or a light, or a servant, but strode alone through the gloomy dusk, without hat or cloak.

There was nothing new to Peter in this experience, though it was a remarkable one for the Czar of All the Russias; he had wandered through Europe alone, and poorly clad. When he reached the gardens that Mentchikoff was laying out, it was already completely dark, for the cold stars gave no glow, and Peter was guided only by the lights that shone through the open windows of the palace on to the parterres of brilliant flowers and the high hedges of clipped hornbeam; some one was playing the bailaika; the thin music sounded sadly in the empty gardens; Peter slowly went in at the principal entrance, the door of which stood wide.

The first floor of the palace was finished and furnished in a gorgeous style that was a mingling of the West and the East, of Europe and Russia.

The hall was hung with arras sent from France, and lit by Dutch lanterns that had come from the prows of ships.

The room that Peter entered had vermilion walls, vases of purple jasper on malachite stands, and Chinese furniture of ebony inlaid with ivory; on top of the great enamel stove was a beautiful ormolu clock which was not going; lengths of French silks and Eastern damasks covered the couches of which there were several, and a silver branched candlestick of Italian workmanship held seven candles that were the sole light of the room.

This stood on a long table of gray marble mounted in heavy gilt, which occupied the center of the apartment.

In one corner was an ornate black cabinet set with various colored stones, in another a beautiful Dutch bureau in oak; the tops of these were crowded with goblets, boxes, bottles, and trays of silver, gold, enamel, and glass, some heavily encrusted with precious stones. Near the window which was curtained with cut velvet in orange and blue, hung an ikon, one mass of carved silver and rubies, and still hung with the Easter offerings of wreaths of wax fruit.

The air had been scented by the burning of pastilles, and a faint bluish smoke still obscured the atmosphere.

The whole effect was one of brilliant and crowded confusion, tasteless and barbaric; to Peter it was very splendid; a feeling of pleasure touched him that his favorite should have such a magnificent house.

“Danilovitch!” he called and went up to the table, and stood there, resting his hands on the gilt edge.

The twinkling notes of the bailaika stopped, and, from an inner door that Peter had not hitherto perceived, a woman entered carrying the little instrument.

They looked at each other across the candle light.

She was as tall as he, and beautiful, with a robust and splendid beauty; her carriage was magnificent; she wore a robe of crimson satin with an overdress of scarlet, stiff with gold embroidery, that reached the floor and stood out about her, only being open at the sides; a square plate of gold set with rubies shone at her breast, hung by rope on rope of twisted pearls her dark brown hair fell on her shoulders, from under the stiff Russian headdress of gold satin studded with turquoise, and to her feet behind, depended a long white gauze veil. Her fair, bold face, firm and beautiful in line and color, and sweet and pleasant in expression, was turned full towards the Czar.

He, in his worn green coat, disordered appointments, and tired bearing, was in a contrast almost sad with the room and the woman.

“You must be the Czar,” she said; she put down the bailaika and came towards him, moving lightly on gold-shod feet.

“I am Peter Alexievitch,” he replied, “and you?”

“My name is Marpha,” she said simply. “I hardly know who I am.”

“A Russian?” he asked, for her speech was strange, as if she used a tongue with which she was not familiar.

She shook her head.

“A Livonian, sire--a Lutheran--I do not know who my parents were,” she added, anticipating his next questions, “nor why Prince Mentchikoff should bring me here.”

“Why,” said Peter, “you are the person he spoke of who could cure me of my melancholy.”

She again shook her head.

“No, it could not be I--I am only a servant--in my best clothes”--she laughed gaily, glancing at her attire. “I have never been so fine before, but to-night Danilovitch Mentchikoff ordered me to dress so!”

The Czar was interested in her; she had an air of extraordinary vitality, of serene courage, and generous good-nature; she gave out an atmosphere of pleasant warmth and kindliness, of enthusiasm and joy of life, more remarkable than her beauty; Mentchikoff’s vivacity and high spirits had always been his greatest attraction for Peter, but this girl’s calm happiness and aspect of radiant health were more potent than the favorite’s gay humor in their effect on the Czar’s somber mood.

“Why are you melancholy?” she asked, with a straight look from her large clear gray eyes. “The Czar of Holy Russia, and sad?”

Her glance seemed to have a certain pity for his marred and weary comeliness; it was as if she were the Empress and he the peasant, so splendid and composed was she, so shabby and downcast was Peter.

“I have something to make me sad, Marpha,” he said.

“And many things to make you happy,” she replied simply, “but you great men are never gay. There is supper to-night in the pavilion. Will you come and I will pour your wine?”

“No,” said Peter, “I shall not drink to-night.”

Remembrances of the cloudy horrors of the day darkened his face; he glanced round the gaudy room with the restlessness of a creature finding itself suddenly caged.

“I will go into the garden,” he said; then abruptly, “You are a Livonian. Do you know anything of your King--Karl of Sweden?”

He paused in the open window, looking at her keenly, and ready to break into anger at whatever answer she might make.

But Marpha’s simple sweetness was too strong for his suspicious anger; she defeated him by the sheer frankness of her reply.

“I know nothing of him,” she said, “and what can he matter to such as the Czar of Holy Russia?”

Peter glanced at her, baffled; his vanity was soothed by this ignorant creature’s perfect faith; his pride began to rise against this dread and envy of the threatening figure of the unknown young King.

“Yes, I am the Czar,” he said sullenly, “and I can put a million men into the field for his every thousand, and if they are not as good soldiers I can knout them into being so.”

With that he turned into the garden, and his tall figure was immediately lost in the darkness filled with the sound of the waving sumach boughs.

Marpha gazed thoughtfully at the open window; her hands that were white and smooth, but thick and strong, the hands of a peasant, played with her heavy jeweled breastplate.

Prince Mentchikoff entered from the hall where he had been waiting behind the open door.

“Has he gone?” he whispered.

“Into the garden,” said Marpha.

“What do you think of him?” asked Mentchikoff eagerly.

“He is comely,” replied the girl.

Mentchikoff laughed.

“He is the greatest man in the world.”

“Ah, yes, the Czar of All the Russias.”

“Not that only--he is a hero and a genius,” said Mentchikoff, with passionate enthusiasm. “He is creating a new Russia.”

“I understand none of these things,” replied Marpha. “The world seems to me very well as it is--but I like Peter Alexievitch.”

“Then--if you can--make him happy--keep him cheerful,” said Mentchikoff; “in many ways his life is barren.”

The girl looked at him with those clear eyes that were full of an almost startling sincerity and truth.

“Then you are tired of me, Danilovitch Mentchikoff, and wish to hand me to your master?”

He returned her look frankly; both were of the same class, one by talent, the other by beauty elevated to these surroundings of royal luxury; she had been little better than a camp follower and he was from the gutter; neither was disguised to the other by their present splendor and the pomp of their surroundings; both held their positions by the frail tenure of another person’s favor--he by that of the Czar, she by his; for the powerful Prince was, after all, but a dependent on the favor of Peter, as the peasant girl was dependent on the caprice of Mentchikoff.

The two adventurers looked at each other keenly and there was a laugh between them; hers was wholly indifferent, perhaps heartless, his was gay and confident, for she cared for no creature but herself, nor ever would, while his least thought and meanest action was ennobled by his love for his master.

“I am not tired of you, Marpha,” said Mentchikoff, “and never shall be. I think you are a wonderful woman. I think you might help the Czar where I fail--as now when he is in his melancholy--and when he is drunk, and when he is ill.”

“I do not like sick people,” said the Livonian slowly.

“You have enough health and vitality to be able to share it,” replied Mentchikoff sharply.

She drew up her superb body that so proudly bore the heavy ornate trappings, and turning her beautiful head slowly, looked out into the darkness of the garden.

“We speak of the Czar of Holy Russia,” added the Prince, with some offense at her indifference.

“We speak of a dangerous man,” she replied, with that shrewdness that had already earned for her Mentchikoff’s respect. “I do not wish to be raised up to be dashed down. He can be cruel, and he has all the power. Let me keep out of the way of Peter Alexievitch.”

“You said that you liked him,” said Mentchikoff sternly; he had been hoping more than he admitted to himself from this second influence on Peter, that was to have been like a doubling of his own.

“I like him, but I am afraid of him,” she answered concisely. “He has many devils. I saw them peep out of his eyes. Keep me for yourself, Danilovitch Mentchikoff, for you are a peaceful man.”

The Prince replied violently: “If you will not please Peter Alexievitch, you shall not please me”--and passing her roughly, followed his master out into the murmuring darkness of the garden.

Marpha colored, and her serene pleasant face was overcast.

She had been quite content with her lazy life of ease and admiration, which had been like Paradise after the hardships of her earlier years, and she was sorry that Mentchikoff, for whom she felt a placid affection, had put her in the Czar’s path, for she was without ambition, fond of ease and comfort, and entirely uninterested in statecraft and politics; she could not write her own name, and was in every way entirely ignorant save in the natural arts of reading men and managing them; she would rather have been left in peace, and this though the dark sad face of Peter attracted her as she had never before been attracted.

With a little sigh she turned to her own apartment to take off the garment whose splendor rather constrained her, and put on the peasant costume that she usually wore.

In the pavilion Peter and Mentchikoff were discussing the coming campaign, the Czar showing a sudden fervent interest in those events that he had refused hitherto to even glance at; he would not drink, but turned half a glass of wine out on the table, and dipping his finger in it, proceeded to draw a rough map of the scene of the King of Sweden’s operations on the green marble.

His knowledge of the country was accurate; he correctly placed Copenhagen, King Frederick at Tönning, Augustus of Saxony falling back before Riga and the victorious forces of Sweden.

Then he drew a swift line through Poland towards Narva.

“There he will fall on Russia, Danilovitch.”

“Here we can meet him,” replied Mentchikoff.

Peter frowned; his dark head with the full short curls was bent low over the stains of wine on the malachite table; carved wooden dishes with birds’ heads, full of fruit, beakers of pierced steel and horn, had been pushed aside by the sweep of his right arm; the light of the candles fixed to the white walls of the pavilion shone on his stooping figure, and the harsh, earnest face and brilliant caftan of Mentchikoff.

Peter, staring at the smears of red on the green, was seeing those vast disputed provinces that he coveted, Ingermanland and Karelia ceded to Sweden nearly 100 years ago, Livonia and Esthonia lost by Poland to the same power in 1660; the possession of these lands would secure that Baltic port which had been the dream of Ivan IV, and which was so passionately desired by this first Czar who had beheld and loved the sea; the first ruler of Russia who had aspired to seize the trade with Asia and open up sea-going commerce. He had believed that the boy King of Sweden would be utterly incapable of defending his provinces, and that his secret league with Denmark and Poland would be easily and successfully pursued to a victorious conclusion.

Now Denmark had fallen out of the fight and Poland was a wavering ally; but Peter still put some faith in Augustus, because of the trained Saxon soldiery.

So he remained for a while, staring at that crude map, his swift mind filled out with all detail; then he suddenly smeared the wine spillings together with his open hand and looked up at Mentchikoff, who was regarding him eagerly.

“This is a more difficult task than punishing the Strelitz or subduing the Cossacks,” he said, with glittering eyes. “Surely it is more pleasure, Danilovitch, to overthrow free men than to put one’s feet on the neck of serfs.”

“The Cossacks will join Karl,” remarked Mentchikoff, kindling eagerly at the Czar’s fire.

“To-morrow we return to Moscow,” said Peter, and his face was as fierce as it had been in the days after his return from his travels, when the streets of the capital had run red with the blood of the old Moscovite army, which had revolted against his foreign reforms.

He pushed back his tangled hair with his wine-stained hand.

“Send for that Livonian woman,” he said, “she amuses me.”