CHAPTER II

“If you do not believe that I shall redeem Narva you are a fool,” said Peter rudely. “The Swedes themselves will teach us how to defeat their own armies.”

It was three months after his bitter failure when the King of Sweden had scattered his immense forces in a few hours, and he himself, coming with the reinforcements from Pskov, had withdrawn from the path of a conqueror with troops so greatly inferior to his own; Karl was spending the winter encamped near Narva and Peter had come to Birsen, a little town in Lithuania, to meet informally (indeed it might be said that the Czar never did anything formally) his ally, Augustus, Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, on whose trained troops Peter still relied, though Augustus had shown to but little advantage in the war, and had done nothing since he had gracefully submitted to necessity in raising the siege of Riga.

It was to Augustus whom Peter spoke now; the King Elector’s heart was hardly in the war that for him had been mainly an excuse to keep a standing army with which to overawe Poland, and that he had never intended to go to these extreme, expensive lengths, and he had several times referred, with that calm elegance that irritated Peter, to the disastrous day of Narva, so fatal to the Russian arms that the terrified inhabitants of Moscow, on hearing of the news, had not hesitated to attribute it to magic on the part of the Swedes. And Peter had suddenly broken out into violence.

“Perhaps you are a fool,” he added loudly.

Augustus flushed, but smiled and slightly raised his eyebrows, glancing at the third occupant of the chamber which was the best parlor of the best house in Birsen. This gentleman was John Rheinhold Patkul, the prime author of the league against Sweden, at first in the employment of Saxony, now in the service of Peter whom he continued to represent at Dresden.

He looked at the Czar now with a glance of affection and spoke quietly.

“I am sure that your Majesty will completely revenge Narva.”

“Thank you, General Patkul,” said Peter sullenly, “but whatever you or any other man believe, I am sure I shall humble that haughty boy.”

He put his elbows on the corner of the black oak table near which he sat and supported his face in his brown hands.

The persons of these three men were in great contrast, and it was plain that some extraordinary event outside their own volition or inclination had brought them together. Peter wore his shabby green uniform, cracked and old top-boots, a sword and belt like those of a common soldier, his own tumbled short and dusky curls, only his linen was fine and clean where it showed above the high buttoned coat; for the rest he might have been a trooper, disordered after a day’s march.

Augustus, who sat in a great chair with arms near the log fire, was a man of a physical strength famous throughout Europe; he was as tall as the Czar and far more powerfully made, the splendid Karl would have appeared a stripling beside him for he was now in the prime of his manhood; a magnificent prince like the hero of a fairy-tale to the eye, for he was extremely good-looking in a pleasing, conventional fashion, gracious, easy in manner, full of fire and chivalry, and elegant as any courtier of Louis XIV; his court was considered next to that of Versailles for brilliancy, extravagance, and elegance, and he had made Dresden nearly as fashionable as Paris.

He also wore riding costume, but in complete contrast to the habiliments of the Czar; a mantle of dark blue silk, lined with black fur, was flung back on his shoulders and fastened across the breast with gold clasps; his coat was of fine deep crimson cloth gallooned with silver; his rich laces, fastened with a black bow at the throat, fell over a white satin waistcoat heavily embroidered in colored silks; his close knee-boots were of the softest leather, his spurs gilt, his sword and baldrick very handsome and tasseled; his kindly, charming face was framed in the rich curls of a long peruke, and on the chair beside him were his huge gauntlet gloves, his black hat with long white plumes and his gold-headed riding-crop.

He looked both disinterested and slightly ill at ease, though his air was one of perfect courtesy, and he seemed to pay more attention to the Livonian nobleman than to the Muscovite Czar--finding the former more to his ideas of civilization.

This man, who had already played such a considerable but more or less secret part in the politics of Northern Europe, and who now defied Karl XII with his sword as he had defied Karl XI with his eloquence, was still young, but of an appearance ordinary compared to that of the two princes.

He was fair, of medium height, with blunt features and earnest gray eyes, an expression enthusiastic and serious; he wore the uniform of a Saxon General, and his peruke was tied with a black ribbon; his personality was sincere and attractive, and to any who knew his history there was round him the fascination of lost causes and forlorn hopes, the romance of the fanatic and the patriot, for Patkul had only lived with the one object of rescuing his country from the tyranny of Sweden.

He had been elected as spokesman to put the wrongs of Livonia before Karl XI; that stern monarch had received him graciously.

“You have spoken for your country like a brave man, and I respect you for it,” he had said, but the next day Patkul had been arrested on a charge of treason; he had broken prison and escaped abroad, and from then had been the steady enemy of Karl XI and his son.

To Augustus he had been of infinite value, and he had only left the court of Dresden because his single-mindedness, his haughty spirit, and ardent purpose had accorded ill with the frivolous atmosphere, bed-chamber plots, and petty intrigues of the Elector’s court; in Peter he had found a more congenial master, but a sentimental tie still bound him to Dresden; he was betrothed to a good and beautiful Saxon lady, Mdle. D’Einsiedel.

The sincerity and simplicity of this love affair was in contrast to the fashion of the moment; Augustus was slightly cynical and Peter did not understand, but Patkul was not greatly concerned in these princes’ opinion of his private concern; they were to him but instruments to free Livonia and humble Sweden, though for Peter Alexis he felt a certain affection, for the Czar was also struggling with a gigantic, perhaps hopeless, task.

Augustus glanced with some disgust at the somber figure of Peter; the moods and melancholies of the wild, diseased Muscovite were very repellent to the healthy, ease-loving Saxon; secretly he cursed the alliance with Russia (though he was too good-natured to blame its author, Patkul), and wished that he had found some less dangerous excuse for keeping his standing army.

However, he had to force on his reluctant and somewhat lazy mind that he was in a perilous position; Karl had defeated Denmark (who no longer counted as a member of the league) and defeated Russia, and there could be little doubt that the stern and haughty young conqueror would now turn his arms against Poland; the King-Elector saw no ally and no chance of support save in the Czar.

The treaty of Altona kept England and Holland tacitly at least on the side of Sweden, and Augustus had never been looked upon well by France, whose princes he had defeated in the candidature for the Polish throne.

His defensive measures must be taken in concert with Peter; a defeated man, certainly, but one of immense resources and genius.

“While we talk, Sweden will act,” he said, with a slightly quizzical smile, his good humor after all carrying the day in the struggle with his irritation against the mood of the incomprehensible Peter; he rose, very gorgeous and making the room look mean. “Let us have our dinner,” he added, “and then come to some serious conversation.”

“Which has been too long delayed, sire,” remarked General Patkul quietly; already the meeting between kings and ministers was several days old, and nothing had taken place but mutual compliments and mutual entertainments in which all had joined from Peter and Augustus to the meanest secretary in their train; Patkul, the only man who had kept quite aloof, was probably the only man in Birsen now completely sober; it was the reaction from debauch that had plunged Peter into melancholy, and Augustus was heavy-headed and heavy-eyed.

“Too long delayed,” he agreed smoothly. “Karl will not spend much longer before Narva--why, having achieved his end, he cannot go home----”

Peter looked up.

“Achieved his end?” he questioned.

“Has he not got back Holstein-Gottorp and checked the invasion into his Baltic provinces?”

“And you think that was his end!” exclaimed the Czar contemptuously. “No, he wishes to dethrone you and me.”

Augustus laughed at this abrupt statement.

“A second Alexander? Not in these times, sire,” he replied. “Not even a vain boy would dream of world conquest now--especially after the lessons of Ryswick; what Louis could not accomplish Karl will hardly attempt.”

“I think that he will,” said Peter, measuring the Swede’s spirit by his own.

He was seconded by the Livonian.

“I think that you are right, sire; there is no end to what Karl will attempt--perhaps no end to what he will achieve. I think his Saxon Majesty can hardly conceive the type, hard, cold, justly cruel and justly generous--a man without mercy for himself or others, austere, awkward, without grace or charm, yet underneath half-mad with pride, with obstinacy, with the old Viking blood lust, the old Berserker fury against those who oppose him.”

Patkul spoke with a feeling that pleased Peter, always intensely interested in anything to do with his rival.

“He is reputed virtuous,” said the Czar.

“Virtuous!” exclaimed Patkul, with a flush in his blond face. “Yes--he has prayers twice a day in his camp, and his soldiers do not take a slice of bread that they do not pay for; he lives the life of a Spartan and a monk, for it is his vanity to be considered above the weaknesses of mankind, but he would see Sweden go to perdition sooner than forgo one of his mad schemes or sacrifice one leaf from the laurels of his barren victories!”

“You speak from your knowledge of his father,” said Augustus.

“From my knowledge of the race, sir. Karl XI thought something of the good of his people, and embarked on no useless conquests, but the type was the same--a man of granite. He killed his Queen with his hardness. I think that he never said a kind word, all his days, to anyone.”

“And no woman was ever found to soften him?” asked Augustus, who was trained in the traditions of Versailles.

“Never. They say that this man is the same,” replied Patkul. “He prefers to govern his passions rather than to risk female domination and has resolved never to look on a fair face.”

“I will send him Marpha,” said Peter gravely. “She would twine round the heart of a saint.”

At the thought of such an ambassadress being sent to bewitch the haughty young conqueror with her crude charms, and the spectacle of the Czar’s entire belief in the illiterate camp follower with her rude speech and neglected person who so offended the fastidious taste of the Saxon, Augustus could not repress a smile of contempt.

Peter perceived it and rose; little flames of wrath sparkled in his full brown eyes.

“Well, send him Aurora von Königsmarck,” he cried violently.

Augustus was utterly taken aback; he had never so been spoken to nor surrounded by other than refinement and elegance; to even hear the name of Aurora on the lips of Peter was a profanation, but to listen to her, one of the admired women of Europe, the Montespan of his Versailles, coupled, in this odious connection, with the Livonian peasant, raised by the mad caprice of Peter, made him put his hand to his sword.

“Well,” said the Czar, with dangerous softness, “why not your woman as well as mine?”

Patkul intervened.

“Leave the names of women, sire,” he said quickly and with some authority. “The King of Sweden is not, in any case, to be outwitted that way.”

Augustus recovered his composure by reminding himself that he had to deal with a man almost wholly a savage.

“At least you will leave the name of the Countess von Königsmarck, sir,” he said coldly.

Peter laughed with rude contempt; he had no respect for any woman, and the brilliant Aurora who ruled the superb court of Dresden was no better in his mind than Marpha, who stirred the kvas and drank brandy in his dirty hut or tent.

Augustus did not like this laugh and spoke again, to avoid a quarrel.

“Surely it is time we joined Mentchikoff for dinner,” and he glanced patiently at the cold winter day beyond the window.

“You are very fond of your dinner,” said Peter, who turned from the French cooking provided by Augustus to devour half-cooked greasy meat and parboiled vegetables soaked in vinegar.

The King-Elector, perfectly master of himself, turned easily to Patkul.

“General,” he said, “escort His Majesty to the dining-hall.”

And with that he left the room, gathering up gracefully his hat, gloves, and whip.

“He is a silly fribble and a besotted rake,” said Peter angrily, as the door closed.

“He has a fine army, sire,” replied Patkul quietly; he was used to managing both these men, so utterly different and both so necessary to his great schemes.

“Yes,” admitted the Czar sullenly, with envy in his eyes.

“The sort of army that is needful to defeat Sweden--come here, sire,” he beckoned Peter to the window and pointed out, in the courtyard of the modest house, the Saxon guard who had been appointed to attend on Peter during his residence at Birsen. “Are they not splendid fellows? And those passing, of the Brandenbourg regiment--and Augustus has thousands of such men.”

Peter’s haggard eyes lit with professional enthusiasm.

“I will have men like that, Patkul.”

“Meanwhile it is useful to tolerate the Elector, sire.”

“And choke myself with his French sauces, and grimace with him over his compliments.”

“Well,” said Patkul gravely, “I think your Majesties have some tastes in common; you have been drunk together for three days on end, and that should have promoted some fellow-feeling.”

The Czar gave no answer and Prince Mentchikoff entered the room; he was dressed magnificently, and in tolerable imitation of the Saxon nobility; the peasant had acquired Western polish more easily than the Czar.

Peter greeted him affectionately, taking his face between his hands and kissing him; it was the first time he had seen him that day for Mentchikoff had been sleeping off the effects of last night’s orgy.

Patkul left the two Russians together, and hastened after Augustus who was already seated at table with several of his ministers and officers.

“You wish yourself back at Dresden, no?” he greeted the Livonian pleasantly.

“Sire,” replied Patkul, “I should not care to be back at Dresden thinking that this meeting had been fruitless.”

“You are right,” said Augustus, gravely, “and the sooner we finish this treaty the sooner we can return,” and his eyes shone, as he thought of his Aurora.

Patkul completed the treaty that day; the Czar was to send into Poland 50,000 men to learn to become soldiers, and, in the space of two years, to pay to the Czar 3,000,000 rix-dollars; Augustus was to levy from neighboring princes 50,000 trained German troops to send into Russia; this treaty, that seemed to lay the foundation for the greatness of the Czar and the ruin of Sweden, once completed, Patkul would have made instant preparations to put it into force; but Augustus, despite the attractions of his gorgeous darling and his fears for the safety of his kingdom, joined Peter in a week-long debauch.

Meanwhile Sweden, breaking camp at Narva, marched on Riga, and Patkul, unable to endure the idle orgies, obtained permission to join the Saxon troops under Courlande and Steinau, who were defending the passage of the Dwina against the conqueror.