CHAPTER XLIII

UNDER THE COMETS

In the summer of the year 1825 no oil was needed for the streets of St. Petersburg, the nights were so light. The first lighting of the lamps falls on the day the court leaves Peterhof for the Winter Palace. The lighting of the lamps, on this occasion, was looked forward to by many.

A great plan was in course of operation among the lower strata of society, which they had imparted neither to the _matadores_ of the _Szojusz Blagodenztoiga_ nor to the _Szojusz Spacinia_.

A succession of gloomy, rainy days came with the new moon. When on the fourth day a keen north wind blew away the clouds from the sky, people were astonished to see near the silver sickle of the moon yet another wonder, like a fiery sword--a comet. So quickly had it come that it was only perceived when in its full blaze of glory.

What is a comet?

Scientific men themselves do not know; how, then, can poor ordinary mortals?

A comet is the herald of pest, of war, of downfall! Let him who does not believe this show reason why he is unbelieving. In wine-growing countries it is true that a comet year is said to promise a good wine year. But that does not affect the people of St. Petersburg, where they only make brandy. And a comet has no influence upon the increase of brandy. On the contrary, when there is any trouble brewing in the empire there is always but little brandy consumed. It is a peculiarity of the Russian that he does not drink when in great trouble. When the head of the police learns that in St. Petersburg, instead of a daily consumption of five thousand casks of brandy, only two thousand are being consumed, he redoubles the patrols.

The appearance of the comet only heightened the general feeling of excitement. A comet is the prophet's material symbol concerning which he can cry, "Look! the fiery sword has appeared too in the heavens!"

When Czar Alexander was leaving Peterhof he gave orders that the Lord Chamberlain should precede the Czarina, to see that her apartments were in order on her arrival.

It was evening when the Czar, with a small retinue, neared the capital. Arrived at Alexander Nevski Monastery, he called a halt, and, going into the church, commanded that a mass for the dead should be read the next day. As he left the church, standing on the terrace, he cast one long look at the capital, lying before him veiled in mist. The distant sounds came up to him like the roar of the sea; the traffic in the streets, the murmur of voices mingled together like the buzz of a beehive.

He stood there a long time, lost in meditation. The giant conflicts of a quarter of a century rose before his eyes out of the sea of mist, and he experienced that agony almost beyond human endurance--the consciousness of an approaching end, the mighty tasks of his life still unaccomplished. He had risen so high that he had half thought himself a god; he had fallen so low that there was not a man who would have changed places with him. Napoleon and he had been the dominating personalities of that quarter of a century.

Nor did that lonely figure on St. Helena look with other feelings on the ocean surrounding him than does Czar Alexander on the mist falling thickly over his capital. This mist is vaster than the ocean, because it is formed by the breath of man; and as many breaths, so many curses against him--against him, once so idolized.

The only difference between them is that Napoleon's people ardently yearn to have their conquered hero back, while this conquering hero has become a weariness to his country.

And that comet in the sky is like an illuminated pen with which an invisible hand is writing the fate of empires and their rulers amid the stars. Alexander's spirit was ever inclined to mysticism. He was filled with forebodings and terrors. He was a believer in fate and its portents. Comet and moon had both sunk beneath the horizon of the thick sea of mist.

The Czar had an old coachman, known to every one by his long, gray beard, which reached down to his girdle. This coachman always drove the Czar long distances; he was the most faithful servant he had. As, on returning to his three-horsed troika, Alexander asked:

"Ilias, did you see the comet?"

"I saw it, your Majesty."

"Do you know that the comet is the forerunner of misfortune and mourning? Ah, well! The Lord's will be done!"

And he gave orders to drive to the noisy city.

People told each other that the Czar was about to take a long journey; whither was not known. He intended taking the Czarina away from the inclement climate of the capital to more genial skies; whither he had as yet told no one. He was himself going first, to secure quarters. Whenever he undertook a long journey it was his custom to hear the _Veni Sancte_ in the Church of the Holy Virgin of Kasan. It was his own church; he had built it, and had had it consecrated, and from its threshold he would get into his travelling carriage. The entire body of the clergy would await him there betimes, wearing their richest vestments; his favorite choir, too, would be in attendance, to sing the collects. And the murmuring capital whispered to itself, when once priests, Czar, and Grand Dukes were collected together in the Church of the Holy Virgin of Kasan: suddenly, at the invocation, "Come, Holy Ghost!" a determined man would start up from the crypt below, and, presenting a loaded pistol, would say, "Come down, then, to him!" And straightway church, holy images, Czar, Grand Dukes, priests, and choristers would be blown into the sky. An awful thought!

Perhaps to be realized. Perhaps already for days past some bold spirit--one of the Irreconcilables--has been crouching below in the crypt, the coffins filled with gunpowder, waiting for the signal of the bell which calls the faithful together to carry out the awful deed which shall overturn a mighty empire. The fatality was prevented--forbidden by the ashes of the dead.

The next day, at early morning, the Czar was not driven to the Church of the Holy Virgin of Kasan, where the richly clad Metropolitan awaited him, but to the Chapel of Alexander Nevski, where an ascetic attired in black, the "Simnik," advanced to conduct him to the mass for the dead.

An official paper has categorically described this ceremony. How the Czar knelt before the Icons; how the protopope Seraphim placed the New Testament upon his head, lying prostrate in the dust; how the Ruler of All the Russias did penance in the poor Simnik's cell, and how the Simnik told him of the degeneracy of the people. The account being authentic, it, of course, does not contain a single word that is not true.

A very different reason was it that had brought the Czar within those walls. Here rested the ashes of his three dead daughters, side by side--for he had had Sophie's remains brought here secretly. And it was these three children, deep down in the earth as they were, who combined to save their father, calling him to their calm, secure resting-place.

What had the father to say to his dead? The walls alone can make reply. Official report is silent.

As the Czar left the church, in which he had heard the mass for the dead to the end, the sun was just rising, its reddish rays gilding the towers of the Church of SS. Peter and Paul, and the cupolas and cross of the Isaac Cathedral, through the sea of mist, the hollow tones of the early bells vibrating long in the stillness.

All sounds were hushed as Czar Alexander looked upon the capital of his vast empire for the last time. And as the troika, drawn by its fiery team, rolled rapidly away, the Czar turned to gaze, the better to impress the scene upon his memory, a scene which the rising mist was slowly, slowly shutting out from his view.