In Petersburg in the eighteen-forties
a surprising event occurred.
An officer of the Cuirassier
Life Guards, a handsome prince
who everyone predicted would
become aide-de-camp to the Emperor
Nicholas I and have a brilliant
career, left the service, broke
off his engagement to a beautiful
maid of honour, a favourite of
the Empress's, gave his small
estate to his sister, and retired
to a monastery to become a monk.
This event appeared extraordinary
and inexplicable to those who
did not know his inner motives,
but for Prince Stepan Kasatsky
himself it all occurred so naturally
that he could not imagine how
he could have acted otherwise.
His father, a retired colonel
of the Guards, had died when
Stepan was twelve, and sorry
as his mother was to part from
her son, she entered him at the
Military College as her deceased
husband had intended.
The widow herself, with her
daughter, Varvara, moved to Petersburg
to be near her son and have him
with her for the holidays.
The boy was distinguished both
by his brilliant ability and
by his immense self-esteem. He
was first both in his studies--especially
in mathematics, of which he was
particularly fond--and also in
drill and in riding. Though of
more than average height, he
was handsome and agile, and he
would have been an altogether
exemplary cadet had it not been
for his quick temper. He was
remarkably truthful, and was
neither dissipated nor addicted
to drink. The only faults that
marred his conduct were fits
of fury to which he was subject
and during which he lost control
of himself and became like a
wild animal. He once nearly threw
out of the window another cadet
who had begun to tease him about
his collection of minerals. On
another occasion he came almost
completely to grief by flinging
a whole dish of cutlets at an
officer who was acting as steward,
attacking him and, it was said,
striking him for having broken
his word and told a barefaced
lie. He would certainly have
been reduced to the ranks had
not the Director of the College
hushed up the whole matter and
dismissed the steward.
By the time he was eighteen
he had finished his College course
and received a commission as
lieutenant in an aristocratic
regiment of the Guards.
The Emperor Nicholas Pavlovich
(Nicholas I) had noticed him
while he was still at the College,
and continued to take notice
of him in the regiment, and it
was on this account that people
predicted for him an appointment
as aide-de-camp to the Emperor.
Kasatsky himself strongly desired
it, not from ambition only but
chiefly because since his cadet
days he had been passionately
devoted to Nicholas Pavlovich.
The Emperor had often visited
the Military College and every
time Kasatsky saw that tall erect
figure, with breast expanded
in its military overcoat, entering
with brisk step, saw the cropped
side-whiskers, the moustache,
the aquiline nose, and heard
the sonorous voice exchanging
greetings with the cadets, he
was seized by the same rapture
that he experienced later on
when he met the woman he loved.
Indeed, his passionate adoration
of the Emperor was even stronger:
he wished to sacrifice something--everything,
even himself--to prove his complete
devotion. And the Emperor Nicholas
was conscious of evoking this
rapture and deliberately aroused
it. He played with the cadets,
surrounded himself with them,
treating them sometimes with
childish simplicity, sometimes
as a friend, and then again with
majestic solemnity. After that
affair with the officer, Nicholas
Pavlovich said nothing to Kasatsky,
but when the latter approached
he waved him away theatrically,
frowned, shook his finger at
him, and afterwards when leaving,
said: 'Remember that I know everything.
There are some things I would
rather not know, but they remain
here,' and he pointed to his
heart.
When on leaving College the
cadets were received by the Emperor,
he did not again refer to Kasatsky's
offence, but told them all, as
was his custom, that they should
serve him and the fatherland
loyally, that he would always
be their best friend, and that
when necessary they might approach
him direct. All the cadets were
as usual greatly moved, and Kasatsky
even shed tears, remembering
the past, and vowed that he would
serve his beloved Tsar with all
his soul.
When Kasatsky took up his commission
his mother moved with her daughter
first to Moscow and then to their
country estate. Kasatsky gave
half his property to his sister
and kept only enough to maintain
himself in the expensive regiment
he had joined.
To all appearance he was just
an ordinary, brilliant young
officer of the Guards making
a career for himself; but intense
and complex strivings went on
within him. From early childhood
his efforts had seemed to be
very varied, but essentially
they were all one and the same.
He tried in everything he took
up to attain such success and
perfection as would evoke praise
and surprise. Whether it was
his studies or his military exercises,
he took them up and worked at
them till he was praised and
held up as an example to others.
Mastering one subject he took
up another, and obtained first
place in his studies. For example,
while still at College he noticed
in himself an awkwardness in
French conversation, and contrived
to master French till he spoke
it as well as Russian, and then
he took up chess and became an
excellent player.
Apart from his main vocation,
which was the service of his
Tsar and the fatherland, he always
set himself some particular aim,
and however unimportant it was,
devoted himself completely to
it and lived for it until it
was accomplished. And as soon
as it was attained another aim
would immediately present itself,
replacing its predecessor. This
passion for distinguishing himself,
or for accomplishing something
in order to distinguish himself,
filled his life. On taking up
his commission he set himself
to acquire the utmost perfection
in knowledge of the service,
and very soon became a model
officer, though still with the
same fault of ungovernable irascibility,
which here in the service again
led him to commit actions inimical
to his success. Then he took
to reading, having once in conversation
in society felt himself deficient
in general education--and again
achieved his purpose. Then, wishing
to secure a brilliant position
in high society, he learnt to
dance excellently and very soon
was invited to all the balls
in the best circles, and to some
of their evening gatherings.
But this did not satisfy him:
he was accustomed to being first,
and in this society was far from
being so.
The highest society then consisted,
and I think always consist, of
four sorts of people: rich people
who are received at Court, people
not wealthy but born and brought
up in Court circles, rich people
who ingratiate themselves into
the Court set, and people neither
rich nor belonging to the Court
but who ingratiate themselves
into the first and second sets.
Kasatsky did not belong to
the first two sets, but was readily
welcomed in the others. On entering
society he determined to have
relations with some society lady,
and to his own surprise quickly
accomplished this purpose. He
soon realized, however, that
the circles in which he moved
were not the highest, and that
though he was received in the
highest spheres he did not belong
to them. They were polite to
him, but showed by their whole
manner that they had their own
set and that he was not of it.
And Kasatsky wished to belong
to that inner circle. To attain
that end it would be necessary
to be an aide-de-camp to the
Emperor--which he expected to
become--or to marry into that
exclusive set, which he resolved
to do. And his choice fell on
a beauty belonging to the Court,
who not merely belonged to the
circle into which he wished to
be accepted, but whose friendship
was coveted by the very highest
people and those most firmly
established in that highest circle.
This was Countess Korotkova.
Kasatsky began to pay court to
her, and not merely for the sake
of his career. She was extremely
attractive and he soon fell in
love with her. At first she was
noticeably cool towards him,
but then suddenly changed and
became gracious, and her mother
gave him pressing invitations
to visit them. Kasatsky proposed
and was accepted. He was surprised
at the facility with which he
attained such happiness. But
though he noticed something strange
and unusual in the behaviour
towards him of both mother and
daughter, he was blinded by being
so deeply in love, and did not
realize what almost the whole
town knew--namely, that his fiancee
had been the Emperor Nicholas's
mistress the previous year.
Two weeks before the day arranged
for the wedding, Kasatsky was
at Tsarskoe Selo at his fiancee's
country place. It was a hot day
in May. He and his betrothed
had walked about the garden and
were sitting on a bench in a
shady linden alley. Mary's white
muslin dress suited her particularly
well, and she seemed the personification
of innocence and love as she
sat, now bending her head, now
gazing up at the very tall and
handsome man who was speaking
to her with particular tenderness
and self-restraint, as if he
feared by word or gesture to
offend or sully her angelic purity.
Kasatsky belonged to those
men of the eighteen-forties (they
are now no longer to be found)
who while deliberately and without
any conscientious scruples condoning
impurity in themselves, required
ideal and angelic purity in their
women, regarded all unmarried
women of their circle as possessed
of such purity, and treated them
accordingly. There was much that
was false and harmful in this
outlook, as concerning the laxity
the men permitted themselves,
but in regard to the women that
old-fashioned view (sharply differing
from that held by young people
to-day who see in every girl
merely a female seeking a mate)
was, I think, of value. The girls,
perceiving such adoration, endeavoured
with more or less success to
be goddesses.
Such was the view Kasatsky
held of women, and that was how
he regarded his fiancee. He was
particularly in love that day,
but did not experience any sensual
desire for her. On the contrary
he regarded her with tender adoration
as something unattainable.
He rose to his full height,
standing before her with both
hands on his sabre.
'I have only now realized what
happiness a man can experience!
And it is you, my darling, who
have given me this happiness,'
he said with a timid smile.
Endearments had not yet become
usual between them, and feeling
himself morally inferior he felt
terrified at this stage to use
them to such an angel.
'It is thanks to you that I
have come to know myself. I have
learnt that I am better than
I thought.'
'I have known that for a long
time. That was why I began to
love you.'
Nightingales trilled near by
and the fresh leafage rustled,
moved by a passing breeze.
He took her hand and kissed
it, and tears came into his eyes.
She understood that he was
thanking her for having said
she loved him. He silently took
a few steps up and down, and
then approached her again and
sat down.
'You know . . . I have to tell
you . . . I was not disinterested
when I began to make love to
you. I wanted to get into society;
but later . . . how unimportant
that became in comparison with
you--when I got to know you.
You are not angry with me for
that?'
She did not reply but merely
touched his hand. He understood
that this meant: 'No, I am not
angry.'
'You said . . .' He hesitated.
It seemed too bold to say. 'You
said that you began to love me.
I believe it--but there is something
that troubles you and checks
your feeling. What is it?'
'Yes--now or never!' thought
she. 'He is bound to know of
it anyway. But now he will not
forsake me. Ah, if he should,
it would be terrible!' And she
threw a loving glance at his
tall, noble, powerful figure.
She loved him now more than she
had loved the Tsar, and apart
from the Imperial dignity would
not have preferred the Emperor
to him.
'Listen! I cannot deceive you.
I have to tell you. You ask what
it is? It is that I have loved
before.'
She again laid her hand on
his with an imploring gesture.
He was silent.
'You want to know who it was?
It was--the Emperor.'
'We all love him. I can imagine
you, a schoolgirl at the Institute
. . .'
'No, it was later. I was infatuated,
but it passed . . . I must tell
you . . .'
'Well, what of it?'
'No, it was not simply--' She
covered her face with her hands.
'What? You gave yourself to
him?'
She was silent.
'His mistress?'
She did not answer.
He sprang up and stood before
her with trembling jaws, pale
as death. He now remembered how
the Emperor, meeting him on the
Nevsky, had amiably congratulated
him.
'O God, what have I done! Stiva!'
'Don't touch me! Don't touch
me! Oh, how it pains!'
He turned away and went to
the house. There he met her mother.
'What is the matter, Prince?
I . . .' She became silent on
seeing his face. The blood had
suddenly rushed to his head.
'You knew it, and used me to
shield them! If you weren't a
woman . . . !' he cried, lifting
his enormous fist, and turning
aside he ran away.
Had his fiancee's lover been
a private person he would have
killed him, but it was his beloved
Tsar.
Next day he applied both for
furlough and his discharge, and
professing to be ill, so as to
see no one, he went away to the
country.
He spent the summer at his
village arranging his affairs.
When summer was over he did not
return to Petersburg, but entered
a monastery and there became
a monk.
His mother wrote to try to
dissuade him from this decisive
step, but he replied that he
felt God's call which transcended
all other considerations. Only
his sister, who was as proud
and ambitious as he, understood
him.
She understood that he had
become a monk in order to be
above those who considered themselves
his superiors. And she understood
him correctly. By becoming a
monk he showed contempt for all
that seemed most important to
others and had seemed so to him
while he was in the service,
and he now ascended a height
from which he could look down
on those he had formerly envied.
. . . But it was not this alone,
as his sister Varvara supposed,
that influenced him. There was
also in him something else--a
sincere religious feeling which
Varvara did not know, which intertwined
itself with the feeling of pride
and the desire for pre-eminence,
and guided him. His disillusionment
with Mary, whom he had thought
of angelic purity, and his sense
of injury, were so strong that
they brought him to despair,
and the despair led him--to what?
To God, to his childhood's faith
which had never been destroyed
in him.
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