The Decembrist. Prayer. Chapter 2

St. Petersburg in the month of December is a city of phantoms. Not the sort of phantoms that frighten superstitious burghers in cemeteries, but the capital itself, wrapped in a damp frosty haze, becomes a kind of delirium: the palaces, seemingly stone and tangible, lose their substance in the fog that drifts over the Neva, turning into blueprints, into an architect's dream not fully realized. The river, covered with brittle young ice, breathes steam through the open leads, so that it seems as though an abyss has opened beneath the city's feet, and it holds only on a thin, unreliable crust, ready at any moment to plunge into the black water. On such days, especially in early December, when the sun—if it appears at all—hangs above the spires as a pale, unwarming circle, like a cooled moon—on such days the human soul grows sensitive to whispers, to hints, to that elusive ferment that precedes great upheavals.

The year 1825 was living out its last days, and no one yet knew that an entire epoch was living out its last days with it. Patrols with lanterns walked along the embankments; guardsmen stood at attention before the Winter Palace, muffled in their greatcoats; from somewhere beyond the Moika came the mournful ringing of a bell—whether for a fire or a funeral, it was hard to tell; in the windows of aristocratic mansions, by contrast, thousands of candles blazed, and through the veil of fog one could hear music, as if from another, carefree world. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the rustle of silks—all this mingled with the anxious rumble that drifted from the barracks, where Guards officers, gathered in circles, spoke of strange things: of the oath, of Constantine, of the late emperor's testament, of how the "interregnum" was dragging on, and how something was ripening in the air. But the high-society drawing-rooms lived their own life; ball followed ball, and no one wished to notice that the ice underfoot had grown thinner.

That evening, Countess Elizaveta Petrovna was giving a ball at her mansion on the Fontanka. Her house was renowned throughout the capital—less for the richness of its decoration than for that elusive taste which distinguishes true aristocracy from the upstarts who had made their fortunes through contracts and tax-farming. Molded ceilings, parquet floors of Karelian birch, marble fireplaces in which entire logs blazed—all this was not ostentatious but somehow homely, welcoming, as though the countess herself, a woman no longer young but preserving a majestic bearing and a benevolent disposition, received her guests not out of vanity but from a habit of refined society.

By ten in the evening the halls were filled. Ladies' gowns—from dark green to pale rose—swayed in time to the polonaise; gentlemen in uniforms and tailcoats moved with decorum, observing dignity; generals with sashes across their shoulders looked upon the dancers with the kindly condescension of men who no longer dance but remember how it used to be. The candles in the crystal chandeliers burned brightly, and their lights, reflected in the mirrors, multiplied to infinity, so that the ballroom seemed a magical realm where there was neither darkness nor end.

Among the guests one young officer stood out in particular: Lieutenant Alexander Nikolayevich Valteri of the Life Guard Moscow Regiment. He was twenty-five years old, and nature had been generous with him: light, slightly curling hair, an open brow, grey-blue eyes that looked upon the world with benevolent curiosity, and a small blond beard which, contrary to strict army regulations, he had grown out of some youthful whim—and it suited him, lending his face not so much military severity as a thoughtfulness more proper to artists or poets. He was slender, tall, and wore his uniform with that easy grace which comes either from natural nobility or from long habit of bearing arms. His comrades liked him for his good nature, for his ability to listen, and for never boasting of either his lineage or his intellect, which was keen but not caustic.

Alexander stood by one of the columns, watching the dancers, and his face wore that light, absent-minded pensiveness that comes over a man who is waiting for something, he knows not what. His gaze wandered about the hall, resting now on generals' epaulettes, now on the diamonds in ladies' coiffures, but nothing truly engaged him until he saw Her.

She stood by the opposite wall, near the fireplace, in a modest gown of ivory colour, without jewels, only a small brooch at her collar. Her name was Elizaveta Dmitrievna, but for him she was simply Liza—a name he pronounced to himself with a peculiar, almost prayerful feeling. They had known each other for about a year; they had met by chance in Smirdin's bookshop, where she was leafing through a volume of Zhukovsky and he—Karamzin's History of the Russian State. They fell into conversation, and since then had met sometimes at the theatre, at literary evenings, at the houses of mutual acquaintances. But these were meetings without any definiteness, without declarations, without even a hint of anything more than friendly regard. Yet Alexander felt—and the further it went, the more strongly—that there existed between them something unspoken, a thread stretched from soul to soul, requiring no words.

He gazed at her, and it seemed to him that she shone from within—not with the external brilliance given by candles and mirrors, but with a steady, quiet light, like that which emanates from old icons in the half-darkness of a church. Her modesty was not feigned: she did not seek to be the centre of attention, did not dance too much, did not laugh loudly, but when she smiled—and she smiled rarely—her face was transfigured, and in her eyes, dark-brown, almost black, something kindled that made Alexander's heart constrict. He knew she was not wealthy: her father, Dmitry Petrovich Gorlenko, was an official for special assignments under one of the ministries, a stern, unsociable man, rumoured to be of great severity and even cruelty, though Alexander had never met him. Liza lived with him alone; her mother had died several years ago. To have her own means (for her father was stingy with household expenses), she served as a governess in the house of a retired general, teaching his daughters French and music, and sometimes, as acquaintances whispered, she earned extra money at a confectioner's on Nevsky Prospect—writing signs, keeping accounts, helping the proprietress, a distant relative who had once sheltered her in a difficult hour.

Alexander knew this and found nothing shameful in it. On the contrary, it was precisely this poverty, joined with dignity, with purity of soul, that made her in his eyes even more ideal. "Here she is," he thought, gazing at her, "here is true aristocracy: not in coats of arms and estates, but in how a man bears himself in adversity and what soul he preserves." He wanted to approach her, to invite her to a waltz, to say at last what had long been struggling to come out. But something held him back. Perhaps the fear of being misunderstood? Or a vague presentiment that now, precisely now, was not the time for explanations, that something important, decisive, must first take place, and then… He did not know himself what exactly.

Liza meanwhile raised her eyes and met his gaze. For an instant her face flushed; she inclined her head slightly—not a nod, but a barely perceptible movement, which was, however, directed straight at him. Alexander took a step, but at that moment a friend approached him, Staff-Captain of the same regiment Mikhail Shcherbachev, and taking him by the elbow, drew him aside.

"Sasha, my dear fellow," said Shcherbachev, lowering his voice, "come along. Our people are here, in the countess's study. Rumyantsev and Prince Odoevsky, I think, and a few others. There is business."

Alexander shifted his gaze from Liza to his friend. In Shcherbachev's eyes burned that peculiar, feverish gleam which Alexander knew well from their secret meetings—the gleam of a conspirator preparing to leap.

"Just a moment," he said, glancing back at the spot where Liza had stood, but she was no longer there: she had moved to another group of guests, and some elderly lady blocked her from his sight.

"Not now, then later," Shcherbachev remarked with a slight smile, catching his glance. "You'll have time enough to dance. We have a brief talk."

Reluctantly, Alexander followed him.

The countess's study lay at the far end of the enfilade, beyond the small drawing-room, and was separated from the noisy halls by heavy porti;res. Strangers rarely ventured here; here the countess usually attended to her correspondence or received her closest friends. Now, in the study, besides the flickering fireplace and a few candles on the writing desk, semi-darkness reigned, and in this semi-darkness Alexander made out five or six figures. All were of their circle: Prince Sergei Trubetskoy (whom Alexander knew only by reputation but deeply respected), Nikita Muravyov, a man with an intelligent, somewhat severe face, and several officers from the Semyonovsky and Izmailovsky regiments. All of them, like him, were members of the secret society—that which was called now the Union of Welfare, now the Northern Society, depending on the time and circumstances.

"Belsky," said Trubetskoy, nodding to him. "Sit down. Let us not waste time."

Alexander sat down on a chair, feeling a chill run down his spine. The air smelled of wax and tobacco, but through these scents there pierced another, sharper smell—the smell of resolve that was about to pass into action.

"Listen, gentlemen," Trubetskoy began, surveying those present, "our situation is known: the oath to the new emperor is set for the fourteenth. Nikolai Pavlovich will not yield, Constantine will not accept, and we stand before a choice: either submit and bury our hopes forever, or act. We have chosen to act. The Guards regiments on which we can rely—the Moscow, the Finland, the Grenadier—are ready to march. But there is one more circumstance requiring immediate resolution."

He paused, and in the silence one could hear the coals crackling in the fireplace.

"We must strike," said Muravyov, "and that strike must be precise. We speak of the highest officials who constitute the pillar of autocracy. We have drawn up a list, and according to this list assignments are distributed. Belsky," he turned to Alexander, "an assignment for you."

Alexander straightened. His heart beat faster, but his voice remained calm:

"I am listening."

"On the day of the uprising," Muravyov continued, "you are to proceed to the house of Privy Councillor Gorlenko. Do you know him?"

The name seared Alexander as if he had suddenly plunged his hand into boiling water. Gorlenko? Dmitry Petrovich? Liza's father?

He said nothing, but his face must have changed, for Trubetskoy asked with concern:

"Are you acquainted with him?"

"I…" Alexander began and faltered. His throat was dry. "I am not personally acquainted with him. But I know his daughter."

Silence fell in the room. Someone coughed, someone exchanged glances.

"That does not change matters," Muravyov said firmly. "Gorlenko is one of the chief enemies of our cause. He drafted the new censorship statute that will strangle all thought; he stood for the tightening of serfdom in the southern provinces; he is the right hand of those who wish to preserve serfdom forever. Dmitry Petrovich Gorlenko is a fanatic of order, and that order is death for Russia. He must be removed."

"Removed," Alexander repeated dully. "What does 'removed' mean?"

"Just that," said Trubetskoy, and in his voice there sounded a harshness Alexander had not heard in him before. "We cannot afford hesitation or doubt. If Gorlenko remains alive, he will rouse all the forces of the police against us, he will betray our people, he will wreck the uprising. We have no other way."

"But why me?" asked Alexander, feeling a wave of despair mingled with anger rising within him. "Why not someone else?"

"Because you are an officer of the Moscow Regiment, which will be at the centre of events," answered Muravyov. "Because we trust you. And because," he added with a slight sigh, "you are the only one who knows the layout of his house. You have been there, have you not? By chance, but you have. We know."

Alexander understood: he had been watched. So his feelings, his meetings with Liza, were known to these men who now looked at him with cold, appraising eyes. He felt cornered.

"Gentlemen," he said, striving to keep his voice from trembling, "I have given my whole soul to our cause. I believed we were building a free, just Russia, where there would be no place for cruelty or tyranny. But what you are proposing… murder? From ambush? Is that what Pestel and Ryleyev taught us? Does the Russkaya Pravda speak of regicide and secret executions?"

"The Russkaya Pravda speaks of the necessity of decisive measures," Muravyov retorted sharply. "You know that Pestel did not deny the possibility of tyrannicide, if the good of the fatherland demands it. Gorlenko is not merely an official—he is a strangler, an executioner. Have you seen what goes on in the villages? Do you know how he dealt with the peasants on his estate? Legal authority was not enough for him; he introduced his own rules, flogged men to death, exiled to Siberia without trial. His hands are bloodied to the elbow. And you would hesitate because his daughter is… what? A kind, modest girl? That is no justification."

"But she is not guilty of her father's deeds!" Alexander exclaimed.

"No one speaks of her guilt," said Trubetskoy more gently. "But if we begin to distinguish who is guilty and who is not, we shall accomplish nothing. Now, Alexander Nikolayevich, is not the time for moral subtleties. Either they or we. The choice is simple."

Alexander lowered his head. Chaos reigned in his mind. He saw before him Liza's eyes, her quiet smile, heard her voice, with which she had once said: "Do you think, Alexander Nikolayevich, that it is possible to be a good man when there is so much evil around?" He had answered then: "It is possible, if one is not afraid." And now he was placed before a choice where good and evil were so intertwined that they could not be told apart.

"I have a condition," he said at last, raising his head. "If I agree… I must be allowed to decide how and when. And no one touches the daughter. No one."

"That was never in our plans," Muravyov shrugged. "We need only Gorlenko."

"And one more thing," Alexander added, feeling he was saying not what he ought, but unable to stop. "I want to know: if you are prepared for such a thing… what then? After victory? Will the new rule begin with murder?"

"Then we shall convene a Zemsky Sobor," said Trubetskoy, and his face brightened, as though he already saw that future. "Then we shall give Russia a constitution and freedom. Then… then we shall answer for everything before God and history. But first we must accomplish what is inevitable."

Alexander was silent. The coals in the fireplace were dying, and the room filled with a bluish twilight in which the faces of his interlocutors seemed cast in bronze—hard, immobile, knowing no doubt.

"Well then," said Muravyov, rising. "Time waits for no one. We need to seal our decision. The hour has come."

He went to the writing desk, opened a secret drawer, and took out a small casket of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He set it on the table and opened it. Inside, on velvet lining, lay rings—silver, with niello, massive, with words engraved on the inner side that Alexander could not make out in the half-light. But he knew these rings. He had heard of them: the sign of the Order of Russian Renaissance, as they sometimes called their brotherhood, a symbol of unbreakable loyalty and mutual pledge. He who put on such a ring could no longer turn back.

"Gentlemen," Muravyov intoned solemnly. "We take an oath. An oath in blood, if need be, but today—on this sign, which will remind us that we are bound forever. Each of you has received his assignment; each is ready to go to the end. There is no turning back. Do you agree?"

All present rose. Alexander rose last, feeling that his legs would not obey, that he was observing himself from the outside: here he was, a young officer who only an hour ago had dreamed of a waltz and of Liza's bright eyes, and now stood in a half-dark study, surrounded by conspirators, and they handed him a ring that was to become his destiny.

He took the ring. The silver was cold, almost icy; the niello of the pattern—apparently intertwined laurel and sword—burned his fingers with some unearthly, primordial coolness. On the inner side he made out an engraved line: "For Faith and Freedom."

"I swear," said Muravyov, slipping the ring onto his finger.

"I swear," repeated the others.

"I swear," whispered Alexander, and the word sounded to him like a sentence.

They exchanged handshakes—silently, without superfluous words, and this silence was more eloquent than any speech. When Alexander pressed Trubetskoy's hand, he felt under his fingers the same cold silver of the ring, and it seemed to him that between them, between all who stood there, an invisible chain had been stretched that could neither be broken, nor melted, nor cast off.

"Now go," said Muravyov, releasing his hand. "And remember: silence and resolve. The fourteenth is near."

Alexander left the study. The porti;res closed behind him, and he was once again in the small drawing-room, from which came the muffled hum of the great world. The candles here burned brighter, and he screwed up his eyes for a moment, growing accustomed to the light. The ring on his finger felt heavy, disproportionately heavy for a small piece of silver, and he involuntarily clenched his hand into a fist to hide it, so that no one should see.

He moved through the crowd of guests, not distinguishing faces, not hearing the music that drifted from the ballroom. In his head everything was jumbled: the words of the oath, the silver cold of the ring, the name Gorlenko, Liza's face. He emerged into the great hall and stopped by a column, trying to catch his breath.

And then he saw her.

Liza stood a few steps away, near the exit from the hall. She was evidently about to leave: a warm shawl was thrown over her shoulders, a small reticule in her hand. She was not dancing, not laughing, but simply stood, her head slightly inclined, looking at him—directly, without coquetry, without feigned modesty. In her eyes was a question: "What is the matter with you?"—and perhaps something more, something Alexander had never before seen in her gaze: anxiety, hidden, but deep.

He took a step toward her. Another step. He wanted to say to her: "Liza, I cannot… I must not…" But what precisely must he not do? Kill her father? Love her? Or, on the contrary, should he now, this very minute, tell her everything, warn her, save her? But the ring on his finger burned, reminding him of the oath, and he felt that if he spoke a single word now, he would betray not only his comrades but also the cause to which he had given his soul—the cause, as he believed, of Russia's liberation.

"Alexander Nikolayevich," she said quietly, so that no one would hear, "are you unwell? You are so pale…"

"No," he replied, and his voice sounded strange, distant. "I am… merely tired. I have danced too much."

She did not believe him. He could see it from the way her brows quivered, from the way she leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted to take his hand but dared not.

"Perhaps you need some air?" she asked. "I will see you to the vestibule."

"No, Liza," he said, and that name, which he had never spoken aloud, escaped his lips against his will. She started at hearing it, and her cheeks flushed. "Stay. I… I will go myself."

He could no longer stand beside her. He turned and walked swiftly toward the exit of the hall, not looking back, but sensing with his whole being that she was watching him go. Watching with bewilderment, with hurt, with that vague foreboding which had perhaps already lodged in her soul, as the weight had lodged in his soul from which there was no escape.

He stepped out onto the mansion's porch. The frosty air struck his face, and he drew it in greedily, but the cold brought no relief. Over the Neva hung the same fog as by day, and the lanterns along the embankment seemed luminous points lost in a milky whitish murk. Somewhere in the distance came the footsteps of a patrol: distinct, measured, inexorable. Alexander raised his hand and looked at the ring. By the light of the lantern he made out at last all the details: intertwined laurel and sword, and above them a star like the Star of Bethlehem but with six rays, and in the centre a tiny monogram he could not decipher.

"For Faith and Freedom," he whispered the words of the oath. Faith and freedom. But where was freedom, if he was already bound by this chain, if he must commit what would forever deprive him of the right to look innocence in the eye? Where was faith, if he had to conceal from the one he loved that he was about to become the murderer of her father?

He stood on the porch, and the frost crept under his uniform, but he did not feel the cold. Fragments of thoughts flashed through his mind, words once read, once spoken. "The good of the fatherland"… "Tyranny"… "Sacrifice"… All these words, which only yesterday had seemed to him lofty and pure, today had acquired a bitter, leaden taste. He knew that Gorlenko was a cruel man, that the peasants on his estate indeed suffered, that he perhaps deserved judgment and punishment. But not that punishment. Not in secret, not from ambush, not by the hand of a man who loved his daughter. And not before Russia had heard the voice of freedom—no, would that be the first act of a new, free Russia? Murder?

He clenched his fist so tightly that the ring cut into his finger. "If I refuse," he thought, "they will consider me a traitor. They will expel me from the society. But that is only half the misfortune. They will find another executor, and then I will not be able to protect Liza. If I agree, I will lose myself. But perhaps I can do something? Perhaps I can warn Gorlenko, make him flee? But then… then I betray all who trusted me, who swore with me. And the cause for which Pestel's blood was shed, for which Ryleyev writes his verses, for which thousands await liberation—it will collapse because of me."

He found no answer. Instead of an answer the fog thickened, and a fine, stinging snow began to fall, which seemed to come not from the sky but from the darkness itself, enveloping him, erasing the boundaries between house and street, between past and future, between what he had believed to be truth and what had turned out to be an abyss.

Alexander slowly descended the porch and walked along the embankment, not knowing where he was going. In his ears rang the music from the mansion's windows—light, carefree, so distant from what was happening in his soul. It seemed to him that he stood on the edge of two worlds: one bright, where there was Liza, the waltz, Zhukovsky, hope for happiness; the other dark, where rings with niello sealed oaths, where murder was called "necessity," where freedom was bought with blood. And he had already chosen—no, he had been chosen—but that choice had not yet become his own will.

He stopped by the granite parapet, gazing into the black water of the Neva, which breathed steam in its open leads. The ice was thin, and it suddenly occurred to Alexander that the ice on which he stood was just as thin, and beneath it was the same black, icy abyss, ready to yawn open.

He raised his hand, looked at the ring, and in the light of a solitary lantern it seemed to him that the niello on the silver was stirring, spreading over his finger like a living thing, winding about him, fettering him.

"O Lord," he whispered, and his lips, numbed by the frost, barely obeyed. "Lord, what am I doing? What are we all doing?"

But no answer came. Only the snow whirled in the lantern light, only somewhere in the distance, in the barracks, the morning bugle sounded, and that sound, brazen and long-drawn, floated over the city, announcing the end of yet another day, which was no different from the previous ones, but which had become for Alexander Belsky a line—a line dividing his life into "before" and "after."

He turned and walked away from the Neva, away from the mansion where the music still played, away from Liza, who perhaps still waited for him in the vestibule, hoping he would return. He walked without discerning the way, and the snow covered his tracks, and the city, wrapped in fog, seemed to him an immense, silent trap from which there was no exit.

Only on his finger was the ring, and in his soul—a name he dared not speak.

Attention!
This work is a work of fiction based on real historical events. All characters appearing in the book, as well as their names, surnames, and biographical details, except for historical figures mentioned in the general context of the era, are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The author does not aim for a documentary-accurate reproduction of historical facts, chronology, or details of events. Alterations to the historical context, as well as the characters and actions of fictional heroes, are dictated by artistic intent. The work does not intend to offend the sensibilities or diminish the dignity of any real participants in the events described, or their descendants.