The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 1

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 1

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon

 

Author: Deborah Alcock

 

I. A SLEEPING VILLAGE, 7

 

II. IVAN’S ADVENTURE, 18

 

III. SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENS TO IVAN, 25

 

IV. IVAN’S HORIZON WIDENS, 37

 

V. PETROVITCH, 48

 

VI. IVAN’S EDUCATION, 59

 

VII. “ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM,” 70

 

VIII. A NATION’S TRANSPORT, 81

 

IX. CLEMENCE, 94

 

X. THE DRAWING OF THE LOT, 106

 

XI. ONE OF HALF A MILLION, 113

 

XII. ONE OF FIFTY MILLION, 119

 

XIII. SERF AND BOYAR, 130

 

XIV. THE FORLORN HOPE, 138

 

XV. THE MARTYR CITY, 148

 

XVI. ALEXANDER, 153

 

XVII. IN THE CAMP, 166

 

XVIII. TWO IMPORTANT INTERVIEWS, 174

 

XIX. THE CHEVALIER GUARD, 183

 

XX. WEARY, WANDERING FEET, 192

 

XXI. OVER THE BERESINA, 206

 

XXII. THE AIDE-DE-CAMP OF ST. PRIEST, 216

 

XXIII. THE MOSCOW MEDAL, 230

 

XXIV. ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS, 238

 

XXV. “FATHER PARIS FOR MOTHER MOSCOW,” 244

 

XXVI. AT VERSAILLES, 250

 

XXVII. RECOGNITIONS, 260

 

XXVIII. DRIFTING, 274

 

XXIX. IVAN’S DINNER PARTY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED, 283

 

XXX. THE PURPLE BROCADE ONCE MORE, 294

 

XXXI. LEAVES FROM LETTERS, 306

 

XXXII. TWO RETURNS, ONE OF THEM NOT EXPECTED, 315

 

XXXIII. HIS KING SPEAKS TO THE CZAR, 329

 

XXXIV. AFTER WATERLOO, 342

 

XXXV. “THE GRAY SISTER OF HEARTS,” 353

 

XXXVI. TWO HAPPY DAYS, 363

 

XXXVII. AT NICOLOFSKY, 376

 

XXXVIII. A ROSEBUD, 384

 

XXXIX. MORNING SUNSHINE, 389

 

XL. MORNING CLOUDS, 400

 

XLI. FROM AFAR, 409

 

XLII. SNOW-DRIFTS, 422

 

XLIII. HIS KING SPEAKS TO THE CZAR ONCE MORE, 427

 

XLIV. “CHRISTOHS VOSKRESS,” 440

 

 

 

 

THE CZAR.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

A SLEEPING VILLAGE.

 

“Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.”--TENNYSON.

 

 

The nineteenth century was still very young; its eventful day--that

day whose sunset we have yet to see--had but lately dawned upon

the world. There were regions, even in Europe, where, for any

illumination brought them by the age, the hand of time might have

been put back for centuries. In the vast monotonous plain around

Moscow the ancient,--Moscow the holy, with her “forty times forty

churches,”--Russian serfs tilled the corn-fields of their lords,

trembled beneath the knout and the plitt, ate their kasha and drank

their kvass, and enjoyed the simple luxuries of their stoves and their

vapour-baths, just as their fathers and fathers’ fathers had done for

generations.

 

In that land of sameness, where received types repeat each other to

weariness, with almost as little variety in the works of nature as

originality in those of man, the village of Nicolofsky was a fair

sample of a hundred others. It belonged to Plato Zoubof, one of the

favourites of Catherine II., who had bestowed it upon him with the

adjacent lands and the “bodies and souls of men” it contained. Out of

these he contrived to wring no inconsiderable revenue; but he never

honoured Nicolofsky with his presence. A steward managed everything,

unfortunately for the peasants, or mujiks, who were treated with much

more severity than their brethren whose natural lords dwelt “among

their own people,” and cultivated relations with them usually kindly,

often even paternal. From the mujiks of Nicolofsky heavy dues were

exacted, and much labour required in the corn-fields of their lord. In

harvest-time they were often forced to toil the whole night long, and

any shortcoming was cruelly punished. At this very epoch a series of

enlightened enactments, tending to ameliorate the lot of the serf and

to prepare the way for his complete emancipation, were emanating from

the supreme authority in the state; but from these Nicolofsky had as

yet received little or no practical benefit, except, indeed, the deep

conviction, which sank into the heart of the mujik, that his lord the

Czar loved him and cared for his welfare.

 

Still, as the proverb tells us, “The holy Russian land is large, but

everywhere the dear sun shines.” Many a gleam of sunlight, from the

mercy of Him whose compassions are over all his works, brightens even

the lot of servitude, that looks, and rightly looks, so dark and so

degrading to the thoughtful observer. Had such an observer visited

Nicolofsky on the bright afternoon of one of the Church holidays

in the late Russian spring, he would have found some difficulty in

remembering, and perhaps as much in persuading the mujiks, that they

were an oppressed and miserable race.

 

Youths and maidens, boys and girls were crowding to the birch-wood

to enjoy their favourite pastime of the swing. Nor were the older

villagers unrepresented--at least so far as regards the men. Many a

grave, bearded mujik keenly enjoyed the motion without labour so dear

to the indolent and excitable Russian, although the women for the most

part remained at home to prepare the tschi (or cabbage soup) for the

festive evening meal. The young people, as they passed along, made the

air resound with their sweet national songs, chanted in parts and with

wonderful grace and harmony.

 

The company of children seemed to follow the guidance of one of their

number, whom either his position or the choice of his companions had

made a leader amongst them. At twelve or fourteen the little mujik

is often a very handsome lad, as may be seen from the boy postilions

of St. Petersburg. And a most favourable specimen of the class, if

indeed he belonged to it at all, was the fair-haired boy who stepped so

proudly along, quite conscious of his superior dignity, and conspicuous

in his new caftan of bright blue, bound round the waist with a crimson

sash. He held by the hand a little girl, very pretty, though not so

gaily clad. She seemed to be his especial charge; and when the spot in

the wood where they meant to pursue their sport was reached at last,

the other children crowded around them, and, like juvenile courtiers,

emulously tendered their help to make a swing for “Barrinka,” the

little lord, who had promised to swing Anna “Popovna,” the priest’s

daughter. These swings were made very easily, by bending down and tying

together the flexible elastic branches of the giant birches.

 

Barrinka, however, wanted to do all himself, and he did it quickly and

neatly. He had just, with boyish gallantry, placed his little companion

in the seat prepared for her, when an older lad pushed rudely through

the group of children, and coming up to him laid his hand on his

shoulder. “Get into that seat and swing yourself, Ivan Barrinka,” he

said. “To-day Anna Popovna belongs to me--not to you.”

 

Ivan shook off his hand, and for a moment they stood motionless,

looking each other in the face. Strong was the contrast between the

fine, delicate features of the one, and the rough, dogged, determined

face of the other, which seemed hewn out of his native granite.

Evidently this was not by any means their first quarrel.

 

“Hold thy peace, one-eared Michael,” Ivan answered at last. “I tell

thee Anna wants me to swing her--_me_, and not thee.”