The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 5

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 5

The boatman was sobered by the shock, and almost stupified with grief

for what had happened. But the others crowded round him, and urged him

to go and seek for poor Stefen’s body, that he might at least be buried

like a Christian. This he consented to do; and the task of finding it

proved unexpectedly easy, for a miniature island, in the midst of the

river, with a single tree growing upon it, had arrested the body as

it was borne downwards by the strong current of the stream. The group

on the shore waited in mournful silence while the boatman and two of

the mujiks went and returned, bringing with them their solemn freight,

which they laid sadly and reverently on the fair greensward, beneath

the happy morning sun.

 

All crossed themselves and murmured a prayer for his soul; and the

oldest of the mujiks detached a little sacred picture from his own neck

and laid it on his breast.

 

It was Ivan’s first meeting face to face with the king of terrors. The

form so lately full of life and energy lay stiff and rigid; while the

brow, the cheek, the lips--when he saw the strange and solemn change

that had swept over all these, his young heart could bear no more, he

lifted up his voice and wept. His tears unlocked the floodgates of the

general sorrow; all the mujiks standing around him wept and wrung their

hands, like the grown-up children that in truth they were.

 

Just at that moment, as if to throw into strongest relief the contrast

between life and death, between earth’s brightest sunshine and her

deepest shadows, a young boyar from the party at the post-house came

riding rapidly over the smooth greensward. Drawing near the weeping

group, he checked his horse to a foot-pace, and Ivan turned and looked

at him. There was no splendour in his dress--an officer’s uniform,

gray in colour and plain in fashion. But his face, which seemed to

bring the glow and glory of the morning with it, held Ivan’s gaze with

a kind of fascination. Features almost perfect enough for the deathless

marble of a Grecian sculptor might have worn no charm to his untrained

eye, if they had not also beamed with a kindness and gentleness that

took his heart at once. That bright, young face--the first beardless

manly face he remembered to have seen--left itself for ever on his

mind. It was destined to be the inspiration of his life; and when death

closed his eyes, he had scarcely a dearer hope than to see it once

again in the morning of the resurrection.

 

The boyar, meanwhile, had come quite close to the group ere he appeared

to perceive distinctly the cause of their distress. But no sooner had

he done so than he sprang from his horse, flinging the bridle to Ivan,

who proudly accepted the charge. The next moment he was bending over

the lifeless form; the next, he turned and said cheerfully to the

mujiks standing near,--

 

“My children, this is not death. We will save him yet.”

 

They were speechless with amazement. Was this stranger a holy saint,

a worker of miracles? They knew at least that he was a nobleman and

an officer, whom fortunately every instinct of their nature, every

habit of their lives, taught them to obey without a question. Rapidly

singling out two or three of the most intelligent-looking, he set them

to work--working with them himself as Ivan, used to the dawdling,

dreamy ways of the mujiks, had never in his life seen any one work

before. By magic, as it seemed, poor Stefen’s dripping clothes were

removed, and he was wrapped in the warmest garments the mujiks could

contribute for the purpose--Ivan, amongst others, gladly offering his

little sheepskin shuba. Then the cold and rigid limbs were gently

chafed, a work of time and patience. Those who were helping did

mechanically whatever they were directed to do, while the rest looked

on in a kind of wondering stupefaction. How could even a boyar expect

to bring a dead man to life?

 

After a considerable time had been spent in this manner, the whole

party from the post-house came up, boyars and servants, all on

horseback. Instead of calling upon their companion to join them, as

Ivan rather expected them to do, the boyars at once dismounted and

joined _him_, leaving their horses on the road in the care of the

servants. One of these drew near Ivan, and attempted to take his charge

from him; but he resisted.

 

“No,” he said. “My boyar’s hand gave this bridle into mine, and into no

other but his will I give it back again.”

 

“Let the boy alone, Ilya,” cried another of the attendants, with a

good-humoured laugh. “Let him keep his luck. It may not come twice in

his life-time.”

 

After that Ivan could not so easily see what was happening, though he

watched intently and with the keenest interest. “His boyar” seemed to

refer the matter, as to a person of superior authority, to a very tall,

very stern-looking individual, who examined Stefen carefully, putting

his hand on his heart and on his wrist. Presently, and rather to Ivan’s

horror, he drew from his pocket a sort of case, out of which there

flashed a bright instrument of steel, like a thin sharp knife, and with

this he proceeded to inflict a deep cut upon Stefen’s arm; while, far

from objecting, the young boyar carefully held it for him, and then

produced a fine white kerchief of his own, which he gave him to bind

the wound.[7]

 

But still the pale, cold form lay there stiff and motionless. Was

it death? or was it only a death-like swoon? It was the nobles who

were busy now, chafing the cold hands and feet, and using every other

possible means to restore animation; for the peasants had given place

to them, and stood aside, silent and wondering spectators of the scene.

 

Time passed: life and death were struggling for the mastery, and

the conflict was tedious and protracted. It was no even contest.

From the first, victory seemed to incline to the side of the sable

king. The chance of life, always desperate, lessened apparently

with every minute, and when the minutes grew to hours it seemed to

vanish altogether away. At last the tall surgeon shook his head, and

turning to the boyar said something in a foreign tongue that evidently

expressed despair. But _he_ would not admit the thought. Ivan knew not,

of course, what he said in answer, but it was easy to see that he had

steadfastly resolved not to abandon hope, and that he was entreating,

urging, even commanding the rest to continue their efforts.

 

Apparently for no purpose but to please him they obeyed. An interval

followed of renewed exertion, though of ever-waning hope. At length,

however, the surgeon’s instrument flashed out once more, and almost

immediately afterwards a thrill of emotion passed through the entire

group. One shuddering sigh, one faint, low groan was heard from the

lips that had seemed to be sealed for ever in death. “Thank God!” said

the boyar, raising the military cap from his stately head with its

clustering chestnut curls. “This is amongst the brightest days of my

life.” Ivan stood near enough to see that his blue eyes were full of

tears.

 

Whilst they gave Stefen a little vodka, and prepared a kind of litter

in which to carry him to the post-house, several other persons came up,

including the priest and the starost of the nearest village; for some

of the mujiks had gone away and spread the story of the strange things

they had been witnessing.

 

Then to Ivan’s young eyes the scene became confused. Much happened that

he could not exactly understand. But Stefen was alive--that at least

was certain, for he saw him try to kiss the hand that had so patiently

drawn him back from the gates of the grave. And now, for the first

time, the thought occurred to Ivan that his triumph over Michael would

be complete and glorious. Michael assuredly had never seen a dead man

brought to life again!

 

At last the great people seemed to be preparing to pursue their

journey. Ivan watched “his boyar” as he talked for some time to the

priest and the starost, who stood before him with uncovered heads and

an air of the deepest reverence; then, seeing him look for his horse,

he led his charge forward, and held the stirrup gracefully while he

mounted. He got a word of praise for his “long patience,” and a bright

piece of gold glittered in his hand.

 

“Take me with you, my boyar,” he cried, with a sudden impulse. “Let me

serve you; I would _love_ to do it.”

 

“My child, you shall serve me one day--not yet,” said the boyar,

smiling.

 

A few moments more, and the stately cavalcade had moved away. Ivan

stood in silence, unable to withdraw his gaze from the retreating

figure of his hero until it was lost in the distance.

 

The white-haired priest came up to him and laid his hand on his

shoulder. “My lad,” he said, “do you know who has spoken to you--whose

horse you have had the honour of holding?”

 

“Yes,” said Ivan, wakening out of a dream; “no--yes--at least I know it

was a boyar, a great, and good, and splendid boyar, with the face of an

angel. I love him!”

 

“Then pray for him all the days of thy life, for know that he is none

other than thy sovereign lord and mine, the Czar Alexander Paulovitch.”

 

Ivan stared, then burst out laughing. “You are jesting with me,” he

said. “Nay, father, I am only a boy, but I know better than that. I am

quite twelve years old, and I know very well that the Czar lives in St.

Petersburg, and wears a golden crown, and sits upon a throne, and all

the boyars stand uncovered around him.”

 

“Still, I tell thee truth. That handsome young officer was the great

Czar himself--the lord of all the Russias. To prove my words--I am a

poor man, but I will give thee twice, three times its value for that

coin in thy hand, which his hand touched.”

 

Ivan shook his head. “No, no, father; I don’t believe a word of your

story; but I love my boyar, and I will not give away his gift. He said

I should serve him one day, and I mean to do it. Though, to be sure,”

he added, thoughtfully, “I might almost part with it for poor Stefen’s

sake, and to do a good deed. How will he dare to meet his master’s

face--later than ever now?”

 

“Never trouble thyself for thy friend Stefen; he is rich enough this

day to buy his freedom, if he will. He who gave him back his life has

taken care to make that life worth the keeping.”

 

“Then he can marry Katinka?”

 

“He can marry whom he pleases. Our lord the Czar never leaves anything

half done.”