The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 29
“No,” returned Ivan--“no. I was not thinking just then of what I have
seen, but of what I am about to see.”
“You are about to see the thing you have been longing for through all
your toils and perils. Rouse yourself, man! Of what are you afraid?”
“Of the face of Majesty,” said Ivan to himself; though to Adrian he
only answered, with a rather nervous laugh, “First interviews are
trying.” Yet he knew that this was not, for him, a first interview with
his sovereign. He felt beneath his doublet for the precious piece of
gold, the cherished souvenir of his boyhood, as if to assure himself
that the great Emperor, into whose presence he was going, was really
the kind young boyar who had promised that he should serve him one day.
“Dear Barrinka,” pleaded Michael, “do not forget to tell our lord the
Czar that a mujik who has lost one hand desires his leave to fight
for him, and that he will serve him _so_ faithfully. At the camp,” he
added, “they laughed at me, and told me I would never make a soldier.
But the Czar will listen to _you_.”
Ivan smiled doubtfully. In his heart he wished that the poor mujik’s
child-like idea of his sovereign had been his own also. Then he saw
Michael take out his beloved picture, and, fastening it before him on
the telega, address to it his prayers for the success of his young
lord’s mission. “The saint and the Czar are equally real to him,”
thought Ivan, “and he would address either with equal reverence and
equal confidence.”
His reverie was interrupted by the voice of the isvostchik. “This is
the square of the Admiralty, and there is the great Czar Peter,” said
he, as he pointed out the celebrated equestrian statue where the father
of modern Russia perpetually climbs the rock and treads the serpent
beneath his horse’s hoofs.
They drove to an inn, where Ivan merely delayed to make those changes
in his dress which etiquette imperatively demanded, and then, leaving
his companions to await his return, took his despatches to the Winter
Palace. There he was fortunate enough to find the Emperor, who had just
returned from Kamenoi-Ostrov.
In less than two hours Ivan came back to the inn. Michael had gone out
with the isvostchik, but Adrian was waiting for him, and met him with
an air of some anxiety. “Is it well?” he asked briefly.
“Well?--oh yes, _very_ well,” Ivan answered. He spoke in an abstracted
voice, but there was a new light in his eyes, and his face was flushed
and excited.
“I cannot make you out,” said Adrian, looking at him with surprise and
curiosity. “If it were possible, I should say that you look at once ten
years older and ten years younger than you did two hours ago.”
“Two hours! It ought to be ten years, if all--O Adrian!” he broke out
suddenly, and with uncontrollable emotion, “the half was not told me!
He is grand--beautiful! There is only one thing more I want now--_to
die for him_.”
The sorrows of the last two months had done somewhat to deepen the
slight nature of Adrian. He was no longer disposed to scoff at
everything. “I guessed ‘le séduisant,’ as Czernichef calls him, would
fascinate you,” he said. “But, now you _have_ returned, I will own that
I wished you better news to bring him than that of the destruction of
the Kremlin. Evil tidings do not always insure their bearer a good
reception.”
“I think he was prepared,” Ivan answered. “At all events he betrayed
no emotion; only saying very calmly, ‘It is the will of God!’ I think
he grew pale, but even of that I cannot speak certainly, as at the
beginning of our interview I scarcely dared to raise my eyes to his
face. But all changed when he spoke of Moscow, and questioned me about
the things I had witnessed there during the Occupation. I could see
that much was new to him, and even startling, and that my account of
the conflagration moved him deeply. Then all fear passed from me, save
the fear of giving pain to him. His intense gaze seemed to draw the
whole truth from my lips, even in spite of my will; but it was hard to
tell of the burnings and plunderings, and of the starved, homeless,
despairing people. Once or twice my voice dropped so low that he had to
ask me to repeat my words; for you know he is somewhat deaf. But when I
told him of the wounded men whom we found in the cellars and tried to
keep alive, his face lighted up, and he thanked me--yes, thanked _me_”
Ivan repeated, raising his head proudly; though almost immediately he
allowed it to sink again, while a vivid flush passed over his features.
“Tell me the rest,” said Adrian eagerly.
Ivan struggled with some feeling which he would not, perhaps could
not express. “It is almost too sacred,” he said at last. “But I will
tell you; only, never speak to me of it again. Even now I look back
upon what I said with amazement. Evidently Count Rostopchine has been
generous, and has spoken highly of my services in his letter. His
Majesty observed that heroism and fidelity appear to be hereditary in
my family; and asked me whether I was not the representative of the
great Prince Pojarsky, the deliverer of Moscow. I answered, ‘Sire, I
am his descendant; I know not whether I am his representative.’ He
inquired my meaning, and thus it came to pass that I talked to him
about my father.”
“About your father!” Adrian repeated in great astonishment. “You amaze
me! You and I have lived together for six years, and never have I heard
you so much as name him.”
“No; never to any one around me--scarcely even to dear old Petrovitch.
Yet to my sovereign, in one hour, the whole secret of my life flashed
out, I know not how. I told all;--how ever since I heard the story of
my birth in early boyhood, I dreamed of that exiled father, dwelling
forlorn and solitary in the frozen desert of Siberia; how I longed to
seek him out and comfort him, and even dared to cherish the hope that
one day I might win his pardon and restore him to his home. But, even
as I spoke thus, a sudden overwhelming sense of the presence in which
I stood swept over me. I was confounded, struck dumb, paralyzed with
the sense of my own boldness. At last I stammered, by way of excuse, ‘I
implore of your Majesty to pardon me; you can understand how the sad
fate of a father must shadow the life of a son!’”
Adrian uttered a groan of dismay. “Most luckless of men!” he cried.
“Never in all your days did you make a blunder until that moment. My
friend Ivan, it is clear you are no courtier; you may as well give up
the game at once and come back to the camp with me.”
“Why so?” asked Ivan, terribly disconcerted. “What have I said amiss? I
don’t understand--”
“You don’t understand! Have you forgotten the fate of the Czar Paul,
and the unfortunate circumstances under which his majesty began his
reign?”
“Utterly!” cried the horror-stricken Ivan, growing red and pale by
turns. “Oh, what have I done?--I never dreamed of any sorrow save my
own.” But after a long pause he resumed, with a look of returning
composure: “I think he did not misunderstand me. It is true I saw a
look of pain pass across his face, and I wondered at it for a moment.
But his manner to me grew even gentler than before. He asked me what
my father’s supposed crime had been, and I told him frankly. Then he
said, ‘He shall be sought out and restored to you, if he be not already
beyond our reach;’ and he added, ‘Beyond the reach of God he cannot
be. Is it not so?’ I thought he waited for an answer, and I said,
‘Yes, sire.’ That was nearly the end. He told me I should receive a
communication to-morrow through the Governor of St. Petersburg, General
Soltikoff. Then I kissed his hand; and the gentleman-in-waiting, who
accompanied me to the gate of the palace, asked for my address. Now,
Adrian, you know as much as I can tell you. But,” he added to himself,
“not _all_; the look, the tone, the manner, these are mine, mine
only. These it is that give me the precious sense that I myself--Ivan
Ivanovitch Pojarsky--am recognized, thought of, cared for.”
CHAPTER XIX.
THE CHEVALIER GUARD.
“I sang the joyful pæan clear,
And, sitting, burnished without fear
The brand, the buckler, and the spear--
“Waiting to strive a happy strife,
To war with falsehood to the knife,
And not to lose the good of life.”
The following morning brought Ivan a request, equivalent of course to
a command, that he would wait upon General Soltikoff. The Governor
of St. Petersburg was a veteran approaching his eightieth year, and
much and deservedly respected both by the sovereign and by the people.
He received Ivan with remarkable courtesy. Although the ante-chamber
was nearly full of persons awaiting an audience, and some of them
were evidently of high rank, he sent for him almost immediately, and
introduced him to his son and to others who were with him in the
cabinet as a young nobleman who had acted a most heroic part during
the Occupation of Moscow. Then addressing Ivan himself, he said, “The
Emperor has commended you to my particular care. I am authorized to
offer you at present a nomination for the Chevalier Guard.”
This was a great honour. In this splendid corps every private was a
noble of the highest birth and a Knight of Malta. Upon state occasions
the members formed the monarch’s guard of honour; they had the _entrée_
to the receptions at the palace; they dined at the imperial table.
Their uniform, upon which fabulous sums were expended, was a mantle of
scarlet, with a massive silver cuirass bearing a large Maltese cross in
relief; and the trappings of their priceless Arabian horses glittered
with gold and jewels. Ivan, knowing all this, remained silent, his face
a curious mixture of intense gratification and extreme embarrassment.
The kind old general beckoned him nearer and spoke in a lower tone. “I
believe I understand your feelings, my young friend. You are thinking
of the expenses the gentlemen of the Chevalier Guard usually take pride
and pleasure in incurring--of their armour, their horses, and so forth.
Upon that ground you need hesitate no longer. His Imperial Majesty has
requested me to attend to all your requirements.”
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