The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 30

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 30

“_Wish it!_” cried Ivan, with kindling eyes. “Whilst Napoleon--who has

spoiled Moscow and burned the Kremlin--still sets his foot upon the

soil of holy Russia, I could not support life without doing all that

one man may do to drive him thence with infamy.”

 

“My brave boy, I share your feelings. I could wish myself two score

years younger to take my place amongst the combatants. Nor is mine,” he

added, “the only heart that throbs with the soldier’s longing. But too

gladly would he who is the highest of all stand this moment in the van

of all, did not the bonds of a sacred duty detain him here.”

 

“My general,” said Ivan, “I am overcome with gratitude. The honour of

serving my sovereign, in the position he has assigned me, is beyond my

utmost dreams.”

 

“Then that is settled. Here is my son, who is anxious to take

possession of you. He will introduce you to the Commandant of the

Knights of Malta.”

 

At a sign from his father, the younger Soltikoff came forward, and

cordially invited Ivan to his house. Seeing him hesitate for a moment

before replying, he said, “Perhaps you have friends with you?”

Ivan mentioned Adrian Wertsch, who was immediately included in the

invitation. He then remembered Michael, and turning once more towards

the general, craved permission to add a few words. This being readily

granted, he told the mujik’s story; and the poor fellow’s courage and

devotion touched both the Soltikoffs.

 

“I think,” said the general, “we might put him into the artillery. He

could help to serve a gun. Send him to Colonel Tourgenieff; my son will

give you the address.”

 

The days that followed were “marked evermore with white” in the

calendar of Ivan Pojarsky. His host introduced him to the best society

of St. Petersburg; he became acquainted with the Galitzins, the

Tolstois, the Narishkins, the Gagarines, and was welcomed everywhere

as a young man who had done much that was heroic and seen much that

was interesting. He was presented to both the empresses;[36] he

attended an imperial reception at Kamenoi-Ostrov, offered his humble

acknowledgments to the Czar for his kindness, and had a few gracious

words addressed to him in public, which at once raised to the highest

point his popularity with the great world.

 

But he could not help observing that this was a world strangely

unlike that which he had known in Moscow before the war. The reckless

extravagance, the heedless gaiety, the wild dissipation of those days

seemed to be no more. Over many of the noble houses where he visited

the angel of death had already spread his wings,--a son, a brother,

a nephew had fallen at Smolensko or Borodino; while over all there

brooded the apprehension of the same dread visitation, producing, if

not melancholy, at least seriousness. Ladies of fashion, instead of

playing cards or loto, prepared lint for the wounded or garments for

the perishing. Great efforts were being made for the relief of the

sufferers in the terrible tragedy of Moscow; and Ivan rejoiced to see

immense convoys of clothing and provisions setting out from the new

capital for the old.

 

Troops of all kinds were coming every day to the city, or leaving

it for the seat of war. Ivan’s friends pointed out to him, with

justifiable pride, the excellent equipment of the soldiers, and told

him of the unwearied exertions of the Czar to supply the whole of his

enormous army not only with the necessaries, but even with the comforts

of life. “Every man in the service,” it was said, “has his fur pelisse,

his warm boots, even his warm gloves.”[37] Infinite care and pains were

expended upon the commissariat; and depots of all kinds of provisions

were established wherever they were likely to be needed.

 

In a few days Michael came joyfully to inform “Barrinka” that he had

attained the desire of his heart. “Praised be the great St. Nicholas!”

he said, “I am to be a gunner. My officer tells me that after a little

training I shall be able to pull a thing they call the lanyard. It

makes the gun go off, and kills the Nyemtzi.” But no earthly happiness

is ever without alloy, and Michael’s was not an exception. There was

one hardship, in his own estimation very serious, to which he had to

submit. “Barrinka,” he asked, “why must our beards be cut off before we

go to fight the Nyemtzi?”

 

“It has been always done,” said Ivan. “It is the custom. Besides, do

you not know it makes you a free man? The very hour your beard is cut,

you cease to be a serf; you have no longer any lord on earth except the

Czar.”

 

“I do not care to be a free man,” grumbled Michael; “and I do not see

why I must part with my beard, which God gave me. It is very hard.”

 

Ivan laughed. “My dear lad,” he said, “you have given your hand for our

lord the Czar; you are ready to give your life for him; then why do you

grudge him your beard?”

 

“Do you call it giving to _him_?” asked Michael. “That makes a

difference certainly. Though I cannot see what the Czar wants with my

beard, still, if it be his Majesty’s pleasure, he shall have it.”

 

Shortly afterwards he paid Ivan another visit. Great was the

transformation in his outer man. The cherished beard was gone; he

wore, instead of his caftan, the green uniform of a gunner; and he was

already beginning to acquire the indefinable but unmistakable air of

the trained soldier. “Only think, Barrinka,” he began eagerly;--“I am

afraid you will not believe me, but I am ready to swear it is true upon

the picture of my saint. Besides, all the men in our corps heard it,

and can tell you I say nothing but the fact, just as it happened.”

 

“But you have not yet told me what the fact is. What has happened to

you, Michael?”

 

“The Czar has spoken to me,” said Michael with beaming eyes--“the Czar,

his very self.”

 

“How?--when?--what did he say?” cried Ivan, now thoroughly excited.

 

“He came to-day to inspect our corps--‘recruits for the artillery

service,’ we are called. You will not need to be told that every man

of us did his best, and that we made the air ring with our cheers and

‘houras.’ When the parade was over, I saw him speaking to our captain,

who looked towards me, and then called me forward. ‘Your Imperial

Majesty,’ says he, ‘this is the man.’ ‘Give me your hand, my brave

lad,’ says the Czar, taking in his own this very hand of mine that you

see now. ‘I know how you lost the other, and I honour your courage and

devotion. You have been tried and found faithful.’ I fell on my knees

and kissed the hand that held mine; which would be honour enough for

such as _you_, Barrinka, not to speak of a poor mujik like me. Then he

said to all of us, ‘You have done well, my children;’ and we answered

with a shout, ‘Father, we will do better next time’[38] So he rode

away,--God bless him!--and the rest all crowded round me, embraced me,

and wished me joy. Now my one hand, which he has touched, is quite as

good as two.”

 

Ivan shared the joy of his humble friend. He himself was beginning to

learn some lessons which were new and strange to him, and which perhaps

the miseries he had witnessed and the sorrows he had experienced had

been preparing him to receive. In the circles where he moved now

there was no longer any scoffing at religion, but rather a devout and

reverent acknowledgment of the hand of God. Most of the nobility were

diligent in their attendance upon the church services; but some ladies,

and a few men of the highest position, were spoken of in the hearing

of Ivan as remarkably pious. Foremost amongst these were the Princess

Metchersky and the Countess Tolstoi, Prince Alexander Galitzin, and the

Sardinian ambassador De Maistre. No reproach was implied or intended;

their piety seemed to be rather considered as a distinction, and it

was usually added that they stood high in the imperial favour.

 

On the last evening of his stay in St. Petersburg, Ivan saw one of his

acquaintances--a nephew of the Grand-Marshal Tolstoi, and like himself

a member of the Chevalier Guard--sitting apart absorbed in a book. The

stirring romance of real life had of late driven all other romances out

of the mind of Ivan; but the sight of an interested reader awakened his

slumbering tastes. He came to the side of Tolstoi--a gay, good-natured

youth, to whom he could say anything he pleased. “Is that a new book

which you seem to like so much?” he asked.

 

“I am ashamed to confess it is new to me, or was so until lately,”

returned Tolstoi.

 

“What is it? A romance? I should think it a kindness if you would lend

it to me when you have done with it yourself.”

 

“Look at it,” said Tolstoi, placing it in his hand.

 

It was in French, as Ivan expected; but its appearance was different

from that of any French book he had ever seen before. Although divided

into chapters and verses, it was evidently not poetry, and very sacred

names were of frequent occurrence. He turned to the opening page, and

exclaimed in surprise, “The New Testament!--how strange!”

 

“Why should it be strange?” said Tolstoi simply. “What better book

could I find to read?”

 

“What is it all about?” asked Ivan. “Of course I know there are the

holy gospels, but this book seems to contain a great deal besides.”

 

“Oh! I cannot tell you in a moment. Read it for yourself, and you will

soon learn to love it well.”

 

Ivan turned back again to the page with which his friend had been

occupied, and which he had kept open with his finger. He read these

words: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them

that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you, and

persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in

heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and

sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” “That sort of religion

would never answer!” he exclaimed indignantly, allowing the book to

fall from his hand. “What? _Love the French?_ Do good to _them_? Pray

for _them_? I think whoever recommended you, just now, the reading of

this book, must have gone altogether out of his senses. We should all

be ruined if such ideas as these got abroad amongst us, especially at

the present moment, when it is our supreme duty to hate the enemies of

the Czar and to destroy them.”

 

“Then how comes it to pass that the Czar himself loves this book and

reads it daily?” asked Tolstoi, as he reverently took up the volume from the ground.