The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 13

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 13

“Where he ought _not_ to be!” thundered Petrovitch angrily. “What we

ask from our Czar is not the cheap courage of the recruit, whose one

virtue is to stand and be shot at, but the far higher courage to think,

to decide, to act for fifty millions of men. ‘Thou shalt not go forth

with us to battle,’ said the men of old to their king, ‘that thou

quench not the light of Israel.’ God put the heart of man in the very

midst of his body, to send the life-giving blood to the strong hands,

which in their turn are meant to defend it from scath and harm.”

 

“True;--and it occurs to me,” said Ivan quietly, “that my place is with

the hands.”

 

The face of Petrovitch actually lighted up. “Thank God for that word!”

he said. “But I expected no less from Prince Ivan Ivanovitch Pojarsky.”

 

Ivan had entered the house of Petrovitch that day a reckless, frivolous

youth, capable indeed of nobler things, but absorbed in the pursuit of

pleasure and in the petty, selfish troubles it entailed upon him. He

left the presence of his aged friend with the heart, the purpose, the

thoughts of a man. He felt the ennobling glow of patriotic fervour. His

country was in jeopardy, and he was ready to give his life for it. He

thought, as he turned his steps homewards,--

 

“This is enough to make my brave ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky,

arise from his grave to fight for holy Russia. From his grave? There

are living graves, far off in drear Siberia: will the dead arise out of

_these_, I wonder? Dear, unknown father--unknown, yet not forgotten--if

still you see the sun and breathe the air of this world, how would

you rejoice to come back and cover your stained name with glory! But

I scarcely dare to hope your life has lingered on through all these

weary years. If not, then mine are the only veins in which the blood

of Pojarsky is flowing. Oh that I could win our ancient honour back

again!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

A NATION’S TRANSPORT.

 

“Take thy banner, and beneath

The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath,

Guard it till our homes are free--

Guard it, God will prosper thee!

In the dark and stormy hour,

In the breaking forth of power,

In the rush of steeds and men,

His right hand will guard thee then.”

 

 

About three weeks later all Moscow was in a frenzy of excitement. The

Czar was coming. Ten thousand bells, from those of the world-famous

“Ivan Veliki,” that looked down from its giddy height upon the domes

of the Kremlin, to that of the most obscure of her fifteen hundred

churches, were clamouring their sonorous welcome. Cannon were ready to

thunder a greeting yet more deafening, though far less musical; and

the nobles and clergy were preparing a grand procession to meet their

sovereign at the Smolensko gate. Meanwhile the people poured forth in a

dense, tumultuous crowd to watch for his approach. Long and patiently

did they wait; and the shades had fallen deep over the city, in which

that night there were but few sleepers, when at last continued shouts

and “houras” announced his appearance. Happy was he who could catch,

through the darkness, even a glimpse of the unpretending open carriage,

drawn by four unbroken horses from the steppes of Tartary, in which the

Czar was wont to travel.

 

It had been a bitter sacrifice to Alexander to forsake his armies, now

face to face with the enemy, and retrace his steps to the centre of his

dominions. But his generals had said to him, “Sire, your presence here

paralyzes the army; it takes fifty thousand men to guard you;” and he

was forced to acknowledge the justice of their remonstrances: a chance

bullet--perhaps a bullet which was _not_ a chance one; for Napoleon

was no chivalrous antagonist--might at any moment leave Russia a prey

to untold confusion.[15] On the other hand, a new army was urgently

needed, and none but the sovereign could raise it; men’s hearts

everywhere were failing them for fear, and none but the sovereign could

inspire them with hope and confidence. So “the great heart” returned

“to the midst of the great body.”[16] For the present.

 

On the morning after the arrival of the Czar in Moscow, Ivan was

walking in a fashionable street called the Arbatskaya, not far from the

Kremlin. Adrian Wertsch and two or three other young noblemen were with

him. Like all the crowd amongst which they were moving, they had donned

their richest and gayest dresses. Every one wore a festive air, and

seemed to be making holiday in honour of the presence of the sovereign.

 

“Come, Adrian Nicoläitch,” said young Kanikoff, the very person to whom

Ivan had lost so many of Petrovitch’s hard-earned roubles--“come, tell

us how much of the show _you_ saw last night.”

 

“As much as you did,” was the laughing answer; “or as our friend here,

Ivan Ivanovitch.”

 

“Oh, as for me,” said Ivan, “_I_ am born under an unlucky star. I am

destined never to see his Imperial Majesty. During one of his visits

to the city I was ill; during two I was absent; and last night, all I

could contrive to see was the head of one of his horses.”

 

“Better luck another time. Stay, I really think we are going to have it

now. Hark! listen to those shouts. What a throng there is though--all

the ‘black people’ in Moscow pressing about us!--Come, come, good

people; if it is the Czar, still you need not crowd us in this way.

There is room enough in the world for all. Stand back, I say!--Ivan,

take care of your purse!”

 

“No need,” laughed Ivan; “there is nothing in it.”

 

“Hush! he is coming. Off with hats and caps.--Yakovlef, of what are you

thinking? Do not kneel, man; he has strictly forbidden it.”

 

“Great St. Michael!” exclaimed Wertsch in another moment, “what

a disappointment, and what fools we have all been making of

ourselves!--Be quiet there, good people, and save your throats until

you have something to shout for. That is not his Imperial Majesty; it

is only one of his aides-de-camp, with some other person belonging to

the suite.”

 

“Eh bien!” said Kanikoff. “It is no wonder the servant was taken

for the master. He is handsome enough for that.” And he gazed

in undisguised admiration at the splendid figure of the young

aide-de-camp, with his plumed cap in his hand, and a galaxy of jewelled

orders glittering on his breast, as he bowed gracefully to right and

left in acknowledgment of the salutations of the crowd.

 

“That is Prince Ouvarov,” said Yakovlef. “You seem to admire him.”

 

“Who could help it?”

 

“Not the ladies of St. Petersburg, at all events. It is said he breaks

a score of hearts every season. Once the Czar himself read him a

lecture; and I am told he answered, with the utmost _sang-froid_, ‘How

can I help it, your Imperial Majesty? The ladies are such fools about

me.’ But would you believe it?--in war he is the Archangel Michael

himself. He led the hussars at Austerlitz; and at Erfurt Napoleon

asked, ‘Which is the brave general who punished my infantry so

sorely?’ This young gallant, as beautiful as a girl, and as daintily

curled and perfumed, stepped forward and said quietly, ‘Je, sire.’ ‘You

may not speak very good French, but you are a very brave officer,’ said

Napoleon, taking his hand kindly.”

 

“Have a care, Yakovlef. If the people hear us talking of Napoleon, ten

to one they will tear us to pieces.”

 

“Not they, while the Czar is here.--Ivan Ivanovitch, what ails you? You

seem lost in a dream. Wake up, my friend.”

 

Ivan started.

 

“True enough,” he said; “I feel in a dream. I am perplexed, haunted, by

the face of that man.”

 

“Of Ouvarov?”

 

“No; of the other who rode beside him. That tall, gaunt,

foreign-looking man. I have seen him before; I am sure of it. But

where? when?”

 

“I should think,” said Kanikoff, “that you would care very little to

see him again. He must ride out with Ouvarov on purpose to illustrate

Beauty and the Beast.”

 

“Ivan would like well enough to see him if he were ill,” Yakovlef

interposed. “That is the Czar’s physician--Dr. Wylie, a Scotchman, very

clever, but very ready with his lancet, they say. He has been accused

of cutting off a man’s head to cure him of a headache.”

 

“The head of the man who allowed him to do it could have been little

loss to its owner,” laughed Ivan. Then he repeated thoughtfully, “His

lancet! I am sure I have seen him with a lancet. Of what can I be

thinking?”

 

He was interrupted by Feodor, the grandson of Petrovitch, who pushed

his way through the crowd to the group of young nobles. The handsome,

dark-eyed lad, in his blue caftan and crimson sash, looked to no

disadvantage amongst them. They all knew him, and greeted him with

kindness, if also with a little condescension.

 

“I am so glad I have found you, Prince Ivan,” said the boy

breathlessly. “My grandfather thought you would like to see the

benediction of the Czar with the holy picture. His friend, Pope Yefim,

is to take part in the ceremony, and he says he can secure you a good place.”