The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 14

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 14

Ivan gladly accepted the offer; and in the short conversation that

followed, the merchant’s son was able to contribute materially to the

information of his social superiors.

 

“Pope Yefim has seen a copy of the letter which the Patriarch wrote

to the Czar,” he said. “He was not able to come himself--for you

know, gentlemen, he is nearly a hundred years old, much older than my

grandfather--but he writes that it grieves him to the heart he cannot

see the face of his sovereign--that face which is to him ‘as the face

of Christ.’”

 

Neither speaker nor hearers were startled by the __EXPRESSION__ which to us

seems to border on the profane. But the profanity was unintentional,

and the passionate loyalty utterly sincere.

 

Feodor went on--“He has sent him the sacred picture of St. Sergius,

from the Troitza monastery. You know, gentlemen, that is the picture

which the Czar Alexis and the great Czar Peter carried into battle, and

it always gave them the victory. Though, my grandfather says, it is not

the holy picture that gives the victory, or even the holy saint, but

God himself.”

 

“Thy grandfather seems to be a wise man,” said Yakovlef. “But I wonder

what the Czar himself thinks of the matter. People used to call him

very enlightened, quite a philosopher, a disciple at heart of Voltaire

and Diderot. I warrant me they are right, and he believes little

enough.”

 

The last remark was intended for the nobles, but it reached the ear of

Feodor, who, to every one’s surprise, both understood and answered it.

 

“The Czar,” he said reverently, “must believe very much in God, for he

cares very much about the poor, whom God has made.”

 

“God give him the victory over his enemies!” said Kanikoff; and the

little group responded with a hearty “Amen!”--for, “beneath all the

foam and sputter” of their light and careless talk, it was true that

“the heart’s depths boiled in earnest.”

 

Such a benediction as the Czar was about to receive is often bestowed,

in the Greek Church, even upon private persons who have in view some

important enterprise, or wish to offer some particular supplication or

thanksgiving. It is called a Molében; and it would be a beautiful and

touching ceremony, but for the baneful influence of that superstition

which too often leads its votaries to worship and serve the creature

more than the Creator. Usually, most of the prayers are addressed to

the guardian angel, or to the saint with whose picture the votary is

blessed--the picture being then given to him as a kind of talisman.

 

The benediction was to take place on the 27th of July, and early in

the morning Ivan entered the Church of the Assumption, the sacred spot

where the holy anointing oil had been poured upon the head of the

Czar. Pope Yefim had found for him a quiet niche, from whence he could

witness the whole of the ceremony. He had room to stand or kneel: in

Russian churches the worshippers never sit, however protracted the

services may be. From his place of waiting he heard the tumult, the

shouts and cheering, which welcomed the Czar as he approached. He knew

that now he was ascending the “Red” or “Beautiful” Staircase, by which,

upon state occasions, the Czars were wont to enter the cathedral; but

he could not know that he was “followed by an immense crowd, who wept,

and blessed him, and swore to defend his empire with their lives.”[17]

He knew that now this Czar would take his stand, as other Czars had

done, upon the summit of the staircase, to allow the people beneath

“to see the light of his eyes;” but he could not know as yet how

profoundly the mighty heart of that people was moved, “as the trees of

the wood are shaken with the wind.”

 

Clear and sweet as the song of angels rose the ringing treble of the

boyish choristers, who welcomed the Czar as he entered--“Blessed is he

that cometh in the name of the Lord!” The violet robes of the bishop

and the assistant priests--the flash of innumerable jewels upon mitre,

pall, and crozier--the faint perfume of incense--the sparkling drops of

holy water flung from vessels worth the ransom of a king,--all these

held the senses of Ivan, and wholly filled for a time his imaginative

and impressible heart.

 

Meanwhile, the man who was the centre of all this pomp, and whose

manhood for Russia in that solemn hour was more than worth it all,

stood reverently in his place while the officiating bishop sprinkled

him with holy water, or touched his forehead, his lips, his breast with

the sacred picture. As the eyes of Ivan rested on that stately figure,

peerless in its grace and majesty, a kind of awe stole over him. All

the old superstitious reverence of the Russian for the Czar, who is

“God upon earth,” came upon him. It seemed almost an irreverence to

raise his eyes to the face of the monarch; he could scarcely dare to do

it.

 

But a “Gospodin Pomilvi” of exquisite sweetness from the choir drew

away his thoughts for a moment, and involuntarily he glanced towards

the spot whence the sound proceeded. Then, once again he looked where

all else were looking; and suddenly a strange thing happened to him. As

in a dream, he saw--instead of the gorgeous, dimly-lighted church, the

gleaming vestments, the drooping banners--a green bank beside a river,

a group of peasants, a cold and rigid form, a noble, compassionate face

bending over it. He heard a voice that said, in tones of courageous

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

knew that his boyar and the Czar Alexander Paulovitch were the same.

Only, it seemed to him that now it was holy Russia that was lying numb

and prostrate, and that the Czar had pledged himself to save. He would

do it. From that moment Ivan never doubted it.

 

Besides the great ceremony of which the world was talking,[18] another,

known to one only, took place in the church that day. Ivan drew out the

piece of gold his boyar’s hand had given him, and which, ever since,

had hung round his neck. He kissed it, and made a solemn vow upon it,

“Faithfully to serve my Czar; to live for him all my days; and, if God

will, to die for him.”

 

Yet once more his eyes sought the face of his sovereign, and never

wandered from it until the service was concluded. But little could he

guess what was passing in the soul of which that expressive countenance

was sometimes the too faithful index.

 

Alexander’s own hand has sketched for us in a few slight touches the

conflicts of that period. Not then, nor ever, so far as we know, did

the thought of St. Sergius, or of any other human mediator, interpose

itself between his soul and the Divine Presence. But for some time past

he had been wrestling hard in secret with questions which go down to

the very roots of a man’s being. Was there a God in heaven whose ear

could be reached by that cry from human lips, “Gospodin Pomilvi”? And,

if so, was he the “invented God,” the “God afar off” of the deist and

the philosopher; or the God of the Bible, the Father of our Lord Jesus

Christ? Already these questions were answered for him, almost with

assurance; but there still remained another. Would this God hear and

help a man who was kneeling before him on behalf of fifty millions of

other men whose destinies were committed to his keeping? Would he deign

to touch him with his hand, to strengthen him with his strength? In

those days the soul of Alexander was feeling after God, if haply he

might find him.

 

The service over, Ivan repaired to the Hall of Nobles, as one whose

rank entitled him to find entrance there. He had to content himself

with an obscure place in the crowded assembly, where he could not

see the Czar, although he could hear his voice. In a noble address,

Alexander laid before his subjects the full extent of the public

danger. He concealed nothing; the strength of the invaders, the

position of the army, its perils, its resources, its needs, all were

revealed with a large-minded candour which would have honoured the

constitutional monarch of a free people. In conclusion, he said that

he “regarded the zeal of the nobility as the firmest support of the

throne. In all times and on all occasions it has proved the faithful

defender of the integrity and glory of Russia.” Here his voice

thrilled, faltered with emotion, and he paused amidst a universal

cry that seemed to shake the massive roof and walls of the grand old

hall--“Ask what you please, sire; we offer you everything.”

 

One of the nobles proposed the gift of a serf in every twenty-five; but

a chorus of eager voices interrupted, “It is not half enough!” Finally,

one serf in every ten, ready armed and equipped, and provided for three

months, was unanimously voted for the service of the Czar.[19]

 

While all this went on, Ivan sat in his place, silent and sad at heart.

_He_ had nothing to give,--nothing but his life; yet that, perhaps,

might count for something hereafter.

 

In the meantime, a scene equally significant was taking place in the

adjacent Hall of Merchants. Old Petrovitch repaired thither with the

rest, leaning on the arm of his youthful guide Feodor, his eldest son,

who ought to have accompanied him, being absent at the time. “I cannot

see the face of the Lord’s anointed,” he said, “but I can hear his

voice.” This assembly, like the other, was densely crowded. Feodor

contrived to find standing room upon the edge of a seat; and from this

vantage-ground he was able to look over the heads of the throng of

grave, bearded merchants. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “the Czar is not

here; only the Governor.”

 

“God save his Excellency Count Rostopchine! Hearts of steel, such as

his, are sorely needed now,” the old man responded.

 

“But we can see _him_ any day we like. It is the Czar we want to see,”

grumbled Feodor.

 

“Patience, boy; he is coming,” said one of the merchants near them.

“And, while we wait for him, it is _his_ words the count is going to

give us, not his own.”

 

This was true. Amidst a hush of eager expectation, the Governor rose

and read aloud the address of the Czar “to our ancient city and

metropolis of Moscow.” It contained the same explanations and appeals

which at that moment in another place were falling from his own lips;

and concluded with an earnest exhortation to prepare for “that defence

which must now shield the babe at the mother’s breast, and guard from

sacrilege the tombs of our fathers. The very existence of our name in

the map of nations is menaced. The enemy denounces ‘Destruction to

Russia.’ The security of our holy Church, the safety of the throne

of the Czars, the independence of our ancient Muscovite Empire, all

call aloud that the object of this appeal may be received by our loyal

subjects as a sacred decree. May the filial ardour spread itself from

Moscow to the extremities of our dominions; and a force will then