The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 23

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 23

“Son Ivan,” said Petrovitch, “come hither and take this boy’s hand in

thine. Children, you know that little Feodor is all God has left with

me of Maria Petrovna, the daughter of my old age, the one white dove in

our falcon’s nest. Be tender with him, all of you; and thou, Ivan, take

care of the lad, and be to him a father in my place.--Feodor, my little

Feodor, Maria’s son, God bless thee!”

 

“Kneel, boy,” whispered Ivan Petrovitch almost angrily, as Feodor, like

one in a trance, stood motionless, with his passive hand in his uncle’s.

 

The boy obeyed mechanically. The aged eyes of Petrovitch were full of

unaccustomed tears, and his voice faltered, grew almost inaudible, as

he murmured the words of blessing over that beloved head. But Feodor

showed no sign of feeling, except that cheek and lip were white as

marble.

 

Ivan Pojarsky, who, though he had withdrawn into the background, had

not left the place, observed him with sorrowful wonder. “The boy,” he

thought, “will soon forget the old man, who will die with a prayer for

him upon his lips.”

 

Once more the aged voice was heard. Petrovitch arose slowly from

his seat, and lifted up his hands over the group. “Now farewell, my

children, and God bless you. May he grant us in his mercy a joyful

meeting in the home above, the abode of the righteous, where no enemy

or evil thing can enter. Go in peace.”

 

Sadly and slowly, one by one, they turned away. Ivan Pojarsky followed,

to assure his weeping friends that he at least would do all he could

for the comfort and protection of their father. There were servants,

too, who purposed remaining in the house for the present; and to these

was intrusted the task of consummating the sacrifice by setting fire

to what had been the happy home of three generations.

 

With a feeling akin to awe Ivan returned to the side of the now

solitary old man. He was almost ashamed to bring his personal

difficulties and perplexities before him. A reverent, tender compassion

for the silver hairs so soon to be steeped in blood filled his heart,

though even this was dominated and subdued by the over-mastering

enthusiasm that possessed him, rising higher and higher every moment.

Before that tide of passionate loyalty and patriotism all else gave

way. It seemed easy and natural--and oh, how beautiful!--to die for the

Czar and holy Russia.

 

Petrovitch, of his own accord, asked him about his plans and purposes.

He knew already what a commission Rostopchine had intrusted to the

young man; and Ivan, though thoroughly master in outline of the _rôle_

he had to play, was glad to consult his aged friend upon certain

questions of detail. After discussing the directions he had to give to

the criminals who were to be released from the various prisons to aid

in the terrible work, he spoke of the unaccountable obstinacy of the

Countess Wertsch, and of the difficulty in which it placed him.

 

But instead of expressing indignation at the old woman’s folly,

Petrovitch answered gently, “My boy, be patient with her. Remember all

her days have been spent here. To her, as to others, the ruin of holy

Moscow is like the fall of the sun from the noonday sky. Should the

need to remove her actually arise, God will show you what to do. But

wait. Where we stand now, hours do the work of years.”

 

“Dädushka, there is another thought in my mind of which I want to tell

you. I talked it over last night with my old friend Michael.--Ah, where

is Michael?” said Ivan, who in the excitement and confusion of the

last two hours had totally forgotten his companion. “No matter,” he

continued, “I shall find him by-and-by.--Say, dädushka, would it not

be a pity these infidel Frenchmen should enter the Kremlin without so

much as a musket-shot to bid them welcome?”

 

“But what would you do, my son? Remember the lives of Russians are

precious.”

 

“I should peril no life which would not be just as sorely perilled

elsewhere; but I think that, with the help of the workmen who are still

on the spot, and a few of the lads whom I know to be ready for any wild

work, I could give a fair account of some of Napoleon’s advanced guard.”

 

“Well, since Count Rostopchine has left the city, every man may do that

which is right in his own eyes. Have you arms?”

 

“Plenty; and I, as well as the other directors nominated by the count,

have his authority to distribute them as I see fit.--Ah, Pope Yefim, is

that you? So you have not left us yet.”

 

“Not yet, nor ever,” said the priest as he advanced and saluted first

his aged friend, then Ivan.

 

“I thought all the churchmen were gone already, or going to-day,”

observed Ivan.

 

“It may be so,” returned Pope Yefim, “but, whosoever goes, sorrow and

death remain.”

 

“_Remain!_” cried Ivan. “It is their carnival.”

 

“Well, then, may not one of God’s humblest ministers remain also, to

pray beside the sorrowful and to bury the dead?”

 

“My dear pope, the part you have chosen is noble, but most perilous.”

 

“I scarcely think so. All civilized nations respect Religion and her

ministers. I have heard that Napoleon said to one of our popes, who

bravely presented himself before him to plead for his flock, ‘You have

done well. Your “Bog” is the same as our “Dieu.”’”

 

“Whose altars the French have cast down, and whose worship they have

forsaken; therefore they shall not prosper,” said Petrovitch. He added

after a pause: “My friends, I am solitary now. Stay with me for a

little while. And if Prince Ivan will forget his worldly rank in the

presence of great Death, who makes all men equal, I pray you both to

partake with me of what may be to all of us our last meal upon earth.”

 

Ivan readily consented; and the attendants left in the house, who

watched carefully over their aged master, served a comfortable repast.

One of them informed Ivan that his servant was in their quarters,

awaiting his orders. Michael had been a deeply-moved spectator of the

parting between Petrovitch and his family. He had been seen coming out

of the hall with a sobbing child in his arms, a little great-grandson

of Petrovitch, whom he was trying to comfort. Afterwards he fraternized

with the attendants, who were mujiks, like himself, and to whose

inquiries he answered simply and briefly that he was Prince Ivan’s

servant.

 

The hours wore on. At last Ivan and Yefim were obliged to depart--Ivan

to his work in the city, the priest to one of the numerous services of

his Church.

 

Then for the first time Petrovitch knew himself indeed alone. To

darkness he was accustomed now, but the strange unwonted stillness

“ached round him like a strong disease and new.” No kindred voice would

break the silence ever again upon earth. Such had been his deliberate

choice, and he must bear it. But his strong heart sank lower and lower

yet, even to the very depths--those deepest depths of all, which only

strong hearts know how to sound.

 

“Out of the depths have I cried unto thee,” said one of old, uttering

the experience of ten thousand tried and sorrowful hearts. Very earnest

was the cry that went up that bitter hour from the soul of Petrovitch.

It was not his first cry to God; for the hand that had drawn a veil

over the eyes of his body had been gradually and gently opening the

eye of his soul to another and holier light. What though, at the best,

that light was dim and clouded? It was enough for his needs; and in

this hour of lonely anguish it shone out with greater clearness than

ever before. “I am a sinful man,” thought Feodor Petrovitch; “and now

the last hour of my long day of life has struck. I am going into the

presence of God. But there is the dear Bog Sūn,[27] and the cross, of

which Pope Yefim talks. I hope to be forgiven for the sake of what He

suffered there, and to see His face with joy in the resurrection.”

 

Then thoughts of the past chased each other quickly across his mind,

like clouds across a summer sky. All the events of his life seemed to

crowd upon him, and to pass in review before him “like a tale that is

told.” First came visions of his early years,--his village home, his

boyhood’s friends, his dear lord, Prince Pojarsky, with the face of

Ivan grown older; then his own struggles as a man,--his efforts to

secure an honourable place in the world, to gain wealth, character,

and the esteem of all. But these things flitted lightly by, and did

not stay. What came and stayed, fresh and vivid as though he saw them

even now, were the faces that he loved--faces over which the grave had

closed long ago. “Yesterday they seemed so far; to-day they are close

at hand. I shall see them before another sun has set,” he thought.

The wife of his youth came back, young and fair as on her bridal day.

Scarce younger and not less fair, so like that they seemed to mingle

into one sweet all-pervading presence, was that child of his heart, so

tenderly loved, so deeply mourned. As the Hebrew patriarch, casting a

retrospective glance over his long and weary pilgrimage, rested the

wistful gaze of his dying eye upon one chief unforgotten sorrow--“_As

for me_, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of

Canaan”--so it was with Feodor Petrovitch. A passionate yearning swept

over him to see his daughter’s face, to hear her voice again.

 

By-and-by another change came. It was no longer faces that haunted

him, but voices--voices and footsteps. The little feet of his

grandchildren pattered around him; he heard their merry shouts, their

ringing laughter at their play. He felt tempted to call them; he almost

believed that if he called they would come to him. At last he heard

the footstep that he loved best--so plain, so near, that he thought he

must be dreaming. How strangely fancy must be cheating him! Surely that

_was_ Feodor--_his_ Feodor--trying in jest, as he was wont to do, to

steal upon him unawares and surprise him. Surely, as in the old happy

days, the boy had slipped off his lapti, and was stepping softly and

noiselessly upon the rugs that strewed the floor. Surely he was close

to him now--his breath was touching his very cheek. All unconsciously

the name escaped his lips, and he called aloud, “Feodor!”

 

“_Dädushka_” the voice he loved seemed to answer.

 

“O God!” sobbed the old man, for the first time completely unnerved,

“leave me my senses. Do not let me lose myself in vain delirious

dreams. Grant that I may give up my soul to thee in peace.”

 

“Dädushka, do not be afraid. It is I--it is your little Feodor.”