The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 8

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 8

Ivan crossed himself. “Beautiful! beautiful!” he murmured, as he gazed

like one entranced on the scene before him.

 

“Upon God’s earth there is no spot like that,” said Petrovitch,

stretching forth his hand and pointing to the city. “‘If I forget thee,

Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.’ God keep Moscow the

holy, Moscow the beautiful, the ancient city of the Czar, the fairest

jewel of his crown, the apple of his eye!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.

 

PETROVITCH.

 

“Oh, but soon ye read in stories

Of the men of long ago;

And the pale, bewildering glories

Shining farther than ye know.”

 

 

Our travellers had still a long drive before them after they entered

the stately gate called “the Gate of Triumph.” The ancient capital of

the Czars enclosed, within the vast circumference of its painted walls,

gardens, orchards, terraces, even parks and pleasure-grounds, in this

as in other ways resembling an Eastern city. In due time, however,

the merchants’ quarter was reached, and Ivan Petrovitch drew rein

before the gateway of a long, low, wooden building, or rather range of

buildings, painted in various colours. He was evidently expected and

watched for; quite a crowd of men, women, and children, servants or

members of the family, hurried out to meet him, and his young companion

shared the welcome and the greetings that followed. Ivan Petrovitch,

however, took him by the hand, saying to those who were pressing around

them, “Stand back, brothers and sisters; no one should speak to the

little lord until he has been presented to our father.”

 

He led Ivan into a spacious room or hall, of which the furniture,

though far from answering to Western ideas of comfort, showed

conclusively that wealth was not lacking, for vessels of silver, rugs

of costly fur, and rich Turkish carpets were there in abundance. But

Ivan scarcely noticed anything, except the great arm-chair at the

upper end and the venerable figure of its occupant. “My father,” said

the younger Petrovitch, as he gently placed the boy directly in front

of him, “I have brought thee our little lord.”

 

The old man rose slowly from his chair, leaning upon his staff. His

hair was white as snow, and so was the beard which reached nearly down

to his waist. His large, dark eyes, once so full of fire, were dim with

age, but an ardent soul glanced forth from them even yet, and they

had, moreover, a wistful, pathetic look, as if seeking the light which

was fading from them. “God be gracious to thee, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch

Pojarsky,” he said solemnly, laying his hand on the young fair head

which was bowed before him in instinctive reverence. Then he kissed the

boy, and having seated himself once more in his chair, drew him close

and examined his features. “Like his grandfather, my dear friend and

master,” he said at last.

 

It was evident, from the silence which followed, that thoughts of other

days came crowding fast upon the old man’s memory. But he soon aroused

himself from his reverie to bid Ivan welcome to Moscow, and to commend

him to the care of the members of his family who had gathered around

them.

 

These now came forward, drew Ivan gently away, and lavished upon him

every kindness and attention that could be devised. He was charmed with

his new friends, and quickly and easily took his place as the honoured

guest of the great heterogeneous household united beneath the roof of

its venerable head. There were sons and sons’ sons, daughters-in-law

and grand-daughters, and quite a tribe of servants, forming altogether

a little clan rather than a family. This large household had all the

necessaries of life in abundance, and many of its luxuries, though only

such as the old Muscovite manners and traditions fully sanctioned. For

Petrovitch was an autocrat in his own house, though usually a just and

generous one. Woe to the son or grandson of his who should presume

to “deface the image of God” by shaving his beard, to exchange his

caftan for a French paletôt, or to lose his roubles and peril his soul

at the fashionable game of loto! This strong personal government was

the secret of the domestic peace which, on the whole, prevailed in the

household, notwithstanding the many different elements of which it was

composed.

 

There was only one person who ventured to take liberties with the

patriarch--to tease him, coax him, sometimes even jest with him, always

to claim his caresses as a matter of right, not, like the others, as a

rare, occasional favour. This was little Feodor, a bright, black-eyed

boy about three years younger than Ivan. The mother of this favourite

grandson had been the only daughter of Petrovitch, and she was dead.

Much of the old man’s heart was in the grave with her, nor could his

seven brave and prosperous sons wholly supply her place.

 

Ivan’s first days in Moscow were spent in viewing its wonders, under

the guidance of one or other of the Petrovitch family. Feodor was often

with him, and soon became his particular friend; for his playfellows

at Nicolofsky having been dull and slow, the overflowing merriment of

his new acquaintance was a welcome change. He was shown the marvels of

the Kremlin,--its palace, its three cathedrals, its bell-tower of Ivan

Veliki, to the top of which he ascended and beheld the panorama of the

city stretched out beneath him like a picture. He saw also the great

Cathedral of St. Basil, in the “Beautiful” Place outside the Kremlin

wall. He saw the Chinese city and the dwellings of the Tartars; he

wandered through the streets and rows of the Grand Bazaar. In fact, he

saw so many wonderful things that his power of wondering was exhausted,

and he soon ceased to be much impressed by any of them.

 

Each time that he returned from one of these expeditions, old

Petrovitch would call him to his side, and make him sit where he could

see his face. One evening he said to him, “God make thee as brave and

true as thine ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky, who delivered Moscow

from the Poles.”

 

“Who was he? I have never heard of him,” said Ivan.

 

“Is that possible? Poor child! did no one ever tell thee that story, so

glorious for thee and thine? Know, then, that about two hundred years

ago the Poles conquered holy Russia. The whole country was at their

feet, in great misery and trouble, and no man dared resist them. Prince

Pojarsky lay on his bed in his own castle, sick as it seemed unto

death. But God put it into the heart of a poor man working at his trade

in Moscow, a butcher named Minim, to save his country. He first went to

all the great people of the city and of the surrounding country, and

got them to promise men and money. Then he went to Prince Pojarsky,

and stood before him like a messenger from God. ‘Rise,’ he said; ‘go

forth and conquer the Poles. God will strengthen thee.’ ‘But soldiers

are needed, and arms,’ said the prince. ‘All are ready,’ answered the

courageous citizen. The prince arose from his bed of sickness, and,

trusting in God, put himself at the head of the men of Moscow. He

gained a glorious victory, and the sword of the Poles was broken for

ever in Muscovy. That is the man whose name you bear, and whose blood

is flowing in your veins, Prince Ivan Pojarsky!”

 

“He was splendid!” said Ivan with kindling eyes; “I am proud to bear

his name.”

 

Petrovitch felt shocked by the disclosure of Ivan’s ignorance of the

history of his native country, that country which was to himself the

object of proud and passionate love.

 

“Can it be,” he said to him the next day--“can it be that no one has

ever even told you about the great Czar Peter?”

 

“I have heard of the Czar Peter,” said Ivan: “he ordered all the mujiks

to cut off their beards, threatening to cut off their heads if they

refused. ‘God will make your beards grow again,’ he said; ‘but will he

do the same for your heads?’”

 

Petrovitch built a long and interesting narrative upon this very

meagre foundation of historical knowledge. He had little Feodor for a

listener as well as Ivan, and the intelligent questions of the boys

drew out the information he loved to impart. Especially graphic was

his account of the Swedish defeat at Pultowa, and the horrors of the

retreat that followed--horrors that seem to have prefigured those of a

yet more awful retribution near at hand, though still wrapped in the

mysterious veil of the future.

 

“File after file the stormy showers benumb,

Freeze every standard sheet, and hush the drum;

Yet ere he sank in nature’s last repose,

Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,

The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,

Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh:

Imperial pride looked sullen on his plight,

And Charles beheld, nor shuddered at the sight.”

 

Then, gradually bringing down the narrative to more recent times, he

told of the great Czarina Catherine--of the splendours of her court

and the triumphs of her arms--especially of the conquest of Poland,

in his partial eyes only a just retribution for the past wrongs, and

a glorious achievement of the prowess of holy Russia. At last, though

with some reserve, he spoke of the short, sad reign of the Czar Paul.

“God sent him for our sins,” he said.

 

This reserve only piqued the curiosity of the boys.

 

“It is true he wrought much evil,” he admitted, in answer to their

questions; “but still his heart was good. It was his head that went

astray. Oh, my children, there are sorrows in the world darker than you

have ever dreamed of! Seems it sad to you to sit as I do now, and see

the beautiful light of God’s world fading from me day by day? What is

that to the desolation, the anguish, when God lays his hand upon the

immortal light within and turns it into darkness? The Czar Paul was not

himself when he sent half his nobles to Siberia, shut up his own son

in prison and threatened his life--ay, even the life of the Empress.

His true self fought long against the demon that possessed him. Many

a time did he listen to his son, though he never loved him, when he

dared bravely to plead for and shelter the victims of his wrath. More

than once he said regretfully, after some unusual outburst of violence,

‘I wish I had consulted the Grand Duke Alexander.’ But such a state of

things could not go on. The end