The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 12

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 12

“Curse the news!” said Ivan petulantly. “Drive quickly, isvostchik,[14]

and I’ll double thy fare.”

 

Yet absorbed as he was in his sordid, selfish trouble, he could not

fail to see that some extraordinary change had passed over the city.

At the street corners and in the thoroughfares persons of all classes

were gathering in groups, talking and gesticulating. A few had letters

or printed papers in their hands; but those who could read were a small

minority, and by far the greater number were discussing what they had

heard from the lips of others. Now and then Ivan wondered languidly

what had happened; but his thoughts always slipped back to subjects

of more pressing interest. What should he say to Petrovitch? and what

would Petrovitch say to him?

 

It was a glorious morning at the end of June,

 

“The very city’s self was filled

With the breath and the beam of heaven.”

 

Fair shone the gilded cupolas of the Kremlin, brightly gleamed the

silver Moskva, and the gardens and terraces were blooming with a

thousand flowers. Never had the old city looked more lovely, with

the strange peculiar charm of its quaint barbaric magnificence toned

and softened by those sweet influences of sun and air that touch the

responsive earth like the benediction of Heaven. On that day Ivan

scarcely noticed its beauty; but in after years the memory often

returned to him,--like the last happy, untroubled look we have seen on

some beloved face, ere it is dimmed by those shadows of disease and

pain that prelude the darker shadow of the grave.

 

At length he reached the house of Petrovitch, dismissed his drosky,

and walked in. He was accustomed to enter the old man’s presence

unannounced, to be recognized by the sound of his footsteps, and

affectionately welcomed.

 

It was now almost four years since Petrovitch had become totally blind.

God’s hand had touched him gently, and the touch softened and ennobled

him. The interests of commercial life, the buying, selling, and getting

gain, which once occupied him so intensely, had faded from him now;

and if still he ruled his household with a strong hand, it was less

by fear and more by love. Feodor had learned to read on purpose to

while away the long hours for him, though there were not many books

in the Prussian language likely to interest him. For romances in the

French style, whether translated or imitated, he cared nothing at

all; history, which he would have greatly enjoyed, had still to be

naturalized in Russia; and, unhappily, the best Book of all was then

locked away from the Russian in a casket of which the key was well-nigh

lost--the old Slavonic tongue, more unintelligible to Petrovitch than

the English of Chaucer would be to us. But a friend of his, Pope

Yefim, a priest of much more than average intelligence and seriousness,

used often to visit him, and to tell him scripture narratives, and

repeat for him prayers or passages from the Psalter. “I can no longer

raise my eyes to the holy pictures,” Petrovitch was wont to say, “so I

must learn to lift up my heart to God.”

 

To-day Ivan found him surrounded by several members of his family. His

eldest son stood before him; two or three others, sons or grandsons,

were at hand; and Feodor, now a fine lad of sixteen, had perched

himself as usual upon one of the arms of his chair.

 

“Father, your will is law,” Ivan Petrovitch was saying. “Still it is

rather hard upon me to be chained to desk and ledger because I am the

eldest son, while sons, nephews, and grandsons are doing their duty.”

 

“Thou too wilt be doing thine,” the old man returned. “What if it be a

harder one? Is it thy part, or mine, to choose?--But hush! are not the

footsteps that I hear those of my lord’s grandson?”

 

Ivan came forward, and the usual greetings were exchanged, though on

his side in a tone of embarrassment, which did not escape the quick ear

of Petrovitch.

 

“Prince Ivan,” he said, “you are in trouble. Do you wish to speak with

me alone?”

 

Petrovitch usually gave Ivan the title of prince, although, on account

of his father’s disgrace and his own equivocal position, the heir

of Pojarsky had forborne to assume it in general society--a modest

reticence which Petrovitch not only approved, but had himself actually

recommended.

 

“It is true, dädushka,” Ivan answered frankly; “I wish to speak with

you alone.”

 

At a sign from Petrovitch the others left the room, and without waiting

for Ivan to begin, the old man said, “I know what you feel. Speak

freely. What can I do for you?”

 

Ivan was greatly surprised at this address. Which of those who were

present last night, he asked himself, could possibly have told the

story of his folly, and how could it have found its way so quickly to

the ears of Petrovitch?

 

“I do not think you _can_ know what I feel,” he began humbly; “I am so

utterly ashamed of myself. You have so often warned me to be moderate

in play, and as often have I made the best of resolutions, and I meant

to keep them faithfully, but--”

 

He came to a sudden stop, astonished, even terrified by the change

that swept over the sightless but expressive face of Petrovitch.

Disappointment, sorrow, anger chased each other rapidly, like clouds

before a stormy wind; then all these passed away and were succeeded by

something too sadly like contempt. Ivan stood in silent embarrassment,

unable to proceed with his story.

 

But he had said enough. After a pause, Petrovitch spoke in a cold,

constrained voice, “So _that_ is your trouble, Prince Ivan? You have

lost money at play. How much?”

 

“Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty roubles,” said Ivan in the low

tones of penitence and shame.

 

“Silver or paper?”

 

“Paper,” said Ivan, rather more cheerfully. There was an enormous

difference in value between the two, although in neither case would the

sum have been a large one in the eyes of extravagant Russian nobles.

 

“Do me the favour to call Feodor; you will find him in the next room.”

 

Ivan obeyed; and Petrovitch, taking a key which hung round his neck,

gave it with a few directions to his grandson.

 

Something in the old merchant’s manner made Ivan stand before him in

silence, without venturing a word of explanation or of defence, until

Feodor’s return.

 

The boy gave his grandfather a roll of bank-notes, clean and crisp, and

immediately left the room.

 

In perfect silence the old man handed the notes to Ivan, who tried to

express his thanks; but Petrovitch stopped him. “The money,” he said

coldly, “is a matter of indifference to me. You are more than welcome

to it, Prince Ivan.” Never until to-day had he addressed him in such a

tone.

 

Ivan drew near, knelt down before his chair, and took his hand

affectionately. “Dear old friend,” he said, “I see that I have wounded

you. Forgive me, for my grandfather’s sake,--and for my own, for I love

you truly.”

 

The aged face quivered with suppressed emotion, yet Petrovitch drew his

hand away. “You cannot love me, Prince Ivan Pojarsky,” he said, “if you

love not the land of your fathers.”

 

“The land of my fathers!” repeated Ivan in surprise. “What can you

mean?”

 

“Stand up, Prince Ivan,” continued the old man, still speaking with

sternness; “the posture of a suppliant does not become you. Do you

think it is anything to me that you have lost a few thousand roubles at

play? Do you think that if you needed my whole fortune I would heave a

sigh or shed a tear as I gave it into your hands? But it _is_ a grief

to me, beyond sighs and tears, that trifles such as these should occupy

the heir of Pojarsky when the foot of the enemy is on the soil of holy

Russia.”

 

“_What?_” cried Ivan, springing to his feet in amazement.

 

“Can it be possible you have not heard?” asked Petrovitch, the heavy

cloud of displeasure beginning to clear from his brow. “At daybreak

this morning the tidings came. They have crossed the Niemen, those

barbarous hosts that own no God in heaven, no king on earth save that

monster from the abyss they call Napoleon. They come--in the stillness

and darkness I seem to hear their footsteps across plain, and forest,

and river. They come to trample down the soil of our fatherland, to

water it with blood, to waste our fields, to burn our villages with

fire, to make our wives widows, our children orphans; ay, and to do yet

darker deeds than these, deeds which I have no words to tell. The storm

has been gathering long; and now, at last, the thunder-cloud has burst

upon us! My country, O God, my country!”

 

“But our cause is just,” said Ivan. “Surely every Russian will fight to

the death.”

 

“This, indeed, will be a death-struggle,” Petrovitch resumed. “Do you

not understand? It is all the world against holy Russia--all the world,

except England and Spain: England, far away, safe within her God-given

rampart of crested foam; Spain already bleeding beneath the talons

of the vulture. Russia, Russia only, stands upright, and refuses, as

Pope Yefim expresses it, to bow the knee to the Baal, or rather to the

Moloch of France. Therefore, the conqueror has forced the conquered

to join his standard, and it is not only the legions of France who

are pouring across the Niemen, but Prussians, Austrians, Saxons,

Westphalians, all the men of Germany who are Napoleon’s subservient

though unwilling slaves; Poles, ever eager to trample on our pride and

profit by our misfortunes; ay, even Spaniards, dragged from their vines

and their olives to fight for the tyrant they detest.” He paused, then

went on again in a sadder tone and with even deeper feeling--“If in

this dark hour God had but been gracious to us, and given us a bearded

Czar!”

 

“A bearded Czar!” Ivan repeated in perplexed surprise.

 

“Yes. Do you not remember the words of the great Czar Peter? ‘If ever