The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 22

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 22

“I can show you, even now, a way to render him signal and splendid

service; but it is hazardous, _very_. It is scarce likely we shall live

to go through with it; but, Michael, if we do, I think the Czar will

have cause to thank us.”

 

“And shall we kill plenty of Nyemtzi?” Michael asked eagerly.

 

“We shall deal their Emperor a blow he will never forget.” Ivan sat

down before him, looked at him in silence for some moments, and then,

apparently changing the subject, he asked, “Are you not surprised at

the condition in which you find the city?”

 

“What condition?--Oh yes; I saw crowds of people going away.” Then,

looking up--“But is it true, is it _really_ true, Barrinka, that holy

Moscow is to be given up to the infidel Nyemtzi?”

 

“Too true. A great battle was fought a few days ago at Borodino. The

French say they won, and we say we won; but, however that may be, the

result is for us as bad as a defeat. Marshal Kutusov says it is now

hopeless to think of defending the city. All day our soldiers, with

breaking hearts, have been marching through on their way to Vladimir.”

 

“And without fighting? Ivan Barrinka, it is too bad! So those accursed

Nyemtzi will have it all--the glorious, beautiful city of the Czar; the

tombs, the treasures of his fathers; the forty times forty churches,

the holy pictures of the saints! Woe, woe! Why have we lived to see

such days?”

 

“Listen, Michael,” said Ivan, arresting the hand with which he was

tearing his beard. “Listen to me. The Nyemtzi shall _not_ have it.”

 

“What do you mean, Barrinka?”

 

“This. We will do for holy Moscow--our beautiful, our beloved--what a

father would do for an only daughter, a husband for a wife, a brother

for a sister, if there were no other way to save them from those

accursed Nyemtzi--our own hands will deal the death-blow.”

 

“How?”

 

“What should _you_ have done with Nicolofsky while the French were in

it?”

 

“Holy saints! Then you mean to burn the city?”

 

“These hands of mine will fling the brand into this house, which has

been my home ever since I left your village. Nay, more, I am one of the

directors of the secret band commissioned to spread the conflagration.”

 

Michael stared at him in amazement, but did not speak.

 

Ivan resumed: “Perhaps you will think me dreaming--at least you will

wonder by what authority I tell you these strange and awful things.

I was a boy when last we met, Michael; indeed, until six weeks ago I

was little more. Then the war broke out, and the Czar came here. I saw

him; not for the first time, Michael Ivanovitch, for it was he--he

and no other--whom I saw in my childhood’s days ministering to poor

unconscious Stefen on the bank of the Oka. My heart went forth to him

at once, laid itself at his feet, vowed to serve him until death.”

 

“So? Then _you_ fight for love, Ivan Barrinka. _I_ fight for hate.”

 

“I too, after what you have told me to-night,” said Ivan, with flashing

eyes. He continued more calmly: “Then I went to the governor, Count

Rostopchine, and told him my story. I said that, though my name was of

the noblest, I had not, like other boyars, lands, or serfs, or gold

to give to the Czar; I had only a strong heart, full of devotion.

He answered me, for he saw I was in earnest, ‘Such hearts are what

we want now.’ Then he told me what to do. At first, Michael, I was

horror-stricken. I had rather have been burned at the stake myself. But

he assures me there is no other way of saving holy Russia and the Czar.

Moreover, most of the nobles, and all the merchants except seven, have

resolved upon the sacrifice of their property. Loss of life we will try

to prevent.”

 

“I suppose all good Russians, save those who, like you, have work to

do, are leaving the city?”

 

“Almost all; except the ‘black people,’ who think they have nothing

to lose and perhaps something to gain by the confusion. A few others

are remaining on various pretexts; for instance, Countess Wertsch,

the owner of this house, obstinately insists upon staying, positively

refusing to believe that the French will enter the city--a great

embarrassment to me, since I cannot burn the house over her head. I

must get her away somehow. For this and other matters I need advice

from my good old friend Petrovitch, and I mean to go to him at

daybreak. You shall come with me; I should like to tell him what you

have done, Michael.”

 

“Anywhere with you. There will be plenty of work for us, and plenty of

danger too. All the better for me. But you will be sorry to part with

life, Ivan Barrinka.”

 

For a moment Ivan’s face assumed a grave and thoughtful __EXPRESSION__;

then it gradually lighted up, until it absolutely glowed with

enthusiasm. “If I fall,” he said, “Count Rostopchine has promised to

name me to the Czar.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

 

THE FORLORN HOPE.

 

“Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done

The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true;

And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?”

 

 

The two young men wore out the short summer night in earnest talk.

Neither thought of sleep; but Ivan was careful to provide a comfortable

repast for Michael, and was by no means reluctant to share it. Very

early in the morning they set out on foot for the merchants’ quarter.

The shades of night had brought no repose to the doomed city; hour

after hour the living tide flowed on without pause or respite, and Ivan

and Michael found it extremely difficult to thread their way through

the dense confused mass of vehicles and foot passengers that crowded

every street.

 

At last they reached the dwelling of Petrovitch. The doors were all

open. Unhindered and unannounced, they walked into the great hall. Here

they found the whole family assembled. In the midst sat the patriarch,

with silver hair and beard, and large, wide-open, sightless eyes. His

face was as calm and almost as colourless as that of the dead; but its

look expressed the steadfast high resolve of a “living soul,” the heir

of a deathless immortality.

 

All around that calm centre there was profound agitation. Women were

weeping and wringing their hands; and those “tears of bearded men”

which are so rare and sad to see were flowing without restraint. One of

the sons of Petrovitch--in the green uniform of a Russian grenadier,

his military hat, with its long black feather tipped with white, laid

beside him--was sobbing bitterly himself, while he tried to comfort a

little girl whom he held in his arms. Another young soldier, almost a

boy, seemed to be imploring the interference of his mother, who was

sitting a little apart, her face covered with a kerchief. At one side

of the old man’s chair stood his eldest son, with a look of indignant

appeal and remonstrance; at the other knelt Feodor--and _his_ face no

one saw.

 

“Welcome, Prince Ivan!” cried Ivan Petrovitch as soon as he perceived

his entrance. “Come hither and speak to our father. It may be he will

listen to you, as the son of his ancient lord.”

 

“Is that Prince Ivan?” asked the old man. “Son of my dear lord, ever

welcome in this house, yet give us leave, I pray you, for a little

space, for this is a bitter hour to me and to all of us. I am bidding

farewell to every one in whose veins my blood is flowing. By-and-by I

will talk once more with thee.”

 

Ivan would have withdrawn, from a feeling that the scene was too sacred

for any not immediately belonging to the family; but the eldest son of

Petrovitch appealed to him once more. “Have you not a word--you whom he

loved so dearly--to persuade him against flinging his life away?”

 

“My son, I am not flinging my life away,” the old man interposed. “That

would be a sin. I am only laying it at the feet of the God who gave

it. He has given me a message for these Nyemtzi, and shall I spare to

deliver it?”

 

“But how is this, dädushka?” asked Ivan gently, as he drew nearer to

the weeping group. “How is this? Do you not go, with these your beloved

ones, to a place of safety?”

 

“I go indeed to a place of safety, but not with these. My resolve has

long been made; nor is it for thee, Prince Ivan, nor for you, sons and

grandsons, true and well-beloved though you are, to change it now. Here

have I lived, and here will I die. The Nyemtzi shall enter holy Moscow

only over my body.”[26]

 

“A vain sacrifice, useless as it is cruel,” said Ivan Petrovitch in a

broken voice.

 

“My son, it is neither. I have no strong arm to fight for the Czar, but

I have yet a voice with which to hurl defiance against his enemies. It

is the mightiest of all voices, though it makes no sound--the voice of

blood. My blood shall cry to the invader from the gate of the city I

have loved: ‘It is but vain the labour that you take to conquer this

land for your Prince. A land where youth and manhood arm to resist

you, while old age dies beneath your feet rather than submit to your

sway--such a land is unconquerable.’ Therefore, my children, no more

words. They are but needless pain, and time presses. I think my soldier

lads should even now be rejoining their regiments. Are you all here, my

brave boys whom I have given to the Czar?”

 

The sergeant of grenadiers answered for the rest, “Yes, my father, all.”

 

“Four sons and nine sons’ sons--thirteen in all--have I given to our

lord. Soldiers of holy Russia, fight bravely; and may God prosper your

arms and give you the victory! I doubt not he will, for your cause is

just.”

 

“My father, ere we go,” said the sergeant, advancing and kneeling

before him, “bless thy sons.”