A GRIM BEGINNING OF A REIGN
“What are we to do now?” asked Pauline of Wilfrid, when, as their
carriage drew near to the Imperial Square, they found approach to the
Winter Palace impossible by reason of the dense crowd. “We can’t expect
these good people to open a way for us to the front, and yet, as we are,
we shall see nothing!”
Her situation at that moment contrasted singularly with that of her
father. While _he_ was within the stately palace and occupying a high
place among the Imperial _entourage_, she was outside in the open square
upon the skirts of a tumultuous swaying crowd.
Her glance, wandering around, rested upon the façade of the Hôtel de
l’Etat Major, the seat of various governmental departments. Situated upon
the south side of the Imperial Square, its front, nearly two furlongs in
length, sweeps round in a magnificent arc, and faces the south side of
the Winter Palace. The windows and balconies of this vast edifice were
occupied by groups of well-dressed men and women, whose elevated position
gave them a good view of all that was going on.
“That’s where we’ll go,” said Pauline, glancing up at one of these
windows.
She drove up to the chief entrance of the hotel, and, being well known to
those in authority there, soon obtained for herself and Wilfrid a place
among a little group upon one of the upper balconies.
As Wilfrid gazed downwards it seemed to him that all the city’s five
hundred thousand inhabitants must be gathered together in the space
fronting the Winter Palace. They were prevented from getting too near the
Imperial edifice by serried ranks of cavalry and infantry, whose numbers
were being increased minute by minute.
Wilfrid, with his semi-military tastes, took pleasure in watching
the advent of the various regiments that from different points kept
continually debouching into the square. Ever and anon from some new
quarter the rolling of drums and the wild strains of martial music
heralded the approach of some fresh band, till it seemed that not only
must all the civilian population of St. Petersburg be there, but the
whole of the Czar’s vast army as well.
And the variety and oddity of the uniforms!
Circassians were there, whose burnished helmets with steel veil falling
upon the shoulder, shirts of linked mail, and long lances, seemed to
recall the days of mediæval chivalry; Polish heydukes, whose upper lips
were adorned by triple moustaches, the first twisted upwards, the second
quite straight, and the third twisted downwards; Zaporogian Cossacks,
whose trousers were smeared with tar to show the wearer’s contempt for
the costly scarlet cloth of which they were composed.
“A soldier’s pride should be in his arms, not in his dress,” remarked
Pauline in reference to these last-named warriors, adding that this
strange practice was permitted by the government.
The marchings, wheelings, and evolutions of these troops were all
directed towards the formation of three main bodies, the first extending
along the entire front of the Palace; at each end a shorter division was
thrown forward at right angles to the main body, so that the arrangement
formed three sides of a rectangle.
The fourth side of the rectangle was formed by the front ranks of the
people, who were kept from pressing into the interior space by mounted
Cossacks, who, whenever the crowd was pushed forward by the pressure from
behind, did not hesitate to ply their whips with merciless vigour.
Upon the open ground thus kept clear by the lash of the Cossacks were
numerous mounted officers, who rode leisurely to and fro, now conversing
with one another, now issuing some order.
Conspicuous among these was General Benningsen on his famous black
steed Pluto; and there, too, was Prince Ouvaroff in command of the
Preobrejanski Guards.
These two, being the only officers known to Wilfrid, came in for a good
deal of his attention, and watching them for some time by the aid of a
lorgnette, he observed that though Benningsen seemed to have a word for
nearly every one among his equals and subalterns, he paid no attention
whatever to Ouvaroff, who, on his part, seemed to ignore the General. It
was evident that there was some estrangement between the two men, who,
till the previous day, had been on good terms; and Wilfrid could not help
wondering to what it was due.
Of the three divisions, that on the right hand, which stood, as
previously said, at right angles with the main body, consisted of
infantry, whose snub noses and upturned moustaches proclaimed them to be
the Paulovski Regiment.
“I don’t see my friend Voronetz among them,” muttered Wilfrid. “I trust
he has not been cashiered.”
Surveying these troops through his lorgnette, he observed that the face
of each, without exception, was marked by a sullen expression, a fact to
which Benningsen was keenly alive, for he eyed them from time to time as
if apprehending some disturbance on their part.
“The Paulovski Guards seem dissatisfied this morning?” remarked Wilfrid
to Pauline.
“Naturally, seeing that they are about to be disbanded.”
“Paul’s favourite regiment to be disbanded! Why?”
“Because they are too faithful to his interests.”
Wilfrid elevated his eyebrows.
“Fidelity is an extraordinary reason for disbanding a regiment.”
“Nevertheless it is the true reason,” replied Pauline.
Though somewhat annoyed at this mystification on her part Wilfrid curbed
his curiosity.
From the crowd his gaze wandered to the rear of the Winter Palace where
flowed the Neva, a broad winding stream of vivid blue. On its surface
floated miniature icebergs, varying in tint from white to rose colour.
Carried along by the current, and assuming every conceivable shape, they
crashed, and dived, and mounted one upon another as if they were trying
each to be first in the race to the sea.
The sounds produced by the collision were like the sharp rattle of
artillery, and could be heard above the hubbub of the crowd.
On the other side of the river, and grimly grey in the morning sunlight,
rose the Petropaulovski Fortress, an object of interest to Wilfrid as
being the place in which he would at that moment have been a prisoner but
for Pauline’s bold rescue.
On the waters of the river before the principal gate of the Citadel
floated a sort of state barge, rich with gilding, and gay with coloured
flags. This Bucentaur was being rapidly filled with officials from the
Citadel, conspicuous among them being the Governor, Count Baranoff.
As soon as he had taken his place in the barge a puff of white smoke
issued from the ramparts, accompanied by salvos of artillery, that were
repeated at regular intervals.
“That gun is a signal that the river is becoming passable for boats,”
said Pauline. “We are about to witness an interesting ceremony.”
“Of what nature?”
“On reaching this side of the river the Governor will proceed to the
Winter Palace, taking with him a goblet containing water from the Neva.
No matter upon what business the Czar may be engaged, custom enjoins that
he shall come forth and drink from the goblet in sight of all the people.
He then returns the cup filled with gold pieces. The ceremony is a kind
of homage paid to the Neva, an acknowledgment of the advantages to be
derived from the free course of commerce.”
“Petersburgers think a good deal of the Neva, then?”
“So much so that I have seen a youth welcomed home from his travels, not
with champagne or the like, but with a goblet of Neva water.”
Wilfrid watched the progress of the Bucentaur. While its rowers plied
their oars, men stationed at the prow and provided with poles kept the
passage clear from the floating ice. In the wake of the state barge
followed a long train of boats, filled with merchants and citizens clad
in gala attire.
Count Baranoff, in his seat of honour, was in a jubilant mood that
morning, as became a man who saw the elements conspiring to favour his
interests. A break-up of the ice in a single night was a phenomenon
almost without parallel in the history of the Neva.
He carried with him a secret, the disclosure of which would remove all
enemies from his path, and open a way for him to the highest offices
in the State. Fondly refusing to believe that any ill _could_ have
happened to Paul—though his brother who sat in the boat with him, was
troubled with doubts—he purposed after the Czar should have performed
the customary ceremony in the matter of the goblet, to ask for a private
interview, in the course of which he would put the treasonable document
into Paul’s hands with the words, “Read that, Sire.”
Eager for the coming of this moment, Baranoff urged the rowers to greater
speed, and as soon as the barge grated against the steps of the granite
quay he sprang hastily ashore, and taking his place among the detachment
of military sent to escort him, he moved onward to the Imperial Square.
His coming drew a satirical smile from Pauline.
“There are surprises for you, Sir Count,” she murmured.
He had now arrived at the principal entrance of the Winter Palace, an
entrance lofty and arched, and surmounted by a spacious balcony, upon
which Paul, whenever the humour took him, was accustomed to show himself
to his people. Against this archway there had been set a staircase,
covered with scarlet cloth, leading to the balcony above it.
Assuming an air of dignity suitable to the occasion, Baranoff ascended
the staircase, bearing in both hands the historic golden goblet filled
with water taken from the Neva.
As he slowly mounted aloft he became the mark of all eyes in and around
the square. His appearance was greeted with a loud “_Hourra!_” from the
crowd. Their long waiting was over. Usage prescribed that the Czar must
come forth without delay to drink from that notable cup.
In truth, before Baranoff had gained the top stair the troops were
presenting arms, and a military band, stationed beneath the balcony,
broke forth into the soul-stirring music of Russia’s national anthem.
A tall window giving access to the balcony was flung wide, and there
stepped forth a lofty and majestic figure, arrayed in a rich uniform.
Behind him came a train of magnates, civil, military, and ecclesiastical;
among this last and bearing in his hands a tall golden cross was the
Archbishop Plato, conspicuous by his long snowy hair and beard, his
stately person and majestic flowing robes.
The train paused while the figure in the rich uniform advanced to the
edge of the balcony, and bowed to the populace, who greeted the action
with thunders of applause.
But though the figure was far distant Wilfrid, without having recourse to
the lorgnette, could tell that it was not Little Paul. Who was it that
thus assumed to himself all the honours of Czardom?
Wilfrid’s feeling was one of surprise merely; that of Baranoff’s was
absolute, overwhelming dismay.
First on the list of conspirators to be denounced by him came the hateful
name of the imprisoned Alexander, and lo! it was Alexander himself that
faced him and put forth his hand for the goblet!
“None but the Czar can drink from this cup,” said Baranoff huskily,
drawing back a pace or two.
“True, and the Czar is before you,” returned the other.
“Yesterday it was Paul.”
“And to-day it is Alexander. To-morrow it may be—who can tell? Is Fortune
ever constant?”
Mechanically Baranoff surrendered the goblet to Alexander, who, turning
to the now silent people, cried with a loud voice—
“To the health of the Russian nation!”
He drank, and returned the goblet to Baranoff, first calling upon one in
attendance to fill it with gold coins in conformity with ancient usage.
The populace looked on in silent wonderment. What mood had come over Paul
that he should depute this duty to the Czarovitch? Was any explanation to
be given? Yes, there was. Hush! little Sasha is speaking.
“People of St. Petersburg, my father Paul——” His voice shook with
emotion. He stopped, and turned to a minister in his rear, as if desiring
him to act as speaker. Count Pahlen, for he it was, proceeded to make the
momentous announcement.
“People of St. Petersburg, it is my melancholy duty to state that last
night our little father Paul was seized with apoplexy, and died at
a quarter to twelve.” He made a pause, and then added, “The Czar is
dead”—and, pointing to Alexander—“Long live the Czar!”
For a moment the people were dumb with surprise. The news seemed too good
to be true. Then a mighty shout rent the air.
“Long live little Sasha!”
The cavalry spontaneously waved their sabres in an ecstasy of loyalty;
among the infantry helmets danced aloft upon the points of bayonets; a
remark, however, not applicable to the Paulovski Guards, who, in spite
of the addresses of their officers, could not be made to show the least
token of enthusiasm.
The civilian crowd, however, were wild with delight; it seemed as if
their cheering would never cease. There could be no doubt as to the
popularity of Alexander with the great mass of the people, and the
ministers upon the balcony, who, for reasons best known to themselves,
had feared that the news of Paul’s death might provoke a very different
feeling, began to be relieved, a relief somewhat discounted when they
noticed the demeanour of the Paulovski Guards, many of whom, having
grounded their rifles, were leaning upon them with a sullen and moody air.
Their action was, of course, unseen by the greater part of the people,
who, after the fashion of crowds, began to make comments upon what they
had just heard.
“The great Catharine was right. She said that Paul would not long outlive
her.”
“True. He hasn’t reigned five years.”
“A terrible blow this—to the Empress Mary.”
“A blow! Say rather a piece of good luck! But yesterday, so ’tis said,
Paul threatened to put her into a convent for life.”
“Lucky, too, for Alexander. To think that he was a prisoner yesterday,
threatened with death, and to-day the Czar!”
There was no disputing the fact that Paul’s departure from this world
had been very opportunely timed for Alexander by that particular angel
who has the arrangement of such matters; very opportunely indeed—so
opportunely that, perhaps, it may not have been an angel at all, but——
There was less cheering now. Men began to stare suspiciously at one
another. But what each thought he kept to himself, mindful of the
Muscovite saying, “If three persons be seen conversing, one of them is a
spy.” How many spies must there be, then, in a crowd so vast! In Russia
the wise man is the silent man.
Wilfrid’s remote situation had prevented him from hearing the
announcement made by Count Pahlen, but he quickly became apprised of it
by the thunderous shouts of “Hourra, Alexander! Hourra, the new Czar!”
“Paul dead!” he exclaimed, turning to the Baroness. “So this is the
secret you have been keeping from me? When did he die?”
“Late last night, suddenly of apoplexy, so Benningsen says. We shall see
a full account of it in to-day’s _Journal de Petersbourg_.”
Wilfrid, aided by the lorgnette, took a long and critical survey of the
new Emperor.
He beheld a man as different in appearance from his father Paul as the
day is from the night. Alexander exhibited in his person all the beauty
of the Romanoff family. His figure, over six feet in height, was well
proportioned and graceful in movement; his hair, light brown in colour,
with a tendency to curl. His face was singularly handsome; he had eyes
of a dark blue, a profile purely Grecian, and a complexion as clear and
almost as colourless as marble. In short, it was no wonder that all the
ladies in St. Petersburg were in love with him, for, externally, he
was just the sort of man to captivate a woman’s imagination. To add to
his attractiveness the graces of his mind were, according to Pauline,
far superior to those of his person. His conversation was lively and
charming. In scholarship he far surpassed his equals in age; indeed, his
grandmother Catharine had kept him to his studies so closely as somewhat
to impair his eyesight.
Wilfrid listened with some indifference as Pauline ran over the list of
the Czar’s accomplishments. Truth to tell, Wilfrid felt a latent spirit
of antagonism to the new ruler, finding—somewhat absurdly it must be
confessed—a ground of complaint in the very fact that he should owe his
recovered freedom to the action of this Czar, for the power to set free
implies likewise the power to imprison. That the liberty of an Englishman
and a Courtenay should depend upon the irresponsible will of an autocrat
of twenty-three was galling to his high spirit. That young man, without
consulting either judge or jury, could banish Wilfrid from his dominions,
and, if he chose, could order Pauline to receive the knout. There was
nothing in Russia to stop him. The wealth, the liberty, the lives of
sixty millions were at his absolute disposal.
When Pauline went on to speak of Alexander’s swordsmanship, and of how,
in that art, he excelled every officer in his army, Wilfrid became
more than ever critical and depreciatory. Empire might belong to the
Romanoffs, but when it came to a question of swordsmanship, let them not
presume too much.
“Can beat every officer in his army, can he?” muttered Wilfrid. “Humph! I
shall never be happy till I have crossed swords with his Czarship.”
Alexander did not retire immediately upon his proclamation as Emperor,
but remained upon the balcony for the space of two or three minutes,
possibly with the object of giving the people time to take a good look
at their new ruler.
And then came a grim and significant incident, never forgotten by those
who witnessed it.
Just as the Archimandrite Plato was preparing to pronounce a benediction
upon the people, and with this view had raised his hand, an action which
produced a solemn hush over the vast assembly, there came a sound like
the shivering of glass. The panes of a window in the lower part of the
palace were falling outward by reason of blows dealt from within, and
through the opening thus caused there leaped forth a wild figure.
Alighting upon all fours in the rear of a squadron of horse, he sprang to
his feet immediately, and though hands, and even sabres, were put forth
to stay his progress, he contrived, by adroitly turning and twisting
beneath the horses’ bellies, to elude capture and to gain the open space
fronting the palace, thus becoming visible to the Czar and his staff
upon the balcony. The incident was not lost upon Wilfrid, who turned his
lorgnette upon this sudden apparition.
Some twenty hours previously Wilfrid had seen the man’s face, but now,
disfigured all over with medical plasters, it was barely recognisable.
“My God! it’s Lieutenant Voronetz!” said a lady sitting next to Pauline.
“And who’s Lieutenant Voronetz?” asked her companion.
“The officer whose duty it is to guard Paul’s bedroom at night.”
Lieutenant Voronetz it was, and a more ghastly figure was never seen.
Moved by some overpowering impulse he had evidently escaped from the
bed in which he had been put by the kindly, or perfunctory, care of the
physician. He wore no clothing except swathings and bandages, which,
criss-crossed all over trunk and limbs, suggested the idea that he had
been hacked and slashed by sharp weapons from head to foot. The exertion
of moving had caused his wounds to open afresh; his linen swathings had
lost all their whiteness—from neck to ankle he was one red hue!
There was death in his face, death within a very short time; why then,
instead of remaining peacefully on his bed, had he chosen to come forth
in this startling fashion?
Voronetz, casting a wild glance around, had no sooner caught sight of the
group upon the balcony than he raised his right arm and fiercely shook it
at Alexander. With a thrill of horror Wilfrid perceived that the arm thus
raised was without a hand—it had been severed at the wrist!
Those who at that moment happened to be looking at the Czar whispered
afterwards that he trembled and turned pale. The benediction that the
Archimandrite was about to pronounce died upon his lips.
Turning from the balcony the grim red figure ran, or, to put it more
correctly, reeled forward in the direction of the Paulovski Guards.
Trotting quietly in his rear, as if to keep an eye upon him, came
Benningsen upon his black horse Pluto.
“Men of the Paulovski Guards,” gasped Voronetz in a hollow voice, “do not
... shout for ... Alexander! Listen! I have a tale ... to ... tell....”
“Tell it, then, in hell!” growled Benningsen, as he whirled his sabre on
high.
Men talked for days afterwards of that mighty stroke. When Benningsen
lifted his sabre again Voronetz lay on the ground, cloven from skull to
breast!
Angry cries broke from the Paulovski Guards. Many of them levelled their
rifles at Benningsen, who, to do him justice, did not flinch at this
critical moment.
“Eyes right!” he yelled.
So well had these troops been drilled that in a moment their eyes, in
spite of their will, turned to the right.
There was no need for Benningsen to say more. The Guards saw what he
wanted them to see.
A body of infantry near by had suddenly receded some six paces or more,
revealing the startling fact that they had been posted as a sort of
screen to mask a battery of twenty cannon, whose gleaming nozzles,
obliquely turned, were trained full upon the whole line of the Paulovski
Guards. Beside each piece stood a gunner ready with lighted match. If
that battery should be discharged it was certain that, though many
civilians in the rear would at the same time fall, the Paulovski Guards
themselves would be blown out of existence, and with the recognition of
that fact vanished, for that day at least, all hope of revolt.
“Pile arms, ye snub-noses!—Paulovski Guards that were!” said Benningsen
with an insulting smile.
Slowly and sullenly the discomfited regiment proceeded to obey, and
defiled from the square, escorted on each side by mounted Cossacks, who
grinned rejoicingly that an end had come to the favoured regiment with
its high privileges and high pay.
The young Emperor turned away, his face already shadowed by that
melancholy that was never to leave it.
“What a beginning to a reign!” he murmured.
“Sire, its future glory shall make men forget its beginning,” said Count
Pahlen.