Four weeks had passed since Biron, Duke of Courland, had commenced his
rule over Russia, as regent, in the name of the infant Emperor Ivan. The
Russian people had with indifference submitted to this new ruler, and
manifested the same subjection to him as to his predecessor. It was all
the same to them whoever sat in godlike splendor upon the magnificent
imperial throne--what care that mass of degraded slaves, who are
crawling in the dust, for the name by which their tyrants are called?
They remain what they are, slaves; and the one upon the throne remains
what he is, their absolute lord and tyrant, who has the right to-day to
scourge them with whips, to-morrow to make them barons and counts, and
perhaps the next day to send them to Siberia, or subject them to the
infliction of the fatal knout. Whoever proclaims himself emperor or
dictator, is greeted by the Russian people, that horde of creeping
slaves, as their lord and master, the supreme disposer of life and
death, while they crawl in the dust at his feet.
They had sworn allegiance to the Regent Biron, as they had to the
Empress Anna; they threw themselves upon the earth when they met him,
they humbly bared their heads when passing his palace; and when the
magnates of the realm, the princes and counts of Russia, in their
proud equipages, discovered the regent’s carriage in the distance, they
ordered a halt, descended from their vehicles, and bowed themselves to
the ground before their passing lord. In Russia, all distinctions of
rank cease in the presence of the ruler; there is but one lord, and one
trembling slave, be he prince or beggar, and that lord must be obeyed,
whether he commands a murder or any other crime. The word and will of
the emperor purify and sanctify every act, blessing it and making it
honorable.
Biron was emperor, although he bore only the name of regent; he had the
power and the dominion; the infant nurseling Ivan, the minor emperor,
was but a shadow, a phantom, having the appearance but not the reality
of lordship; he was a thing unworthy of notice; he could make no one
tremble with fear, and therefore it was unnecessary to crawl in the dust
before him.
Homage was paid to the Regent Biron, Duke of Courland; the palace of
Prince Ulrich of Brunswick, and his son, the Emperor Ivan, stood empty
and desolate. No one regarded it, and yet perhaps it was worthy of
regard.
Yet many repaired to this quiet, silent palace, to know whom Biron would
perhaps have given princedoms and millions! But no one was there to
betray them to the regent; they were very silent and very cautious in
the palace of the Prince of Brunswick and his wife the Princess Anna
Leopoldowna.
It was, as we have said, about four weeks after the commencement of the
regency of the Duke of Courland, when a sedan-chair was set down before
a small back door of the Duchess Anna Leopoldowna’s palace; it had
been borne and accompanied by four serfs, over whose gold-embroidered
liveries, as if to protect them from the weather, had been laid a
tolerably thick coat of dust and sweat. Equally splendid, elegant, and
unclean was the chair which the servants now opened for the purpose of
aiding their age-enfeebled master to emerge from it. That person,
who now made his appearance, was a shrunken, trembling, coughing old
gentleman; his small, bent, distorted form was wrapped in a fur cloak
which, somewhat tattered, permitted a soiled and faded under-dress
to make itself perceptible, giving to the old man the appearance of
indigence and slovenliness. Nothing, not even the face, or the thin and
meagre hands he extended to his servants, was neat and cleanly; nothing
about him shone but his eyes, those gray, piercing eyes with their fiery
side-glances and their now kind and now sly and subtle expression. This
ragged and untidy old man might have been taken for a beggar, had not
his dirty fingers and his faded neck-tie, whose original color was
hardly discoverable, flashed with brilliants of an unusual size, and had
not the arms emblazoned upon the door of his chair, in spite of the dust
and dirt, betrayed a noble rank. The arms were those of the Ostermann
family, and this dirty old man in the ragged cloak was Count Ostermann,
the famous Russian statesman, the son of a German preacher, who had
managed by wisdom, cunning, and intrigue to continue in place under five
successive Russian emperors or regents, most of whom had usually been
thrust from power by some bloody means. Czar Peter, who first appointed
him as a minister of state, and confided to him the department of
foreign affairs, on his death-bed said to his successor, the first
Catherine, that Ostermann was the only one who had never made a false
step, and recommended him to his wife as a prop to the empire. Catherine
appointed him imperial chancellor and tutor of Peter II.; he knew how to
secure and preserve the favor of both, and the successor of Peter II.,
the Empress Anna, was glad to retain the services of the celebrated
statesman and diplomatist who had so faithfully served her predecessors.
From Anna he came to her favorite, Baron of Courland, who did not
venture to remove one whose talents had gained for him so distinguished
a reputation, and who in any case might prove a very dangerous enemy.
But with Count Ostermann it had gone as with Count Munnich. Neither
of them had been able to obtain from the regent any thing more than a
confirmation of their offices and dignities, to which Biron, jealous
of power, had been unwilling to make any addition. Deceived in their
expectations, vexed at this frustration of their plans, they had both
come to the determination to overthrow the man who was unwilling to
advance them; they had become Biron’s enemies because he did not show
himself their friend, and, openly devoted to him and bowing in the
dust before him, they had secretly repaired to his bitterest enemy,
the Duchess Anna Leopoldowna, to offer her their services against the
haughty regent who swayed the iron sceptre of his despotic power over
Russia.
A decisive conversation was this day to be held with the duchess and her
husband, Prince Ulrich of Brunswick, and therefore, an unheard-of case,
had even Count Ostermann resolved to leave his dusty room for some hours
and repair to the palace of the Duchess Anna Leopoldowna.
“Slowly, slowly, ye knaves,” groaned Ostermann, as he ascended the
narrow winding stairs with the aid of his servants. “See you not, you
hounds, that every one of your movements causes me insufferable pain?
Ah, a fearful illness is evidently coming; it is already attacking my
limbs, and pierces and agonizes every part of my system! Let my bed be
prepared at home, you scamps, and have a strengthening soup made ready
for me. And now away, fellows, and woe to you if, during my absence,
either one of you should dare to break into the store-room or
wine-cellar! You know that I have good eyes, and am cognizant of every
article on hand, even to its exact weight and measure. Take care,
therefore, take care! for if but an ounce of meat or a glass of wine
is missing, I will have you whipped, you hounds, until the blood flows.
That you may depend upon!”
And, dismissing his assistants with a kick, Count Ostermann ascended the
last steps of the winding stairs alone and unaided. But, before opening
the door at the head of the stairs, he took time for reflection.
“Hem! perhaps it would have been better for me to have been already
taken ill, for if this plan should miscarry, and the regent discover
that I was in the palace to-day, how then? Ah, I already seem to feel
a draught of Siberian air! But no, it will succeed, and how would that
ambitious Munnich triumph should it succeed without me! No, for this
time I must be present, to the vexation of Munnich, that he may not put
all Russia in his pocket! The good man has such large pockets and such
grasping hands!”
Nodding and smiling to himself, Ostermann opened the door of the
anteroom. A rapid, searching glance satisfied him that he was alone
there, but his brow darkened when he observed Count Munnich’s mantle
lying upon a chair.
“Ah, he has preceded me,” peevishly murmured Ostermann. “Well, well,
we can afford once more to yield the precedence to him. To-day
he--to-morrow I! My turn will come to-morrow!”
Quite forgetting his illness and his pretended pains, he rapidly crossed
the spacious room, and, throwing his ragged fur cloak upon Munnich’s
mantle, said:
“A poor old cloak like this is yet in condition to render that
resplendent uniform invisible. Not a spangle of that magnificent gold
embroidery can be seen, it is all overshadowed by the ragged old cloak
which Munnich so much despises! Oh, the good field-marshal will rejoice
to find his mantle in such good company, and I hope my cloak may
leave some visible memento upon its embroidered companion. Well, the
field-marshal is a brave man, and I have given him an opportunity to
make a campaign against his own mantle! The fool, why does he dislike
these good little animals, and would yet be a Russian!”
As, however, he opened the door of the next room, his form again took
its former shrunken, frail appearance, and his features again bore the
expression of suffering and exhaustion.
“Ah, it is you,” said Prince Ulrich, advancing to meet the count, while
Munnich stood near a writing-table, in earnest conversation with Anna
Leopoldowna, to whom he seemed to be explaining something upon a sheet
of paper.
“We have waited long for you, my dear count,” continued the prince,
offering his hand to the new-comer, with a smile.
“The old and the sick always have the misfortune to arrive too late,”
said Count Ostermann, “pain and suffering are such hinderances, your
grace. And, moreover, I have only come in obedience to the wishes of
your highness, well knowing that I am superfluous here. What has the
feeble old man to do in the councils of the strong?”
“To represent wisdom in council,” said the prince, “and for that, you
are precisely the man, count.”
“Ah, Count Ostermann,” at this moment interposed Munnich, “it is well
you have come. You will be best able to tell their excellencies whether
I am right or not.”
“Field-Marshall Munnich is always right,” said Ostermann, with a
pleasant smile. “I unconditionally say ‘yes’ to whatever you may have
proposed, provided that it is not a proposition of which my judgment
cannot approve.”
“That is a very conditional yes!” exclaimed the duchess, laughing.
“A ‘yes,’ all perforated with little back doors through which a ‘no’ may
conveniently enter,” laughed the prince.
“The back doors are in all cases of the greatest importance,” said Count
Ostermann, earnestly. “Through back doors one often attains to the rooms
of state, and had your palace here accidentally had no back door for the
admission of us, your devoted servants, who knows, your highness Anna,
whether you would on this very night become regent!”
“On this night!” suddenly exclaimed Munnich. “You see, your highness,
that Count Ostermann is wholly of my opinion. It must be done this
night!”
“That would be overhaste,” cried the duchess; “we are not yet prepared!”
“Nor is the regent, Biron of Courland,” thoughtfully interposed
Ostermann; “and, therefore, our overhaste would take Biron by surprise.”
“Decidedly my opinion,” said Munnich. “All is lost if we give the regent
time and leisure to make his arrangements. If we do not annihilate him
to-day, he may, perhaps, send us to Siberia to-morrow.”
The duchess turned pale; a trembling ran through her tall, noble form.
“I so much dread the shedding of blood!” said she.
“Oh, I am not at all vain,” said Ostermann. “I find it much less
unpleasant to see the blood of others flowing than my own. It may be
egotism, but I prefer keeping my blood in my veins to exposing it to the
gaping curiosity of an astonished crowd!”
“You think, then, that he already suspects, and would murder us?”
“You, us, and also your son, the Emperor Ivan.”
“Also my son!” exclaimed Leopoldowna, her eyes flashing like those of an
enraged lioness. “Ah, I should know how to defend my son. Let Biron fall
this night!”
“So be it!” unanimously exclaimed the three men.
“He has driven us to this extremity,” said the princess. “Not enough
that he has banished our friends and faithful servants, surrounding us
with his miserable creatures and spies--not enough that he wounds and
humiliates us in every way--he would rend the young emperor from us, his
parents, his natural protectors. We are attacked in our holiest rights,
and must, therefore, defend ourselves.”
“But what shall we do with this small Biron, when he is no longer the
great regent?” asked Ostermann.
“We will make him by a head smaller,” said Munnich, laughing.
“No,” vehemently exclaimed Leopoldowna--“no, no blood shall flow! Not
with blood shall our own and our son’s rights be secured! Swear this
gentlemen, or I will never give my consent to the undertaking.”
“I well knew that your highness would so decide,” said Munnich, with a
smile, drawing a folded paper from his bosom. “In proof of which I hand
this paper to your highness.”
“Ah, what is this?” said the duchess, unfolding the paper; “it is the
ground plan of a house!”
“Of the house we will have built for Biron in Siberia,” said Munnich; “I
have drawn the plan myself.”
“In fact, you are a skilful architect, Count Munnich,” said Ostermann,
laughing, while casting an interrogating glance at the paper which Anna
was still thoughtfully examining. “How well you have arranged it all!
How delightful these snug little chambers will be! There will be just
space enough in them to turn around in. But these small chambers seem to
be a little too low. They are evidently not more than five feet high.
As Biron, however, has about your height, he will not be able to stand
upright in them.”
“Bah! for that very reason!” said Munnich, with a cruel laugh. “He has
carried his head high long enough; now he may learn to bow.”
“But that will be a continual torment!” exclaimed the Duke of Brunswick.
“On, has he not tormented us?” angrily responded Munnich. “We need
reprisals.”
“How strange and horrible!” said Anna Leopoldowna, shuddering; “this man
is now standing here clothed with unlimited power, and we are already
holding in our hands the plan of his prison!”
“Yes, yes, and with this plan in his pocket will Count Munnich now go
to dine with Biron and enjoy his hospitality!” laughingly exclaimed
Ostermann. “Ah, that must make the dinner particularly piquant! How
agreeable it must be to press the regent’s hand, and at the same time
feel the rustling in your pocket of the paper upon which you have drawn
the plan of his Siberian prison! But you are in the right. The regent
has deeply offended you. How could he dare refuse to make you his
generalissimo?”
“Ah, it is not for that,” said Munnich with embarrassment; and, seeking
to give the conversation a different turn, he continued--“ah, see, Count
Ostermann, what a terrible animal is crawling there upon your dress!”
“Policy, nothing but policy,” tranquilly responded Ostermann, while the
princess turned away with an expression of repugnance.
“Well,” cried the prince, laughing, “explain to us, Count Ostermann,
what those disgusting insects have to do with policy or politics?”
“We are all four Germans,” said Ostermann, “and consequently are all
familiar with the common saying, ‘Tell me the company you keep, and I
will tell you what you are!’ I have always kept that in mind since I
have been in Russia; and to make this good people forget that I am a
foreigner, I have taken particular pains to furnish myself with a supply
of their dirt and of these delicate insects. If any one asks me who I
am, I show him these creatures with whom I associate, and he immediately
concludes that I am a Russian.”
Ostermann joined in the laugh that followed this explanation, but
suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, and sank down upon a chair.
“Ah, these pains will be the death of me!” he moaned--“ah, I already
feel the ravages of death in my blood; yes, I have long known that
a dangerous malady was hovering over me, and my death-bed is already
prepared at home! I am a poor failing old man, and who knows whether I
shall outlive the evening of this day?”
While Ostermann was thus lamenting, and the prince with kindly sympathy
was occupied about him, Munnich had returned the drawing to his pocket,
and was speaking in a low tone to the duchess of some yet necessary
preparations for the night. Count Ostermann, notwithstanding his
lamentations and his pretended pains, had yet a sharp ear for every
word they spoke. He very distinctly heard the duchess say: “Well, I am
satisfied! I shall expect you at about two o’clock in the morning, and
if the affair is successful, you, Count Munnich, may be sure of my
most fervent gratitude; you will then have liberated Russia, the young
emperor, and myself, from a cruel and despotic tyrant, and I shall be
eternally beholden to you.”
Count Munnich’s brow beamed with inward satisfaction. “I shall, then,
attain my ends,” thought he. Aloud he said: “Your highness, I have but
one wish and one request; if you are willing to fulfil this, then will
there be nothing left on earth for me to desire.”
“Then name your request at once, that I may grant it in advance!” said
the princess, with a smile.
“The man is getting on rapidly, and will even now get the appointment of
generalissimo,” thought Ostermann. “That must never be; I must prevent
it!”
And just as Munnich was opening his mouth to prefer his request,
Ostermann suddenly uttered so loud and piteous a cry of anguish that the
compassionate and alarmed princess hastened to offer him her sympathy
and aid.
At this moment the clock upon the wall struck four. That was the hour
for which Munnich was invited to dine with the regent. It would not do
to fail of his engagement to-day--he must be punctual, to avoid exciting
suspicion. He, therefore, had no longer the time to lay his request
before the princess; consequently Count Ostermann had accomplished his
object, and secretly triumphing, he loudly groaned and complained of his
sufferings.
Count Munnich took his leave.
“I go now,” he smilingly said, “to take my last dinner with the Duke of
Courland. I shall return this night at the appointed hour. We shall then
convert the duke into a Siberian convict, which, at all events, will be
a very interesting operation.”
Thus he departed, with a horrible laugh upon his lips, to keep his
appointment with the regent.
Count Ostermann had again attained his end--he remained alone with the
princely pair. Had Munnich been the first who came, Ostermann was the
last to go.
“Ah,” said he, rising with apparent difficulty, “I will now bear my old,
diseased body to my dwelling, to repose and perhaps to die upon my bed
of pain.”
“Not to die, I hope,” said Anna.
“You must live, that you may see us in our greatness,” said the prince.
Ostermann feebly shook his head. “I see, I see it all,” said he. “You
will liberate yourself from one tyrant, your highness, to become the
prey of another. The eyes of the dying see clear, and I tell you,
duchess, you were already on the point of giving away the power you have
attained. Know you what Munnich’s demand will be?”
“Well?”
“He will demand what Biron refused him, and for which refusal Munnich
became his enemy. He will ask you to appoint him generalissimo of all
your forces by land and sea.”
“Then will he demand what naturally belongs to me,” said the prince,
excitedly, “and we shall of course refuse it.”
“Yes, we must refuse it,” repeated the princess.
“And in that you will do well,” said Count Ostermann. “I may venture to
say so, as I have no longer the least ambition--death will soon relieve
me from all participation in affairs of state. I am a feeble old man,
and desire nothing more than to be allowed occasionally to impart good
counsels to my benefactors. And this is now my advice: Guard yourselves
against the ambition of Count Munnich.”
“We shall bear your counsel in mind,” said the prince.
“We will not appoint him generalissimo!” exclaimed the princess. “He
must never forget that he is our servant, and we his masters.”
“And now permit me to go, your highness,” said Ostermann. “Will you
have the kindness, prince, to command your lackeys to bear me to my
sedan-chair? It is impossible for me to walk a step. Yes, yes, while you
are this night contending for a throne, I shall, perhaps, be struggling
with death.”
And with a groan, sinking back into the arms of the lackeys whom the
prince had called, Ostermann suffered himself to be carried down to his
chair, which awaited him at the door. He groaned and cried out as they
placed him in it, but as soon as its doors were closed and his serfs
were trotting with him toward his own palace, the suffering expression
vanished from Ostermann’s face, and a sly smile of satisfaction played
upon his lips.
“I think I have well employed my time,” he muttered to himself. “The
good Munnich will never become generalissimo, and poor old failing
Ostermann may now, unsuspected, go quietly to bed and comfortably await
the coming events. Such an illness, at the right time, is an insurance
against all accidents and miscarriages. I learned that after the death
of Peter II. Who knows what would then have become of me had I not been
careful to remain sick in bed until Anna had mounted the throne? I will,
therefore, again be sick, and in the morning we shall see! Should
this conjuration succeed, very well; then, perhaps, old Ostermann will
gradually recover sufficient health to take yet a few of the burdens
of state upon his own shoulders, and thus relieve the good Munnich of a
part of his cares!”