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[Illustration: THE KREMLIN.]
Edition d'Elite
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
_Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from the
Dramatists," etc._
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume VIII
Russian
J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1898, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
THE ANCIENT SCYTHIANS 5
OLEG THE VARANGIAN 14
THE VENGEANCE OF QUEEN OLGA 21
VLADIMIR THE GREAT 29
THE LAWGIVER OF RUSSIA 41
THE YOKE OF THE TARTARS 49
THE VICTORY OF THE DON 55
IVAN, THE FIRST OF THE CZARS 60
THE FALL OF NOVGOROD THE GREAT 64
IVAN THE TERRIBLE 74
THE CONQUEST OF SIBERIA 80
THE MACBETH OF RUSSIA 85
THE ERA OF THE IMPOSTORS 101
THE BOOKS OF ANCESTRY 110
BOYHOOD OF PETER THE GREAT 114
CARPENTER PETER OF ZAANDAM 123
THE FALL OF THE STRELITZ 132
THE CRUSADE AGAINST BEARDS AND CLOAKS 142
MAZEPPA, THE COSSACK CHIEF 149
A WINDOW OPEN TO EUROPE 155
FROM THE HOVEL TO THE THRONE 165
BUFFOONERIES OF THE RUSSIAN COURT 174
HOW A WOMAN DETHRONED A MAN 184
A STRUGGLE FOR A THRONE 195
THE FLIGHT OF THE KALMUCKS 202
A MAGICAL TRANSFORMATION SCENE 220
KOSCIUSKO AND THE FALL OF POLAND 226
SUWARROW THE UNCONQUERABLE 231
THE RETREAT OF NAPOLEON'S GRAND ARMY 241
THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF POLAND 248
SCHAMYL, THE HERO OF CIRCASSIA 258
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 267
THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL 276
AT THE GATES OF CONSTANTINOPLE 284
THE NIHILISTS AND THEIR WORK 293
THE ADVANCE OF RUSSIA IN ASIA 300
THE RAILROAD IN TURKESTAN 311
AN ESCAPE FROM THE MINES OF SIBERIA 319
THE SEA FIGHT IN THE WATERS OF JAPAN 329
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
RUSSIAN.
PAGE
THE KREMLIN _Frontispiece._
CATHEDRAL AT OSTANKINO, NEAR MOSCOW 40
GENERAL VIEW OF MOSCOW 55
CHURCH AND TOWER OF IVAN THE GREAT 78
KIAKHTA, SIBERIA 84
CHURCH OF THE ASSUMPTION, MOSCOW, IN WHICH
THE CZAR IS CROWNED 109
ALEXANDER III., CZAR OF RUSSIA 122
DINING-ROOM IN THE PALACE OF PETER THE GREAT,
MOSCOW 136
PETER THE GREAT 142
ST. PETERSBURG HARBOR, NEVA RIVER 156
SLEIGHING IN RUSSIA 160
A RUSSIAN DROSKY 189
THE CITY OF KASAN 199
SCENE ON A RUSSIAN FARM 223
RUSSIAN PEASANTS 249
MOUNT ST. PETER, CRIMEA 267
THE WALLS OF CONSTANTINOPLE 290
THE ARREST OF A NIHILIST 297
DOWAGER CZARINA OF RUSSIA 300
GROUP OF SIBERIANS 320
_THE ANCIENT SCYTHIANS._
Far over the eastern half of Europe extends a vast and mighty plain,
spreading thousands of miles to the north and south, to the east and
west, in the north a land of forests, in the south and east a region of
treeless levels. Here stretches the Black Land, whose deep dark soil is
fit for endless harvests; here are the arable steppes, a vast fertile
prairie land, and here again the barren steppes, fit only for wandering
herds and the tents of nomad shepherds. Across this great plain, in all
directions, flow myriads of meandering streams, many of them swelling
into noble rivers, whose waters find their outlet in great seas. Over it
blow the biting winds of the Arctic zone, chaining its waters in fetters
of ice for half the year. On it in summer shine warm suns, in whose
enlivening rays life flows full again.
Such is the land with which we have to deal, Russia, the seeding-place
of nations, the home of restless tribes. Here the vast level of Northern
Asia spreads like a sea over half of Europe, following the lowlands
between the Urals and the Caspian Sea. Over these broad plains the
fierce horsemen of the East long found an easy pathway to the rich and
doomed cities of the West. Russia was playing its part in the grand
drama of the nations in far-off days when such a land was hardly known
to exist.
Have any of my readers ever from a hill-top looked out over a broad,
low-lying meadow-land filled with morning mist, a dense white shroud
under which everything lay hidden, all life and movement lost to view?
In such a scene, as the mist thins under the rays of the rising sun,
vague forms at first dimly appear, magnified and monstrous in their
outlines, the shadows of a buried wonderland. Then, as the mist slowly
lifts, like a great white curtain, living and moving objects appear
below, still of strange outlines and unnatural dimensions. Finally, as
if by the sweep of an enchanter's wand, the mists vanish, the land lies
clear under the solar rays, and we perceive that these seeming monsters
and giants are but the familiar forms which we know so well, those of
houses and trees, men and their herds, actively stirring beneath us,
clearly revealed as the things of every day.
It is thus that the land of Russia appears to us when the mists of
prehistoric time first begin to lift. Half-formed figures appear,
rising, vanishing, showing large through the vapor; stirring,
interwoven, endlessly coming and going; a phantasmagoria which it is
impossible more than half to understand. At that early date the great
Russian plain seems to have been the home of unnumbered tribes of varied
race and origin, made up of men doubtless full of hopes and aspirations
like ourselves, yet whose story we fail to read on the blurred page of
history, and concerning whom we must rest content with knowing a few of
the names.
Yet progressive civilizations had long existed in the countries to the
south, Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Persia. History was actively being
made there, but it had not penetrated the mist-laden North. The Greeks
founded colonies on the northern shores of the Black Sea, but they
troubled themselves little about the seething tribes with whom they came
there into contact. The land they called Scythia, and its people
Scythians, but the latter were scarcely known until about 500 B.C., when
Darius, the great Persian king, crossed the Danube and invaded their
country. He found life there in abundance, and more warlike activity
than he relished, for the fierce nomads drove him and his army in terror
from their soil, and only fortune and a bridge of boats saved them from
perishing.
It was this event that first gave the people of old Russia a place on
the page of history. Herodotus, the charming old historian and
story-teller, wrote down for us all he could learn about them, though
what he says has probably as much fancy in it as fact.
We are told that these broad levels were formerly inhabited by a people
called the Cimmerians, who were driven out by the Scythians and went--it
is hard to tell whither. A shadow of their name survives in the Crimea,
and some believe that they were the ancestors of the Cymri, the Celts of
the West.
The Scythians, who thus came into history like a cloud of war, made the
god of war their chief deity. The temples which they built to this deity
were of the simplest, being great heaps of fagots, which were added to
every year as they rotted away under the rains. Into the top of the
heap was thrust an ancient iron sword as the emblem of the god. To this
grim symbol more victims were sacrificed than to all the other deities;
not only cattle and horses, but prisoners taken in battle, of whom one
out of every hundred died to honor the god, their blood being caught in
vessels and poured on the sword.
A people with a worship like this must have been savage in grain. To
prove their prowess in war they cut off the heads of the slain and
carried them to the king. Like the Indians of the West, they scalped
their enemies. These scalps, softened by treatment, they used as napkins
at their meals, and even sewed them together to make cloaks. Here was a
refinement in barbarity undreamed of by the Indians.
These were not their only savage customs. They drank the blood of the
first enemy killed by them in battle, and at their high feasts used
drinking-cups made from the skulls of their foes. When a chief died
cruelty was given free vent. The slaves and horses of the dead chief
were slain at his grave, and placed upright like a circle of horsemen
around the royal tomb, being impaled on sharp timbers to keep them in an
upright position.
Tribes with habits like these have no history. There is nothing in their
careers worth the telling, and no one to tell it if there were. Their
origin, manners, and customs may be of interest, but not their
intertribal quarrels.
Herodotus tells us of others besides the Scythians. There were the
Melanchlainai, who dressed only in black; the Neuri, who once a year
changed into wolves; the Agathyrei, who took pleasure in trinkets of
gold; the Sauromati, children of the Amazons, or women warriors; the
Argippei, bald-headed and snub-nosed from their birth; the Issedones,
who feasted on the dead bodies of their parents; the Arimaspians, a
one-eyed race; the Gryphons, guardians of great hoards of gold; the
Hyperboreans, in whose land white feathers (snow-flakes?) fell all the
year round from the skies.
Such is the mixture of fact and fable which Herodotus learned from the
traders and travellers of Greece. We know nothing of these tribes but
the names. Their ancestors may have dwelt for thousands of years on the
Russian plains; their descendants may still make up part of the great
Russian people and retain some of their old-time habits and customs; but
of their doings history takes no account.
The Scythians, who occupied the south of Russia, came into contact with
the Greek trading colonies north of the Black Sea, and gained from them
some little veneer of civilization. They aided the Greeks in their
commerce, took part in their caravans to the north and east, and spent
some portion of the profits of their peaceful labor in objects of art
made for them by Greek artists.
This we know, for some of these objects still exist. Jewels owned by the
ancient Scythians may be seen to-day in Russian museums. Chief in
importance among these relics are two vases of wonderful interest kept
in the museum of the Hermitage, at St. Petersburg. These are the silver
vase of Nicopol and the golden vase of Kertch, both probably as old as
the days of Herodotus. These vases speak with history. On the silver
vase we may see the faces and forms of the ancient Scythians, men with
long hair and beards and large features. They resemble in dress and
aspect the people who now dwell in the same country, and they are shown
in the act of breaking in and bridling their horses, just as their
descendants do to-day. Progress has had no place on these broad plains.
There life stands still.
On the golden vase appear figures who wear pointed caps and dresses
ornamented in the Asiatic fashion, while in their hands are bows of
strange shape. But their features are those of men of Aryan descent, and
in them we seem to see the far-off progenitors of the modern Russians.
Herodotus, in his chatty fashion, tells us various problematical stories
of the Scythians, premising that he does not believe them all himself. A
tradition with them was that they were the youngest of all nations,
being descended from Targitaus, one of the numerous sons of Jove. The
three children of Targitaus for a time ruled the land, but their joint
rule was changed by a prodigy. There fell from the skies four implements
of gold,--a plough, a yoke, a battle-axe, and a drinking-cup. The oldest
brother hastened eagerly to seize this treasure, but it burst into flame
at his approach. The second then made the attempt, but was in his turn
driven back by the scorching flames. But on the approach of the youngest
the flames vanished, the gold grew cool, and he was enabled to take
possession of the heaven-given implements. His elders then withdrew from
the throne, warned by this sign from the gods, and left him sole ruler.
The story proceeds that the royal gold was guarded with the greatest
care, yearly sacrifices being made in its honor. If its guardian fell
asleep in the open air during the sacrifices he was doomed to die within
the year. But as reward for the faithful keeping of his trust he
received as much land as he could ride round on horseback in a day.
The old historian further tells us that the Scythian warriors invaded
the kingdom of Media, which they conquered and held for twenty-eight
years. During this long absence strange events were taking place at
home. They had held many slaves, whom it was their custom to blind, as
they used them only to stir the milk in the great pot in which koumiss,
their favorite beverage, was made.
The wives of the absent warriors, after years of waiting, gave up all
hopes of their return and married the blind slaves; and while the
masters tarried in Media the children of their slaves grew to manhood.
The time at length came when the warriors, filled with home-sickness,
left the subject realm to seek their native plains. As they marched
onward they found themselves stopped by a great dike, dug from the
Tauric Mountains to Lake Maeotis, behind which stood a host of youthful
warriors. They were the children of the slaves, who were determined to
keep the land for themselves. Many battles were fought, but the young
men held their own bravely, and the warriors were in despair.
Then one of them cried to his fellows,--
"What foolish thing are we doing, Scythians? These men are our slaves,
and every one of them that falls is a loss to us; while each of us that
falls reduces our number. Take my advice, lay aside spear and bow, and
let each man take his horsewhip and go boldly up to them. So long as
they see us with arms in our hands they fancy that they are our equals
and fight us bravely. But let them see us with only whips, and they will
remember that they are slaves and flee like dogs from before our faces."
It happened as he said. As the Scythians approached with their whips the
youths were so astounded that they forgot to fight, and ran away in
trembling terror. And so the warriors came home, and the slaves were put
to making koumiss again.
These fabulous stories of the early people of Russia may be followed by
an account of their funeral customs, left for us by an Arabian writer
who visited their land in the ninth century. He tells us that for ten
days after the death of one of their great men his friends bewailed him,
showing the depth of their grief by getting drunk on koumiss over his
corpse.
Then the men-servants were asked which of them would be buried with his
master. The one that consented was instantly seized and strangled. The
same question was put to the women, one of whom was sure to accept.
There may have been some rare future reward offered for death in such a
cause. The willing victim was bathed, adorned, and treated like a
princess, and did nothing but drink and sing while the obsequies lasted.
On the day fixed for the end of the ceremonies, the dead man was laid in
a boat, with part of his arms and garments. His favorite horse was slain
and laid in the boat, and with it the corpse of the man-servant. Then
the young girl was led up. She took off her jewels, a glass of kvass was
put in her hand, and she sang a farewell song.
"All at once," says the writer, "the old woman who accompanied her, and
whom they called the angel of death, bade her to drink quickly, and to
enter into the cabin of the boat, where lay the dead body of her master.
At these words she changed color, and as she made some difficulty about
entering, the old woman seized her by the hair, dragged her in, and
entered with her. The men immediately began to beat their shields with
clubs to prevent the other girls from hearing the cries of their
companion, which might prevent them one day dying for their master."
The boat was then set on fire, and served as a funeral pile, in which
living and dead alike were consumed.
_OLEG THE VARANGIAN._
For ages and ages, none can say how many, the great plain of Russia
existed as a nursery of tribes, some wandering with their herds, some
dwelling in villages and tilling their fields, but all warlike and all
barbarians. And over this plain at intervals swept conquering hordes
from Asia, the terrible Huns, the devastating Avars, and others of
varied names. But as yet the Russia we know did not exist, and its very
name had never been heard.
As time went on, the people in the centre and north of the country
became peaceful and prosperous, since the invaders did not cross their
borders, and a great and wealthy city arose, whose commerce in time
extended on the east as far as Persia and India, on the south to
Constantinople, and on the west far through the Baltic Sea. Though
seated in Russia, still largely a land of barbarous tribes, Novgorod
became one of the powerful cities of the earth, making its strength felt
far and wide, placing the tribes as far as the Ural Mountains under
tribute, and growing so strong and warlike that it became a common
saying among the people, "Who can oppose God and Novgorod the Great?"
But trouble arose for Novgorod. Its chief trade lay through the Baltic
Sea, and here its ships met those terrible Scandinavian pirates who were
then the ocean's lords. Among these bold rovers were the Danes who
descended on England, the Normans who won a new home in France, the
daring voyagers who discovered Iceland and Greenland, and those who
sailed up the Mediterranean as far as Constantinople, conquering
kingdoms as they went.
To some of these Scandinavians the merchants of Novgorod turned for aid
against the others. Bands of them had made their way into Russia and
settled on the eastern shores of the Baltic. To these the Novgorodians
appealed in their trouble, and in the year 862 asked three Varangian
brothers, Rurik, Sinaf, and Truvor, to come to their aid. The warlike
brothers did so, seated themselves on the frontier of the republic of
Novgorod, drove off its foes--and became its foes themselves. The people
of Novgorod, finding their trade at the mercy of their allies, submitted
to their power, and in 864 invited Rurik to become their king. His two
brothers had meantime died.
Thus it was that the Russian empire began, for the Varangians came from
a country called Ross, from which their new realm gained the name of
Russia.
Rurik took the title of Grand Prince, made his principal followers lords
of the cities of his new realm, and the republic of Novgorod came to an
end in form, though not in spirit. It is interesting to note at this
point that Russia, which began as a republic, has ended as one of the
most absolute of monarchies. The first step in its subjection was taken
when Novgorod invited Rurik the Varangian to be its prince; the other
steps came later, one by one.
For fifteen years Rurik remained lord of Novgorod, and then died and
left his four-year-old son Igor as his heir, with Oleg, his kinsman, as
regent of the realm. It is the story of Oleg, as told by Nestor, the
gossipy old Russian chronicler, that we propose here to tell, but it
seemed useful to precede it by an account of how the Russian empire came
into existence.
Oleg was a man of his period, a barbarian and a soldier born; brave,
crafty, adventurous, faithful to Igor, his ward, cruel and treacherous
to others. Under his rule the Russian dominions rapidly and widely
increased.
At an earlier date two Varangians, Askhold and Dir by name, had made
their way far to the south, where they became masters of the city of
Kief. They even dared to attack Constantinople, but were driven back
from that great stronghold of the South.
It by no means pleased Oleg to find this powerful kingdom founded in the
land which he had set out to subdue. He determined that Kief should be
his, and in 882 made his way to its vicinity. But it was easier to reach
than to take. Its rulers were brave, their Varangian followers were
courageous, the city was strong. Oleg, doubting his power to win it by
force of arms, determined to try what could be done by stratagem and
treachery.
Leaving his army, and taking Igor with him, he floated down the Dnieper
with a few boats, in which a number of armed men were hidden, and at
length landed near the ancient city of Kief, which stood on high ground
near the river. Placing his warriors in ambush, he sent a messenger to
Askhold and Dir, with the statement that a party of Varangian merchants,
whom the prince of Novgorod had sent to Greece, had just landed, and
desired to see them as friends and men of their own race.
Those were simple times, in which even the rulers of cities did not put
on any show of state. On the contrary, the two princes at once left the
city and went alone to meet the false merchants. They had no sooner
arrived than Oleg threw off his mask. His followers sprang from their
ambush, arms in hand.
"You are neither princes nor of princely birth," he cried; "but I am a
prince, and this is the son of Rurik."
And at a sign from his hand Askhold and Dir were laid dead at his feet.
By this act of base treachery Oleg became the master of Kief. No one in
the city ventured to resist the strong army which he quickly brought up,
and the metropolis of the south opened its gates to the man who had
wrought murder under the guise of war. It is not likely, though, that
Oleg sought to justify his act on any grounds. In those barbarous days,
when might made right, murder was too much an every-day matter to be
deeply considered by any one.
Oleg was filled with admiration of the city he had won. "Let Kief be the
mother of all the Russian cities!" he exclaimed. And such it became, for
he made it his capital, and for three centuries it remained the capital
city of the Russian realm.
What he principally admired it for was its nearness to Constantinople,
the capital of the great empire of the East, on which, like the former
lords of Kief, he looked with greedy and envious eyes.
For long centuries past Greece and the other countries of the South had
paid little heed to the dwellers on the Russian plains, of whose
scattered tribes they had no fear. But with the coming of the
Varangians, the conquest of the tribes, and the founding of a
wide-spread empire, a different state of affairs began, and from that
day to this Constantinople has found the people of the steppes its most
dangerous and persistent foes.
Oleg was not long in making the Greek empire feel his heavy hand.
Filling the minds of his followers and subjects with his own thirst for
blood and plunder, he set out with an army of eighty thousand men, in
two thousand barks, passed the cataracts of the Borysthenes, crossed the
Black Sea, murdered the subjects of the empire in hosts, and, as the
chronicles say, sailed overland with all sails set to the port of
Constantinople itself. What he probably did was to have his vessels
taken over a neck of land on wheels or rollers.
Here he threw the imperial city into mortal terror, fixed his shield on
the very gate of Constantinople, and forced the emperor to buy him off
at the price of an enormous ransom. To the treaty made the Varangian
warriors swore by their gods Perune and Voloss, by their rings, and by
their swords,--gold and steel, the things they honored most and most
desired.
Then back in triumph they sailed to Kief, rich with booty, and ever
after hailing their leader as the Wise Man, or Magician. Eight years
afterwards Oleg made a treaty of alliance and commerce with
Constantinople, in which Greeks and Russians stood on equal footing.
Russia had made a remarkable stride forward as a nation since Rurik was
invited to Novgorod a quarter-century before.
For thirty-three years Oleg held the throne. His was too strong a hand
to yield its power to his ward. Igor must wait for Oleg's death. He had
found a province; he left an empire. In his hands Russia grew into
greatness, and from Novgorod to Kief and far and wide to the right and
left stretched the lands won by his conquering sword.
He was too great a man to die an ordinary death. According to the
tradition, miracle had to do with his passing away. Nestor, the prince
of Russian chroniclers, tells us the following story:
Oleg had a favorite horse, which he rode alike in battle and in the
hunt, until at length a prediction came from the soothsayers that death
would overtake him through his cherished charger. Warrior as he was, he
had the superstition of the pagan, and to avoid the predicted fate he
sent his horse far away, and for years avoided even speaking of it.
Then, moved by curiosity, he asked what had become of the banished
animal.
"It died years ago," was the reply; "only its bones remain."
"So much for your soothsayers," he cried, with a contempt that was not
unmixed with relief. "That, then, is all this prediction is worth! But
where are the bones of my good old horse? I should like to see what
little is left of him."
He was taken to the spot where lay the skeleton of his old favorite, and
gazed with some show of feeling on the bleaching bones of what had once
been his famous war-horse. Then, setting his foot on the skull, he
said,--
"So this is the creature that is destined to be my death."
At that moment a deadly serpent that lay coiled up within the skull
darted out and fixed its poisonous fangs in the conqueror's foot. And
thus ignobly he who had slain men by thousands and conquered an empire
came to his death.
_THE VENGEANCE OF QUEEN OLGA._
The death of Oleg brought Igor his ward, then nearly forty years of age,
to the throne of Rurik his father. And the same old story of bloodshed
and barbarity went on. In those days a king was king in name only. He
was really but the chief of a band of plunderers, who dug wealth from
the world with the sword instead of the spade, threw it away in wild
orgies, and then hounded him into leading them to new wars.
The story of the Northmen is everywhere the same. While in the West they
were harrying England, France, and the Mediterranean countries with fire
and sword, in the East their Varangian kinsmen were spreading
devastation through Russia and the empire of the Greeks.
Like his predecessor, Igor invaded this empire with a great army,
landing in Asia Minor and treating the people with such brutal ferocity
that no earthquake or volcano could have shown itself more merciless.
His prisoners were slaughtered in the most barbarous manner, fire swept
away all that havoc had left, and then the Russian prince sailed in
triumph against Constantinople, with his ten thousand barks manned by
murderers and laden with plunder.
But the Greeks were now ready for their foes. Pouring on them the
terrible Greek fire, they drove them back in dismay to Asia Minor, where
they were met and routed by the land forces of the empire. In the end
Igor hurried home with hardly a third of his great army.
Three years afterward he again led an army in boats against
Constantinople, but this time he was bought off by a tribute of gold,
silver, and precious stuffs, as Oleg had been before him.
Igor was now more than seventy years old, and naturally desired to spend
the remainder of his days in peace, but his followers would not let him
rest. The spoils and tribute of the Greeks had quickly disappeared from
their open hands, and the warlike profligates demanded new plunder.
"We are naked," they bitterly complained, "while the companions of
Sveneld have beautiful arms and fine clothing. Come with us and levy
contributions, that we and you may dwell in plenty together."
Igor obeyed--he could not well help himself--and led them against the
Drevlians, a neighboring nation already under tribute. Marching into
their country, he forced them to pay still heavier tribute, and allowed
his soldiers to plunder to their hearts' content.
Then the warriors of Kief marched back, laden with spoils. But the
wolfish instincts of Igor were aroused. More, he thought, might be
squeezed out of the Drevlians, but he wanted this extra plunder for
himself. So he sent his army on to Kief, and went back with a small
force to the country of the Drevlians, where he held out his hand--with
the sword in it--for more.
He got more than he bargained for. The Drevlians, driven to extremity,
came with arms instead of gold, attacked the king and his few followers,
and killed the whole of them upon the spot. And thus in blood ended the
career of this white-haired tribute-seeker.
The fallen prince left behind him a widow named Olga and a son named
Sviatoslaf, who was still a child, as Igor had been at the death of his
father. So Olga became regent of the kingdom, and Sveneld was made
leader of the army.
How deeply Olga loved Igor we are not prepared to say, but we are told
some strange tales of what she did to avenge him. These tales we may
believe or not, as we please. They are legends only, like those of early
Rome, but they are all the history we have, and so we repeat the story
much as old Nestor has told it.
The death of Igor filled the hearts of the Drevlians with hope. Their
great enemy was gone; the new prince was a child: might they not gain
power as well as liberty? Their prince Male should marry Olga the widow,
and all would be well with them.
So twenty of their leading men were sent to Kief, where they presented
themselves to the queenly regent. Their offer of an alliance was made in
terms suited to the manners of the times.
"We have killed your husband," they said, "because he plundered and
devoured like a wolf. But we would be at peace with you and yours. We
have good princes, under whom our country thrives. Come and marry our
prince Male and be our queen."
Olga listened like one who weighed the offer deeply.
"After all," she said, "my husband is dead, and I cannot bring him to
life again. Your proposal seems good to me. Leave me now, and come again
to-morrow, when I will entertain you before my people as you deserve.
Return to your barks, and when my people come to you to-morrow, say to
them, 'We will not go on horseback or on foot; you must carry us in our
barks.' Thus you will be honored as I desire you to be."
Back went the Drevlians, glad at heart, for the queen had seemed to them
very gracious indeed. But Olga had a deep and wide pit dug before a
house outside the city, and next day she went to that house and sent for
the ambassadors.
"We will not go on foot or on horseback," they said to the messengers;
"carry us in our barks."
"We are your slaves," answered the men of Kief. "Our ruler is slain, and
our princess is willing to marry your prince."
So they took up on their shoulders the barks, in which the Drevlians
proudly sat like kings on their thrones, and carried them to the front
of the house in which Olga awaited them with smiling lips but ruthless
heart.
There, at a sign from her hand, the ambassadors and the barks in which
they sat were flung headlong into the yawning pit.
"How do you like your entertainment?" asked the cruel queen.
"Oh!" they cried, in terror, "pity us! Forgive us the death of Igor!"
But they begged in vain, for at her command the pit was filled up and
the Drevlians were buried alive.
Then Olga sent messengers to the land of the Drevlians, with this
message to their prince:
"If you really wish for me, send me men of the highest consideration in
your country, that my people may be induced to let me go, and that I may
come to you with honor and dignity."
This message had its effect. The chief men of the country were now sent
as ambassadors. They entered Kief over the grave of their murdered
countrymen without knowing where they trod, and came to the palace
expecting to be hospitably entertained.
Olga had a bath made ready for them, and sent them word,--
"First take a bath, that you may refresh yourselves after the fatigue of
your journey, then come into my presence."
The bath was heated, and the Drevlians entered it. But, to their dismay,
smoke soon began to circle round them, and flames flashed on their
frightened eyes. They ran to the doors, but they were immovable. Olga
had ordered them to be made fast and the house to be set on fire, and
the miserable bathers were all burned alive.
But even this terrible revenge was not enough for the implacable widow.
Those were days when news crept slowly, and the Drevlians did not dream
of Olga's treachery. Once more she sent them a deceitful message: "I am
about to repair to you, and beg you to get ready a large quantity of
hydromel in the place where my husband was killed, that I may weep over
his tomb and honor him with the trizna [funeral banquet]."
The Drevlians, full of joy at this message, gathered honey in quantities
and brewed it into hydromel. Then Olga sought the tomb, followed by a
small guard who were only lightly armed. For a while she wept over the
tomb. Then she ordered a great mound of honor to be heaped over it. When
this was done she directed the trizna to be set out.
The Drevlians drank freely, while the men of Kief served them with the
intoxicating beverage.
"Where are the friends whom we sent to you?" they asked.
"They are coming with the friends of my husband," she replied.
And so the feast went on until the unsuspecting Drevlians were stupid
with drink. Then Olga bade her guards draw their weapons and slay her
foes, and a great slaughter began. When it ended, five thousand
Drevlians lay dead at her feet.
Olga's revenge was far from being complete: her thirst for blood grew as
it was fed. She returned to Kief, collected her army, took her young son
with her that he might early learn the art of war, and returned inspired
by the rage of vengeance to the land of the Drevlians.
Here she laid waste the country and destroyed the towns. In the end she
came to the capital, Korosten, and laid siege to it. Its name meant
"wall of bark," so that it was, no doubt, a town of wood, as probably
all the Russian towns at that time were.
The siege went on, but the inhabitants defended themselves obstinately,
for they knew now the spirit of the woman with whom they had to contend.
So a long time passed and Korosten still held out.
Finding that force would not serve, Olga tried stratagem, in which she
was such an adept.
"Why do you hold out so foolishly?" she said. "You know that all your
other towns are in my power, and your countrypeople are peacefully
tilling their fields while you are uselessly dying of hunger. You would
be wise to yield; you have no more to fear from me; I have taken full
revenge for my slain husband."
The Drevlians, to conciliate her, offered a tribute of honey and furs.
This she refused, with a show of generosity, and said that she would ask
no more from them than a tribute of a pigeon and three sparrows from
each house.
Gladdened by the lightness of this request, the Drevlians quickly
gathered the birds asked for, and sent them out to the invading army.
They did not dream what treachery lay in Olga's cruel heart. That
evening she let all the birds loose with lighted matches tied to their
tails. Back to their nests in the town they flew, and soon Korosten was
in flames in a thousand places.
In terror the inhabitants fled through their gates, but the soldiers of
the bloodthirsty queen awaited them outside, sword in hand, with orders
to cut them down without mercy as they appeared. The prince and all the
leading men of the state perished, and only the lowest of the populace
were left alive, while the whole land thereafter was laid under a load
of tribute so heavy that it devastated the country like an invading army
and caused the people to groan bitterly beneath the burden.
And thus it was that Olga the widow took revenge upon the murderers of
her fallen lord.
_VLADIMIR THE GREAT._
Vladimir, Grand Prince of Russia before and after the year 1000, won the
name not only of Vladimir the Great but of St. Vladimir, though he was
as great a reprobate as he was a soldier and monarch, and as
unregenerate a sinner as ever sat on a throne. But it was he who made
Russia a Christian country, and in reward the Russian Church still looks
upon him as "coequal with the Apostles." What he did to deserve this
high honor we shall see.
Sviatoslaf, the son of Olga, had proved a hardy soldier. He disdained
the palace and lived in the camp. In his marches he took no tent or
baggage, but slept in the open air, lived on horse-flesh broiled by
himself upon the coals, and showed all the endurance of a Cossack
warrior born in the snows. After years of warfare he fell on the field
of battle, and his skull, ornamented with a circle of gold, became a
drinking-cup for the prince of the Petchenegans, by whose hands he had
been slain. His empire was divided between his three sons, Yaropolk
reigning in Kief, Oleg becoming prince of the Drevlians, and Vladimir
taking Rurik's old capital of Novgorod.
These brothers did not long dwell in harmony. War broke out between
Yaropolk and Oleg, and the latter was killed. Vladimir, fearing that his
turn would come next, fled to the country of the Varangians, and
Yaropolk became lord over all Russia. It is the story of the fugitive
prince, and how he made his way from flight to empire and from empire to
sainthood, that we are now about to tell.
For two years Vladimir dwelt with his Varangian kinsmen, during which
time he lived the wild life of a Norseman, joining the bold vikings in
their raids for booty far and wide over the seas of Europe. Then,
gathering a large band of Varangian adventurers, he returned to
Novgorod, drove out the men of Yaropolk, and sent word by them to his
brother that he would soon call upon him at Kief.
Vladimir quickly proved himself a prince of barbarian instincts. In
Polotsk ruled Rogvolod, a Varangian prince, whose daughter Rogneda,
famed for her beauty, was betrothed to Yaropolk. Vladimir demanded her
hand, but received an insulting reply.
"I will never unboot the son of a slave," said the haughty princess.
It was the custom at that time for brides, on the wedding night, to pull
off the boots of their husbands; and Vladimir's mother had been one of
Queen Olga's slave women.
But insults like this, to men like Vladimir, are apt to breed bloodshed.
Hot with revengeful fury, he marched against Polotsk, killed in battle
Rogvolod and his two sons, and forced the disdainful princess to accept
his hand still red with her father's blood.
Then he marched against Kief, where Yaropolk, who seems to have had more
ambition than courage, shut himself up within the walls. These walls
were strong, the people were faithful, and Kief might long have defied
its assailant had not treachery dwelt within. Vladimir had secretly
bought over a villain named Blude, one of Yaropolk's trusted
councillors, who filled his master's mind with suspicion of the people
of Kief and persuaded him to fly for safety. His flight gave Kief into
his brother's hands.
To Rodnia fled the fugitive prince, where he was closely besieged by
Vladimir, to whose aid came a famine so fierce that it still gives point
to a common Russian proverb. Flight or surrender became necessary.
Yaropolk might have found strong friends among some of the powerful
native tribes, but the voice of the traitor was still at his ear, and at
Blude's suggestion he gave himself up to Vladimir. It was like the sheep
yielding himself to the wolf. By the victor's order Yaropolk was slain
in his father's palace.
And now the traitor sought his reward. Vladimir felt that it was to
Blude he owed his empire, and for three days he so loaded him with
honors and dignities that the false-hearted wretch deemed himself the
greatest among the Russians.
But the villain had been playing with edge tools. At the end of the
three days Vladimir called Blude before him.
"I have kept all my promises to you," he said. "I have treated you as my
friend; your honors exceed your highest wishes; I have made you lord
among my lords. But now," he continued, and his voice grew terrible,
"the judge succeeds the benefactor. Traitor and assassin of your
prince, I condemn you to death."
And at his stern command the startled and trembling traitor was struck
dead in his presence.
The tide of affairs had strikingly turned. Vladimir, late a fugitive,
was now lord of all the realm of Russia. His power assured, he showed
himself in a new aspect. Yaropolk's widow, a Greek nun of great beauty,
was forced to become his wife. Not content with two, he continued to
marry until he had no less than six wives, while he filled his palaces
with the daughters of his subjects until they numbered eight hundred in
all.
"Thereby hangs a tale," as Shakespeare says. Rogneda, Vladimir's first
wife, had forgiven him for the murder of her father and brothers, but
could not forgive him for the insult of turning her out of his palace
and putting other women in her place. She determined to be revenged.
One day when he had gone to see her in the lonely abode to which she had
been banished, he fell asleep in her presence. Here was the opportunity
her heart craved. Seizing a dagger, she was on the point of stabbing him
where he lay, when Vladimir awoke and stopped the blow. While the
frightened woman stood trembling before him, he furiously bade her
prepare for death, as she should die by his own hand.
"Put on your wedding dress," he harshly commanded; "seek your handsomest
apartment, and stretch yourself on the sumptuous bed you there possess.
Die you must, but you have been honored as the wife of Vladimir, and
shall not meet an ignoble death."
Rogneda did as she was bidden, yet hope had not left her heart, and she
taught her young son Isiaslaf a part which she wished him to play. When
the frowning prince entered the apartment where lay his condemned wife,
he was met by the boy, who presented him with a drawn sword, saying,
"You are not alone, father. Your son will be witness to your deed."
Vladimir's expression changed as he looked at the appealing face of the
child.
"Who thought of seeing you here?" he cried, and, flinging the sword to
the floor, he hastily left the room.
Calling his nobles together, he told them what had happened and asked
their advice.
"Prince," they said, "you should spare the culprit for the sake of the
child. Our advice is that you make the boy lord of Rogvolod's
principality."
Vladimir did so, sending Rogneda with her son to rule over her father's
realm, where he built a new city which he named after the boy.
Vladimir had been born a pagan, and a pagan he was still, worshipping
the Varangian deities, in particular the god Perune, of whom he had a
statue erected on a hill near his palace, adorned with a silver head. On
the same sacred hill were planted the statues of other idols, and
Vladimir proposed to restore the old human sacrifices by offering one of
his own people as a victim to the gods.
For this purpose there was selected a young Varangian who, with his
father, had adopted the Christian faith. The father refused to give up
his son, and the enraged people, who looked on the refusal as an insult
to their prince and their gods, broke into the house and murdered both
father and son. These two have since been canonized by the Russian
Church as the only martyrs to its faith.
Vladimir by this time had become great in dominion, his warlike prowess
extending the borders of Russia on all sides. The nations to the south
saw that a great kingdom had arisen on their northern border, ruled by a
warlike and conquering prince, and it was deemed wise to seek to win him
from the worship of idols to a more elevated faith. Askhold and Dir had
been baptized as Christians. Olga, after her bloody revenge, had gone to
Constantinople and been baptized by the patriarch. But the nation
continued pagan, Vladimir was an idolater in grain, and a great field
lay open for missionary zeal.
No less than four of the peoples of the south sought to make a convert
of this powerful prince. The Bulgarians endeavored to win him to the
religion of Mohammed, picturing to him in alluring language the charms
of their paradise, with its lovely houris. But he must give up wine.
This was more than he was ready to do.
"Wine is the delight of the Russians," he said: "we cannot do without
it."
The envoys of the Christian churches and the Jewish faith also sought to
win him over. The appeal of the Jews, however, failed to impress him,
and he dismissed them with the remark that they had no country, and
that he had no inclination to join hands with wanderers under the ban of
Heaven. There remained the Christians, comprising the Roman and Greek
Churches, at that time in unison. Of these the Greek Church, the claims
of which were presented to him by an advocate from Constantinople,
appealed to him most strongly, since its doctrines had been accepted by
Queen Olga.
As may be seen, religion with Vladimir was far more a matter of policy
than of piety. The gods of his fathers, to whom he had done such honor,
had no abiding place in his heart; and that belief which would be most
to his advantage was for him the best.
To settle the question he sent ten of his chief boyars, or nobles, to
the south, that they might examine and report on the religions of the
different countries. They were not long in coming to a decision.
Mohammedanism and Catholicism, they said, they had found only in poor
and barbarous provinces. Judaism had no land to call its own. But the
Greek faith dwelt in a magnificent metropolis, and its ceremonies were
full of pomp and solemnity.
"If the Greek religion were not the best," they said, in conclusion,
"Olga, your ancestress, and the wisest of mortals, would never have
thought of embracing it."
Pomp and solemnity won the day, and Vladimir determined to follow Olga's
example. As to what religion meant in itself he seems to have thought
little and cared less. His method of becoming a Christian was so
original that it is well worth the telling.
Since the days of Olga Kief had possessed Christian churches and
priests, and Vladimir might easily have been baptized without leaving
home. But this was far too simple a process for a prince of his dignity.
He must be baptized by a bishop of the parent Church, and the
missionaries who were to convert his people must come from the central
home of the faith.
Should he ask the emperor for the rite of baptism? Not he; it would be
too much like rendering homage to a prince no greater than himself. The
haughty barbarian found himself in a quandary; but soon he discovered a
promising way out of it. He would make war on Greece, conquer priests
and churches, and by force of arms obtain instruction and baptism in the
new faith. Surely never before or since was a war waged with the object
of winning a new religion.
Gathering a large army, Vladimir marched to the Crimea, where stood the
rich and powerful Greek city of Kherson. The ruins of this city may
still be seen near the modern Sevastopol. To it he laid siege, warning
the inhabitants that it would be wise in them to yield, for he was
prepared to remain three years before their walls.
The Khersonites proved obstinate, and for six months he besieged them
closely. But no progress was made, and it began to look as if Vladimir
would never become a Christian in his chosen mode. A traitor within the
walls, however, solved the difficulty. He shot from the ramparts an
arrow to which a letter was attached, in which the Russians were told
that the city obtained all its fresh water from a spring near their
camp, to which ran underground pipes. Vladimir cut the pipes, and the
city, in peril of the horrors of thirst, was forced to yield.
Baptism was now to be had from the parent source, but Vladimir was still
not content. He demanded to be united by ties of blood to the emperors
of the southern realm, asking for the hand of Anna, the emperor's
sister, and threatening to take Constantinople if his proposal were
rejected.
Never before had a convert come with such conditions. The princess Anna
had no desire for marriage with this haughty barbarian, but reasons of
state were stronger than questions of taste, and the emperors (there
were two of them at that time) yielded. Vladimir, having been baptized
under the name of Basil, married the princess Anna, and the city he had
taken as a token of his pious zeal was restored to his new kinsmen. All
that he took back to Russia with him were a Christian wife, some bishops
and priests, sacred vessels and books, images of saints, and a number of
consecrated relics.
Vladimir displayed a zeal in his new faith in accordance with the
trouble he had taken to win it. The old idols he had worshipped were now
the most despised inmates of his realm. Perune, as the greatest of them
all, was treated with the greatest indignity. The wooden image of the
god was tied to the tail of a horse and dragged to the Borysthenes,
twelve stout soldiers belaboring it with cudgels as it went. The banks
reached, it was flung with disdain into the river.
At Novgorod the god was treated with like indignity, but did not bear
it with equal patience. The story goes that, being flung from a bridge
into the Volkhof, the image of Perune rose to the surface of the water,
threw a staff upon the bridge, and cried out in a terrifying voice,
"Citizens, that is what I leave you in remembrance of me."