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THE CZAR.
[Illustration: TIMELY AID.
_Page 30._
]
THE CZAR.
A Tale of the Time of the
First Napoleon.
[Illustration: SWEET COUNSEL TO A MOURNFUL HEART.
_Page 442._
]
_T. NELSON AND SONS_,
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.
THE CZAR.
A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon.
_By the Author of_
“_THE SPANISH BROTHERS_,”
_&c. &c._
[Illustration]
London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1895
_All Rights Reserved._]
Contents.
I. A SLEEPING VILLAGE, 7
II. IVAN’S ADVENTURE, 18
III. SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENS TO IVAN, 25
IV. IVAN’S HORIZON WIDENS, 37
V. PETROVITCH, 48
VI. IVAN’S EDUCATION, 59
VII. “ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM,” 70
VIII. A NATION’S TRANSPORT, 81
IX. CLEMENCE, 94
X. THE DRAWING OF THE LOT, 106
XI. ONE OF HALF A MILLION, 113
XII. ONE OF FIFTY MILLION, 119
XIII. SERF AND BOYAR, 130
XIV. THE FORLORN HOPE, 138
XV. THE MARTYR CITY, 148
XVI. ALEXANDER, 153
XVII. IN THE CAMP, 166
XVIII. TWO IMPORTANT INTERVIEWS, 174
XIX. THE CHEVALIER GUARD, 183
XX. WEARY, WANDERING FEET, 192
XXI. OVER THE BERESINA, 206
XXII. THE AIDE-DE-CAMP OF ST. PRIEST, 216
XXIII. THE MOSCOW MEDAL, 230
XXIV. ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS, 238
XXV. “FATHER PARIS FOR MOTHER MOSCOW,” 244
XXVI. AT VERSAILLES, 250
XXVII. RECOGNITIONS, 260
XXVIII. DRIFTING, 274
XXIX. IVAN’S DINNER PARTY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED, 283
XXX. THE PURPLE BROCADE ONCE MORE, 294
XXXI. LEAVES FROM LETTERS, 306
XXXII. TWO RETURNS, ONE OF THEM NOT EXPECTED, 315
XXXIII. HIS KING SPEAKS TO THE CZAR, 329
XXXIV. AFTER WATERLOO, 342
XXXV. “THE GRAY SISTER OF HEARTS,” 353
XXXVI. TWO HAPPY DAYS, 363
XXXVII. AT NICOLOFSKY, 376
XXXVIII. A ROSEBUD, 384
XXXIX. MORNING SUNSHINE, 389
XL. MORNING CLOUDS, 400
XLI. FROM AFAR, 409
XLII. SNOW-DRIFTS, 422
XLIII. HIS KING SPEAKS TO THE CZAR ONCE MORE, 427
XLIV. “CHRISTOHS VOSKRESS,” 440
THE CZAR.
CHAPTER I.
A SLEEPING VILLAGE.
“Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.”--TENNYSON.
The nineteenth century was still very young; its eventful day--that
day whose sunset we have yet to see--had but lately dawned upon
the world. There were regions, even in Europe, where, for any
illumination brought them by the age, the hand of time might have
been put back for centuries. In the vast monotonous plain around
Moscow the ancient,--Moscow the holy, with her “forty times forty
churches,”--Russian serfs tilled the corn-fields of their lords,
trembled beneath the knout and the plitt, ate their kasha and drank
their kvass, and enjoyed the simple luxuries of their stoves and their
vapour-baths, just as their fathers and fathers’ fathers had done for
generations.
In that land of sameness, where received types repeat each other to
weariness, with almost as little variety in the works of nature as
originality in those of man, the village of Nicolofsky was a fair
sample of a hundred others. It belonged to Plato Zoubof, one of the
favourites of Catherine II., who had bestowed it upon him with the
adjacent lands and the “bodies and souls of men” it contained. Out of
these he contrived to wring no inconsiderable revenue; but he never
honoured Nicolofsky with his presence. A steward managed everything,
unfortunately for the peasants, or mujiks, who were treated with much
more severity than their brethren whose natural lords dwelt “among
their own people,” and cultivated relations with them usually kindly,
often even paternal. From the mujiks of Nicolofsky heavy dues were
exacted, and much labour required in the corn-fields of their lord. In
harvest-time they were often forced to toil the whole night long, and
any shortcoming was cruelly punished. At this very epoch a series of
enlightened enactments, tending to ameliorate the lot of the serf and
to prepare the way for his complete emancipation, were emanating from
the supreme authority in the state; but from these Nicolofsky had as
yet received little or no practical benefit, except, indeed, the deep
conviction, which sank into the heart of the mujik, that his lord the
Czar loved him and cared for his welfare.
Still, as the proverb tells us, “The holy Russian land is large, but
everywhere the dear sun shines.” Many a gleam of sunlight, from the
mercy of Him whose compassions are over all his works, brightens even
the lot of servitude, that looks, and rightly looks, so dark and so
degrading to the thoughtful observer. Had such an observer visited
Nicolofsky on the bright afternoon of one of the Church holidays
in the late Russian spring, he would have found some difficulty in
remembering, and perhaps as much in persuading the mujiks, that they
were an oppressed and miserable race.
Youths and maidens, boys and girls were crowding to the birch-wood
to enjoy their favourite pastime of the swing. Nor were the older
villagers unrepresented--at least so far as regards the men. Many a
grave, bearded mujik keenly enjoyed the motion without labour so dear
to the indolent and excitable Russian, although the women for the most
part remained at home to prepare the tschi (or cabbage soup) for the
festive evening meal. The young people, as they passed along, made the
air resound with their sweet national songs, chanted in parts and with
wonderful grace and harmony.
The company of children seemed to follow the guidance of one of their
number, whom either his position or the choice of his companions had
made a leader amongst them. At twelve or fourteen the little mujik
is often a very handsome lad, as may be seen from the boy postilions
of St. Petersburg. And a most favourable specimen of the class, if
indeed he belonged to it at all, was the fair-haired boy who stepped so
proudly along, quite conscious of his superior dignity, and conspicuous
in his new caftan of bright blue, bound round the waist with a crimson
sash. He held by the hand a little girl, very pretty, though not so
gaily clad. She seemed to be his especial charge; and when the spot in
the wood where they meant to pursue their sport was reached at last,
the other children crowded around them, and, like juvenile courtiers,
emulously tendered their help to make a swing for “Barrinka,” the
little lord, who had promised to swing Anna “Popovna,” the priest’s
daughter. These swings were made very easily, by bending down and tying
together the flexible elastic branches of the giant birches.
Barrinka, however, wanted to do all himself, and he did it quickly and
neatly. He had just, with boyish gallantry, placed his little companion
in the seat prepared for her, when an older lad pushed rudely through
the group of children, and coming up to him laid his hand on his
shoulder. “Get into that seat and swing yourself, Ivan Barrinka,” he
said. “To-day Anna Popovna belongs to me--not to you.”
Ivan shook off his hand, and for a moment they stood motionless,
looking each other in the face. Strong was the contrast between the
fine, delicate features of the one, and the rough, dogged, determined
face of the other, which seemed hewn out of his native granite.
Evidently this was not by any means their first quarrel.
“Hold thy peace, one-eared Michael,” Ivan answered at last. “I tell
thee Anna wants me to swing her--_me_, and not thee.”
“Let her say so, then.--Is that true, Anna Popovna? Didst thou not
promise me yesterday, after church, that I should swing thee to-day--I,
and no one else?”
Thus appealed to, the little girl behaved very like a grown-up daughter
of Eve. She pouted, blushed, stammered, and seemed to hesitate between
her two cavaliers, neither of whom she wished to offend. At length she
said, “If you wanted so much to swing me, why were you not here in
time, Michael Ivanovitch?”
“Easy for those who have naught to do to blame those who work hard. I
had water to fetch and wood to cut for the mother,” said Michael, the
widow’s son.
“Well, it was a pity, since you stayed away so long, that you did not
stay altogether, and leave us in peace,” Anna rejoined in a pettish
tone.
This exasperated Michael, and not without reason, if all were told.
“You did not say that to me, Anna Popovna,” he cried, “when I went to
seek you in the snowstorm, you and your brother the Popovitch, and lost
my left ear to save you.” Then he turned fiercely upon Ivan, as upon a
foe more worthy of his wrath: “It is all your fault, Ivan Barrinka. I
am quite tired of you and of your pride. Lord though you may be, you
shall not lord it over me. And, after all, who knows who and what you
are? I’m sure I don’t. Do you know yourself? Answer me that. Whose son
are you?”
“It is you who are proud, Michael Ivanovitch. Since that wonderful
snowstorm you were out in there has been no bearing with you. One would
think, from the airs you give yourself, that no one ever had an ear
frozen before.”
By this time the loud voices had attracted the attention of the other
boys. Leaving their swings, they came crowding around; and as soon as
they understood the cause of the dispute, they all turned with one
accord upon Michael, threatening him with condign punishment if he did
not forthwith let Barrinka have his way, whatever that way might be.
But Barrinka no longer cared for the pastime. Michael’s taunt, “Who
knows who and what you are?” had struck home. From infancy the pet
and plaything of the village--every wish anticipated, every caprice
borne with, he had been surrounded with an atmosphere of deferential
affection. He could not but know that he differed from all around
him; a mystery hung about his birth, which, through injudicious and
mistaken kindness, had been neither wholly concealed nor yet frankly
revealed to him. All his little playfellows had fathers and mothers.
It is true they were beaten sometimes, while _he_ was never beaten.
Still, it seemed to him a strange thing to have no father or mother.
He called the starost, or elder of the village, in whose house he had
been brought up, “bativshka” (little father), and his wife, “mativshka”
(little mother), but that was not by any means the same as having a
father and mother of his own.
“Take the swing if you like it,” he said to Michael. “I care nothing
about it. I shall do something by-and-by much better than anything you
have ever done in your life.”
Leaving the children behind him in the wood, he bent his steps
homeward, regardless of the regretful looks sent after him by blue-eyed
Anna Popovna, who saw that her little cavalier was sorely vexed, and
would gladly have comforted him. Two longings filled his childish
heart,--to be able to tell Michael and everybody who he was, and to
be the hero of an adventure more wonderful than Michael’s wanderings
through the snow in search of the priest’s children. Michael had been
out in a snowstorm and lost an ear! In comparison with such a hero the
little lord felt himself a very child.
He soon came in sight of the double row of brown wooden cottages that
called itself Nicolofsky. These cottages, or izbas, were built of the
trunks of trees laid one over the other, with the interstices stuffed
with moss. There was a church, also of wood, but larger and better
built, with a bell suspended from a fine elm tree close to it. Two of
the izbas were better than the rest, and belonged, one to the starost,
the other to the pope, or parish priest, Anna’s father. That of the
starost boasted a porch, with ornamental wooden pillars and quaint
carvings. It had a substantial chimney built of good bricks, and secure
well-glazed windows to keep out the intense cold of the Russian winter.
Indeed all the cottages were more comfortable than they looked.
Ivan entered, and dutifully made his bow, as he had been taught to
do, to the holy picture which hung in the corner, with a lamp burning
before it, since this was a feast-day. The contents of the izba were
extremely simple. The most conspicuous object was the stove, with a
wide shelf or platform over it, upon which the family usually slept;
a handsome carved chest contained the clothing used upon festive
occasions, and there were besides a few stools, a table, an arm-chair,
and some wooden cups, platters, and cooking utensils. The vapour-bath,
that indispensable Russian luxury, occupied an outhouse.
An old woman stood over the fire, diligently stirring a capacious
caldron, from which there issued a very savoury steam. The family the
starost had to feed was not a small one,--three grown-up sons, with the
wife and child of one of them, found shelter beneath his roof.
“You are cooking tschi for our supper, mativshka,” said Ivan.
“And what better dish could I be cooking, my little dove? ‘For tschi,
folk wed,’ says the proverb.”
“When I am old enough I will wed Anna Popovna.”
“Hush! hush! My darling must not talk so. He is worth a thousand
Popovnas.”
“One-eared Michael does not think that.”
“Who cares for one-eared Michael?”
“But, mativshka, to-day he asked me who I was, and I--I had no answer.”
“No answer! Why, every one knows who you are. You are our dear little
lord.”
“But whose son am I, mativshka? That was what he wanted to know.”
“Ask the father, boy, ask the father. As for me, why, ‘A word is not a
bird: if it flies out, you’ll never catch it again.’”
Old Feodora would not have thought it any harm to put her nursling off
with a string of falsehoods, if they had occurred to her at the moment,
or if she had thought them necessary; for these poor, “dimly-lighted
souls” had little idea of the value of truth. But Ivan’s history was
now so much an “open secret” in the village, that she saw no reason why
the boy should not know it himself, since he was twelve years old, and
very intelligent. Still, she was afraid to tell him anything without
her husband’s knowledge and concurrence.
Soon afterwards the starost came in--an imposing and venerable figure,
his long, gray beard nearly covering the breast of his caftan. He would
have parted with his head quite as readily as with that beard.
As soon as he had made his reverence to the sacred picture, seated
himself in his chair by the stove, and exchanged his formidable
(and fragrant) boots of Russia leather for a pair of lapti, or bark
slippers, Ivan stood up before him, and put the question directly,
“Bativshka, whose son am I?”
“Great St. Nicholas! what has come to the boy?” the starost exclaimed;
then he looked perplexed, and hesitated for an answer. His wife leaned
over the back of his chair and said a few words in a low voice, and
a whispered discussion followed, during which Ivan waited patiently.
Presently Feodora returned to her cooking; and the starost solemnly
crossed his breast with the thumb and two fingers of his right hand,
then taking from his pocket a medal with the effigy of his patron saint
upon it, he brightened it with a rub against his sleeve, and said a
prayer to it, or to the personage it represented. Having thus prepared
himself, he told Ivan to sit down at his feet.
“My child,” he said, “since you wish to know, I will tell you to-day
what name you have a right to bear; but pray to your saint day and
night that the knowledge may work you no harm.”
“Why should it work me harm, bativshka? Is it that I am the son of a
bad man?”
“God only knows that. What I know is that you are the son of our lord
and master.”
“Not of Zoubof! no, no!” cried Ivan, wondering.
The old man replied by a gesture of supreme contempt: “_Zoubof!_ He
is of yesterday. Such as he come and go and are forgotten, like last
year’s snow. But you, Ivan Barrinka, you are the son of our true lord,
our master in God’s sight--a great boyar,[1] a prince who can trace his
lineage back to the days of Rurik. Yes; you are the son of”--here he
paused and bowed his gray head reverently--“of Prince Pojarsky.”
Ivan was impressed by the solemn tone in which these words were spoken.
He waited in silence for a few moments, then he questioned in a low
voice, “And who is Prince Pojarsky?”
“He and his have been the lords of Nicolofsky and the lands around
it for generations and generations, even before the old times when
the Poles conquered Muscovy. But in the days of the great Czarina
Catherine, who rests with God, our lord and your father, being a
young man, full of pride and loving pleasure, must needs go forth
to travel in strange lands. For you must know, Ivan Barrinka, that
there are other lands in God’s world besides holy Russia, and that
the peoples thereof do not obey our lord the Czar, but have kings
and rulers of their own. This is hard to believe; but Pope Nikita
says so, and, moreover, the soldiers tell us of them when they come
back from the wars. Besides, I have seen Nyemtzi[2] myself--Frenchmen
and Frenchwomen, who had not a word of good Russian, but spoke an
outlandish tongue of their own. What is sad to think, our lord and your
father not only went amongst these foreigners, but gave his hand in
marriage to one of them. Not that I have anything to say against the
beautiful, gracious lady, your mother. The good saints rest her soul!
Mativshka loved her well, and God knows she served her faithfully. But
amongst her kinsfolk must have been some who were the devil’s children;
for they rose against their own king, and, horrible to tell! they slew
him. Moreover, they did not do it secretly and in darkness, but openly,
in the face of day, on a scaffold, as if he had been a thief or a
murderer. Truly they are strange people, those Nyemtzi.
“Let us hope that evil men slandered our lord to the Czarina when they
said _he_ bore part in such wickedness. But at all events she believed
the tale. When he came back to St. Petersburg, and dared to show his
face at the Hermitage (the great, beautiful house where our lady the
Czarina lived), she scathed him with the lightning of her anger. It is
even reported that she said to him, ‘_Pachol!_’[3]--the word you would
use to a dog if you were angry with it. Straightway he was sent an
exile to Siberia, and all he had was taken from him and given to Plato
Zoubof. Better had they laid him in his grave at once. The beautiful
young lady, your mother, quickly died of grief, and mativshka, who was
your nurse, brought you home to her own people. For a long time we hid
you carefully, and guarded the secret jealously amongst ourselves;
for we feared the new lord Plato Zoubof, and still more the steward
Dmitri--a hard man, who has no pity. But now both know you are here,
and care nothing for it. ‘What is it to us?’ they say. So that now,
without fear, you may call yourself, and be called by every one, by the
noble name you have a right to bear. Only remember, Ivan Barrinka, that
although you are the son of a boyar and a prince, the same God made us
and you, and the poor man’s soul is worth as much in his sight as your
own.”
Ivan answered not a word. As one overpowered, he threw himself face
downwards on the earthen floor, and lay there absorbed in thought.
But at last he raised his wondering, child-like face, full of the
brightness of a new idea. “Bativshka, people sometimes come back from
Siberia, do they not?”
The old man shook his head. “They who go are as the sand,” he said;
“they who come back may be reckoned on your fingers.”
“But I remember the time of the Czar’s coronation--four--five years
ago, was it? I was quite a little boy then. Many exiles came home from
Siberia; and you went to the Moscow road to see them pass, and the
people wept for joy, you said. I wanted to go, but you would not bring
me, saying I was too young. If these exiles came back, then why not my
father?”
“Ah, you cannot understand. That was quite another matter. The late
Czar, Paul Petrovitch, who reigned after the Czarina Catherine, was
somewhat stern and hard. Doubtless God sent him to punish the great
nobles for their sins. He banished many of them to Siberia; but the
Czar that now is, whom God preserve! pardoned them all, and let them
return home. Yet some offences there be that find no pardon ever,
except in the grave;--and to the exile’s resting-place the grave is
always near.”
Ivan’s next thought was a more childish one. “Bativshka,” he said,
after another silence, “I should like to tell all this to Anna Popovna
and to Michael Ivanovitch. Still, although I am the son of a boyar
and a prince,” he added presently, “I shall not be quite happy, not
_quite_, until I have taken a longer journey than ever Michael did, and
have had something happen to me much more wonderful than getting frozen
and losing one of my ears.”