IVAN’S HORIZON WIDENS.
“Behind the orphan, God himself bears a purse.”--_Russian Proverb._
No child ever dreams of being grateful for food and shelter, unless
taught by the sad experience of destitution. The little guest expects
to be welcomed to the feast of life, and even assumes that the board
has been spread on purpose for him. Ivan was no exception to the
rule: hitherto he had received the devotion and tenderness of those
around him as a matter of course; perhaps indeed he was in danger of
exacting them as a right, and of becoming, as he grew older, proud and
overbearing. But now a change had come. If he knew that he was noble,
he had also gained a glimpse of the great truth that “Noblesse oblige.”
He had begun to reflect, and to some purpose.
“Bativshka,” he said one day to the starost, “why was it you were
afraid to let the lord Zoubof or the steward Dmitri know who I was?”
“Because they might have killed you, Barrinka, out of spite and
jealousy, knowing that your father was our lord before Zoubof came.”
“But would they have done anything to _you_, bativshka, for taking care
of me?”
“Oh! as to _that_ I don’t know. Perhaps I might have had the knout.”
Ivan bent down and kissed the old man’s hand.
The next morning, when the family rose early to begin the toils of the
harvest, Ivan rose with them. “I am going to the field,” he quietly
observed, putting on his oldest garments.
All protested, especially mativshka, whose love for her foster-child
amounted to weakness.
“Dmitri and Vasil and little Peter are going, and they are all younger
than I am,” said Ivan.
“But _they_ are only little mujiks,” she answered. “They must work hard
for their bit of rye bread and their bowl of kasha. It was for that God
made them.”
“Boyars work too;--I am a boyar,” said Ivan, raising his fair head
proudly; and he went with the rest.
To do him justice, he bore himself bravely in the field, although
the unaccustomed toil wearied him quickly, and it was tantalizing to
find himself so easily outdone by Michael’s stronger limbs and more
practised hands. Yet, after all, it was no great hardship to bind the
sheaves along with Anna Popovna all the morning, and at noon to share
with her his dinner of okroshka.[9]
But harvest-time does not last for ever. At length all the sheaves were
gathered in: the wheat to be sold for the profit of the lord of the
soil; the rye to be transformed into the black bread, the kvass, the
kasha, which were the staple of the mujik’s diet;--for, as they said
themselves in one of their terse though homely proverbs, “Wheat picks
and chooses, but Mother Rye feeds all fools alike.” Then the long blank
winter settled down over Nicolofsky, which, like the rest of Russia,
“lay numb beneath the snow” for many a month in the year.
During this silent, dreary season the industrious fingers of the girls
and women found occupation in spinning and weaving. The lads too made
lapti, wove rude baskets, and prepared firewood; and these occupations
were often pursued in social gatherings, and lightened with jest and
song and story. Still there was abundant leisure, in which the young
people amused themselves with games of babshky--little pieces of mutton
bone, which they used as English children use nine-pins--while their
elders sat beside the stoves, and too often enlivened their gossip with
much vodka. In this respect, however, Nicolofsky contrasted rather
favourably with other villages, since the starost and the pope were
both temperate men and set a good example.
They were great friends, and during their long confidential talks one
question often came uppermost, What was to be done with Ivan when
he grew up? In a country like Russia, where sons almost invariably
followed the calling of their fathers, and every man’s position was
assigned him by the fact of his birth, it was peculiarly difficult to
find a niche for a waif like Ivan. A mujik, of course, he could never
be; nor a priest, since he was not a popovitch, or priest’s son; nor
a merchant, that would have been a terrible degradation for one who
was born a boyar; nor a soldier, for his village friends had not the
influence necessary to procure him a commission, while had he been
drawn for a recruit they would at once have provided a substitute. But
Ivan was not old enough to share these perplexities. The knowledge that
he was by birth a boyar, with the desire, sincere though ignorant and
wavering, to be worthy of his destiny, sufficed him for the present.
Thus two long winters passed away. A second spring had come, heralded
by the eight days of drinking and carousing which the Russians call the
Mässlanitza, or “Butter-week.” Then the long fast went slowly by. At
last came the crown of the Russian year, with Easter eggs, and joyous
greetings, and manifold festivities.
One fine evening, a few weeks after, a kibitka, or rude one-horse
vehicle, drove up to the starost’s door. Its occupant, a well-dressed
man, whose hair and beard of iron gray showed him past the prime
of life, flung the rope that served him for a rein on the horse’s
neck, and entered the izba. He first made his reverence to the sacred
picture in the corner, then courteously saluted the starost and his
wife, who, without speaking, placed some bread and salt on a carved
wooden trencher and offered them to him. He tasted both; and this
indispensable ceremony performed, he began at once to make known his
errand.
“God save you, Alexis Vasilovitch!” he said to the starost. “Do you
chance to remember in your early youth one Feodor Petrovitch, who was
born here?”
“Feodor Petrovitch?” repeated the starost, stroking his beard
meditatively.
“Feodor Petrovitch?” cried his wife. “Yes, I think _I_ remember him.
Had he coal-black hair, and eyes like an eagle’s?”
“That he had; but the hair is now snow-white, and the eagle eyes--well,
no marvel, they served him fourscore years.--I am his eldest son, Ivan
Petrovitch.”
“Ah, I too remember him now!” said the starost, “though, like my wife,
I was but a child when he went away. Many a time our old folk have told
us how our good lord, Prince Pojarsky, the last but one, took such
notice of him on account of his bright face and clever ways--how he had
him taught to read and write and to count up money. At last he took him
away somewhere, so that after he came to man’s estate Nicolofsky knew
him no more.”
“All quite true. The prince sent him to Moscow, and when his education
was finished he gave him a sum of money to trade with. My father
quickly doubled it; and, unlike most men, he brought every kopeck
honestly to his lord. ‘Go on and prosper,’ said the prince. ‘Take
that money with thee and double it again.’ He did so. Then said the
prince, ‘Feodor Petrovitch, thou hast paid me thy last obrok. From this
day thou art free.’ He divided the money into two parts, declaring
himself well satisfied with half, and leaving the other half to my
father to start with on his own account. Large hearts had the Princes
of Pojarsky, one and all, God rest their souls! From that day all
things prospered with my father; and now he and his have silver and
gold more than enough for their needs. For he has sons and sons’ sons,
all prosperous--one here and one there, as God wills. About fifteen
days ago, tidings reached him, through Dmitri, Zoubof’s steward, which
filled his aged heart with joy. The grandson of our lord is living
still, and among you. I am come the bearer of my father’s earnest
prayer that you would give the boy to him. It will be his pride and
pleasure to have him taught all that a young noble ought to know, and
so to maintain and provide for him that he may go without shame among
his equals, and live the kind of life that is right for such as he.
And I, the son of Petrovitch, say that therein my father will do well.
Since every rouble and kopeck we have came from Prince Pojarsky, it is
right that some should go back to his heir. But my father prays of you
to send him the little lad at once, while yet he can see his face, for
God’s hand is fast drawing down a curtain over his aged eyes. What say
you, Starost Alexis Vasilovitch?”
The starost paused. At length he said firmly, though in a broken
voice--“That we love our little lord too well not to send him with
you--ay, and that thankfully, though it wrings our hearts to part with
him. Ah! here he comes himself.--Ivan Barrinka, this good man will take
you with him to Moscow the holy, and make of you that which it is your
birthright to be.”
Petrovitch gazed admiringly on the tall, graceful figure of the
handsome lad, now about fourteen, and looking considerably older.
“Praise be to God!” he said. “That is a goodly shoot from the old stem.”
Ivan’s face changed rapidly from pale to red, and from red again to
pale. At last he said, “Bativshka, I will do what _you_ think I ought.”
“Then, dear child, you will go from us; for like should ever dwell with
like.”
But the old foster-mother lifted up her voice in lamentation, mingling
her tears for her “little dove,” her nursling, her treasure, with
regrets that his shirts were not in order, that the new socks they had
been knitting for him in the winter were not finished, and that his
boots wanted mending.
“We will see to all that in the city, good mother,” said Petrovitch,
unable to repress a smile, as he pictured the extraordinary
transformation Ivan’s outer man would have to undergo before he could
take his pleasure in the Kremlin gardens with the _élite_ of Moscow
society.
Hospitality is a plant that flourishes luxuriantly in Russian soil,
and seems to find the smoky atmosphere of the izba as congenial as the
clearer air of the palace. It was with great difficulty that Petrovitch
could fix his departure for the next day but one; but a single day of
rest for himself and of preparation for Ivan was all that the starost’s
importunities could obtain from him, since he knew his father’s anxiety
about the result of his mission.
That evening, in the starost’s cottage, there was much baking of
wheaten bread, of cakes called kissel, and of greasy, indigestible
pastry called pirogua. There was also a great slaughter,--a sheep, a
couple of sucking pigs, and quite a multitude of fowls were sacrificed
on the altar of hospitality; for the whole of Nicolofsky would no doubt
_assist_ at the festival of the next day, not in the French, but in
the English sense of the word. Huge buckets of kvass were of course
prepared; and it might have been better if this harmless beverage had
not been supplemented by a plentiful supply of vodka.
Next day began, not unworthily, with a service in the church, a kind of
farewell to Ivan and compliment to Petrovitch. But its remaining hours
were wholly given up to revelry, and it is to be feared that but few
sober men went to rest that night in Nicolofsky. Meanwhile Ivan bade
farewell to the friends and playfellows of his childhood. With Anna
Popovna his parting was a tearful one. He kissed her again and again,
and vowed that he would come back and marry her as soon as his beard
was grown.
“God be praised!” said her mother, who was standing by. “See how St.
Nicholas protects the innocent, and will not let him take the sin of a
false vow upon his soul! He does not dream, poor child, that his beard
will never grow at all, since he is born a boyar, who will have to
shave it off every morning--worse luck for him.”
But the saddest and most tender farewells were spoken at daybreak
on the following morning, when Ivan was kissed and wept over by his
foster-parents, and by all their immediate family. His own eyes were
dim as he took his place in the kibitka beside Petrovitch; and when he
turned to look his last upon the brown cottages of Nicolofsky, he could
scarcely see them through his tears.
“But the winds of the morn blew away the tear.” By-and-by Ivan cheered
up a little. He roused himself to listen to his companion’s stories of
the great city, and began to be interested, and even to ask questions.
There was not much in the incidents of their journey to engage or rivet
his attention. They crossed the Oka upon a raft--horse, kibitka, and
all--but not at the spot so well remembered by Ivan as the scene of
his adventure. After that came the long monotonous Moscow road, where
everything seemed to Ivan always the same. Only that his senses assured
him he was moving, and that rapidly, he would have fancied himself
fixed in the centre of the same horizon, which was revolving around him
eternally and unchangingly. Plains of sand, forests of birch or pine,
went by in endless succession, merely diversified here and there by
some pasture lands, or by a brown village built upon the pattern of
Nicolofsky. On one occasion, however, they passed a company of horsemen
carrying long lances, and clad in gray cloaks, with ample hoods drawn
over their heads.
“Who are these?” Ivan asked with interest.
“Cossacks. I suppose they are going to join the army. They had better
have stayed at home now that peace is being made with the French. That
unlucky peace!” he grumbled, touching his horse rather unnecessarily
with his long whip.
“Why do you say that? I thought peace was always a good thing. We have
a proverb in Nicolofsky, ‘A bad peace is better than a good quarrel.’”
“A bad peace with your enemies sometimes means a worse quarrel with
your best friends.--On, my little pope! Now, now, my beauty, my
darling, mind what you are about. Gee up, you barbarian!” This to his
horse, the wheel of the kibitka having stuck fast in a deep rut. A
touch of the whip, this time in earnest, and the horse bounded on,
freeing the wheel with a jolt that brought Ivan to his feet, and
shook peace and war alike out of his thoughts. But Petrovitch, more
accustomed to the ordinary incidents of travel, presently resumed the
thread of his discourse.
“What does peace with France mean? War with England, for one thing.
And that--what does that mean? Our ports shut up, our trade destroyed.
No market for our timber, our corn, our tallow, our furs. Ruin, ruin!”
groaned the merchant.
“I have heard of France,” said Ivan. “But England--what is that?”
“England is a great, rich, beautiful country, with the sea like a wall
of defence built by the hand of God all around it. The King of England
hates Napoleon, and has sworn before the picture of his saint never to
make peace with him.”
“I have heard of Napoleon too,” said Ivan. “The recruits who left our
village said they were going to fight against him. Pope Nikita thinks
he is a magician.”
“Pope Nikita thinks truly. It is said he has for his wife a beautiful
lady named Josephine, who transforms herself at will into the likeness
of a white dove, flies into the midst of his enemies, hears all they
say, and comes back and tells her lord.[10] No one can resist him; the
Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia are both at his feet, and he
has conquered all the other kings and dukes of the Nyemtzi, except the
King of England.”
“But the Czar--why does not the Czar send his soldiers and tell them to
kill him?” queried Ivan.
“Not so easy!” Petrovitch answered with a short laugh. “However, there
is little to be said after all. Russia has fought him long and well. If
the devil helps his own, what can good orthodox Christians do? Think of
Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland--blood and tears have flowed in torrents.
I know a widow who lost her two sons at Austerlitz. Another;--but why
speak of these things? War is always terrible.”
“Then why don’t you wish for peace?”
“A _good_ peace might be very desirable, but save us from a peace that
will ruin our commerce!” cried Petrovitch with energy. “The Czar has
evil counsellors around him who are persuading him to that sort of
peace. Perhaps, indeed, Napoleon has bewitched him with his sorceries.
Who knows?”
Having thus uttered, not merely his own sentiments, but those of Moscow
and her merchants upon the subject of the Treaty of Tilsit, at that
time in progress, Petrovitch relapsed into silence. The only part of
his discourse that greatly impressed Ivan happened also to be the
only part of it which had not at least a considerable substratum of
truth--the story of the beautiful lady who could transform herself into
a white dove. The rest he understood very partially.
After a journey of many days, a happy change came over the spirit
of what had almost seemed to Ivan a long and dismal dream. The
dreary expanse of sandy waste was succeeded by a green, fertile,
well-cultivated plain, diversified by the gentle slope of wooded hills
and the gleam of a winding river.
At last, one evening, they reached the summit of a lofty eminence.
Petrovitch, who was on foot leading the horse, turned suddenly to Ivan,
and said in a tone of solemnity, “Take off thy cap, Ivan Barrinka, take
off thy cap, and thank God for thy first sight of holy Moscow!”
Any traveller might have thanked God for the beauty of that sight.
Dome and cupola, minaret and tower, shone beneath them in the evening
sunshine, giving back its rays with dazzling brightness from their
gilded tops; and some there were which flamed like balls of fire
suspended in the air. The brightest and most varied of colours--green,
purple, crimson, blue--relieved and diversified the gleaming gold of
the cupolas and the burnished lead of the roofs, which looked like
silver. Beyond the bewildering glories of the Kremlin, whose feet
were kissed by the bright waters of the winding Moskva, the great
city stretched away into the distance. To the eye there was no limit:
streets and squares and gardens, gardens and streets and squares;
here a castle, there a blooming terrace; yonder a painted gateway,
everywhere light and colour, and shining metallic surfaces that
reflected the sun. “Forty times forty churches” pointed upwards with
their “silent fingers,” as if to remind the dwellers in that city of
palaces of the yet fairer city which is eternal in the heavens, even
the new Jerusalem, with its streets of gold and gates of pearl.
Ivan crossed himself. “Beautiful! beautiful!” he murmured, as he gazed
like one entranced on the scene before him.
“Upon God’s earth there is no spot like that,” said Petrovitch,
stretching forth his hand and pointing to the city. “‘If I forget thee,
Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.’ God keep Moscow the
holy, Moscow the beautiful, the ancient city of the Czar, the fairest
jewel of his crown, the apple of his eye!”