PETROVITCH.
“Oh, but soon ye read in stories
Of the men of long ago;
And the pale, bewildering glories
Shining farther than ye know.”
Our travellers had still a long drive before them after they entered
the stately gate called “the Gate of Triumph.” The ancient capital of
the Czars enclosed, within the vast circumference of its painted walls,
gardens, orchards, terraces, even parks and pleasure-grounds, in this
as in other ways resembling an Eastern city. In due time, however,
the merchants’ quarter was reached, and Ivan Petrovitch drew rein
before the gateway of a long, low, wooden building, or rather range of
buildings, painted in various colours. He was evidently expected and
watched for; quite a crowd of men, women, and children, servants or
members of the family, hurried out to meet him, and his young companion
shared the welcome and the greetings that followed. Ivan Petrovitch,
however, took him by the hand, saying to those who were pressing around
them, “Stand back, brothers and sisters; no one should speak to the
little lord until he has been presented to our father.”
He led Ivan into a spacious room or hall, of which the furniture,
though far from answering to Western ideas of comfort, showed
conclusively that wealth was not lacking, for vessels of silver, rugs
of costly fur, and rich Turkish carpets were there in abundance. But
Ivan scarcely noticed anything, except the great arm-chair at the
upper end and the venerable figure of its occupant. “My father,” said
the younger Petrovitch, as he gently placed the boy directly in front
of him, “I have brought thee our little lord.”
The old man rose slowly from his chair, leaning upon his staff. His
hair was white as snow, and so was the beard which reached nearly down
to his waist. His large, dark eyes, once so full of fire, were dim with
age, but an ardent soul glanced forth from them even yet, and they
had, moreover, a wistful, pathetic look, as if seeking the light which
was fading from them. “God be gracious to thee, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch
Pojarsky,” he said solemnly, laying his hand on the young fair head
which was bowed before him in instinctive reverence. Then he kissed the
boy, and having seated himself once more in his chair, drew him close
and examined his features. “Like his grandfather, my dear friend and
master,” he said at last.
It was evident, from the silence which followed, that thoughts of other
days came crowding fast upon the old man’s memory. But he soon aroused
himself from his reverie to bid Ivan welcome to Moscow, and to commend
him to the care of the members of his family who had gathered around
them.
These now came forward, drew Ivan gently away, and lavished upon him
every kindness and attention that could be devised. He was charmed with
his new friends, and quickly and easily took his place as the honoured
guest of the great heterogeneous household united beneath the roof of
its venerable head. There were sons and sons’ sons, daughters-in-law
and grand-daughters, and quite a tribe of servants, forming altogether
a little clan rather than a family. This large household had all the
necessaries of life in abundance, and many of its luxuries, though only
such as the old Muscovite manners and traditions fully sanctioned. For
Petrovitch was an autocrat in his own house, though usually a just and
generous one. Woe to the son or grandson of his who should presume
to “deface the image of God” by shaving his beard, to exchange his
caftan for a French paletôt, or to lose his roubles and peril his soul
at the fashionable game of loto! This strong personal government was
the secret of the domestic peace which, on the whole, prevailed in the
household, notwithstanding the many different elements of which it was
composed.
There was only one person who ventured to take liberties with the
patriarch--to tease him, coax him, sometimes even jest with him, always
to claim his caresses as a matter of right, not, like the others, as a
rare, occasional favour. This was little Feodor, a bright, black-eyed
boy about three years younger than Ivan. The mother of this favourite
grandson had been the only daughter of Petrovitch, and she was dead.
Much of the old man’s heart was in the grave with her, nor could his
seven brave and prosperous sons wholly supply her place.
Ivan’s first days in Moscow were spent in viewing its wonders, under
the guidance of one or other of the Petrovitch family. Feodor was often
with him, and soon became his particular friend; for his playfellows
at Nicolofsky having been dull and slow, the overflowing merriment of
his new acquaintance was a welcome change. He was shown the marvels of
the Kremlin,--its palace, its three cathedrals, its bell-tower of Ivan
Veliki, to the top of which he ascended and beheld the panorama of the
city stretched out beneath him like a picture. He saw also the great
Cathedral of St. Basil, in the “Beautiful” Place outside the Kremlin
wall. He saw the Chinese city and the dwellings of the Tartars; he
wandered through the streets and rows of the Grand Bazaar. In fact, he
saw so many wonderful things that his power of wondering was exhausted,
and he soon ceased to be much impressed by any of them.
Each time that he returned from one of these expeditions, old
Petrovitch would call him to his side, and make him sit where he could
see his face. One evening he said to him, “God make thee as brave and
true as thine ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky, who delivered Moscow
from the Poles.”
“Who was he? I have never heard of him,” said Ivan.
“Is that possible? Poor child! did no one ever tell thee that story, so
glorious for thee and thine? Know, then, that about two hundred years
ago the Poles conquered holy Russia. The whole country was at their
feet, in great misery and trouble, and no man dared resist them. Prince
Pojarsky lay on his bed in his own castle, sick as it seemed unto
death. But God put it into the heart of a poor man working at his trade
in Moscow, a butcher named Minim, to save his country. He first went to
all the great people of the city and of the surrounding country, and
got them to promise men and money. Then he went to Prince Pojarsky,
and stood before him like a messenger from God. ‘Rise,’ he said; ‘go
forth and conquer the Poles. God will strengthen thee.’ ‘But soldiers
are needed, and arms,’ said the prince. ‘All are ready,’ answered the
courageous citizen. The prince arose from his bed of sickness, and,
trusting in God, put himself at the head of the men of Moscow. He
gained a glorious victory, and the sword of the Poles was broken for
ever in Muscovy. That is the man whose name you bear, and whose blood
is flowing in your veins, Prince Ivan Pojarsky!”
“He was splendid!” said Ivan with kindling eyes; “I am proud to bear
his name.”
Petrovitch felt shocked by the disclosure of Ivan’s ignorance of the
history of his native country, that country which was to himself the
object of proud and passionate love.
“Can it be,” he said to him the next day--“can it be that no one has
ever even told you about the great Czar Peter?”
“I have heard of the Czar Peter,” said Ivan: “he ordered all the mujiks
to cut off their beards, threatening to cut off their heads if they
refused. ‘God will make your beards grow again,’ he said; ‘but will he
do the same for your heads?’”
Petrovitch built a long and interesting narrative upon this very
meagre foundation of historical knowledge. He had little Feodor for a
listener as well as Ivan, and the intelligent questions of the boys
drew out the information he loved to impart. Especially graphic was
his account of the Swedish defeat at Pultowa, and the horrors of the
retreat that followed--horrors that seem to have prefigured those of a
yet more awful retribution near at hand, though still wrapped in the
mysterious veil of the future.
“File after file the stormy showers benumb,
Freeze every standard sheet, and hush the drum;
Yet ere he sank in nature’s last repose,
Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,
Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh:
Imperial pride looked sullen on his plight,
And Charles beheld, nor shuddered at the sight.”
Then, gradually bringing down the narrative to more recent times, he
told of the great Czarina Catherine--of the splendours of her court
and the triumphs of her arms--especially of the conquest of Poland,
in his partial eyes only a just retribution for the past wrongs, and
a glorious achievement of the prowess of holy Russia. At last, though
with some reserve, he spoke of the short, sad reign of the Czar Paul.
“God sent him for our sins,” he said.
This reserve only piqued the curiosity of the boys.
“It is true he wrought much evil,” he admitted, in answer to their
questions; “but still his heart was good. It was his head that went
astray. Oh, my children, there are sorrows in the world darker than you
have ever dreamed of! Seems it sad to you to sit as I do now, and see
the beautiful light of God’s world fading from me day by day? What is
that to the desolation, the anguish, when God lays his hand upon the
immortal light within and turns it into darkness? The Czar Paul was not
himself when he sent half his nobles to Siberia, shut up his own son
in prison and threatened his life--ay, even the life of the Empress.
His true self fought long against the demon that possessed him. Many
a time did he listen to his son, though he never loved him, when he
dared bravely to plead for and shelter the victims of his wrath. More
than once he said regretfully, after some unusual outburst of violence,
‘I wish I had consulted the Grand Duke Alexander.’ But such a state of
things could not go on. The end came.”
“What was the end, dädushka?” queried Ivan. (Dädushka, “little
grandfather,” the term of endearment constantly used by Feodor, was
often adopted by Ivan.)
“Do not ask me of the end,” said the old man very sorrowfully. “It was
said in official proclamations, it is still written in printed books,
that ‘the Czar Paul Petrovitch died of apoplexy.’ But all the world
knows that is false. Some there are, too, who will have cause to know
it when they come to stand before the judgment-seat of God.”
“He was murdered,” said Feodor with decision. “That is what _I_ have
always heard.”
“Were the people sorry for him, or glad of his death?” asked Ivan.
“Glad exceedingly. They were delivered from a reign of terror. Yet
there were men who loved the Czar Paul truly--who love him still,
and will take that love with them to the grave. One such I know--my
good friend and patron, from whom I have received many favours, Count
Rostopchine. He kept proudly aloof from the court of the new Czar,
would hold no communication with him, and take no favour from his
hands--hands which, he dared to hint, were not pure from the stain of
a father’s blood. When the great battle of Austerlitz was lost, Count
Rostopchine said, ‘God would not prosper the arms of a bad son.’”
“How angry the Czar must have been!” said Ivan. “He ought to have sent
him to Siberia, to repent of his insolence.”
“He did not send him to Siberia, nor have I heard that he was angry. It
is the guilty who are angry, and from that stain the soul of Alexander
Paulovitch is white as the snow from heaven.--Of the necessity of
removing the Czar Paul from the government, and placing him under
restraint, there was no shadow of doubt; and to that he had given his
consent--_only to that_. When he knew what had been done, his horror
and anguish were unbounded. At last he was not so much persuaded as
compelled to take up the blood-stained sceptre which the conspirators
laid at his feet. I saw him myself, on the day of his coronation,
yonder in the Cathedral of the Assumption, and sadder face have I never
seen upon living man than that young handsome face of his. Often yet I
seem to see it, and to hear the very tones of his voice, as, kneeling
before the altar, he recited the solemn coronation prayer: ‘May I be
in a condition to answer thee without fear in the day of thy dreaded
judgment, by the merits and grace of Jesus Christ thy Son, whose
name is glorified for ever with thine, and with that of thy holy and
life-giving Spirit.’ God fulfil that prayer! Amen.”
A brief silence succeeded the sublime words, uttered so reverently; but
presently the old man resumed:--
“Six short years only have passed since then; but I charge you two, who
are children now, to lay up in your hearts the things that have been
done in them, and to tell them to your children and your children’s
children. The Czar Alexander Paulovitch has freed the Press, has
abolished the secret police, has refused to make use of spies. He has
utterly forbidden every kind of torture as a blot upon humanity. He has
also forbidden the confiscation of hereditary property.”[11]
“Dädushka”--it was Ivan who spoke now--“I do not understand what
you are talking about. What are those things which you say he has
forbidden?”
“Ah, child, I forgot. So little do you know as yet of wrong and
cruelty, that the story of the efforts to redress them falls without
meaning on your ear. But the young do well to remember much they
cannot understand. As for me, I was born a serf, like my father and my
father’s father; and these lips of mine shall be silent in the grave
ere they forget to praise Alexander Paulovitch. Before his time we were
bought and sold like the beasts of the field. You might read a notice
in the window of a shop, ‘To be sold:--An active and capable servant,
and a good milch cow. Inquire within.’ This he forbade; forbidding also
the removal of peasants from the land. He permits and encourages the
nobles to set their serfs at liberty whenever they will; and if they
are without land, he himself advances them money to purchase their
homesteads. He has deprived their lords of the dangerous privilege of
sending them to Siberia without a trial; nor dare any one, however
rich or great, use his serfs with harshness or cruelty. Amongst many
stories of his interference on behalf of the oppressed, I remember one
concerning a great lady, whose name I will not tell you, as she lives
in this city. From that love of money which the priests tell us is a
root of all evil, she neglected her sick and aged serfs, and allowed
them to suffer from want. The Czar heard of it, and he sent his own
physician to minister to these poor suffering peasants, whom no man
cared for. Dr. Wylie--so they call him--a shrewd, clever Scotchman,
took care to order his patients so many expensive remedies and comforts
that the princess, by the time she had paid for wine and wheaten flour,
and I know not what besides, had also learned the useful lesson that
nothing costs so dear in the long run as a duty neglected. Nor has
the Czar given the mujik that which costs him nothing. He refuses
absolutely to grant men as serfs to his courtiers; and thus he has
dried up the unfailing stream of wealth wherewith all the Czars that
went before him have enriched and rewarded their servants without
impoverishing themselves. God give it back to him in the prayers
of the poor! Moreover, I have heard that every year, out of his own
treasure, he lays by one million of roubles to aid in the fulfilment of
his beloved and cherished dream--to make the body of every mujik on the
soil of holy Russia as free as his soul is already in the sight of God.”
The rapt, kindling expression of his face as he spoke thus impressed
the children deeply. He seemed to be gazing far away into some “white
starry distance” where he could see the fruition of that glorious
dream. But gradually the light faded, and the shadow passed once more
over the aged face.
“Who shall see that day?” he murmured sadly. “Not the old; their work
is quickly over, while God’s work goes on but slowly. No, not the old;
they are content to lie down in hope, waiting for what God will let
them see in the resurrection morning. But the young.--He is young yet,
this Czar God has given us, whose youthful dreams are not of pleasure,
or conquest, or glory, but of loosing the heavy burdens, letting the
oppressed go free, and breaking every yoke. Shall it be given to him to
see the desire of his heart? It may be--before his hairs are white as
mine. But it may not. I have heard the priests say that, after all, it
was not Moses who led the children of Israel into the Promised Land.”
Ivan and Feodor waited in respectful silence until his reverie was
over. Then Ivan began to question him upon a subject about which he was
interested, and indeed perplexed.
“Dädushka, why do you seem to think the Czar ought not to have made
this peace with Napoleon for which all the bells in the city have been
ringing?”
“There be many reasons, boy--good reasons and bad, noble reasons and
selfish. Of the selfish reasons I need not tell you. You are now
surrounded by merchants; you will soon be surrounded by nobles. No
doubt you will hear lamentations enough from both--for the luxuries
wherewith English commerce supplied the tables of the one, and the
gold with which it filled the purses of the other. But what, perhaps,
you will never hear, is the truth that lies buried beneath that
stream of idle talk. Have you ever, in Nicolofsky, listened on winter
nights to the low howling of the wolves amidst the snow? There is a
horrible story I remember hearing in my childhood about a woman--a
mother--who was making a winter journey in her sledge with her five
little ones. Perhaps you too know the tale? The famished pack with
their demon voices howled around her sledge. To save all the rest, as
she fondly dreamed, she sacrificed one child, her youngest. Then a
moment of respite, a verst or two gained upon the savage pursuers--a
wild, fleeting gleam of hope. Then--_then_;--but I need not go on. She
reached her journey’s end alone, to die the next day, accursed and
broken-hearted.[12] Forget the story if you can, but remember the awful
lesson. The taste for blood grows with what it feeds on, and the doom
of the coward only comes the more quickly from his guilty efforts to
avert it. The French are wolves, and Napoleon is a demon. Already has
he devoured the nations of Germany, and it has but whetted his appetite
for fresh victims. He deceives the Czar--who is young, and likes to
think others as true and generous as himself--with his offers of peace.
But the peace he offers is only from the lip out; for he hates us, and
he will never cease to hate us. Why not? We stand upright, while the
other nations--all except the English--bow down and kiss his feet. But
they are all infidels, those Frenchmen. They believe neither in God,
nor saint, nor devil. Therefore I think that if we had put our trust
in God, and gone to war with them again, he would have protected holy
Russia, the land of his people and of his orthodox Church.”
Old Petrovitch, in speaking thus, expressed the thoughts and feelings
of the mass of his countrymen. They were ignorant and superstitious,
but they were devout. They believed in “the God of Russia,” and in the
Czar as the first of his servants. A time was drawing near when this
belief of theirs should be tried in the furnace heated seven times. The
trial proved beyond a doubt that metal was there, genuine and enduring;
but how much was the pure gold of faith, and how much the iron of a
fierce fanaticism? There is one test potent to divide between the gold
and the iron. The fanatic may endure like a martyr and fight like a
hero; but when the battle is past, and the victory won, he will trample
on the fallen like a tyrant;--for his God is the God of vengeance. But
while the man of faith can suffer and fight, and that with a heroism
as undaunted, he can also pardon;--for his God is the God of mercy,
and He whose “right hand holds him up” makes him “great” with “His
gentleness.”