IVAN’S EDUCATION.
“Our young people think they know everything when they have
learned to dance and to speak French.”--_Words of the Emperor
Alexander, quoted by Madame de Choiseul-Gouffier._
Petrovitch the merchant would have thought himself greatly lacking
in his duty towards Ivan the boyar if he had suffered him to remain
beneath his roof. As soon as he had provided him with a fashionable
outfit--that is to say, an outfit composed of garments fashionable in
Paris three seasons previously--he transferred him to the palace of a
widowed lady of rank who had promised to act as his guardian. He was to
associate with her sons, and to share with them the instructions of the
French tutor whose services were then considered indispensable to every
young Russian of noble birth. For these advantages Petrovitch paid very
liberally: in many families, even of the highest position, good silver
roubles were not as plentiful as they were desirable, and were not
likely to be rejected when they presented themselves for acceptance.
Feodor was deputed to accompany Ivan to his new home, since the elder
members of the family did not care to present themselves. It must be
owned that the little Russian, in his glossy blue caftan of the finest
cloth and his bright silken sash, had the advantage of his companion,
who looked as awkward as a naturally graceful boy could contrive to do
with his limbs confined in the tightest of French garments.
Having reached the stately painted gateway of the Wertsch family
mansion or palace, the two boys were admitted by the porter and led
across an ample courtyard into a large saloon furnished in a manner
utterly strange to Ivan. As no one was there, he had time to indulge
his wonder and curiosity. Chairs and tables, divans and ottomans, with
many other objects, of the uses of which he had not the slightest
conception, were scattered about in profusion; the woodwork was painted
rose-colour or lilac, and lavishly adorned with gilding, while the
numerous cushions were covered with a kind of tapestry of a shining
gray. At one side of the room a row of slender shafts, rose-coloured
and tipped with gold, supported climbing-plants in luxuriant flower;
at the other, three large windows looked out upon the terrace and the
pleasure-grounds beyond it. Ivan thought these windows were open, and
was stepping confidently towards one of them, when Feodor pulled him
back with a laugh. “Take care, Prince Ivan,” he said; “that is one
great sheet of glass. I have seen such before; they cost--oh, I know
not how many roubles. But come, let us look at the orangery;” and he
pointed to a trellised door at the farther end of the room.
Here a fairy scene met their view. Oranges gleamed amidst dark glossy
foliage like “golden lamps hid in a night of green;” heavy clusters
of grapes, purple and amber, hung high above their heads; peaches,
apricots, and plums ripened temptingly beside them--for in that
ungenial climate many fruits that grow elsewhere in the open air
require the protection of glass. Wonderful was the wealth of flowers,
all of which were new to Ivan. Sheets of blossom--gold, and purple, and
scarlet, azure, and creamy white--wooed his delighted gaze; and ever
and anon he paused as some rare peculiar beauty, rose or lily, geranium
or costly orchid, attracted his eye with the richness of its colouring
or the grace of its form.
But this was not the first “orangery” (all greenhouses were then
called orangeries in Russia) which Feodor had seen, and he had no
objection to show off his larger experiences before his senior and
his superior in rank. He could even name to him a few of the flowers.
“Look here,” he said, as he paused before a plant laden with clusters
of graceful bells, their dark crimson sheaths half concealing cups of
white faintly tinged with rose-colour; “that is called fuchsia. There
is one of the same kind in the Kremlin gardens. Last winter’s frost
nearly killed it; but it lives still--a thick, stunted, hardy bush,
with little red flowers, as unlike as possible to this one. That is
like me, and this one before us is like you, Prince Ivan. You are
going to be put in the orangery, because you were born a boyar; while
I am left outside in the frost and snow. After all, I had rather be
myself than you. It is hot here in the orangery, and there is not room
enough--one could not run or play in comfort.”
He was about to try the experiment by indulging in a race from one
end of the tiled passage to the other, when a strange figure was seen
approaching them. It was that of a young lad with flat, ugly Tartar
features, and very fantastically dressed. He was one of those Calmucks
whom the Russian nobility had a singular fancy for keeping in their
houses as pets; although, as they grew up, they often proved very
troublesome to their patrons. With a grin and a bow he informed the
boys that the countess was ready to receive them, and invited them
to follow him into her presence. Having passed once more through the
saloon, they entered a boudoir richly furnished and adorned with
hangings of blue and silver. An elderly lady, dressed in exaggerated
French fashion, reclined on a couch. Her appearance was not improved
by two rows of teeth dyed an ebony hue, a curious Russian custom of
the period. She played with a fan, which was rather useless in that
climate, while she conversed in French with two gentlemen in frock
coats who sat near her. When Ivan entered, she languidly extended her
hand, glittering with jewelled rings, and addressed some words to him
in the same tongue. He looked embarrassed, but the ready Feodor came to
his aid. “Pas Français, madame,” he said.
The Countess Wertsch accordingly condescended to the use of her native
language, in which she bade Ivan welcome cordially enough. She then
gave him a French _bonbonnière_, and told him to help himself and
his companion to its contents, while she continued her conversation
with her guests. Ivan could not help thinking, from the manner of the
speakers, that this conversation had reference to himself, and he
was beginning to grow hot and uncomfortable, when Feodor effectually
diverted his thoughts by taking out his pocket-knife and cutting upon
one of the bonbons--a large almond covered with chocolate--a striking
likeness of the countess’s rather peculiar face. He was on the point of
indulging in a laugh which might have had awkward consequences, when a
young man, dressed _à la française_, and carrying in his hand a long
pipe tipped with amber, lounged into the room.
“This is Adrian, my eldest son,” said the countess, turning to Ivan.
“You are to be fellow-students, so you ought to be friends.--Adrian,
this is Prince Ivan Pojarsky.”
Adrian made a bow, and addressing himself to Ivan, asked if he had seen
the new piece at the French theatre.
Ivan, who thought he meant a new part of the building, answered with
simplicity, “I do not know; everything I see here is alike new to me.”
“Then I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to a great many
things,” said Adrian, with a smile, and, by way of a further overture
of friendship, he took out and presented a jewelled snuff-box. Ivan
supposed this to be another kind of _bonbonnière_; but fortunately for
himself he was not attracted either by the look or the odour of its
contents, and declined with thanks.
At length the older guests took their leave, and the countess turned
her attention to the boys. She seemed struck with the appearance
of Ivan’s little companion, and asked him many questions, which he
answered with a grace and sprightliness that interested her still
further.
“I should like to keep both of you,” she said to Feodor. “Will you stay
with me, and become my little page of honour? I will have you taught
French, and you shall be always with your friend Prince Ivan.”
“I thank you, madame,” Feodor answered gravely. “But I cannot
leave my grandfather. I belong to him, and I will stay with him
always--_always_,” he repeated with earnestness.
“But, my little lad, your grandfather is very old. Some day he will
die, and then what will become of you?”
“When he dies, I will die too,” said Feodor resolutely, with a glow in
his dark eyes.
“Wait, boy, till you are ten years older,” laughed Adrian, “and for no
man in the world will you say as much as that. As for a woman--well, I
know not; you may have your fever-fit like another, and get over it,
and laugh at it.”
Feodor gave him a surprised, incredulous look, and repeated quietly,
“When he dies, I will die too.” Then, turning to the countess, he took
his leave in words he had been carefully instructed to use: “May I be
permitted to kiss your hand, madame? My grandfather will expect me at
home.”
She responded graciously, and asked Adrian to take him into the
orangery and give him some fruit. Ivan went with them, being anxious
to see the last of his little friend. They passed a half-opened door,
which the boys had not noticed before. Within was a kind of oratory:
sacred pictures glittered in frames of gold and silver adorned
with jewels, and lights were burning before them in massive silver
candlesticks. Adrian turned in, but not to make his reverence, as
the boys supposed. On the contrary, he deliberately used one of the
candles to light his pipe. Ivan and Feodor were both horrified, and
Ivan said, “How can you do that? The saint will be angry, and some harm
will happen to you.”
“My dear innocent babe, when you know a little more you will believe
a little less. Ah, here comes _Mousié_, our French professor.--M.
Thomassin, here is your new pupil, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch Pojarsky.”
A dapper little Frenchman glided noiselessly towards them, and bowed
profoundly. But the ceremony of introduction accomplished, Adrian went
off with him, much to the relief of the boys, whom he left in the
charge of a servant, bidding him supply Feodor plentifully with fruit.
That day was the beginning of a new life for Ivan. His versatile,
imitative Russian nature stood him in good stead. Ashamed of his
ignorance of what Adrian and Leon Wertsch knew so well, and perhaps
with the same feelings of emulation towards them as of old towards
Michael, he devoted his quick intelligence and his retentive memory to
two branches of study,--the French language and the art of reading. The
average Russian is a remarkably good linguist, and Ivan was much more
than an average Russian. It very soon became unsafe for “_Mousié_” to
say anything in his presence which he was not intended to understand;
nor was it long before he could read sufficiently well to amuse his
leisure with the worthless sentimental romances then, unhappily,
popular in Russia.
In other ways his education made rapid progress. He soon appreciated
the attractions of the French theatre; he learned to like the taste of
champagne; and cards and loto were substituted for the homely babshkys
of his childhood. Under the tutelage of M. Thomassin--as worthless and
unprincipled a Frenchman as ever professed and propagated the doctrines
of Voltaire--the Wertsches were growing up into frivolous, dissipated
young men of fashion, and open scoffers at what they styled a stupid
and antiquated superstition. Their mother, a thoroughly ignorant
woman, with a thin veneering of showy accomplishments, was a little
horrified when their contempt for things she had been accustomed to
revere was manifested in her presence; but she supposed that all must
be right which was taught them by a fashionable French “professeur.” At
all events, they only did like other people in the _beau monde_, and
its opinion was her idol.
Once only did Ivan see her really provoked. He often visited his kind
old friend Petrovitch, as indeed for every reason he was bound to do.
The easiest way of reaching or returning from the merchants’ quarter
was by crossing the river, in summer by a ferry-boat, in winter on
foot or in a sledge. Once, however, just when the ice was beginning to
break, and the passage was difficult and rather unsafe, Ivan stayed
with the Petrovitches for dinner, and came home in the evening in a
drosky by a longer route. The countess, before his return, had been a
little alarmed for his safety, but was much more annoyed when he made
his appearance and explained how his day had been spent.
“It is well enough to _visit_ people like the Petrovitches,” she
said. “But to _eat_ in their house! such a thing is never done in the
world--_never_! For Heaven’s sake, Ivan, do not let any one know of it.
You would be talked about.”
Adrian, who was present, took Ivan’s part. “After all, mother,” he
said, “in St. Petersburg his Imperial Majesty has been known to drink
tea in the house of a merchant.”
“His Imperial Majesty,” replied the countess with solemnity, “had
better take care of himself.”
“Which,” returned Adrian, “he is abundantly able to do.”
“Of course, Ivan,” Madame Wertsch resumed, “you can go to the
Petrovitches at proper times and in a proper way, when the old man
wishes to see you.”
“He will never see me again,” Ivan answered sadly; “he is quite blind
now.”
One incident of his first winter in Moscow shocked Ivan considerably,
though it made scarcely any impression upon those around him. Coming
out at midnight with the Wertsches from a sumptuous entertainment at
the palace of a friend, they found their little postilion lying dead in
the snow, close to the horses’ feet, with the reins still wound around
his stiffened arm. The child--a mujik of twelve years old, chosen for
his beauty--had fallen from his seat overcome by cold and fatigue, and
the coachman, himself half frozen, did not know what had happened until
too late to help him. Such accidents were of daily occurrence, Ivan
was told, during the frosty weather. No one seemed to think much about
it; he was only a mujik, one of the “black people,” in the eyes of the
fashionable world little better than beasts of burden. But Ivan was
haunted for weeks with the dead face of the pretty boy, to whom he had
often given a few kopecks to buy sweetmeats. Another face came before
him too with a reproachful, accusing look--the face that he had seen
bending compassionately over the senseless form of Stefen Alexitch.
Ivan often looked for that face in public places, in fashionable
assemblies, in church; but it is needless to add that he looked for it
in vain.
About two years after his arrival in Moscow, Ivan made an expedition
to Nicolofsky to visit his old friends. Although scarcely sixteen,
he already considered himself, and was considered by others, quite
grown up. The young Russian of that day ripened early into manhood:
fifteen was a usual age for entering the army, and education was then
considered complete. Still, though he thought himself old enough for
any adventure, Ivan might have postponed his journey for another year,
had not the proprietor of a neighbouring estate, who was going to spend
the summer at his country house, obligingly offered him a seat in his
carriage.
He had provided himself with gifts for all his friends, and ransacked
the “Silver Row” in the Great Bazaar for the prettiest ear-rings and
bracelets he could procure for Anna Popovna. The welcome he received
was everything that could be desired--affectionate, enthusiastic, and
admiring. There was but one exception. Michael Ivanovitch scowled upon
him with undisguised ill-humour. He would like to know what brought him
there, he was heard to mutter; adding that the less boyars and mujiks
had to say to one another the better for both. Otherwise, his visit was
a complete success. He returned to Moscow fancying himself desperately
in love with Anna Popovna, and the hero of one of his favourite
romances, in which princes sighed for shepherdesses and queens wedded
clowns. An attack of fever, which he had shortly afterwards, and which
kept him for some time confined to the house, gave him leisure to
indulge his dreams and reveries.
As he grew older, the works of Voltaire and Diderot began to replace
in his esteem the flimsy, unreal productions of the novelists. M.
Thomassin’s only genuine love was a love of pleasure, his only genuine
hatred a hatred of religion. Consequently he taught his pupils just
enough to make them sensualists and scoffers like himself. He bid fair
to succeed as completely with Ivan as he had done with Adrian and Leon
Wertsch; indeed Ivan would probably go farther than they, because his
nature was stronger and his character more energetic. What has no root
is easily displaced. The religion of Ivan’s early years was a mere
superstition, a matter of outward forms and observances; therefore,
when he ceased to attach importance to these, he lost everything. “From
him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he _seemeth to
have_.” There was no mental conflict, there were no keen and bitter
searchings of heart. From a dead faith he glided almost insensibly into
a dead scepticism, and by neither the faith nor the scepticism had the
profound slumber of his soul been at any time disturbed.
He continued to attend the numerous church services because others
did so, and because the exquisite music (in the Greek Church entirely
vocal) and the gorgeous ceremonial gratified his taste. He also
observed, at least as strictly as those around him, the long and severe
fasts of the Church; availing himself, however, of such evasions as
were sanctioned by custom: “name days,” for example, which happened to
fall in Lent were sure to be honoured with a double measure of feasting.
Meanwhile his emotional nature craved excitement and his mind needed
occupation. Genuine, earnest study under a competent teacher he
would have thoroughly enjoyed; but the Greek and Latin lessons with
which M. Thomassin supplemented his instructions in French were very
superficial and perfunctory. Fortunately he had another master for
Polish and German; and with these languages he took some pains, because
a knowledge of them was necessary in order to obtain a commission in
the army. But even in these his interest was slight; for at present he
found the attractions of the ballroom and the gaming-table far more
powerful than those of the library.
The narrow world of pleasure in which he lived thrilled but faintly to
the shock of those mighty impulses that were moving the great world
around him. Now and then he heard the strife of many tongues which
accused the Czar of blindness for having made peace with Napoleon at
all, and of weakness for keeping that peace in spite of numberless
provocations. In those days, any one who heard the talk of the _salons_
in Moscow and St. Petersburg might have thought it the easiest thing in
the world to measure swords once more with the conqueror of Austerlitz.
Ivan shared the sentiments of those around him, and accordingly he
was overjoyed when at last, in defiance of Napoleon, the ukase was
published which reopened the trade with England under the protection
of neutral flags, and foreign luxuries appeared once more upon the
table of the noble, while foreign gold glided quickly into the purse
of the merchant. He shared, too, the universal indignation at
Napoleon’s atrocious spoliation of the Duke of Oldenburg, the Czar’s
brother-in-law, perhaps the most flagrant of his many violations of the
Treaty of Tilsit. Ivan was breathing an atmosphere highly charged with
electricity, and full of the indications of an approaching storm; but
he knew not the signs of the times. Besides, how was it possible that
he, whom competent judges were calling the best dancer in Moscow, and
who was the acknowledged favourite of fortune at all games of hazard,
could disquiet himself about the designs of Napoleon and the prospect
of a war with France?