“ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM.”
“Still the race of hero-spirits
Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the words inherits--
‘Wife, and child, and fatherland!’”
Years came and went, changing the “little lord” of Nicolofsky into
the graceful, handsome young nobleman, the ornament of the ball-rooms
of Moscow. Ivan Ivanovitch--as he was usually called by his numerous
friends, such use of the father’s Christian name being accounted
the best style and the highest courtesy in Russian society--had now
completed his education. He spoke French, the French of the _salons_,
in perfection; he played the violin; he danced with exquisite grace; he
was an adept at cards and loto.
This last accomplishment was a dangerous one. Diderot’s famous
saying, “Russia is rotten before she is ripe,” had but too much truth
in its application to the higher classes. A superficial foreign
civilization too often covered without eradicating the barbarism from
which the nation was only emerging, and thus the vices of the one
state of society were added to those of the other. In the brilliant
circles where Ivan moved, no form of vice was rare, except perhaps
intemperance. The noble did not usually misuse his champagne as grossly
as the mujik did his vodka; but this was the only particular in which
he set his poorer brother a good example.
The most fashionable vice of the Russian nobility at this period was
the perilous excitement of the gaming-table. In this, as in other
things, the licentious court of Catherine II. had been to the whole
empire a very seed-plot of corruption. It is recorded that on one
occasion the Empress herself had been unable to obtain a glass of
water, so engrossed were pages, equerries, ladies-in-waiting, even
grooms and porters, with their cards and their dice. Things were
altered now. Alexander neither played himself, nor permitted any one to
play for money within the precincts of his palace; but when once evil
seed has been sown, who can eradicate the crop that springs from it?
Adrian Wertsch was now a tchinovik; that is to say, he had obtained
a place under government which gave him an official tchin, or rank,
corresponding to a particular grade in the army, the standard of
all honour under the military despotism of the Czars. Leon had a
commission, and had recently joined his regiment. Like every one else,
he was greatly excited by the prospect of the war with France; but,
like nearly every one, he thought the vast army Napoleon had been
collecting was intended to winter in Germany, and that the grand drama
for which all the world was looking with strained eyes and eager hearts
would not be played out until the following summer.
About Ivan’s future there was some perplexity, but of a kind which no
one was in a hurry to solve. His education had begun very late, and
his present life of elegant dissipation was very pleasant. Still, when
Count Rostopchine became Governor of Moscow, early in 1812, Ivan’s
friends thought it well to present him, acquainting the count with his
position as the penniless heir of a great though proscribed name. But
Rostopchine was a Russian of the old school, in whom the proverbial
“Tartar” was very near the surface. He surveyed Ivan critically, from
his perfumed hair to his silk stockings and jewelled shoe-buckles, and
muttered contemptuously, as he turned away, “Dandified French coxcomb!”
To Count Rostopchine the French, with all their works and ways, were
anathema.
Ivan’s heart was not broken by this repulse, though he took his revenge
for it in a clever lampoon, much applauded in the _salons_. He plunged
the more madly into every form of excitement and dissipation. For a
while fortune continued to smile upon him, and all things went well;
his heart was glad, his laugh light, and his step elastic.
But a bitter hour came at last. One night the debts scored against him
upon the gaming-table grew and grew, until the total became absolutely
alarming. Of course he was plied with the usual arguments, “Go on;
your fortune will change,--you will retrieve all;”--and, of course,
he yielded. The fascination of companionship was upon him, and the
yet more potent spell of champagne completed his infatuation. So far
as he was able to reflect at all, the very thoughts that ought to
have checked his madness only stimulated it. He could not bear that
his associates should taunt him with cowardice, but it was still more
intolerable that they should suspect him of poverty. The fear made him
desperate, and he went on wildly and recklessly, lavishly increasing
his stakes, lest any one should surmise the truth--that he was risking
more than he possessed. But at last that very fear arrested him when
on the brink of ruin. Seeing him so heavy a loser, his friends came
forward with offers of assistance, which they urged, nay, even pressed
upon him. But he rejected all. Not to these would he become a debtor;
for what hope could he entertain of repaying them? There was only _one_
in all the world to whom he could turn for real help in the hour of
need.
It was not until the next morning that he fully realized his position.
He awoke unrefreshed from a short feverish sleep, and drank the tea
his valet brought him, but could not eat Fortunes ten times larger
than the whole sum of his debts changed hands continually over the
card-tables of Moscow and St. Petersburg. But all things go by
comparison, and what would have been little indeed to the lord of
broad lands and toiling serfs, was much to the “merchant’s pensioner,”
as Ivan bitterly called himself. He had no alternative but to go to
Petrovitch, confess his folly, and throw himself upon the generosity of
his kind old friend. This, to a youth of his spirit and temper, was a
cruel humiliation. All his manliness, all his independence of character
revolted from the task; and it was equally abhorrent to his pride.
Both the good and the evil in him were at war with the necessities of
his position; but both had to give way. He dressed himself quickly,
left the Wertsch mansion without speaking to any one, hailed the first
drosky he saw, sprang in, and gave his directions,--choosing the longer
route to the merchant’s house, that he might avoid the ferry with its
possible delays. The driver, as he settled himself in his seat and
grasped more firmly the long ropes that served him as reins, leaned
over and asked him, “Gospodin,[13] have you heard the news?”
“Curse the news!” said Ivan petulantly. “Drive quickly, isvostchik,[14]
and I’ll double thy fare.”
Yet absorbed as he was in his sordid, selfish trouble, he could not
fail to see that some extraordinary change had passed over the city.
At the street corners and in the thoroughfares persons of all classes
were gathering in groups, talking and gesticulating. A few had letters
or printed papers in their hands; but those who could read were a small
minority, and by far the greater number were discussing what they had
heard from the lips of others. Now and then Ivan wondered languidly
what had happened; but his thoughts always slipped back to subjects
of more pressing interest. What should he say to Petrovitch? and what
would Petrovitch say to him?
It was a glorious morning at the end of June,
“The very city’s self was filled
With the breath and the beam of heaven.”
Fair shone the gilded cupolas of the Kremlin, brightly gleamed the
silver Moskva, and the gardens and terraces were blooming with a
thousand flowers. Never had the old city looked more lovely, with
the strange peculiar charm of its quaint barbaric magnificence toned
and softened by those sweet influences of sun and air that touch the
responsive earth like the benediction of Heaven. On that day Ivan
scarcely noticed its beauty; but in after years the memory often
returned to him,--like the last happy, untroubled look we have seen on
some beloved face, ere it is dimmed by those shadows of disease and
pain that prelude the darker shadow of the grave.
At length he reached the house of Petrovitch, dismissed his drosky,
and walked in. He was accustomed to enter the old man’s presence
unannounced, to be recognized by the sound of his footsteps, and
affectionately welcomed.
It was now almost four years since Petrovitch had become totally blind.
God’s hand had touched him gently, and the touch softened and ennobled
him. The interests of commercial life, the buying, selling, and getting
gain, which once occupied him so intensely, had faded from him now;
and if still he ruled his household with a strong hand, it was less
by fear and more by love. Feodor had learned to read on purpose to
while away the long hours for him, though there were not many books
in the Prussian language likely to interest him. For romances in the
French style, whether translated or imitated, he cared nothing at
all; history, which he would have greatly enjoyed, had still to be
naturalized in Russia; and, unhappily, the best Book of all was then
locked away from the Russian in a casket of which the key was well-nigh
lost--the old Slavonic tongue, more unintelligible to Petrovitch than
the English of Chaucer would be to us. But a friend of his, Pope
Yefim, a priest of much more than average intelligence and seriousness,
used often to visit him, and to tell him Scripture narratives, and
repeat for him prayers or passages from the Psalter. “I can no longer
raise my eyes to the holy pictures,” Petrovitch was wont to say, “so I
must learn to lift up my heart to God.”
To-day Ivan found him surrounded by several members of his family. His
eldest son stood before him; two or three others, sons or grandsons,
were at hand; and Feodor, now a fine lad of sixteen, had perched
himself as usual upon one of the arms of his chair.
“Father, your will is law,” Ivan Petrovitch was saying. “Still it is
rather hard upon me to be chained to desk and ledger because I am the
eldest son, while sons, nephews, and grandsons are doing their duty.”
“Thou too wilt be doing thine,” the old man returned. “What if it be a
harder one? Is it thy part, or mine, to choose?--But hush! are not the
footsteps that I hear those of my lord’s grandson?”
Ivan came forward, and the usual greetings were exchanged, though on
his side in a tone of embarrassment, which did not escape the quick ear
of Petrovitch.
“Prince Ivan,” he said, “you are in trouble. Do you wish to speak with
me alone?”
Petrovitch usually gave Ivan the title of prince, although, on account
of his father’s disgrace and his own equivocal position, the heir
of Pojarsky had forborne to assume it in general society--a modest
reticence which Petrovitch not only approved, but had himself actually
recommended.
“It is true, dädushka,” Ivan answered frankly; “I wish to speak with
you alone.”
At a sign from Petrovitch the others left the room, and without waiting
for Ivan to begin, the old man said, “I know what you feel. Speak
freely. What can I do for you?”
Ivan was greatly surprised at this address. Which of those who were
present last night, he asked himself, could possibly have told the
story of his folly, and how could it have found its way so quickly to
the ears of Petrovitch?
“I do not think you _can_ know what I feel,” he began humbly; “I am so
utterly ashamed of myself. You have so often warned me to be moderate
in play, and as often have I made the best of resolutions, and I meant
to keep them faithfully, but--”
He came to a sudden stop, astonished, even terrified by the change
that swept over the sightless but expressive face of Petrovitch.
Disappointment, sorrow, anger chased each other rapidly, like clouds
before a stormy wind; then all these passed away and were succeeded by
something too sadly like contempt. Ivan stood in silent embarrassment,
unable to proceed with his story.
But he had said enough. After a pause, Petrovitch spoke in a cold,
constrained voice, “So _that_ is your trouble, Prince Ivan? You have
lost money at play. How much?”
“Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty roubles,” said Ivan in the low
tones of penitence and shame.
“Silver or paper?”
“Paper,” said Ivan, rather more cheerfully. There was an enormous
difference in value between the two, although in neither case would the
sum have been a large one in the eyes of extravagant Russian nobles.
“Do me the favour to call Feodor; you will find him in the next room.”
Ivan obeyed; and Petrovitch, taking a key which hung round his neck,
gave it with a few directions to his grandson.
Something in the old merchant’s manner made Ivan stand before him in
silence, without venturing a word of explanation or of defence, until
Feodor’s return.
The boy gave his grandfather a roll of bank-notes, clean and crisp, and
immediately left the room.
In perfect silence the old man handed the notes to Ivan, who tried to
express his thanks; but Petrovitch stopped him. “The money,” he said
coldly, “is a matter of indifference to me. You are more than welcome
to it, Prince Ivan.” Never until to-day had he addressed him in such a
tone.
Ivan drew near, knelt down before his chair, and took his hand
affectionately. “Dear old friend,” he said, “I see that I have wounded
you. Forgive me, for my grandfather’s sake,--and for my own, for I love
you truly.”
The aged face quivered with suppressed emotion, yet Petrovitch drew his
hand away. “You cannot love me, Prince Ivan Pojarsky,” he said, “if you
love not the land of your fathers.”
“The land of my fathers!” repeated Ivan in surprise. “What can you
mean?”
“Stand up, Prince Ivan,” continued the old man, still speaking with
sternness; “the posture of a suppliant does not become you. Do you
think it is anything to me that you have lost a few thousand roubles at
play? Do you think that if you needed my whole fortune I would heave a
sigh or shed a tear as I gave it into your hands? But it _is_ a grief
to me, beyond sighs and tears, that trifles such as these should occupy
the heir of Pojarsky when the foot of the enemy is on the soil of holy
Russia.”
“_What?_” cried Ivan, springing to his feet in amazement.
“Can it be possible you have not heard?” asked Petrovitch, the heavy
cloud of displeasure beginning to clear from his brow. “At daybreak
this morning the tidings came. They have crossed the Niemen, those
barbarous hosts that own no God in heaven, no king on earth save that
monster from the abyss they call Napoleon. They come--in the stillness
and darkness I seem to hear their footsteps across plain, and forest,
and river. They come to trample down the soil of our fatherland, to
water it with blood, to waste our fields, to burn our villages with
fire, to make our wives widows, our children orphans; ay, and to do yet
darker deeds than these, deeds which I have no words to tell. The storm
has been gathering long; and now, at last, the thunder-cloud has burst
upon us! My country, O God, my country!”
“But our cause is just,” said Ivan. “Surely every Russian will fight to
the death.”
“This, indeed, will be a death-struggle,” Petrovitch resumed. “Do you
not understand? It is all the world against holy Russia--all the world,
except England and Spain: England, far away, safe within her God-given
rampart of crested foam; Spain already bleeding beneath the talons
of the vulture. Russia, Russia only, stands upright, and refuses, as
Pope Yefim expresses it, to bow the knee to the Baal, or rather to the
Moloch of France. Therefore, the conqueror has forced the conquered
to join his standard, and it is not only the legions of France who
are pouring across the Niemen, but Prussians, Austrians, Saxons,
Westphalians, all the men of Germany who are Napoleon’s subservient
though unwilling slaves; Poles, ever eager to trample on our pride and
profit by our misfortunes; ay, even Spaniards, dragged from their vines
and their olives to fight for the tyrant they detest.” He paused, then
went on again in a sadder tone and with even deeper feeling--“If in
this dark hour God had but been gracious to us, and given us a bearded
Czar!”
“A bearded Czar!” Ivan repeated in perplexed surprise.
“Yes. Do you not remember the words of the great Czar Peter? ‘If ever
again a bearded Czar shall sit upon the throne of Russia, all Europe
may tremble.’ He meant a true Muscovite Czar--stern, hard, and strong,
like Ivan the Terrible long ago, somewhat like Count Rostopchine now.
But instead of such a hero as the Czars of old--with the world in arms
against us, God in his inscrutable providence has seen fit to send us
Alexander Paulovitch.”
“But, dädushka, the people love him.”
“_Love him?_--with all their hearts. The men of Russia are not wood
or stone. They love him well enough to be true to him to the death,
if only he dares to be true to himself and to them. But that is too
much to hope. All things must do after their kind. Does the antelope
of the desert confront the tiger in his den, and tear from him his
blood-stained spoil? Do men take the fine gold out of the furnace to
forge it into their weapons of war? or the silk of China to spin into
the cable that holds the ship of war to her moorings? But, Prince Ivan,
I am talking wildly, perhaps idly and sinfully. Forget what I have
said. After all, Alexander Paulovitch is the Lord’s anointed.”
“And you know that, since last April, he has been in the field with his
army--where he ought to be.”
“Where he ought _not_ to be!” thundered Petrovitch angrily. “What we
ask from our Czar is not the cheap courage of the recruit, whose one
virtue is to stand and be shot at, but the far higher courage to think,
to decide, to act for fifty millions of men. ‘Thou shalt not go forth
with us to battle,’ said the men of old to their king, ‘that thou
quench not the light of Israel.’ God put the heart of man in the very
midst of his body, to send the life-giving blood to the strong hands,
which in their turn are meant to defend it from scath and harm.”
“True;--and it occurs to me,” said Ivan quietly, “that my place is with
the hands.”
The face of Petrovitch actually lighted up. “Thank God for that word!”
he said. “But I expected no less from Prince Ivan Ivanovitch Pojarsky.”
Ivan had entered the house of Petrovitch that day a reckless, frivolous
youth, capable indeed of nobler things, but absorbed in the pursuit of
pleasure and in the petty, selfish troubles it entailed upon him. He
left the presence of his aged friend with the heart, the purpose, the
thoughts of a man. He felt the ennobling glow of patriotic fervour. His
country was in jeopardy, and he was ready to give his life for it. He
thought, as he turned his steps homewards,--
“This is enough to make my brave ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky,
arise from his grave to fight for holy Russia. From his grave? There
are living graves, far off in drear Siberia: will the dead arise out of
_these_, I wonder? Dear, unknown father--unknown, yet not forgotten--if
still you see the sun and breathe the air of this world, how would
you rejoice to come back and cover your stained name with glory! But
I scarcely dare to hope your life has lingered on through all these
weary years. If not, then mine are the only veins in which the blood
of Pojarsky is flowing. Oh that I could win our ancient honour back
again!”