THE FORLORN HOPE.
“Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true;
And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?”
The two young men wore out the short summer night in earnest talk.
Neither thought of sleep; but Ivan was careful to provide a comfortable
repast for Michael, and was by no means reluctant to share it. Very
early in the morning they set out on foot for the merchants’ quarter.
The shades of night had brought no repose to the doomed city; hour
after hour the living tide flowed on without pause or respite, and Ivan
and Michael found it extremely difficult to thread their way through
the dense confused mass of vehicles and foot passengers that crowded
every street.
At last they reached the dwelling of Petrovitch. The doors were all
open. Unhindered and unannounced, they walked into the great hall. Here
they found the whole family assembled. In the midst sat the patriarch,
with silver hair and beard, and large, wide-open, sightless eyes. His
face was as calm and almost as colourless as that of the dead; but its
look expressed the steadfast high resolve of a “living soul,” the heir
of a deathless immortality.
All around that calm centre there was profound agitation. Women were
weeping and wringing their hands; and those “tears of bearded men”
which are so rare and sad to see were flowing without restraint. One of
the sons of Petrovitch--in the green uniform of a Russian grenadier,
his military hat, with its long black feather tipped with white, laid
beside him--was sobbing bitterly himself, while he tried to comfort a
little girl whom he held in his arms. Another young soldier, almost a
boy, seemed to be imploring the interference of his mother, who was
sitting a little apart, her face covered with a kerchief. At one side
of the old man’s chair stood his eldest son, with a look of indignant
appeal and remonstrance; at the other knelt Feodor--and _his_ face no
one saw.
“Welcome, Prince Ivan!” cried Ivan Petrovitch as soon as he perceived
his entrance. “Come hither and speak to our father. It may be he will
listen to you, as the son of his ancient lord.”
“Is that Prince Ivan?” asked the old man. “Son of my dear lord, ever
welcome in this house, yet give us leave, I pray you, for a little
space, for this is a bitter hour to me and to all of us. I am bidding
farewell to every one in whose veins my blood is flowing. By-and-by I
will talk once more with thee.”
Ivan would have withdrawn, from a feeling that the scene was too sacred
for any not immediately belonging to the family; but the eldest son of
Petrovitch appealed to him once more. “Have you not a word--you whom he
loved so dearly--to persuade him against flinging his life away?”
“My son, I am not flinging my life away,” the old man interposed. “That
would be a sin. I am only laying it at the feet of the God who gave
it. He has given me a message for these Nyemtzi, and shall I spare to
deliver it?”
“But how is this, dädushka?” asked Ivan gently, as he drew nearer to
the weeping group. “How is this? Do you not go, with these your beloved
ones, to a place of safety?”
“I go indeed to a place of safety, but not with these. My resolve has
long been made; nor is it for thee, Prince Ivan, nor for you, sons and
grandsons, true and well-beloved though you are, to change it now. Here
have I lived, and here will I die. The Nyemtzi shall enter holy Moscow
only over my body.”[26]
“A vain sacrifice, useless as it is cruel,” said Ivan Petrovitch in a
broken voice.
“My son, it is neither. I have no strong arm to fight for the Czar, but
I have yet a voice with which to hurl defiance against his enemies. It
is the mightiest of all voices, though it makes no sound--the voice of
blood. My blood shall cry to the invader from the gate of the city I
have loved: ‘It is but vain the labour that you take to conquer this
land for your Prince. A land where youth and manhood arm to resist
you, while old age dies beneath your feet rather than submit to your
sway--such a land is unconquerable.’ Therefore, my children, no more
words. They are but needless pain, and time presses. I think my soldier
lads should even now be rejoining their regiments. Are you all here, my
brave boys whom I have given to the Czar?”
The sergeant of grenadiers answered for the rest, “Yes, my father, all.”
“Four sons and nine sons’ sons--thirteen in all--have I given to our
lord. Soldiers of holy Russia, fight bravely; and may God prosper your
arms and give you the victory! I doubt not he will, for your cause is
just.”
“My father, ere we go,” said the sergeant, advancing and kneeling
before him, “bless thy sons.”
In a voice tremulous with deep feeling the solemn patriarchal blessing
was given. One after another the members of the family advanced to
receive it: first the soldier sons and grandsons, keeping down their
emotion with manly self-control; then Ivan Petrovitch, and a few others
whose circumstances had prevented their volunteering with the rest;
lastly the women and children. But Feodor did not stir from his place,
until at length the old man called him by name. Then he slowly rose and
stood before him.
“Son Ivan,” said Petrovitch, “come hither and take this boy’s hand in
thine. Children, you know that little Feodor is all God has left with
me of Maria Petrovna, the daughter of my old age, the one white dove in
our falcon’s nest. Be tender with him, all of you; and thou, Ivan, take
care of the lad, and be to him a father in my place.--Feodor, my little
Feodor, Maria’s son, God bless thee!”
“Kneel, boy,” whispered Ivan Petrovitch almost angrily, as Feodor, like
one in a trance, stood motionless, with his passive hand in his uncle’s.
The boy obeyed mechanically. The aged eyes of Petrovitch were full of
unaccustomed tears, and his voice faltered, grew almost inaudible, as
he murmured the words of blessing over that beloved head. But Feodor
showed no sign of feeling, except that cheek and lip were white as
marble.
Ivan Pojarsky, who, though he had withdrawn into the background, had
not left the place, observed him with sorrowful wonder. “The boy,” he
thought, “will soon forget the old man, who will die with a prayer for
him upon his lips.”
Once more the aged voice was heard. Petrovitch arose slowly from
his seat, and lifted up his hands over the group. “Now farewell, my
children, and God bless you. May he grant us in his mercy a joyful
meeting in the home above, the abode of the righteous, where no enemy
or evil thing can enter. Go in peace.”
Sadly and slowly, one by one, they turned away. Ivan Pojarsky followed,
to assure his weeping friends that he at least would do all he could
for the comfort and protection of their father. There were servants,
too, who purposed remaining in the house for the present; and to these
was intrusted the task of consummating the sacrifice by setting fire
to what had been the happy home of three generations.
With a feeling akin to awe Ivan returned to the side of the now
solitary old man. He was almost ashamed to bring his personal
difficulties and perplexities before him. A reverent, tender compassion
for the silver hairs so soon to be steeped in blood filled his heart,
though even this was dominated and subdued by the over-mastering
enthusiasm that possessed him, rising higher and higher every moment.
Before that tide of passionate loyalty and patriotism all else gave
way. It seemed easy and natural--and oh, how beautiful!--to die for the
Czar and holy Russia.
Petrovitch, of his own accord, asked him about his plans and purposes.
He knew already what a commission Rostopchine had intrusted to the
young man; and Ivan, though thoroughly master in outline of the _rôle_
he had to play, was glad to consult his aged friend upon certain
questions of detail. After discussing the directions he had to give to
the criminals who were to be released from the various prisons to aid
in the terrible work, he spoke of the unaccountable obstinacy of the
Countess Wertsch, and of the difficulty in which it placed him.
But instead of expressing indignation at the old woman’s folly,
Petrovitch answered gently, “My boy, be patient with her. Remember all
her days have been spent here. To her, as to others, the ruin of holy
Moscow is like the fall of the sun from the noonday sky. Should the
need to remove her actually arise, God will show you what to do. But
wait. Where we stand now, hours do the work of years.”
“Dädushka, there is another thought in my mind of which I want to tell
you. I talked it over last night with my old friend Michael.--Ah, where
is Michael?” said Ivan, who in the excitement and confusion of the
last two hours had totally forgotten his companion. “No matter,” he
continued, “I shall find him by-and-by.--Say, dädushka, would it not
be a pity these infidel Frenchmen should enter the Kremlin without so
much as a musket-shot to bid them welcome?”
“But what would you do, my son? Remember the lives of Russians are
precious.”
“I should peril no life which would not be just as sorely perilled
elsewhere; but I think that, with the help of the workmen who are still
on the spot, and a few of the lads whom I know to be ready for any wild
work, I could give a fair account of some of Napoleon’s advanced guard.”
“Well, since Count Rostopchine has left the city, every man may do that
which is right in his own eyes. Have you arms?”
“Plenty; and I, as well as the other directors nominated by the count,
have his authority to distribute them as I see fit.--Ah, Pope Yefim, is
that you? So you have not left us yet.”
“Not yet, nor ever,” said the priest as he advanced and saluted first
his aged friend, then Ivan.
“I thought all the churchmen were gone already, or going to-day,”
observed Ivan.
“It may be so,” returned Pope Yefim, “but, whosoever goes, sorrow and
death remain.”
“_Remain!_” cried Ivan. “It is their carnival.”
“Well, then, may not one of God’s humblest ministers remain also, to
pray beside the sorrowful and to bury the dead?”
“My dear pope, the part you have chosen is noble, but most perilous.”
“I scarcely think so. All civilized nations respect Religion and her
ministers. I have heard that Napoleon said to one of our popes, who
bravely presented himself before him to plead for his flock, ‘You have
done well. Your “Bog” is the same as our “Dieu.”’”
“Whose altars the French have cast down, and whose worship they have
forsaken; therefore they shall not prosper,” said Petrovitch. He added
after a pause: “My friends, I am solitary now. Stay with me for a
little while. And if Prince Ivan will forget his worldly rank in the
presence of great Death, who makes all men equal, I pray you both to
partake with me of what may be to all of us our last meal upon earth.”
Ivan readily consented; and the attendants left in the house, who
watched carefully over their aged master, served a comfortable repast.
One of them informed Ivan that his servant was in their quarters,
awaiting his orders. Michael had been a deeply-moved spectator of the
parting between Petrovitch and his family. He had been seen coming out
of the hall with a sobbing child in his arms, a little great-grandson
of Petrovitch, whom he was trying to comfort. Afterwards he fraternized
with the attendants, who were mujiks, like himself, and to whose
inquiries he answered simply and briefly that he was Prince Ivan’s
servant.
The hours wore on. At last Ivan and Yefim were obliged to depart--Ivan
to his work in the city, the priest to one of the numerous services of
his Church.
Then for the first time Petrovitch knew himself indeed alone. To
darkness he was accustomed now, but the strange unwonted stillness
“ached round him like a strong disease and new.” No kindred voice would
break the silence ever again upon earth. Such had been his deliberate
choice, and he must bear it. But his strong heart sank lower and lower
yet, even to the very depths--those deepest depths of all, which only
strong hearts know how to sound.
“Out of the depths have I cried unto thee,” said one of old, uttering
the experience of ten thousand tried and sorrowful hearts. Very earnest
was the cry that went up that bitter hour from the soul of Petrovitch.
It was not his first cry to God; for the hand that had drawn a veil
over the eyes of his body had been gradually and gently opening the
eye of his soul to another and holier light. What though, at the best,
that light was dim and clouded? It was enough for his needs; and in
this hour of lonely anguish it shone out with greater clearness than
ever before. “I am a sinful man,” thought Feodor Petrovitch; “and now
the last hour of my long day of life has struck. I am going into the
presence of God. But there is the dear Bog Sūn,[27] and the cross, of
which Pope Yefim talks. I hope to be forgiven for the sake of what He
suffered there, and to see His face with joy in the resurrection.”
Then thoughts of the past chased each other quickly across his mind,
like clouds across a summer sky. All the events of his life seemed to
crowd upon him, and to pass in review before him “like a tale that is
told.” First came visions of his early years,--his village home, his
boyhood’s friends, his dear lord, Prince Pojarsky, with the face of
Ivan grown older; then his own struggles as a man,--his efforts to
secure an honourable place in the world, to gain wealth, character,
and the esteem of all. But these things flitted lightly by, and did
not stay. What came and stayed, fresh and vivid as though he saw them
even now, were the faces that he loved--faces over which the grave had
closed long ago. “Yesterday they seemed so far; to-day they are close
at hand. I shall see them before another sun has set,” he thought.
The wife of his youth came back, young and fair as on her bridal day.
Scarce younger and not less fair, so like that they seemed to mingle
into one sweet all-pervading presence, was that child of his heart, so
tenderly loved, so deeply mourned. As the Hebrew patriarch, casting a
retrospective glance over his long and weary pilgrimage, rested the
wistful gaze of his dying eye upon one chief unforgotten sorrow--“_As
for me_, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of
Canaan”--so it was with Feodor Petrovitch. A passionate yearning swept
over him to see his daughter’s face, to hear her voice again.
By-and-by another change came. It was no longer faces that haunted
him, but voices--voices and footsteps. The little feet of his
grandchildren pattered around him; he heard their merry shouts, their
ringing laughter at their play. He felt tempted to call them; he almost
believed that if he called they would come to him. At last he heard
the footstep that he loved best--so plain, so near, that he thought he
must be dreaming. How strangely fancy must be cheating him! Surely that
_was_ Feodor--_his_ Feodor--trying in jest, as he was wont to do, to
steal upon him unawares and surprise him. Surely, as in the old happy
days, the boy had slipped off his lapti, and was stepping softly and
noiselessly upon the rugs that strewed the floor. Surely he was close
to him now--his breath was touching his very cheek. All unconsciously
the name escaped his lips, and he called aloud, “Feodor!”
“_Dädushka_” the voice he loved seemed to answer.
“O God!” sobbed the old man, for the first time completely unnerved,
“leave me my senses. Do not let me lose myself in vain delirious
dreams. Grant that I may give up my soul to thee in peace.”
“Dädushka, do not be afraid. It is I--it is your little Feodor.”
And now he knew it was no dream, for Feodor’s arms were around him,
Feodor’s face was buried in his breast.
“Did you think I could leave you, dädushka? Did you think I could
really go away with the others? Of course I pretended to go; but I
watched my opportunity, slipped off, and came back to you as soon as I
dared. I have been hiding ever since.”
“My child, my child, I must send you from me.”
“Dädushka, you must not, for I cannot go. Listen--I have sworn upon
bended knees before the picture of my saint that where you die there
will I die also.”
“My boy, I cannot have it--the old have so little life to give, the
young so much!”
“Dädushka, I will not live after you; for am I not yours altogether? My
mother is dead, and my father too. You have ever been to me instead
of both. I have nothing in the world but you. But what need of words?”
said the boy, drawing up his slender figure to its full height; “_I
have sworn_.”
Petrovitch could not see how his young face glowed, and his dark
eyes shone like lamps of fire; but he heard the tones of his voice,
which had in them the ring of a steadfast purpose, not proud or
self-confident, scarcely even passionate, only full of a quiet resolute
persuasion that he was doing something to which God had called him.
The old man’s reverence for the sanctity of an oath was rendered
stronger by a tinge of superstition. Moreover, he thought this
world--where apparently and for the present the infidel Nyemtzi were
victorious--not such a safe and happy home that true hearts need mourn
to leave it. Perhaps it would even be well for him to take his dearest
treasure with him to the better land, and bring Maria Petrovna the
little one she had intrusted to his care. Thus it was that when once
more Feodor whispered softly, “And I too, dädushka,--I am glad to die
for the Czar,” he only answered, “For our monarch, our country, and
our God. May he accept the sacrifice, and receive our souls into his
kingdom.”
Just then a servant hastily entered the room. “Father,” he said, in
great agitation, “a horseman is galloping through the streets, crying
aloud that the French are coming. Their standards may be seen, he says,
upon the Sparrow Hill. And, father,” he added, “the kibitka is ready,
according to your orders.”
“Then give me thine arm, Feodor,” said the old man rising. “Our hour
has come.”