TWO IMPORTANT INTERVIEWS.
“Nous verrons ce qui réussira le mieux, de se faire aimer ou de se
faire craindre.”
_Words of the Emperor Alexander._
When Ivan waited upon Count Rostopchine that morning, he found his
excellency in a very bad humour. The destruction of the Kremlin was
perhaps enough to account for this; but there may have been in addition
an altercation with Marshal Kutusov--not a very rare occurrence, for
between the general-in-chief of the army and the governor of Moscow
there was no friendship. Ivan found the count surrounded by the members
of his suite, to whom he was giving directions in preparation for an
immediate return to the city.
“Do you come with us, Ivan Ivanovitch?” he asked abruptly, and of
course in Russian, the only language he would tolerate in his presence,
although he himself spoke and wrote French with elegance and precision.
Ivan saluted him with due respect, but answered in the negative.
“Ah! then I shall have the trouble of speaking to the marshal about
you,” returned the count, with an air of annoyance, at which Ivan
was scarcely surprised, for Rostopchine’s manner on the preceding
evening had made him fully aware that he desired to retain him in
his own service. So he answered deferentially, “Instead of imposing
that trouble upon your excellency, I shall avail myself of the third
proposal you did me the honour to make, and very humbly entreat of you
to intrust me with despatches for his Imperial Majesty.”
Ivan was utterly amazed at the count’s reception of this request.
“Then you are as great a fool as I took you for the first day I saw
your face. And,” added Rostopchine, with one of his resounding Russian
oaths, “you could not possibly be a greater!”
Such an address from such a personage, and in the presence of a score
of witnesses, might well have disconcerted an older man than Ivan,
especially as he could not in the least imagine the cause of it. But
to every one’s astonishment he stood his ground, and answered with the
utmost coolness and self-possession, “Your excellency’s opinion may be
correct, but it must have some better foundation than my choosing to
embrace an offer which you yourself condescended to make to me last
night.”
“He sees no difference between last night and this morning,” remarked
Rostopchine, turning to his officers, but speaking in a voice quite
loud enough for Ivan to hear. “He is in a mighty hurry to go and
tell the Czar that the Kremlin is destroyed.” Then addressing Ivan
directly--“I understand you perfectly, young gentleman: you prefer the
air of a court to that of a camp, and had rather dangle your feet in
the Czar’s ante-chamber than use your hands fighting the French.”
If Ivan had not just been performing most hazardous services with
signal intrepidity, he might have been angry. But he knew that no one
present doubted his courage for an instant, Rostopchine perhaps least
of all. So he only bowed, and answered with extreme _sang-froid_, “That
being the case, when shall I have the honour of waiting upon your
excellency to receive your commands for St. Petersburg?”
“I will send them to you in half-an-hour; you need not show your face
here again.”[35]
Ivan returned to the tent of his friend with, strange to say, a more
cheerful air than when he left it. He seemed to be rather exhilarated
than otherwise by his encounter. “Every one knows the count’s temper,”
he said, after detailing the adventure. “I was not going to lose the
reward of all I have passed through during the last six weeks for a
few rough words. Only for the hope of seeing the face of my Czar, and
telling him I tried to serve him faithfully, I should once and again
have lain down to die.”
“It is well known,” answered Adrian, “that Count Rostopchine does not
love the Czar--but he loves Russia.” Then, to Ivan’s surprise, Adrian
told him that he himself hoped to be the companion of his rapid journey
to St. Petersburg. His mother’s death had left the pecuniary affairs
of the Wertsch family in confusion, and of course the intervention
of “government” was necessary for their arrangement. Amongst other
matters, the term of years for which one of their estates had been
granted by the crown was now expired, and a new grant would have to be
solicited. While Ivan was engaged with the count, Adrian had asked for
and obtained a short leave of absence, that he might take advantage of
his friend’s telega; for Ivan, as one travelling upon public business,
would be authorized to require, at every post-house, the swiftest
horses that could be obtained.
This explanation had not long been finished, when a fine young
man, the son of Rostopchine, entered the tent. He brought Ivan his
father’s letter to the Czar, and the other documents necessary for
his journey. Then he offered him a supply of money, which Ivan, under
the circumstances, was glad to be able to decline--the contents of a
purse of ducats, found accidentally in one of the abandoned palaces
of Moscow, sufficing for his present needs. Lastly, young Rostopchine
lingered to say, “My father desires me to tell you that he has
mentioned you to the Czar in very handsome terms, though not more so
than you have fully deserved.”
Ivan was touched by this magnanimity, which was quite in keeping with
the character of the fiery and prejudiced but honest and generous old
Muscovite. He answered gratefully: “I beg of you to present my very
humble thanks to his excellency, and to assure him I shall never forget
the trust he has reposed in me.”
Ivan, Adrian, and Michael were soon seated in a rough, light telega and
dashing across the country, under the guidance of a practised driver,
at a speed that almost anticipated the age of railways. Until they
passed beyond the theatre of war, they had a guard of flying Cossacks;
after that, they were left to their own resources. They travelled day
and night--Ivan anxious and rather melancholy, Adrian enlivening their
way with his conversation. As they were drawing near their journey’s
end, he took occasion, from some remark of Ivan’s, to explain to him
the views of General Kutusov with regard to the war. “Russia, says the
marshal, is making herself the champion and the martyr of Europe; and
scanty thanks will Europe give her for the same when once the common
danger is over. These English, Germans, and Swedes are glad enough to
see us shedding our best blood to overthrow the despotism of Napoleon
and secure the general freedom; but when the work is done, which of
them will have the grace to be grateful to us? Rather will they envy us
the very glory we acquired in fighting their battles. Hence the marshal
would not be at all averse to an honourable peace, if such could be
had; and they say the Czar has had to interfere more than once to
prevent his opening negotiations with the enemy--”
“Of which the enemy would be only too glad,” said Ivan. “Our friend
Yakovlef, who, as you are aware, was detained in Moscow by the illness
of his uncle, was taken before Napoleon, who cajoled and threatened
him by turns to try and induce him to bring a letter from him to the
Czar. But young Yakovlef stood firm; in fact, he told Napoleon he could
not presume so far, if his life depended upon it. The Czar’s refusal
to receive any proposition whatsoever from the French is absolute. But
surely I see buildings in the distance, and smoke.--Isvostchik, can
this be St. Petersburg?”
“Yes, gospodin, this is St. Petersburg.” Then, being himself a native
of Moscow, “But it is _not_ Moscow the holy. Ah! Moscow the holy will
be never more what she was in the old days.”
None of the party, except the driver, had seen the new capital before.
Adrian was full of natural curiosity and interest in all that met their
view as they drove along; while Michael was busy wondering whether the
Nyemtzi would come here also, what sort of defence could be made if
they did, and whether a great many of them would be killed. But Ivan
grew silent and absorbed, and looked very pale. “I verily believe,”
said Adrian, turning to him suddenly, “that you are seeing the horrors
of Moscow over again.”
“No,” returned Ivan--“no. I was not thinking just then of what I have
seen, but of what I am about to see.”
“You are about to see the thing you have been longing for through all
your toils and perils. Rouse yourself, man! Of what are you afraid?”
“Of the face of Majesty,” said Ivan to himself; though to Adrian he
only answered, with a rather nervous laugh, “First interviews are
trying.” Yet he knew that this was not, for him, a first interview with
his sovereign. He felt beneath his doublet for the precious piece of
gold, the cherished souvenir of his boyhood, as if to assure himself
that the great Emperor, into whose presence he was going, was really
the kind young boyar who had promised that he should serve him one day.
“Dear Barrinka,” pleaded Michael, “do not forget to tell our lord the
Czar that a mujik who has lost one hand desires his leave to fight
for him, and that he will serve him _so_ faithfully. At the camp,” he
added, “they laughed at me, and told me I would never make a soldier.
But the Czar will listen to _you_.”
Ivan smiled doubtfully. In his heart he wished that the poor mujik’s
child-like idea of his sovereign had been his own also. Then he saw
Michael take out his beloved picture, and, fastening it before him on
the telega, address to it his prayers for the success of his young
lord’s mission. “The saint and the Czar are equally real to him,”
thought Ivan, “and he would address either with equal reverence and
equal confidence.”
His reverie was interrupted by the voice of the isvostchik. “This is
the square of the Admiralty, and there is the great Czar Peter,” said
he, as he pointed out the celebrated equestrian statue where the father
of modern Russia perpetually climbs the rock and treads the serpent
beneath his horse’s hoofs.
They drove to an inn, where Ivan merely delayed to make those changes
in his dress which etiquette imperatively demanded, and then, leaving
his companions to await his return, took his despatches to the Winter
Palace. There he was fortunate enough to find the Emperor, who had just
returned from Kamenoi-Ostrov.
In less than two hours Ivan came back to the inn. Michael had gone out
with the isvostchik, but Adrian was waiting for him, and met him with
an air of some anxiety. “Is it well?” he asked briefly.
“Well?--oh yes, _very_ well,” Ivan answered. He spoke in an abstracted
voice, but there was a new light in his eyes, and his face was flushed
and excited.
“I cannot make you out,” said Adrian, looking at him with surprise and
curiosity. “If it were possible, I should say that you look at once ten
years older and ten years younger than you did two hours ago.”
“Two hours! It ought to be ten years, if all--O Adrian!” he broke out
suddenly, and with uncontrollable emotion, “the half was not told me!
He is grand--beautiful! There is only one thing more I want now--_to
die for him_.”
The sorrows of the last two months had done somewhat to deepen the
slight nature of Adrian. He was no longer disposed to scoff at
everything. “I guessed ‘le séduisant,’ as Czernichef calls him, would
fascinate you,” he said. “But, now you _have_ returned, I will own that
I wished you better news to bring him than that of the destruction of
the Kremlin. Evil tidings do not always insure their bearer a good
reception.”
“I think he was prepared,” Ivan answered. “At all events he betrayed
no emotion; only saying very calmly, ‘It is the will of God!’ I think
he grew pale, but even of that I cannot speak certainly, as at the
beginning of our interview I scarcely dared to raise my eyes to his
face. But all changed when he spoke of Moscow, and questioned me about
the things I had witnessed there during the Occupation. I could see
that much was new to him, and even startling, and that my account of
the conflagration moved him deeply. Then all fear passed from me, save
the fear of giving pain to him. His intense gaze seemed to draw the
whole truth from my lips, even in spite of my will; but it was hard to
tell of the burnings and plunderings, and of the starved, homeless,
despairing people. Once or twice my voice dropped so low that he had to
ask me to repeat my words; for you know he is somewhat deaf. But when I
told him of the wounded men whom we found in the cellars and tried to
keep alive, his face lighted up, and he thanked me--yes, thanked _me_”
Ivan repeated, raising his head proudly; though almost immediately he
allowed it to sink again, while a vivid flush passed over his features.
“Tell me the rest,” said Adrian eagerly.
Ivan struggled with some feeling which he would not, perhaps could
not express. “It is almost too sacred,” he said at last. “But I will
tell you; only, never speak to me of it again. Even now I look back
upon what I said with amazement. Evidently Count Rostopchine has been
generous, and has spoken highly of my services in his letter. His
Majesty observed that heroism and fidelity appear to be hereditary in
my family; and asked me whether I was not the representative of the
great Prince Pojarsky, the deliverer of Moscow. I answered, ‘Sire, I
am his descendant; I know not whether I am his representative.’ He
inquired my meaning, and thus it came to pass that I talked to him
about my father.”
“About your father!” Adrian repeated in great astonishment. “You amaze
me! You and I have lived together for six years, and never have I heard
you so much as name him.”
“No; never to any one around me--scarcely even to dear old Petrovitch.
Yet to my sovereign, in one hour, the whole secret of my life flashed
out, I know not how. I told all;--how ever since I heard the story of
my birth in early boyhood, I dreamed of that exiled father, dwelling
forlorn and solitary in the frozen desert of Siberia; how I longed to
seek him out and comfort him, and even dared to cherish the hope that
one day I might win his pardon and restore him to his home. But, even
as I spoke thus, a sudden overwhelming sense of the presence in which
I stood swept over me. I was confounded, struck dumb, paralyzed with
the sense of my own boldness. At last I stammered, by way of excuse, ‘I
implore of your Majesty to pardon me; you can understand how the sad
fate of a father must shadow the life of a son!’”
Adrian uttered a groan of dismay. “Most luckless of men!” he cried.
“Never in all your days did you make a blunder until that moment. My
friend Ivan, it is clear you are no courtier; you may as well give up
the game at once and come back to the camp with me.”
“Why so?” asked Ivan, terribly disconcerted. “What have I said amiss? I
don’t understand--”
“You don’t understand! Have you forgotten the fate of the Czar Paul,
and the unfortunate circumstances under which his majesty began his
reign?”
“Utterly!” cried the horror-stricken Ivan, growing red and pale by
turns. “Oh, what have I done?--I never dreamed of any sorrow save my
own.” But after a long pause he resumed, with a look of returning
composure: “I think he did not misunderstand me. It is true I saw a
look of pain pass across his face, and I wondered at it for a moment.
But his manner to me grew even gentler than before. He asked me what
my father’s supposed crime had been, and I told him frankly. Then he
said, ‘He shall be sought out and restored to you, if he be not already
beyond our reach;’ and he added, ‘Beyond the reach of God he cannot
be. Is it not so?’ I thought he waited for an answer, and I said,
‘Yes, sire.’ That was nearly the end. He told me I should receive a
communication to-morrow through the Governor of St. Petersburg, General
Soltikoff. Then I kissed his hand; and the gentleman-in-waiting, who
accompanied me to the gate of the palace, asked for my address. Now,
Adrian, you know as much as I can tell you. But,” he added to himself,
“not _all_; the look, the tone, the manner, these are mine, mine
only. These it is that give me the precious sense that I myself--Ivan
Ivanovitch Pojarsky--am recognized, thought of, cared for.”