DRIFTING.
“To that new land which is the old.”
Ivan recovered slowly from his severe and painful wound. He had just
risen from his bed one day, and was sitting, pale and languid, near
the table trying to read, when he heard some one inquiring for him. He
had received frequent visits from his comrades in the Guards, and from
other friends in the army; but now he turned gladly to welcome one whom
he had not seen since the night of the assault.
“Michael Ivanovitch!” he exclaimed; “I am delighted to see you.”
Michael returned his greeting with respectful and affectionate warmth,
and they sat down to talk over all that had happened. The change in
Ivan’s appearance shocked and grieved his old playfellow.
“You look so pale and worn, Barrinka,” he said. “Have they been good to
you here?”
“Most kind and good,” said Ivan. “I have had the best of care and
nursing. But oh, Michael, I have been longing to tell you the luck the
bandage brought me which you placed on my wound. It was wonderful!”
And he told the story of his acquaintance with the De Talmonts.
“Nothing can exceed their kindness to me,” he said. “They insist upon
my becoming their guest--or rather, I suppose I should say, the guest
of the aged relative with whom they live. They are good enough to tell
me she is eager to make my acquaintance. So I go to them to-morrow;
indeed, it was with difficulty I contrived to put it off so long, but I
could not bear to burden them with a helpless invalid.”
“Ah, Barrinka, you make friends everywhere!”
“These friends were made for me, first by you, then by the Czar, who
has put all loyal Frenchmen under infinite obligations. But tell me,
Michael, what do you think of Paris? I have not been there yet, you
know.”
“Well, Barrinka,” said Michael meditatively, and with the air of an old
traveller, “I do not think much of it after all. I would not compare
it for a moment with St. Petersburg, not to speak of holy Moscow. I
never saw holy Moscow until just before the fire,--and that was like
seeing a lovely face with the hand of death upon it,--but this city of
the Frenchmen is nothing to it--nothing! To what it _was_, I mean,” he
added with a sigh. “Where do you see anything like the great beautiful
houses, painted red and green and purple and yellow; like the roofs of
burnished lead, all shining as if they were on fire; like the gilded
domes and crosses on the tops of our churches? Napoleon himself had
the wit to admire them, and to know he had nothing half so good in his
own country, so he got the dome of the Hôtel des Invalides gilt to
look like one of ours,--a Frenchman told me that himself.--Curse those
Invalids!” said Michael, with a sudden change of manner and a look of
gloom and ill-humour.
“And why so? What harm have the poor old fellows done to you?” asked
Ivan, half laughing.
“Great harm, Barrinka. Think of their having got hold of our own Maria
Ivanovka and taken her for themselves!”
“Your--_who?_”
“Our Maria Ivanovka, who was with us from the day we left St.
Petersburg until we entered this same city of Paris--which is no great
things of a city, as I shall always say. Poor dear Maria Ivanovka! She
may have been rather old,--I don’t deny it,--and she _had_ a droop in
her upper lip, which they say is a bad sign, besides being frayed about
the mouth in a sort of general way. But the Invalids will never love
her and take care of her as we used to do.”
A momentary stupefaction had fallen upon Ivan; he wondered hazily
whether Michael was speaking of a hospital nurse or of a favourite
sutler. But he prudently held his peace, and Michael went on: “Before
the war she used to take care of the Winter Palace,--there are some
that say she stood in front of it for fifty years, but that I can’t
believe. However, not a fight have we had since we left St. Petersburg
that she has not borne a part in and done her business _well_, though
it is I who say it. At Leipzig her carriage was broken; but we mended
it with a cart wheel, which answered famously.”
Ivan understood now. “You don’t mean to say,” he exclaimed, laughing
heartily, “that the Invalids have got your gun! How came that about?”
“It is no laughing matter, Barrinka. They _have_ got her; and it was
the Czar’s own doing. He went to see the poor old Frenchmen, and found
them sorely cast down and sorrowful, breaking their hearts over their
country’s disgrace and their Emperor’s defeat.”
“That was natural,” Ivan interrupted. “Think what you and I would have
felt, Michael, had this war gone against us. And if we were old and
worn out, unable to strike a blow for our country and our Czar, we
would have felt it all the more.”
“The Czar seems to have thought like you, Barrinka; for he spoke kindly
to the poor old fellows, and tried to cheer them. And when he found
they were grieving over the loss of their guns, the trophies of their
old victories that they used to be so proud of, he told them to be
comforted; they should have their trophies back again. The Allies had
carried off those guns of theirs when they came into the city, so what
must he do but send them twelve of ours, Maria Ivanovka being one of
them--to my sorrow.”
For a moment Ivan wondered silently, “Was there ever such a knight in
friendship or in war” as his Czar, Alexander Paulovitch? Then he said:
“I think you need not grudge your gun to the poor old Frenchmen. Do you
know how many of their cannon they left behind in our country, for _us_
to show as trophies of what our arms--no, rather of what our God has
done?”
“No, Barrinka, I have never heard exactly; but I am sure they must be
many.”
“Not counting those they contrived to bury, or lost in the rivers they
passed over, we have captured of their cannon--nine hundred and twenty
and nine!”
“Great St. Nicholas!” cried Michael, lifting up his one hand in
amazement.
“Shall we not show our gratitude for this marvellous deliverance by
gentleness and kindness to our enemies, whom God cares for, even as he
does for us? That is what the Czar thinks. He has refused to break down
the bridge of Austerlitz,--a standing monument of the old triumph of
the French over _us_,--or even to change its name. ‘It is enough,’ said
he, ‘that I have passed over it with my armies.’”
“Can that be possible, Barrinka? Then no wonder every one is saying now
that the Czar is taking the part of Napoleon and of his family.”
“And if he is? What is a brave man’s duty when a foe has fallen? Should
he not think, ‘How would _I_ wish to be dealt with if the case were
mine?’ My friend Tolstoi tells me that as the Czar was entering Paris
in triumph, he looked up and saw the statue of his great enemy on the
top of the column in the Place Vendôme. ‘If _I_ had been placed so
high,’ said he, ‘my head would have been turned.’ Surely he was not
thinking of the lifeless statue on its pinnacle of stone, but of the
living man on the proud summit of this world’s dominion and glory.”
“Barrinka, the Czar _is_ there now, and his head is not turned.”
“Thank God; for it is his grace that keeps him safe. Michael, my
friend, do you remember the oath we swore that morning in the camp at
Tarovtino, with the explosion still sounding in our ears that laid half
the Kremlin in ruins?”
Michael’s eyes kindled and his dark cheek glowed. “How could I forget
it, Barrinka?” he said. “Did we not swear to take such vengeance on
Napoleon and the French as the world has never heard of yet? Woe is me!
we have had the chance and lost it.”
“Not lost it--used it nobly. Do you not see, Michael, that the Czar
has indeed taken such vengeance as the world never heard of before? To
comfort and help our enemies, to give back good for evil, is not indeed
the world’s way, but it is the way of Christ; and perhaps in the end
even the world may come to see it is the best.”
The day after this conversation took place Ivan became the guest of
Madame de Salgues. It was a happy change for him. Now, for the first
time in his life, he was thrown into the society of good, refined, and
noble-hearted women. He enjoyed its pleasures with keen appreciation;
though, as it happened, the beginning of his acquaintance with
Madame de Salgues was not particularly promising. When the ceremony
of presentation was over, the old lady began to compliment him upon
the magnanimity of his sovereign in restoring to France her rightful
monarch.
“Madame,” answered Ivan, who was anxious in his turn to say something
agreeable, “the Czar has only been desirous of consulting the wishes
of the French people. He and his Allies would have given their
approbation to any settled government the nation had been pleased to
appoint, excepting that of Napoleon or a member of his family. But
Louis Dix-huit appears to be the choice of France.”
Madame de Salgues stirred uneasily in her chair. “My dear young
friend,” she exclaimed in a slightly irritable tone, “do you not see
that is as much as to say that if a man takes a purse of gold from the
hands of a robber, he is at liberty to give it to whom he pleases? Not
so;--he must restore it to its owner, else he himself is a robber also.”
Ivan had a dim perception of the fact that France did not belong to
the Bourbons in at all the same sense that a purse of gold belongs to
its owner, but it was scarcely clear enough to express in words; and
had it been otherwise, courtesy would have admonished him to decline
an argument with his hostess. So he dexterously changed the subject;
and Madame de Salgues afterwards observed to her niece, “That young man
is certainly very well bred, and a perfect gentleman. But I fear his
principles are rather unsettled. I hope he will not influence Emile.”
Madame de Talmont could not suppress a quiet smile at the idea of the
scapegrace Emile suffering contamination from Ivan. As days passed
on, the young Russian proved a very pleasant addition to the little
household, and brightly and swiftly the period of his convalescence
glided by. When the weather improved, he often sat in a summer-house in
Madame de Salgues’ little garden; and here the ladies would bring their
embroidery and bear him company, or comrades from the city would come
to visit him.
He had one visit from Michael, who was fêted and made much of by the De
Talmonts for Henri’s sake. He said afterwards to Ivan, “Who would have
thought French people could be so good and gentle? May the Virgin bless
the young lady’s sweet face! If she would just get one of our priests
to baptize her into the true orthodox faith, I should like well enough
to see _you_ lead her up the church, a little farther than the font,
Barrinka. I think she is almost good enough.”
“Hold thy peace, Michael!” cried Ivan, half pleased, half angry, and
blushing deeply. “How little you understand! _I_ am not good enough to
kiss her feet, or to take up the glove she has dropped and give it back
to her.”
At an early stage of their acquaintance Ivan discovered Clémence’s
little store of theological books, and asked leave to study them. It
was now nearly a year and a half since he had begun to read his Bible
with attention and interest; but books about religion were still quite
new to him. He began their study eagerly, hoping to find a solution
for some difficulties which had occurred to him; but, instead of this,
fresh perplexities were awakened in his mind. He found that he had
plunged into a labyrinth of words and ideas absolutely strange to him.
It is true that the shallow scepticism of his youth had long since
given place to the only real belief he ever knew. The flames of Moscow,
the study of the New Testament, the living faith of the man whom he
supremely admired and venerated, had been God’s way of leading him into
a simple, child-like dependence upon Himself, and a genuine desire
to serve and follow Him. But of the deeper mysteries of spiritual
experience he was still almost wholly ignorant.
One afternoon Madame de Salgues was slumbering in her easy-chair, and
Madame de Talmont had been called away; so he found himself practically
alone with Clémence. The opportunity was too precious to be lost. He
took from his pocket a little book, “Les Pensées de Pascal,” which he
had been studying with deep and rather mystified attention. Showing her
a passage her own hand had marked carefully, line by line, he asked,--
“Mademoiselle, what does that mean? I confess I cannot understand it.”
She read--“‘I see my abyss of pride, of curiosity, of sin. There is
no connection between me and God, or the holy Jesus Christ. But he
has been made sin for me; by his wounds we are healed. He has healed
himself, and therefore assuredly he will heal me. I must place my
wounds upon his, must give myself to him, and he will save me with
himself.’”
Clémence paused a while. “I think it means,” she said at last very
reverently, “that the Lord Jesus Christ has taken our sins upon him,
and put himself in our place. We should be quite overwhelmed when we
come to see the ‘abyss’ of sin that is within us, if we did not know
he had done so. But he has taken our sin and bound it about him like a
robe, that we may take his righteousness and stand before the Father
robed in that.” This, however, was a height beyond the range of her
own ordinary spiritual experience. So she added presently, with an
involuntary sigh, “_If_ only we are numbered amongst his redeemed.”
“It is very wonderful,” answered Ivan thoughtfully. “Of course I always
knew the blessed Lord died for our sins,” he added, crossing himself;
“but I never felt that there was any ‘abyss’ of sin within me. Do you
think, mademoiselle, that one must feel that in order to be really
religious?”
“I think we cannot know the grace of Christ without knowing our own
sin,” Clémence answered. “But, monsieur, look at these words also; I
think you will find them easier to understand.” She turned to another
page of the book, and read--“‘Console thyself; thou wouldst not be
seeking Me, if I had not already found thee.’”
Ivan pondered. “_Found thee?_” he repeated. “As the shepherd in the
gospel found the lost sheep? But perhaps the sheep never knew how
far he had wandered; certainly he never was able to tell. That is a
comfort. I like, too, to think of one of the proverbs of my country:
‘The babe does not know God, yet God loves it.’ But I fear I am
deplorably ignorant, and in every way very far from what I ought to be.”
It was not often that the talk of these young people glided into
channels so profound. The bright and varying experiences that lay near
the surface of their lives furnished far more frequently the daily
bread of their intercourse.
When Ivan grew stronger, his friends urged him to go and see the
wonders of Paris, which the elder ladies vaunted to him, exerting
all their powers of description to depict them in glowing colours.
They had of course already done the honours of Versailles, with its
splendid palace dedicated “to all the glories of France.” Ivan was far
too polite to tell them, as Michael would have done, that he was sure
Paris could not equal Moscow before the conflagration; but he seemed
less anxious to see Paris than to bring his friends to see the Czar. At
last an expedition was arranged for an early day in May. A carriage was
engaged, in which Madame de Talmont, Clémence, and Ivan were to drive
together to the city, where Emile was to meet them, and a long day of
sight-seeing was to follow.
Ivan, all this time, was like one who floats dreamily on the calm
expanse of a tropic sea. Now and then a bright land-bird skims by, or
a blossom borne from afar sleeps on the surface of the still, clear
water. He is drawing near the shore of a new, undiscovered country; but
as yet he has not seen, has not dreamed of it. His “eyes are holden,”
until he feels the coral grate beneath his keel; then suddenly he looks
up--and behold, in one glorious moment all is changed! Palm trees wave
above him, green grasses kiss the water’s edge, gorgeous plants trail
their luxuriant wealth of flowers, and for him there is a new world
created.