AT NICOLOFSKY.
“Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
So making death, life, and that vast for ever,
One grand sweet song.”
“Yes, the first snow of winter is falling. Does my Clémence regret
exchanging the flowers of France for the snows of Russia?”
“_Do I?_” she asked, looking confidingly into Ivan’s face while she
leaned on his arm. They were standing at a window in the old castle
of Nicolofsky, watching the white flakes as they fell gently to the
ground. It was night, but a full moon shed its soft, pure radiance,
over the peaceful scene. “Our first night at home, Ivan,” she
continued. “I shall love this place. I am so glad we came here at once.”
“And I am so glad to hear you say so. I have often felt, Clémence, that
it was too generous, too unselfish of you and your mother to agree in
counselling me to decline the Emperor’s offer of a post in the Army of
Occupation, which would have kept us together in France, perhaps for
years.”
“You know, Ivan, that you are needed here.”
“I know it. I must get rid of Dmitri at once; and my only way of doing
so is by being my own steward. I fear he has used my poor friends here
very hardly. Yet, according to his light, he has been faithful; and
after Zoubof’s letter, pleading his cause so earnestly, I could not
well set him aside for another. It is true I neither respect Zoubof
nor like him,--though he has behaved very courteously to me, being
evidently well satisfied with whatever arrangements the Emperor made
with him about the estate.”
“If you are your own steward, Ivan, will you not have to remain here
all the year?”
“Not _quite_, m’amie,” Ivan answered smiling. “That would be too great
a sacrifice. For this winter, indeed, I purpose keeping my princess a
captive in fetters of frost and snow; and perhaps next summer we may
content ourselves with a visit to Moscow, our martyr city, of which it
is indeed true that we think upon her stones. But, if God will, the
following winter must be spent in St. Petersburg.”
“_I_ should be well content to stay here and work amongst these poor,
faithful-hearted people, who gave us such a loving welcome to-day. Some
of them wept with joy to see you again, Ivan.”
“Yes, Clémence, I love them dearly; and they love me with the love
they gave poor little Ivan Barrinka long ago. Still--the capital has
attractions--”
Clémence smiled. “It was a sacrifice for you to abandon the army,” she
said.
“How could I do otherwise? God gave me these people. Besides,” Ivan
added, “my great temptation to remain in the service was the hope of
one day becoming an imperial aide-de-camp. But for these posts there
are far too many candidates already. It will now be necessary for the
Czar to place his army upon a peace-footing, and a very difficult task
that will be.--But, m’amie, you have not told me yet what you think of
this old, tumble-down owl’s nest of a castle?”
“The château is much better than I expected, Ivan. A few judicious
repairs will do a great deal; and we can adorn and beautify as much
as we like. I mean to have the loveliest of gardens, in spite of the
climate; and to induce the good folk here, if possible, to care for
and cultivate a few flowers for themselves.”
Ivan shook his head. “And share the common fate of reformers,” he said.
“The mujik is a good fellow, but you will find it hard to move him. He
hates change, even change for the better. If he ever learn to read his
Bible, as I hope with God’s blessing he will, I think his favourite
text will be, ‘Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old
paths.’”
“And yet,” said Clémence, “you tell me he is wonderfully pliable and
imitative; that if you take the little mujik from his village you can
make of him anything you please--soldier, valet, coachman, musician,
even scholar or artist.”
“Yes; and you can make anything you please of a bar of iron--under
certain conditions. But it would be almost as easy to bend the cold
iron with your hand as to change the ways of the bearded mujik under
the roof of his own izba.--But I think, dearest, we must rejoin our
friends; I hear preparations for supper in the next room.”
Ivan had brought with him to Nicolofsky an alert, clever young German
doctor, and a gray-haired French priest. It had been his wish, no less
than that of Clémence herself, that his wife should enjoy the rites
of her own communion; and Henri, who spent much of his leisure in
visiting the poor, discovered amongst them an old acquaintance of the
family, who seemed exactly suited for the post of domestic chaplain to
Madame la Princesse Pojarsky. M. Grandpierre, a relative of the valued
and faithful steward of the De Talmonts, was the curé of a country
parish in La Vendée when the war broke out. He stoutly exhorted his
parishioners to fight for their King; marched with them to the field;
ministered to the wounded and shrived the dying, often amidst the rain
of Republican bullets. When the cause he loved was lost, he took refuge
in Paris; and there, after years of poverty, Henri found him in a
garret of the Faubourg St. Antoine. Many sorrows had tamed his fiery
spirit; he was now a humble, simple-minded old man, much more likely
to be the pupil of Clémence than her teacher. Dr. Krausekopf, a rising
young physician from Heidelberg, had been added to the establishment
of Prince Pojarsky, because Russian doctors were few and unskilful;
and Ivan knew it would be quite useless to introduce a Frenchman in
that capacity, at least if he wished the mujiks of Nicolofsky to profit
by his skill. With the exception of the priest and the doctor, the
household contained only two foreigners, the waiting-woman of Clémence,
who was a widow, and her child, a little girl.
The next morning, a deputation from the village came to the castle
to welcome their lord. Ivan went to meet them in the great hall; but
he turned back again, saying to Clémence as he took her hand, “Come,
dearest; I want to show my wife to the man who sheltered my helpless
childhood at his own peril. The good old starost is there, Clémence;
and Pope Nikita, the father of Anna Popovna.”
If anything could have made the mujiks of Nicolofsky doubt the
infallibility of their “Barrinka”--their loved prince and master--it
would have been his marriage with a Frenchwoman, a child of the
accursed race who had outraged the soil of holy Russia. But when the
graceful, gracious lady, with her sweet face, came amongst them, and
accepted their homage with such cordial and winning kindness, their
prejudices gave way; and they vanished entirely when she took in hers
the great hard hand of the aged starost, saying in broken Russian,
“Let me thank you, bativshka, for all the love you showed little Ivan
Barrinka. I must go soon and see your wife, who was his nurse.” For
the priest too she had a word of kindness; and to each of the rough,
bearded mujiks she gave her hand, which they were fain to kneel and
kiss. The starost gazed at her with tearful eyes, and said something
apart to Ivan. “He tells me,” Ivan explained, “that he thinks you so
like my mother, whom I never knew. But he prays that your fate may be
happier than hers.”
The months that followed were spent by Clémence and Ivan in endeavours
to benefit their people. Ivan repaired, as far as he could, every
wrong of which Dmitri had been guilty; and it was not his fault if any
mujik in Nicolofsky lacked bread, kvass, and kasha in abundance, wool
and sheepskins for clothing, or a well-built and comfortable izba. He
tried to restrict the consumption of vodka, and to promote honesty,
cleanliness, and truthfulness; though, it must be added, with only
partial success. Clémence did her part; and the peasants soon learned
to trust her as their own and their children’s friend. They loved her
still better when she acquired Russian enough to be an intelligent and
sympathetic listener; and in her turn to tell simple Bible stories,
chiefly of our Lord’s life and death, and most of them to her hearers
new and fascinating as a romance.
In the long evenings, Clémence and Ivan, with M. Grandpierre and
Dr. Krausekopf, gave many an hour to earnest, united study of the
Scriptures. The individual character and experience of each shed a
special light upon these readings. Ivan represented happy, confident,
child-like trust; Clémence devout thoughtfulness, rather tending
towards asceticism; Krausekopf intellectual doubt; and the old priest a
dim and groping faith, which, however, was growing every day more clear
and strong. Each helped the other; and the one great, ever-present
Teacher, who never fails those who seek him, was helping all.
Letters came to them regularly with tidings of their absent friends.
One day in the early spring Ivan entered the morning room of Clémence
with a radiant face, and in his hand a large packet. “The post has
come. Here, my Clémence,” he said, as he shared the spoils with her.
“Our friends have been good to us this time;” and he sat down at the
window to enjoy his own portion.
But, as he read, his face changed, and he cast an anxious, sorrowful
glance towards Clémence. Almost at the same moment a cry broke from her
lips, “Oh, Henri--Henri!” Ivan went quickly to her side, and laid his
hand tenderly on her shoulder.
“Henri has--has become a Protestant!” she faltered, in tones of dismay.
“So he tells me,” said Ivan. “This letter is from him. He writes like
the noble-hearted Christian man that he is. Clémence, you must not
grieve for him. He has done well to obey the voice of his conscience.”
“But our mother--it is such a blow for her,” Clémence said mournfully.
“Yes; I am sorry for her--_very_. But, m’amie, God will help her to
bear it, and bring good out of it in the end. _I_ do not think the
change of creed such a weighty matter. What does anything else signify,
so long as a man believes in our Lord Jesus Christ?” After a pause he
resumed, taking up another letter, “Emile will give us an impartial
statement of the case. Let us see what he says.”
“Emile has behaved well,” Clémence observed, looking over the remainder
of her letter. “My mother says Madame de Salgues was so angry, that,
but for Emile, she and Henri must have left her house and gone to
live in some poor lodging. But Emile reasoned with her, reminding her
that he himself was once an infidel and a scoffer, which is worse
than a Protestant, yet she never dreamed of forbidding him the house;
and so, not being noticed, he grew tired of scoffing, and became in
time like other people. He told her Henri would probably do the same;
and pleaded, moreover, that his conduct had been always regular and
blameless, and could bring nothing but credit to any one.”
“He says as much for him here,” said Ivan, reading from Emile’s letter.
“‘My cousin is really miserable about the soul of her son, which she
thinks to be in peril; while my grandmother is only annoyed at what she
considers a social degradation. In the eyes of the one, Protestantism
is heretical; in those of the other, it is “bourgeoise.” My grandmother
fancies that Henri was demoralized by his campaign under the Emperor’s
standard, whereas Henri himself says that it was only then he learned
what religion meant. I cannot profess to understand the matter, not
being myself religious; but there is certainly a curious connection,
not to say confusion, between saintliness and heresy. Henri is
religious--he is “converted;” yet he is called a heretic, and mourned
over by your excellent mother-in-law as next to an infidel, and on the
highroad to perdition. He has a fast friend in little Stéphanie, who
takes his part in season and out of season. I am rather glad of it; for
the child had almost ceased to be amusing, Madame de Krudener tamed her
so effectually.’--You must write to your mother, Clémence,” said Ivan,
laying down the letter, “and pray her to be tender and patient with
Henri.”
“_That_ will be needless,” Clémence answered. “To my mother Henri will
be as a sick child who needs a fourfold share of tenderness. I know her
well. Fondly as she clung to him before, he will be closer than ever
to her now.--One thing is certain, Ivan. We can no longer hope for a
visit from her next summer. Until Henri’s education as an architect is
finished, no power on earth will move her from his side. Our only hope
is that hereafter, through the kindness of the Emperor, some work may
be found for him in this country.”
“It _shall_ be found,” said Ivan, in his bright, confident way. “Here,
at least, religious differences create no prejudice. A man may profess
what creed he pleases, so that he does not outrage public order,
or make proselytes from the national Church. We Russians are very
tolerant.”
“Is not toleration sometimes only indifference under a mask?” asked
Clémence. “Ah, when will men learn the secret of holding truth dearer
than life, and yet being gentle and patient with those who do not see
it through their eyes?”
“Some secrets are only learned in ‘the secret place of the Most High,’”
Ivan answered softly.
Neither he nor Clémence was at all aware that they themselves were
slipping unconsciously from the moorings of their own ancestral creeds,
and that their study of the Scriptures was bringing them nearer day by
day to the present standpoint of Henri.
Not long after this sorrow, joy came to the household. When the first
days of the short Russian summer smiled upon Nicolofsky, a little guest
was sent to the old castle. Very proud was Ivan of his first-born
child; and to Clémence it seemed as if no one since the beginning of
the world had ever been so happy as she. It was agreed that the babe
should bear the name of Madame de Talmont; so a little “Rose” budded
soft and fair amidst the snows of Russia, giving promise of one day
unfolding its petals in full beauty and fragrance.