THE RED STAIRCASE.
HAVING had no sleep and scarcely any food for many hours, I was worn
out; yet so intense was the mental strain that the physical weakness
was little heeded. I had but one thought,--to reach the Kremlin in
time to intercede with Sophia for Zénaïde. In the midst of the present
trouble, I did not believe that Natalia would oppose the czarevna’s
wishes, especially since the death of the Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch
made his niece less important. Her marriage with Naryshkin could no
longer insure the loyalty of one of the older nobles. On the other
hand, Vladimir’s death and Feodor’s return would have weight with
Sophia, on account of Galitsyn’s friendship for the elder boyar. I
had no time for reflection, however, as I dashed along at the top
of my speed, no longer noticing the deserted streets, and scarcely
conscious of the increasing volume of sound that rolled towards me as
I approached the Kremlin. The confused roar of a vast multitude, and
now and then the roll of a drum or the crash of firearms, filled my
ears. Still I heeded them not, but rushing on, reached the outskirts
of the crowd that was gathering in every avenue to the five gates
of the fortress. I pushed my way amidst the angry, threatening mob,
indifferent to the outcry and tumult; but as I approached the Gate of
Saint Nicholas of Mojaïsk, it became almost impossible to advance; the
entrance was packed, and looking over the heads of those immediately
in front, I could see a solid mass of humanity beyond. It was not
difficult to understand the meaning of the demonstration; it was the
bursting of the tempest which had been gathering for so many weeks.
Before me was the banner of the Streltsi with the face of the Virgin
on its broad folds, and one of the regimental cannon had been dragged
half through the gate. Stepping upon a projecting ledge of masonry, I
caught a glimpse of the scene within, and comprehended the situation.
The boyars had been taken by surprise, and their enemies were in
possession of the Kremlin; the gates that, once closed, might have
been defended were in the hands of the Streltsi. Here and there, in
the crowd, I saw the carriage of a boyar forced back from the gate;
the rioters had unharnessed all the horses, killing some of them,--an
action that demonstrated a desperate determination on their part to
cage the nobility within the walls. The most conspicuous weapons
carried by the Streltsi were their long handled spears, and I noticed
at once that they had severed the unwieldy handles in the middle, thus
making them far more available and deadly. There was a confused roar
from the crowd, broken now and then by the shout: “They have murdered
the Czarevitch Ivan, they have slain the royal family! Give us the
traitors!” A seething mass of savage faces and gleaming spears.
Where was Zénaïde? The thought of her drove every consideration of
prudence from my mind. I drew my sword, and leaping into the mob,
joined it in the rush towards the Red Place. I knew that if she was
in the Kremlin she was probably with the czarina, for Naryshkin would
seek his own safety in the palace. I soon found that I was really only
on the margin of the throng, for as we approached the Red Staircase,
the crush became fearful, and here the rioters had leaped all bounds
of control. They were crowding forward, howling like demons; on every
side the shouts for the Czarevitch Ivan and vengeance on the Naryshkins
were deafening. The Czarevna Sophia had been playing on the credulity
of the populace, and this mob was possessed with the idea that the
Naryshkins were aiming at the crown, in spite of the fact that the
young czar was of their own blood. Pushed and beaten about, I had no
control over my movements, and was hurled along into the Red Place,
where, at last, we came to a standstill, for here the main body of the
insurgents was packed about the Red Staircase, where the ringleaders
had been parleying with deputies from the palace. When I found myself
in a position where I could look about me, a curious spectacle met my
gaze. I was near the center of the Red Place, and could not at first
hear much of what was passing, but could see the scene in front of the
palace. In the square the rioters were, for the moment, quiet, and
every eye was fixed on the group on the balcony. The Princes Galitsyn,
Tcherkasky, Havansky, and Sheremétief were there with the patriarch,
evidently endeavoring by pacific addresses to quiet the mob. In the
foreground stood the Czarina Natalia, holding by either hand the Czar
Peter and the Czarevitch Ivan. Even at a distance, I could see her deep
agitation; her face was as white as marble, and she held the two boys
close to her. The contrast between the young princes was more marked
than ever; Ivan cowered beside his step-mother, manifestly terrified
at the crisis, while the young czar stood undaunted, his bold, dark
eye sweeping over the crowd with an imperious glance. No doubt the
recollections of that day’s pain and humiliation increased the horrors
of the vengeance that he wreaked upon the Streltsi in later years.
I learned afterwards that, by the advice of Matveief, the czarina
had brought out the two children to satisfy the rioters of their
safety. The sight of them at that distance did not content the mob;
and after a moment’s quiet, they made a rush for the palace, and, by
means of ladders, some of them clambered up to the balcony, pushing
aside the patriarch, who tried to interpose his person between them
and the imperial family. It was a moment of great excitement, and the
czarina’s nerve failed. I saw her give one look at the advancing mob;
and then, taking the two princes, she hurriedly withdrew, her retreat
precipitating a scene of terror. The rioters had swarmed up the Red
Staircase, and although, as yet, but little violence had marked the
outbreak, it was only a question of time; unless something quelled the
tumult, nothing could save the palace. I had been too closely hemmed
in to move; but this new rush gave me an opportunity to advance,
and I pushed on, determined to reach the Czarevna Sophia. But the
forward movement was halted by the sudden appearance of Matveief
upon the Red Staircase. The ex-chancellor had once been one of the
most popular commanders of the Streltsi, and his appearance had an
immediate effect. He was a man not only of great personal dignity, but
of diplomatic address, and the moment he began to speak, the rioters
quieted down. He appealed to them eloquently to be true to their
reputation as loyal soldiers of the czar, assuring them of the safety
of the imperial family and of the absolute fealty of the Naryshkins,
and denouncing the rumors which had poisoned their minds as absolutely
without foundation. I could not hear all his speech, but could divine
much from his tones and gestures, and saw at once that he had grasped
the situation, and was handling it with a dexterity worthy of the
politician that he was. It was just at the time when a pebble could
turn the scale, and it seemed as if he had won the day. The conclusion
of his speech was greeted with thundering applause, and for the moment
the whole aspect of affairs was changed. The rioters began to talk
among themselves, their weapons were less in evidence, and, apparently,
the crisis had come and passed. But the next instant I saw that a new
danger threatened. Prince Michael Dolgoruky, second in command of the
Department of the Streltsi, appeared on the Red Staircase, and even
before he spoke, the humor of the mob changed. The prince was pompous,
arrogant, and especially ill fitted to cope with the situation. He
gave evidence of his incompetence at once, by ordering the rioters to
disperse, in the tones of a master rebuking them for their insolence,
and, by speech and gesture, provoking a storm of indignation that burst
on his devoted head. He had scarcely ceased speaking when, with a yell
of fury, they rushed up the Red Staircase once more, and seizing him by
his long robes, dragged him down the stairs.
The rabble had gone mad, and I saw that the worst had come. The prince
was hurled to the ground and surrounded by a howling mob; a moment
later, his mutilated body was trodden under foot as the rioters rushed
on into the palace. I hoped to be carried in with them, but another
pause checked us, and then I saw the cause of it. The ringleaders
had found Matveief and were dragging the white-haired chancellor out
to the head of the stairs. He who a moment before had enjoyed their
confidence, was to test the fickle passion of the populace. The
howls about me were demoniacal, and nothing now could curb the fury
that the unhappy Dolgoruky had let loose. Protesting and struggling,
Matveief was pushed to the top of the Red Staircase and thrown down
upon the spears of the rioters below. I looked aside; I had served in
many a battle under the Lilies of France, but this brutal murder and
mutilation of an old man sickened me. The rabble had tasted blood, and
the scene that followed was hideous beyond description. Their fury was
directed against the Naryshkin party and the boyars. As they began the
work of slaughter, they broke up into small parties, searching for
their prey, and there was more space in the square, the crowd, though
dense and furious, being less packed. “Down with the Naryshkins! Give
us the traitors!” they howled, and I found that they were determined
to compel the czarina to surrender her brothers, Ivan and Athanasius
Naryshkin, to share the fate of her guardian Matveief.
For the first time, somewhat released by the throng, I was pushing my
way towards the Red Staircase, when a cry rose to my right: “Here is a
Naryshkin! Death to the villain!” Springing aside to escape the rush, I
looked in that direction, and saw that the rioters were swarming about
a carriage which I had previously observed hemmed in by the crowd. The
horses had been killed, and the occupants, if there were any, were at
the mercy of the mob. An impulse prompted me to push forward for a
nearer view, and the next moment, I dashed among the insurgents with
such impetuosity, that they gave way and let me reach the carriage,
partly because their fury was centered on the man, whom they had
dragged out by the hair and were beating to death. I had seen his face
before a blow obliterated the features in blood; it was Viatscheslav. I
knocked down the rioter who was at the door of the coach, and springing
into it, gazed eagerly at the figure which was shrinking in the corner.
It was Zénaïde Feodorovna.