# The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII.
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."
​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 childlike 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."