# The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
A NATION'S TRANSPORT.
"Take thy banner, and beneath  The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,  Guard it till our homes are free—  Guard it, God will prosper thee!  In the dark and stormy hour,  In the breaking forth of power,  In the rush of steeds and men,  His right hand will guard thee then."
ABOUT three weeks later all Moscow was in a frenzy of excitement. The Czar was coming. Ten thousand bells, from those of the world-famous "Ivan Veliki," that looked down from its giddy height upon the domes of the Kremlin, to that of the most obscure of her fifteen hundred churches, were clamouring their sonorous welcome. Cannon were ready to thunder a greeting yet more deafening, though far less musical; and the nobles and clergy were preparing a grand procession to meet their sovereign at the Smolensko gate. Meanwhile the people poured forth in a dense, tumultuous crowd to watch for his approach. Long and patiently did they wait; and the shades had fallen deep over the city, in which that night there were but few sleepers, when at last continued shouts and "houras" announced his appearance. Happy was he who could catch, through the darkness, even a glimpse of the unpretending open carriage, drawn by four unbroken horses from the steppes of Tartary, in which the Czar was wont to travel.
It had been a bitter sacrifice to Alexander to forsake his ​armies, now face to face with the enemy, and retrace his steps to the centre of his dominions. But his generals had said to him, "Sire, your presence here paralyzes the army; it takes fifty thousand men to guard you;" and he was forced to acknowledge the justice of their remonstrances: a chance bullet—perhaps a bullet which was not a chance one; for Napoleon was no chivalrous antagonist—might at any moment leave Russia a prey to untold confusion. On the other hand, a new army was urgently needed, and none but the sovereign could raise it; men's hearts everywhere were failing them for fear, and none but the sovereign could inspire them with hope and confidence. So "the great heart" returned "to the midst of the great body." For the present.
On the morning after the arrival of the Czar in Moscow, Ivan was walking in a fashionable street called the Arbatskaya, not far from the Kremlin. Adrian Wertsch and two or three other young noblemen were with him. Like all the crowd amongst which they were moving, they had donned their richest and gayest dresses. Every one wore a festive air, and seemed to be making holiday in honour of the presence of the sovereign.
"Come, Adrian Nicoläitch," said young Kanikoff, the very person to whom Ivan had lost so many of Petrovitch's hard-earned roubles—"come, tell us how much of the show you saw last night."
"As much as you did," was the laughing answer; "or as our friend here, Ivan Ivanovitch."
"Oh, as for me," said Ivan, "I am born under an unlucky star. I am destined never to see his Imperial Majesty. During one of his visits to the city I was ill; during two I was absent; and last night, all I could contrive to see was the head of one of his horses."
​"Better luck another time. Stay, I really think we are going to have it now. Hark! listen to those shouts. What a throng there is though—all the 'black people' in Moscow pressing about us!—Come, come, good people; if it is the Czar, still you need not crowd us in this way. There is room enough in the world for all. Stand back, I say!—Ivan, take care of your purse!"
"No need," laughed Ivan; "there is nothing in it."
"Hush! he is coming. Off with hats and caps.—Yakovlef, of what are you thinking? Do not kneel, man; he has strictly forbidden it."
"Great St. Michael!" exclaimed Wertsch in another moment, "what a disappointment, and what fools we have all been making of ourselves!—Be quiet there, good people, and save your throats until you have something to shout for. That is not his Imperial Majesty; it is only one of his aides-de-camp, with some other person belonging to the suite."
"Eh bien!" said Kanikoff. "It is no wonder the servant was taken for the master. He is handsome enough for that." And he gazed in undisguised admiration at the splendid figure of the young aide-de-camp, with his plumed cap in his hand, and a galaxy of jewelled orders glittering on his breast, as he bowed gracefully to right and left in acknowledgment of the salutations of the crowd.
"That is Prince Ouvarov," said Yakovlef. "You seem to admire him."
"Who could help it?"
"Not the ladies of St. Petersburg, at all events. It is said he breaks a score of hearts every season. Once the Czar himself read him a lecture; and I am told he answered, with the utmost sang-froid, 'How can I help it, your Imperial Majesty? The ladies are such fools about me.' But would you believe it?—in war he is the Archangel Michael himself. He led the hussars at Austerlitz; and at Erfurt Napoleon asked, 'Which ​is the brave general who punished my infantry so sorely?' This young gallant, as beautiful as a girl, and as daintily curled and perfumed, stepped forward and said quietly, 'Je, sire.' 'You may not speak very good French, but you are a very brave officer,' said Napoleon, taking his hand kindly."
"Have a care, Yakovlef. If the people hear us talking of Napoleon, ten to one they will tear us to pieces."
"Not they, while the Czar is here.—Ivan Ivanovitch, what ails you? You seem lost in a dream. Wake up, my friend."
Ivan started.
"True enough," he said; "I feel in a dream. I am perplexed, haunted, by the face of that man."
"Of Ouvarov?"
"No; of the other who rode beside him. That tall, gaunt, foreign-looking man. I have seen him before; I am sure of it. But where? when?"
"I should think," said Kanikoff, "that you would care very little to see him again. He must ride out with Ouvarov on purpose to illustrate Beauty and the Beast."
"Ivan would like well enough to see him if he were ill," Yakovlef interposed. "That is the Czar's physician—Dr. Wylie, a Scotchman, very clever, but very ready with his lancet, they say. He has been accused of cutting off a man's head to cure him of a headache."
"The head of the man who allowed him to do it could have been little loss to its owner," laughed Ivan. Then he repeated thoughtfully, "His lancet! I am sure I have seen him with a lancet. Of what can I be thinking?"
He was interrupted by Feodor, the grandson of Petrovitch, who pushed his way through the crowd to the group of young nobles. The handsome, dark-eyed lad, in his blue caftan and crimson sash, looked to no disadvantage amongst them. They all knew him, and greeted him with kindness, if also with a little condescension.
​"I am so glad I have found you, Prince Ivan," said the boy breathlessly. "My grandfather thought you would like to see the benediction of the Czar with the holy picture. His friend, Pope Yefim, is to take part in the ceremony, and he says he can secure you a good place."
Ivan gladly accepted the offer; and in the short conversation that followed, the merchant's son was able to contribute materially to the information of his social superiors.
"Pope Yefim has seen a copy of the letter which the Patriarch wrote to the Czar," he said. "He was not able to come himself—for you know, gentlemen, he is nearly a hundred years old, much older than my grandfather—but he writes that it grieves him to the heart he cannot see the face of his sovereign—that face which is to him 'as the face of Christ.'"
Neither speaker nor hearers were startled by the expression which to us seems to border on the profane. But the profanity was unintentional, and the passionate loyalty utterly sincere.
Feodor went on—"He has sent him the sacred picture of St. Sergius, from the Troitza monastery. You know, gentlemen, that is the picture which the Czar Alexis and the great Czar Peter carried into battle, and it always gave them the victory. Though, my grandfather says, it is not the holy picture that gives the victory, or even the holy saint, but God himself."
"Thy grandfather seems to be a wise man," said Yakovlef. "But I wonder what the Czar himself thinks of the matter. People used to call him very enlightened, quite a philosopher, a disciple at heart of Voltaire and Diderot. I warrant me they are right, and he believes little enough."
The last remark was intended for the nobles, but it reached the ear of Feodor, who, to every one's surprise, both understood and answered it.
"The Czar," he said reverently, "must believe very much in ​God, for he cares very much about the poor, whom God has made."
"God give him the victory over his enemies!" said Kanikoff; and the little group responded with a hearty "Amen!"—for, "beneath all the foam and sputter" of their light and careless talk, it was true that "the heart's depths boiled in earnest."
Such a benediction as the Czar was about to receive is often bestowed, in the Greek Church, even upon private persons who have in view some important enterprise, or wish to offer some particular supplication or thanksgiving. It is called a Molében; and it would be a beautiful and touching ceremony, but for the baneful influence of that superstition which too often leads its votaries to worship and serve the creature more than the Creator. Usually, most of the prayers are addressed to the guardian angel, or to the saint with whose picture the votary is blessed—the picture being then given to him as a kind of talisman.
The benediction was to take place on the 27th of July, and early in the morning Ivan entered the Church of the Assumption, the sacred spot where the holy anointing oil had been poured upon the head of the Czar. Pope Yefim had found for him a quiet niche, from whence he could witness the whole of the ceremony. He had room to stand or kneel: in Russian churches the worshippers never sit, however protracted the services may be. From his place of waiting he heard the tumult, the shouts and cheering, which welcomed the Czar as he approached. He knew that now he was ascending the "Red" or "Beautiful" Staircase, by which, upon state occasions, the Czars were wont to enter the cathedral; but he could not know that he was "followed by an immense crowd, who wept, and blessed him, and swore to defend his empire with their lives." He knew that now this Czar would take his stand, as other Czars had done, upon the summit of the staircase, to allow ​the people beneath "to see the light of his eyes;" but he could not know as yet how profoundly the mighty heart of that people was moved, "as the trees of the wood are shaken with the wind."
Clear and sweet as the song of angels rose the ringing treble of the boyish choristers, who welcomed the Czar as he entered—"Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord!" The violet robes of the bishop and the assistant priests—the flash of innumerable jewels upon mitre, pall, and crozier—the faint perfume of incense—the sparkling drops of holy water flung from vessels worth the ransom of a king,—all these held the senses of Ivan, and wholly filled for a time his imaginative and impressible heart.
Meanwhile, the man who was the centre of all this pomp, and whose manhood for Russia in that solemn hour was more than worth it all, stood reverently in his place while the officiating bishop sprinkled him with holy water, or touched his forehead, his lips, his breast with the sacred picture. As the eyes of Ivan rested on that stately figure, peerless in its grace and majesty, a kind of awe stole over him. All the old superstitious reverence of the Russian for the Czar, who is "God upon earth," came upon him. It seemed almost an irreverence to raise his eyes to the face of the monarch; he could scarcely dare to do it.
But a "Gospodin Pomilvi" of exquisite sweetness from the choir drew away his thoughts for a moment, and involuntarily he glanced towards the spot whence the sound proceeded. Then, once again he looked where all else were looking; and suddenly a strange thing happened to him. As in a dream, he saw—instead of the gorgeous, dimly-lighted church, the gleaming vestments, the drooping banners—a green bank beside a river, a group of peasants, a cold and rigid form, a noble, compassionate face bending over it. He heard a voice that said, in tones of courageous hope, "My children, this is not death. ​We will save him yet." For he knew that his boyar and the Czar Alexander Paulovitch were the same. Only, it seemed to him that now it was holy Russia that was lying numb and prostrate, and that the Czar had pledged himself to save. He would do it. From that moment Ivan never doubted it.
Besides the great ceremony of which the world was talking, another, known to one only, took place in the church that day. Ivan drew out the piece of gold his boyar's hand had given him, and which, ever since, had hung round his neck. He kissed it, and made a solemn vow upon it, "Faithfully to serve my Czar; to live for him all my days; and, if God will, to die for him."
Yet once more his eyes sought the face of his sovereign, and never wandered from it until the service was concluded. But little could he guess what was passing in the soul of which that expressive countenance was sometimes the too faithful index.
Alexander's own hand has sketched for us in a few slight touches the conflicts of that period. Not then, nor ever, so far as we know, did the thought of St. Sergius, or of any other human mediator, interpose itself between his soul and the Divine Presence. But for some time past he had been wrestling hard in secret with questions which go down to the very roots of a man's being. Was there a God in heaven whose ear could be reached by that cry from human lips, "Gospodin Pomilvi"? And, if so, was he the "invented God," the "God afar off" of the deist and the philosopher; or the God of the Bible, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ? Already these questions were answered for him, almost with assurance; but there still remained another. Would this God hear and help a man who was kneeling before him on behalf of fifty millions of other men whose destinies were committed to his keeping? Would he deign to touch him with his hand, to strengthen him with his strength? In those days the soul ​of Alexander was feeling after God, if haply he might find him.
The service over, Ivan repaired to the Hall of Nobles, as one whose rank entitled him to find entrance there. He had to content himself with an obscure place in the crowded assembly, where he could not see the Czar, although he could hear his voice. In a noble address, Alexander laid before his subjects the full extent of the public danger. He concealed nothing; the strength of the invaders, the position of the army, its perils, its resources, its needs, all were revealed with a large-minded candour which would have honoured the constitutional monarch of a free people. In conclusion, he said that he "regarded the zeal of the nobility as the firmest support of the throne. In all times and on all occasions it has proved the faithful defender of the integrity and glory of Russia." Here his voice thrilled, faltered with emotion, and he paused amidst a universal cry that seemed to shake the massive roof and walls of the grand old hall—"Ask what you please, sire; we offer you everything."
One of the nobles proposed the gift of a serf in every twenty-five; but a chorus of eager voices interrupted, "It is not half enough!" Finally, one serf in every ten, ready armed and equipped, and provided for three months, was unanimously voted for the service of the Czar.
While all this went on, Ivan sat in his place, silent and sad at heart. He had nothing to give,—nothing but his life; yet that, perhaps, might count for something hereafter.
In the meantime, a scene equally significant was taking place in the adjacent Hall of Merchants. Old Petrovitch repaired thither with the rest, leaning on the arm of his youthful guide Feodor, his eldest son, who ought to have accompanied him, being absent at the time. "I cannot see the face of the Lord's ​anointed," he said, "but I can hear his voice." This assembly, like the other, was densely crowded. Feodor contrived to find standing room upon the edge of a seat; and from this vantage-ground he was able to look over the heads of the throng of grave, bearded merchants. "Grandfather," he whispered, "the Czar is not here; only the Governor."
"God save his Excellency Count Rostopchine! Hearts of steel, such as his, are sorely needed now," the old man responded.
"But we can see him any day we like. It is the Czar we want to see," grumbled Feodor.
"Patience, boy; he is coming," said one of the merchants near them. "And, while we wait for him, it is his words the count is going to give us, not his own."
This was true. Amidst a hush of eager expectation, the Governor rose and read aloud the address of the Czar "to our ancient city and metropolis of Moscow." It contained the same explanations and appeals which at that moment in another place were falling from his own lips; and concluded with an earnest exhortation to prepare for "that defence which must now shield the babe at the mother's breast, and guard from sacrilege the tombs of our fathers. The very existence of our name in the map of nations is menaced. The enemy denounces 'Destruction to Russia.' The security of our holy Church, the safety of the throne of the Czars, the independence of our ancient Muscovite Empire, all call aloud that the object of this appeal may be received by our loyal subjects as a sacred decree. May the filial ardour spread itself from Moscow to the extremities of our dominions; and a force will then assemble around the monarch that may defy the thousand legions of our treacherous invader. The ills which he has prepared for us will then fall upon his own head, and Europe, delivered from slavery, may then celebrate the name of—"
"Alexander!" The words sprang from the lips of Feodor ​Petrovitch, the youngest there, who spoke aloud the thought that thrilled in every heart, and knew not that he spoke until he caught the reproving looks of some of those around him. In the meantime Count Rostopchine calmly completed the sentence as it had been written—"Europe, delivered from slavery, may then celebrate the name of Russia."
Scarcely had he concluded, when the Czar himself stood amongst them, and with a few eloquent words wound up to its highest pitch the enthusiasm of the audience. Amidst the tears and acclamations which followed, the venerable chief of the merchants stood up in his place and subscribed his name for the gift of fifty thousand roubles—two-thirds of his fortune. Others gave in similar proportion; and Petrovitch was surpassed by none in self-sacrificing liberality. Feodor, under his directions, wrote his name upon the list of subscribers. When he had done so, he turned to his grandfather—"Dädushka, I think you must give the Czar something more even yet."
"Even sons and grandsons?" said the old man, with a smile that had in it a little sadness and a great deal of resignation; "well, I shall not refuse."
"Even me?" said Feodor, nestling close to him and putting his arm caressingly about his neck. But Petrovitch did not answer.
"The people were willing," even beyond their power, so that three days afterwards the Czar published a ukase, not to ask for gifts, but to limit their amount. "The nobles literally gave him Russia," wrote the Sardinian ambassador to his sovereign. "They melted into tears; in short, sire, there never was anything like it. The merchants have given him ten million roubles, and lent him fifty or sixty million."
But the mass of the people—peasants, mujiks, serfs, who tilled the soil—what part had they in this splendid outburst of ​loyal and patriotic enthusiasm? Napoleon expected that these "oppressed and degraded slaves" would hail him as a deliverer—would rise everywhere in revolt, and massacre their tyrants. Very different was the fact. When the time came for the serfs voted by the nobles to be levied from their estates, and when the vast crown lands had also to contribute their proportion of recruits, there was weeping and wailing in the izbas of every village from the Neva to the steppes of Tartary. But it was not, as in other days, the conscript who mourned his hard lot, and his mother, his sister, his betrothed who made sore lamentation over a separation probably life-long. It was the one not chosen who mingled his tears with those of his friends and parents, because he might not go and shed his blood for the Czar and holy Russia. Glad was the young recruit as he donned his simple uniform—a gray caftan, with loose trousers and a crimson sash; and proudly did he wear on the front of his gray cap the imperial badge, "a brazen cross surmounting a crown over the letter A." First and highest the cross, symbol of the Christian faith; beneath that, the imperial crown of Russia; again beneath that—Alexander.
But although putting himself, as he was wont to do, in the lowest place, and when possible out of sight altogether, the strong personal love with which Alexander had inspired his subjects counted for more, in that hour of a nation's conflict and agony, than the traditional religious veneration of the Russian for his country and his Czar. Well was it for Russia, and for Europe also, that the Czar God had given her was Alexander Paulovitch. It was not only that he had been, since the beginning of his reign, "perfectly just as emperor, singularly generous as man;" not only that he was richly endowed with all those brilliant and fascinating qualities which take the eye and win the suffrage of the multitude. The secret of his influence lay deeper. God had given him a gift more ​precious still. He had touched his heart with "the enthusiasm of humanity." This autocrat of fifty millions "loved his brother whom he had seen," even when as yet he knew not the divine Father "whom he had not seen." The hand that toiled so hard to bring back the perishing mujik from his death-like swoon was well used to deeds of beneficence. Of these a hundred stories might be told: at that time they were told, not only in the salons of St. Petersburg, but beside the stove in the izbas of many a country village. Everywhere the mujiks said, "Our lord the Czar loves us." And everywhere, as long as the world lasts, love will win love.
* ↑ His heir would have been the wayward, eccentric Constantine, who, in such a crisis, could not have maintained his position for a month.
* ↑ De Maistre.
* ↑ Madame de Stael, "Dix Années d'Exil."
* ↑ An eye-witness tells us "how the image of St. Sergius was presented to the young Czar, whose handsome face, surrounded by the old banners in the dimly-lighted church, had a most picturesque effect." (See the "Memoirs of Madame Junot.")
* ↑ All these particulars, as well as those of the meeting in the Hall of the Merchants, are historical.
* ↑ Elected annually from their own body. His munificent donation was paid the next day.
* ↑ Madame de Stael.