# The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 44

CHAPTER XLIV.
"CHRISTOHS VOSKRESS."
"God's Spirit sweet,  Quench Thou the heat Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat;  Quiet their swell,  And gently tell That His right hand doeth all things well."
IVAN "entered into his closet, and shut his door;" not to hold communion with his Father in heaven, but to wrestle in solitude and silence with the anguish of his soul. Never before had a sorrow touched the roots of his nature, the very ground and core of his being. He was stricken to the heart, but he was not stunned by the blow. He had been able to hear and to comprehend every detail; and now—far from telling himself, as men often do in the first strangeness of a sudden grief, that this thing was not, could not be, true—he felt as if he had known it for years, as if it had already become part of his life. "The Czar Alexander Paulovitch is dead," said Ivan—"dead in the very prime of his days, in the very zenith of his power and glory."
From the first hour he knew him, the soul of Ivan clave to that of his Czar. His love for him was a passion of loyalty and hero-worship, blended with deepest personal affection and gratitude. And now it seemed to him that the world, from which that grand presence had departed, was henceforward a dull, cold, sunless world; where, indeed, there might be much ​to do and much to suffer, but which could never more be kindled by the light of morning, by the glamour of romance. All was changed, and changed for ever.
He laid before him on the table two memorials of the past which he always wore—the Moscow medal, and the golden coin Alexander's hand had given him long ago by the Oka. The medal he looked at with a sigh and put down quietly, the coin he pressed once and again to his lips. Clearly, as though it were but yesterday, he saw the noble form of "his boyar"—the stately head, the young face, so full of manly beauty and deep concern—bending compassionately over the mujik's prostrate form. Then, unawares, the vision changed. The low, distant chant of sweet voices in the chapel, performing the midnight Easter service, fell upon his ear, and turned aside the current of his thoughts, though it could not break the isolation of his sorrow. Instead of the banks of the Oka he saw the vine-clad plains of France, and heard the thrilling harmony, almost awful in its solemn majesty, of that thanksgiving service in the Plaine des Vertus. In what joy and glory had his Czar walked that day—so grand and peerless amongst men—so full of lowly, reverent gladness before his Saviour and his God!
A flood of bitter pain swept over him. "O God!" he cried, "why didst thou not take him thus to thyself?" If a heroic, triumphant death had stopped him in the midst of his career of victory, Ivan almost felt as though he could have borne the blow. Or if God had made him to prosper in all he put his hand to, had given him to see the glad fruition of all his hopes and dreams, and then gently taken him, full of years and honours, from an earthly to a heavenly crown, Ivan could have comprehended his ways with his servant; he could have said, "Thy will be done."
He did not say it now. His soul rose up in rebellion, and from its seething depths there came the bitter cry, "Was this thy word unto thy servant, upon which thou didst cause him to ​hope, 'I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation'?"—Was he satisfied? What had he gained? Failure, disappointment, sorrow marked every step of his way. Almost had he fainted utterly; almost had his feet stumbled on the dark mountains, while he looked for light, and behold, darkness and the shadow of death. Until at last, worn out and weary, "with shattered nerves and sinews all unstrung," and with heart broken by the ingratitude of those he loved and trusted, he "laid himself down in the grave and slept the sleep of death." "Could any death have been more sad?" cried Ivan in his agony. "Rather would it have seemed a fitting end for a life spent in the service of self and sin, than for one which was laid as an offering at the feet of Christ." Numb, blank despair stole over his heart, and a low half-broken moan arose from his lips—"No use in conflict, no hope of victory! The noblest, brightest lives only end in the worst bitterness of failure. God is great and good, and there is his heaven still to look for; but all things here below are a dark sad mystery. This world belongs to the powers of evil, and they prevail."
Fast bound in the trance of his sorrow, he did not see the red light of the northern morning steal slowly in. Nor did he hear an approaching footstep, nor a gentle knock at the door; which, however, was not fastened on the inside, so Clémence opened it softly, and came towards him. Bending down, she pressed upon his white lips the Easter salutation, saying, "Christohs voskress" (Christ is risen).
"Voyst venno voskress" (He is risen indeed), Ivan answered mechanically, after the beautiful custom of the Eastern Church.
"My husband," she said softly, laying her hand on his arm, "dost thou believe it?"
He looked up: her face too was pale, and bore the traces of many tears. "I know it to be true," he said.
​"Do you believe it, my Ivan? Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, that Christ has burst the bonds of death, not for himself alone, but for all whom we love?"
"Yes; I believe in the resurrection of the just," said Ivan with trembling lips.
"Then why sorrow for our Czar as those that have no hope?"
"Do not speak to me, Clémence. I cannot bear it yet. My heart is breaking. Not so much because God has taken him from us, as because of all the darkness—all the seeming failure."
A still, calm smile passed over the quiet face of Clémence, kindling it with a radiance more than that of the morning. Ivan looked at her wondering. "What is it?" he asked, taking her hand and drawing her to a seat beside him.
"Christ is risen," she said again. "That word folds up within it all comfort, Ivan."
"I see no comfort now."
"You will see it soon, dearest. You will see that His resurrection from the dead—the ending of his bitter agony in endless joy—means the resurrection of all our hopes; and assures us for evermore that life, not death, joy not sorrow, fruition not failure, is his purpose for all who trust him."
"But how bitter the way!"
"Who thinks of the way when the end is won? Was the Master's own way an easy one, Ivan? Yet it is said, 'He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied.' And as the Master, so the servant."
"Satisfied?" Ivan repeated. "With what? Surely not with the results of his own work. I thought God meant him to do such great things, Clémence! Almost to bring in the earthly reign of righteousness and peace. And I believe he thought so too himself. It was the deepest longing of his heart. It was what he tried to do—tried and failed."
"Do you remember, Ivan, the day our little Alexander tried ​so hard to make a bow—'a real bow to shoot with,' as he called it? He failed in every effort, until at last he grew discouraged, and cried bitterly, refusing to be comforted. Then you came, took the wood and the knife from his hand, and made the bow. I shall never forget his bright glad face as he stood beside you, watching while you worked. He was so proud of your strength and skill, and your success in doing what he could not do; and when the bow was finished, he bore it off triumphantly, to show every one in the settlement how well his father made it for him. Ivan, our child's trust and joy have been a parable for me to-night. I seem to see him for whom our Easter festival is turned into mourning, standing thus by the side of Christ, in full, restful, glad content. What matter if the work dropped unfinished from his own hand? He no longer heeds it now. It is Christ's work he is watching. He sees Him preparing the true reign of peace and righteousness, the grand, final victory of right over wrong, good over evil. He is satisfied."
Ivan's sad face brightened a little. "You bring me comfort, Clémence," he said. "I begin to see that even failures—"
"If failures after all they were, which I doubt," Clémence interrupted. "Perhaps the seeds he has been sowing will spring up in flower and fruit when not we alone, but our children too, have gone to join him in the resting-place within the veil. Indeed I think no real failure possible to the child of God, except failure in trusting him."
"And there he did not fail," Ivan said. After a pause he added, "Yes, there he won the victory;—and yet Christ's victory is more to him than his own."
"As his glory was ever more to thee than thine, Ivan."
A patter of little feet and a sound of childish voices broke in upon their quiet talk. There was a loud shrill burst of laughter from the baby lips of Henri, checked by low words from Alexander. "Hush! we must not laugh loud—not this morning."
​Then the half-closed door was pushed open, and at once three little voices spoke the Easter greeting—"Christohs voskress." Who should be the first to claim Papinka's Easter kiss? Alexander hung back, and putting his arm round Feodor, held him back also, that sunny-haired little Henri might spring triumphantly to his father's arms, never doubting that his own active limbs had won the race for him.
"Voyst venno voskress," said Ivan, as he fondly kissed, first the baby brother, then the two elder boys. There was magic in the touch of those little lips to soothe the heavy sorrow at his heart. But something in the thoughtful face of Alexander made him draw the boy close to him. "My child has been weeping this Easter morning," he said.
For a moment the child did not speak. Then he said falteringly, "I meant to serve the Czar, my godfather, when I grew to be a man."
"Serve instead his King, whom he loved," answered Ivan. "And take this thought with thee to keep all thy life, 'The Lord is good to the soul that seeketh him.'"
"Yes, father," the boy whispered, winding his arm about his father's neck. "Yes, he is good; for he comforted him at last."
"He did, my child. However dark his ways with his own may seem to be, yet are they all mercy and truth—all—when we see them from the end to the beginning. 'Though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion.' He will make the heart of his own to rejoice, and that joy no man taketh from them."
"Papinka, are these our Easter gifts?" asked Feodor, laying his rash little fingers on the silver medal and the golden coin so temptingly near him on the table.
"Nay, my boy; these are too precious for thy father to give away even to his dear little son. When he is laid in the grave, these shall be laid there with him. But to-day, my children, ​we will not talk of the grave, but of Him who came back from it, and opened our way to the happy home beyond."
So the current of those lives flowed on;—little lives of children, like bright, glad mountain rills, laughing as they tripped along; larger lives of thoughtful men and women, moving towards the sea in ever broadening channels, and bearing precious freights. Sorrow might come to them, but not despair; conflict, but not defeat. Life to them was "a cordial Yes, and not a dreary No," for the same reason which makes it worth while for each one of us to live and work to-day—because "Christohs voskress," Christ is risen indeed.
THE END.