Deborah Alcock

“ On the following night, however—a night much to be remembered in the annals of Russia, of Europe, and of freedom, that of the 15th of September—the sad Russian host on its weary march, and the immense crowd of weeping fugitives that followed it, beheld a sight magnificent indeed but most terrible. A sheet of flame, fanned by a tempestuous wind, grew and spread until it wrapped the wide extent of the devoted city like a shroud of fire. The entire horizon was illuminated. Three quarters of a league away men could see to read by the lurid light. ”

“ Then he went to Prince Pojarsky, and stood before him like a messenger from God. ‘Rise,’ he said; ‘go forth and conquer the Poles. God will strengthen thee.’ ‘But soldiers are needed, and arms,’ said the prince. ‘All are ready,’ answered the courageous citizen. The prince arose from his bed of sickness, and, trusting in God, put himself at the head of the men of Moscow. He gained a glorious victory, and the sword of the Poles was broken for ever in Muscovy. That is the man whose name you bear, and whose blood is flowing in your veins, Prince Ivan Pojarsky! ”

“ 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. ”

“ For a long time we hid you carefully, and guarded the secret jealously amongst ourselves; for we feared the new lord Plato Zoubof, and still more the steward Dmitri —a hard man, who has no pity. But now both know you are here, and care nothing for it. 'What is it to us?' they say. So that now, without fear, you may call yourself, and be called by every one, by the noble name you have a right to bear. Only remember, Ivan Barrinka, that although you are the son of a boyar and a prince, the same God made us and you, and the poor man's soul is worth as much in his sight as your own. ”

“ The snow spread its soft white mantle over the crowded thoroughfares, the sounds of traffic were hushed, the steps of passers-by fell silently, and the bright blue waters of the Neva were chained by the genii of the frost. "It is like a city of the dead," thought Clémence.
But she thought differently when Ivan took her, well wrapped in furs, for her first winter drive in St. Petersburg. It was pleasant to glide rapidly through the clear frosty air along the Neva Prospekt, filled with glittering throngs on foot or in gaily-decorated sledges. ”

“ Oh, my children, there are sorrows in the world darker than you have ever dreamed of! Seems it sad to you to sit as I do now, and see the beautiful light of God’s world fading from me day by day? What is that to the desolation, the anguish, when God lays his hand upon the immortal light within and turns it into darkness? The Czar Paul was not himself when he sent half his nobles to Siberia, shut up his own son in prison and threatened his life—ay, even the life of the Empress. ”

“ Michael's eyes kindled and his dark cheek glowed. "How could I forget it, Barrinka?" he said. "Did we not swear to take such vengeance on Napoleon and the French as the world has never heard of yet? Woe is me! we have had the chance and lost it."
"Not lost it—used it nobly. Do you not see, Michael, that the Czar has indeed taken such vengeance as the world never heard of before? To comfort and help our enemies, to give back good for evil, is not indeed the world's way, but it is the way of Christ; and perhaps in the end even the world may come to see it is the best." ”

“ Another silence, then Ivan rose slowly, as if to leave the room. "Stay, dear Ivan," Henri said. "I think it will comfort you to know with what a passion of grief he is lamented."
"Scarcely," Ivan answered in a trembling voice. "In this world love and understanding always come too late."
"The long journey from Taganrog to St. Petersburg was made amidst the tears of a sorrowing people, who paid the precious dust every tribute of love and reverence their grateful hearts could devise," said Henri. "The honours the living would never accept were heaped upon the dead. ”

“ Do you not remember the words of the great Czar Peter? 'If ever again a bearded Czar shall sit upon the throne of Russia, all Europe may tremble.' He meant a true Muscovite Czar—stern, hard, and strong, like Ivan the Terrible long ago, somewhat like Count Rostopchine now. But instead of such a hero as the Czars of old—with the world in arms against us, God in his inscrutable providence has seen fit to send us Alexander Paulovitch."
"But, dädushka, the people love him."
"Love him?—with all their hearts. The men of Russia are not wood or stone. ”

“ Henri started, as though the thought were new to him. "Those would be strange jewels for the diadem on a monarch's brow," he said. "Yet, after all, the world—here in Paris as well as where I have been in Poland—can bear witness to 'long-suffering, gentleness, goodness.' Of 'love, joy, peace,' of course I cannot speak, for they are gems whose light is turned God-wards."
"Then let our prayer be for those. The face we have seen to-day does not look joyful, Henri." ”

“ The same thought was throbbing in the heart of Clémence and of Ivan—that it was a grand and beautiful thing, a precious gift of God, to be allowed to work for that great future victory of truth and light. “But how little a woman can do,” Clémence thought sadly. “Still, every word and deed of kindness, every message of divine love passed on to one poor waiting soul, helps the cause as truly as does the Czar himself in throwing wide open before the Bible the gates of his vast empire.” ”

“ No one knew as yet that its destruction had been a signal act of patriotism and self-sacrifice; almost all the world, including the Czar himself, believed that the French had consummated their atrocities by setting fire to the city. Nor could he or others foresee the future, or discern at once amidst the dust and smoke of the conflict that the victory, in truth, was won. The final hour of Napoleon's triumph had struck, but the toll of fate was audible neither to friend nor foe; and to Alexander and to Russia the day that saw the fall of Moscow seemed the darkest that had ever dawned upon them. ”

“ Amongst the first words which he addressed to his people after the fall of Moscow were these:—"An oppressed world looks to us for encouragement, and can we shrink from the honourable mission? Let us kiss the hand that selected us to act as the leader of nations in the struggle for independence, and contend with courage and constancy to obtain a durable peace, not only for ourselves, but for those unhappy countries forced by the tyrant to fight in his quarrel: it is glorious, it is worthy of a great nation, to render good for ill." ”

“ 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.” ”

“ My resolve has long been made; nor is it for thee, Prince Ivan, nor for you, sons and grandsons, true and well-beloved though you are, to change it now. Here have I lived, and here will I die. The Nyemtzi shall enter holy Moscow only over my body." [1]
"A vain sacrifice, useless as it is cruel," said Ivan Petrovitch in a broken voice.
"My son, it is neither. I have no strong arm to fight for the Czar, but I have yet a voice with which to hurl defiance against his enemies. It is the mightiest of all voices, though it makes no sound—the voice of blood. ”

“ A look of pain passed swiftly over the face of Clémence. The sorrowing heart is prone to shrink within itself, and to dread the first breath of outer air, the first touch of common life. “Not if it is only an intimate friend,” she said at last, “such as M. Tolstoi or M. Adrian Wertsch; but I should not quite care to see a stranger, Ivan.”
“It is no stranger; it is one whom we both love.” Then he returned rather nervously to the subject of the letters, asking what would become of Stéphanie.
“For the present she is to be sent to the pension where her cousin Coralie is,” Clémence answered. ”

“ How quickly and how gloriously the rays of the Sun of Righteousness are rising upon us! They are flooding with light even those dark places of the earth which used to be the habitations of cruelty."
"But is there not something else still to be wished for, Ivan? Those free Bibles you speak of, should you not wish to see them read and loved by free peasants?"
"That is coming too," said Ivan, with rapt look and confident voice. "Every one who knows the Czar knows that his cherished dream—his favourite, his ruling idea—is now, as it has ever been, the emancipation of the serfs. ”

“ When the recruits were reviewed by Napoleon in person, he remembered the sage advice of Féron, and did not imagine that a cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" from the lips of a De Talmont would awaken the slumbering dust of his ancestors. Moreover, he could not but gaze, with a kind of fascination that had in it as much of admiration as of horror, upon the face of the man whose will at that moment was the most stupendous force in all the world. Henri de Talmont did not love Napoleon Buonaparte—he feared him, perhaps he hated him—but, like almost every other man in Europe, he believed him irresistible. ”

“ A great battle, and a great victory—this was what Henri de Talmont, in common with the six hundred thousand fighting men who crossed the Niemen under Napoleon, fully expected to see. Young hearts kindled, young blood grew hot at the thought; while the veterans of Lodi, of Austerlitz, of Jena, saw their cherished laurels fade and pale before the lustre of those with which they hoped soon to adorn their victorious brows. And then how royally would the treasures of Moscow and St. Petersburg recompense all their toils! ”

“ 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 ”

“ The aged eyes of Petrovitch were full of unaccustomed tears, and his voice faltered, grew almost inaudible, as he murmured the words of blessing over that beloved head. But Feodor showed no sign of feeling, except that cheek and lip were white as marble.
Ivan Pojarsky, who, though he had withdrawn into the background, had not left the place, observed him with sorrowful wonder. "The boy," he thought, "will soon forget the old man, who will die with a prayer for him upon his lips." ”

“ At last Ivan and Yefim were obliged to depart—Ivan to his work in the city, the priest to one of the numerous services of his Church.
Then for the first time Petrovitch knew himself indeed alone. To darkness he was accustomed now, but the strange unwonted stillness "ached round him like a strong disease and new." No kindred voice would break the silence ever again upon earth. Such had been his deliberate choice, and he must bear it. But his strong heart sank lower and lower yet, even to the very depths—those deepest depths of all, which only strong hearts know how to sound. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Ay, killing Frenchmen, that is it! Ivan Barrinka, I come here to beg of you—if you like it, on my bended knees—to speak one word for me to our lord the Czar,—only one word.”
“My good friend—for my friend you are, in the love we both have for the dead—I would speak a hundred if I could; but the Czar is in St. Petersburg, and I am here. I scarce hope ever to see again the face that is to us all as the sun in the heavens.”
“Then give me a written word for him. You are a boyar, and can do it.”
“Nay, I should not presume so far. He does not even know of my existence—yet.” ”

“ My country, O God, my country!"
"But our cause is just," said Ivan. "Surely every Russian will fight to the death."
"This, indeed, will be a death-struggle," Petrovitch resumed. "Do you not understand? It is all the world against holy Russia—all the world, except England and Spain: England, far away, safe within her God-given rampart of crested foam; Spain already bleeding beneath the talons of the vulture. Russia, Russia only, stands upright, and refuses, as Pope Yefim expresses it, to bow the knee to the Baal, or rather to the Moloch of France. ”

“ Scarce younger and not less fair, so like that they seemed to mingle into one sweet all-pervading presence, was that child of his heart, so tenderly loved, so deeply mourned. As the Hebrew patriarch, casting a retrospective glance over his long and weary pilgrimage, rested the wistful gaze of his dying eye upon one chief unforgotten sorrow—"As for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan"—so it was with Feodor Petrovitch. A passionate yearning swept over him to see his daughter's face, to hear her voice again. ”

“ The aged face quivered with suppressed emotion, yet Petrovitch drew his hand away. "You cannot love me, Prince Ivan Pojarsky," he said, "if you love not the land of your fathers."
"The land of my fathers!" repeated Ivan in surprise. "What can you mean?"
"Stand up, Prince Ivan," continued the old man, still speaking with sternness; "the posture of a suppliant does not become you. Do you think it is anything to me that you have lost a few thousand roubles at play? Do you think that if you needed my whole fortune I would heave a sigh or shed a tear as I gave it into your hands? ”

“ The French are wolves, and Napoleon is a demon. Already has he devoured the nations of Germany, and it has but whetted his appetite for fresh victims. He deceives the Czar—who is young, and likes to think others as true and generous as himself—with his offers of peace. But the peace he offers is only from the lip out; for he hates us, and he will never cease to hate us. Why not? We stand upright, while the other nations—all except the English—bow down and kiss his feet. But they are all infidels, those Frenchmen. They believe neither in God, nor saint, nor devil. ”