CHAPTER XVI.
AN ETERNAL FAREWELL.
It was the 4th of January—the New Year's Day of Russia.
All the morning, from the earliest peep of dawn, the bells had rung clamorously and joyfully; from every public building the blue, red, and white standard floated in the keen breeze; the streets were full of merry-makers, the Boulevard de Cavaliero and the Nevski, were thronged with sight-seers, the little shrine and chapel of St. Nicholas, on the Nicholas Bridge, were buried in lights, evergreen wreaths, and votive offerings; an air of festivity and joyousness pervaded the atmosphere, and even the grim Chancellerie, and Peter's Fortress, crept out of their habitual gloom, under the lavish caresses of the brilliant sunshine.
The old year was dead—dead and buried—with all its weight of sin and failure; of wrongs unrighted, of crimes unavenged, of evils unremedied. Let it go, let it go! "Ring out the false, ring in the true!" Welcome this jocund New Year, this youngster, with the rosy cheeks and sturdy limbs, this herald of a new régime, this hopeful progeny of a decrepit past!
It wanted but half an hour to mid-day, and already the approaches to St. Isaac's Church were thronged by a numerous and ever increasing crowd. The eight grand entrances were all thrown open; down the wide central granite steps a rich carpet was spread, and up this crimson pathway passed a continuous stream of guests, the bright costumes of the ladies mingling with the uniforms, Court dress, and plainer citizen habiliments of the sterner sex, until one and all became submerged and impersonal in the greater glory of the grand cathedral's gorgeous interior.
A line of the Petersburg Grenadiers, in their sombre green uniform, were drawn up on either side of the central approach, while behind them were grouped a guard of honour of the Caucasus Cossacks, their long scarlet tunics adding picturesque vividness to the scene. All that was best and brightest, most distinguished and most renowned, of the great Tsar's Court was represented within St. Isaac's, on that winter morning, and nothing could exceed the brilliancy and vivacity of the scene.
For not only was it the festa of the gay New Year, but it was also the marriage day of Olga Naundorff, and the religious function was to be celebrated with Royal splendour and pomp, honoured by the presence of the Tsar and Tsarina, who took this occasion to testify their friendship for the beautiful orphan, whose father had laid down his life in the service of Russia.
And now excitement reached the highest pitch, for the Imperial cortège was in sight, each equipage drawn by four black horses, mounted by postillions, and accompanied by outriders. The Tsarina, looking fair and fresh and young, bowed her acknowledgments to right and left, smiling as she did so, while the Grand Duchess Xenia laughed girlishly at the sparkling pageant. And now Alexander himself appeared, the great Tsar of all the Russias, wearing his favourite crimson kaftan, and saluting courteously in response to the old patriotic cry, as it echoed again and again: "Health we wish your Imperial Majesty! Long live the Tsar!"
But the greatest and final burst of enthusiasm was reserved for Olga. When she appeared—stepping down from the royal equipage, her white draperies sweeping behind her, a cloak of regal ermine wrapped about her neck and shoulders, from which her proud, beautiful face arose as cold and white as the surrounding snow, crowned by the shining masses of her golden-tinted hair, in which the Imperial gift of diamonds shone resplendent—a hush of admiration held the onlookers for one brief second; then, as she passed up the crimson foot-path, a deep low murmur burst forth, growing in strength and enthusiasm, until, as the great portal received her, it broke all bounds and ended in a prolonged and hearty cheer.