“A bad peace with your enemies sometimes means a worse quarrel with your best friends.—On, my little pope! Now, now, my beauty, my darling, mind what you are about. Gee up, you barbarian!” This to his horse, the wheel of the kibitka having stuck fast in a deep rut. A touch of the whip, this time in earnest, and the horse bounded on, freeing the wheel with a jolt that brought Ivan to his feet, and shook peace and war alike out of his thoughts. But Petrovitch, more accustomed to the ordinary incidents of travel, presently resumed the thread of his discourse.
“What does peace with France mean? War with England, for one thing. And that—what does that mean? Our ports shut up, our trade destroyed. No market for our timber, our corn, our tallow, our furs. Ruin, ruin!” groaned the merchant.
“I have heard of France,” said Ivan. “But England—what is that?”
“England is a great, rich, beautiful country, with the sea like a wall of defence built by the hand of God all around it. The King of England hates Napoleon, and has sworn before the picture of his saint never to make peace with him.”
“I have heard of Napoleon too,” said Ivan. “The recruits who left our village said they were going to fight against him. Pope Nikita thinks he is a magician.”
“Pope Nikita thinks truly. It is said he has for his wife a beautiful lady named Josephine, who transforms herself at will into the likeness of a white dove, flies into the midst of his enemies, hears all they say, and comes back and tells her lord.[10] No one can resist him; the Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia are both at his feet, and he has conquered all the other kings and dukes of the Nyemtzi, except the King of England.”
“But the Czar—why does not the Czar send his soldiers and tell them to kill him?” queried Ivan.
“Not so easy!” Petrovitch answered with a short laugh. “However, there is little to be said after all. Russia has fought him long and well. If the devil helps his own, what can good orthodox Christians do? Think of Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland—blood and tears have flowed in torrents. I know a widow who lost her two sons at Austerlitz. Another;—but why speak of these things? War is always terrible.”
“Then why don’t you wish for peace?”
“A good peace might be very desirable, but save us from a peace that will ruin our commerce!” cried Petrovitch with energy. “The Czar has evil counsellors around him who are persuading him to that sort of peace. Perhaps, indeed, Napoleon has bewitched him with his sorceries. Who knows?”