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).