“What was the end, dädushka?” queried Ivan. (Dädushka, “little grandfather,” the term of endearment constantly used by Feodor, was often adopted by Ivan.)
“Do not ask me of the end,” said the old man very sorrowfully. “It was said in official proclamations, it is still written in printed books, that ‘the Czar Paul Petrovitch died of apoplexy.’ But all the world knows that is false. Some there are, too, who will have cause to know it when they come to stand before the judgment-seat of God.”
“He was murdered,” said Feodor with decision. “That is what I have always heard.”
“Were the people sorry for him, or glad of his death?” asked Ivan.
“Glad exceedingly. They were delivered from a reign of terror. Yet there were men who loved the Czar Paul truly—who love him still, and will take that love with them to the grave. One such I know—my good friend and patron, from whom I have received many favours, Count Rostopchine. He kept proudly aloof from the court of the new Czar, would hold no communication with him, and take no favour from his hands—hands which, he dared to hint, were not pure from the stain of a father’s blood. When the great battle of Austerlitz was lost, Count Rostopchine said, ‘God would not prosper the arms of a bad son.’”
“How angry the Czar must have been!” said Ivan. “He ought to have sent him to Siberia, to repent of his insolence.”
“He did not send him to Siberia, nor have I heard that he was angry. It is the guilty who are angry, and from that stain the soul of Alexander Paulovitch is white as the snow from heaven.—Of the necessity of removing the Czar Paul from the government, and placing him under restraint, there was no shadow of doubt; and to that he had given his consent—only to that. When he knew what had been done, his horror and anguish were unbounded. At last he was not so much persuaded as compelled to take up the blood-stained sceptre which the conspirators laid at his feet. I saw him myself, on the day of his coronation, yonder in the Cathedral of the Assumption, and sadder face have I never seen upon living man than that young handsome face of his. Often yet I seem to see it, and to hear the very tones of his voice, as, kneeling before the altar, he recited the solemn coronation prayer: ‘May I be in a condition to answer thee without fear in the day of thy dreaded judgment, by the merits and grace of Jesus Christ thy Son, whose name is glorified for ever with thine, and with that of thy holy and life-giving Spirit.’ God fulfil that prayer! Amen.”
A brief silence succeeded the sublime words, uttered so reverently; but presently the old man resumed:—
“Six short years only have passed since then; but I charge you two, who are children now, to lay up in your hearts the things that have been done in them, and to tell them to your children and your children’s children. The Czar Alexander Paulovitch has freed the Press, has abolished the secret police, has refused to make use of spies. He has utterly forbidden every kind of torture as a blot upon humanity. He has also forbidden the confiscation of hereditary property.”[11]
“Dädushka”—it was Ivan who spoke now—“I do not understand what you are talking about. What are those things which you say he has forbidden?”