“Take thy banner, and beneath
The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath,
Guard it till our homes are free—
Guard it, God will prosper thee!
In the dark and stormy hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will guard thee then.”
About three weeks later all Moscow was in a frenzy of excitement. The Czar was coming. Ten thousand bells, from those of the world-famous “Ivan Veliki,” that looked down from its giddy height upon the domes of the Kremlin, to that of the most obscure of her fifteen hundred churches, were clamouring their sonorous welcome. Cannon were ready to thunder a greeting yet more deafening, though far less musical; and the nobles and clergy were preparing a grand procession to meet their sovereign at the Smolensko gate. Meanwhile the people poured forth in a dense, tumultuous crowd to watch for his approach. Long and patiently did they wait; and the shades had fallen deep over the city, in which that night there were but few sleepers, when at last continued shouts and “houras” announced his appearance. Happy was he who could catch, through the darkness, even a glimpse of the unpretending open carriage, drawn by four unbroken horses from the steppes of Tartary, in which the Czar was wont to travel.
It had been a bitter sacrifice to Alexander to forsake his armies, now face to face with the enemy, and retrace his steps to the centre of his dominions. But his generals had said to him, “Sire, your presence here paralyzes the army; it takes fifty thousand men to guard you;” and he was forced to acknowledge the justice of their remonstrances: a chance bullet—perhaps a bullet which was not a chance one; for Napoleon was no chivalrous antagonist—might at any moment leave Russia a prey to untold confusion.[15] On the other hand, a new army was urgently needed, and none but the sovereign could raise it; men’s hearts everywhere were failing them for fear, and none but the sovereign could inspire them with hope and confidence. So “the great heart” returned “to the midst of the great body.”[16] For the present.
On the morning after the arrival of the Czar in Moscow, Ivan was walking in a fashionable street called the Arbatskaya, not far from the Kremlin. Adrian Wertsch and two or three other young noblemen were with him. Like all the crowd amongst which they were moving, they had donned their richest and gayest dresses. Every one wore a festive air, and seemed to be making holiday in honour of the presence of the sovereign.
“Come, Adrian Nicoläitch,” said young Kanikoff, the very person to whom Ivan had lost so many of Petrovitch’s hard-earned roubles—“come, tell us how much of the show you saw last night.”
“As much as you did,” was the laughing answer; “or as our friend here, Ivan Ivanovitch.”
“Oh, as for me,” said Ivan, “I am born under an unlucky star. I am destined never to see his Imperial Majesty. During one of his visits to the city I was ill; during two I was absent; and last night, all I could contrive to see was the head of one of his horses.”
“Better luck another time. Stay, I really think we are going to have it now. Hark! listen to those shouts. What a throng there is though—all the ‘black people’ in Moscow pressing about us!—Come, come, good people; if it is the Czar, still you need not crowd us in this way. There is room enough in the world for all. Stand back, I say!—Ivan, take care of your purse!”
“No need,” laughed Ivan; “there is nothing in it.”