Ivan was touched by this magnanimity, which was quite in keeping with the character of the fiery and prejudiced but honest and generous old Muscovite. He answered gratefully: “I beg of you to present my very humble thanks to his excellency, and to assure him I shall never forget the trust he has reposed in me.”
Ivan, Adrian, and Michael were soon seated in a rough, light telega and dashing across the country, under the guidance of a practised driver, at a speed that almost anticipated the age of railways. Until they passed beyond the theatre of war, they had a guard of flying Cossacks; after that, they were left to their own resources. They travelled day and night—Ivan anxious and rather melancholy, Adrian enlivening their way with his conversation. As they were drawing near their journey’s end, he took occasion, from some remark of Ivan’s, to explain to him the views of General Kutusov with regard to the war. “Russia, says the marshal, is making herself the champion and the martyr of Europe; and scanty thanks will Europe give her for the same when once the common danger is over. These English, Germans, and Swedes are glad enough to see us shedding our best blood to overthrow the despotism of Napoleon and secure the general freedom; but when the work is done, which of them will have the grace to be grateful to us? Rather will they envy us the very glory we acquired in fighting their battles. Hence the marshal would not be at all averse to an honourable peace, if such could be had; and they say the Czar has had to interfere more than once to prevent his opening negotiations with the enemy—”
“Of which the enemy would be only too glad,” said Ivan. “Our friend Yakovlef, who, as you are aware, was detained in Moscow by the illness of his uncle, was taken before Napoleon, who cajoled and threatened him by turns to try and induce him to bring a letter from him to the Czar. But young Yakovlef stood firm; in fact, he told Napoleon he could not presume so far, if his life depended upon it. The Czar’s refusal to receive any proposition whatsoever from the French is absolute. But surely I see buildings in the distance, and smoke.—Isvostchik, can this be St. Petersburg?”
“Yes, gospodin, this is St. Petersburg.” Then, being himself a native of Moscow, “But it is not Moscow the holy. Ah! Moscow the holy will be never more what she was in the old days.”
None of the party, except the driver, had seen the new capital before. Adrian was full of natural curiosity and interest in all that met their view as they drove along; while Michael was busy wondering whether the Nyemtzi would come here also, what sort of defence could be made if they did, and whether a great many of them would be killed. But Ivan grew silent and absorbed, and looked very pale. “I verily believe,” said Adrian, turning to him suddenly, “that you are seeing the horrors of Moscow over again.”
“No,” returned Ivan—“no. I was not thinking just then of what I have seen, but of what I am about to see.”
“You are about to see the thing you have been longing for through all your toils and perils. Rouse yourself, man! Of what are you afraid?”
“Of the face of Majesty,” said Ivan to himself; though to Adrian he only answered, with a rather nervous laugh, “First interviews are trying.” Yet he knew that this was not, for him, a first interview with his sovereign. He felt beneath his doublet for the precious piece of gold, the cherished souvenir of his boyhood, as if to assure himself that the great Emperor, into whose presence he was going, was really the kind young boyar who had promised that he should serve him one day.
“Dear Barrinka,” pleaded Michael, “do not forget to tell our lord the Czar that a mujik who has lost one hand desires his leave to fight for him, and that he will serve him so faithfully. At the camp,” he added, “they laughed at me, and told me I would never make a soldier. But the Czar will listen to you.”
Ivan smiled doubtfully. In his heart he wished that the poor mujik’s child-like idea of his sovereign had been his own also. Then he saw Michael take out his beloved picture, and, fastening it before him on the telega, address to it his prayers for the success of his young lord’s mission. “The saint and the Czar are equally real to him,” thought Ivan, “and he would address either with equal reverence and equal confidence.”