The coachman understood the command. Upon Newski Prospect there is a two-storied house with "Severin" upon the door. Here the coachman drew up. The windows of the first story were lighted. On ringing the bell, men-servants with lamps promptly appeared, who led the great Czar to the master of the house. Herr Severin was a simple paper-maker and printer, carrying on his business with his sons and sons-in-law, who, with their families, lived here with him. Upon great festivals it was the Czar's custom to indulge himself for an hour or two with the sight of their simple family life and joys—such joys as were denied to him. The tiny children recite their verses to grandpapa, who rides them upon his knee; converting them into generals by dint of paper hats and wooden swords. The Czar has no such generals! Then five or six of them, forming into a circle, dance round, and sing the story of the "Ashimashi Beggars," each striking up in a different key. No such choir does the Czar possess! At supper every dish is so well cleared out that it would be a puzzle to say what it had contained. Such a feast the Czar cannot give! And supper over, the favorite game of "Clock and Hammer" is brought out. They play for high stakes—nuts; and the stakes are eaten while the game is played. The Czar has no such national coin!
So he sits among them until the little ones, growing sleepy, are carried off to bed by their nurses; first kissing everybody—even the Czar. No such thing happens in the Winter Palace!
When that is all over, the distinguished guest has a long talk with the old man over the good old times. He listens to all the joys and sorrows of his host's every-day life. The samovar is emptied and filled again. The Czar cannot tell what does him so much good—whether the tea, the cakes, or the good old man's integrity—his honest, straightforward spirit. No such tea does the Czar taste in his own house!
Without, on the snow-covered roads, gallop the escort of the guards, while stealthy conspirators peer out from dark doorways, and look after the six-horsed sledge, pistol and knife in hand.
The hunted stag knows nothing of all this!
None may tell whither he has wandered through the long hours of the night, nor who it is that so persistently tracks him.
CHAPTER XII
HOW A FORTRESS WAS TAKEN
"Lock and bolt the doors, and see that you let no one in! To him who doubts that I am not at home, say I am dead!"
"And suppose it's some one to bring you money?"