Читать книгу Ivan the Serf - Austin C. Burdick - Страница 3

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BRILLIANT was the display of soldiers who were assembled upon the wide parade ground in St. Petersburg, on one mid-day in summer. They had been called thither to exhibit their skill in arms. The sunbeams danced upon their bright trappings, and the gentle breeze played with their floating plumes. Near the centre of the ground, mounted upon a superb and richly caparisoned charger, was a man towards whom all eyes were directed. He was very tall, and powerfully built, and of that majestic presence which indicates one "born to command."

His countenance, naturally stern, was now covered by a cloud, and his nether lip was drawn up with a look of hard, harsh meaning. His uniform was rich, but yet somewhat worn and dusty. The polished helmet upon his head was surmounted by a heavy, flowing plume, which, served to give an additional grandeur to his magnificent form. The jewelled insignia upon his breast showed him to be the Emperor, for such he was—Nicholas, of Russia.

For some time the emperor had been allowing his horse to prance about in unequal circles, and at times his eyes would be bent to the ground, and then they would flash darkly upon the long line of officers who seemed to be awaiting his orders. Those who saw the curl of his mustached lip, and noticed how nervously he grasped his riding-whip, knew that something had provoked him, and there was not an officer there but stood in fear, for none could tell what purpose or cause of wrath might have entered his iron soul. At length he curbed in his horse and beckoned to an officer who was stationed at a short distance from him. The man thus called rode forward and with a low bow and a trembling look awaited the will of his royal master.

"Major," said the emperor, "go and send Colonel Ruric here. I would speak with him."

The messenger rode off towards a spot where a number of officers were assembled, and to one of them he delivered the emperor's order. It was a young man who was thus called out from among his companions. He was not over four-and-twenty years of age, but for several deeds of more than ordinary bravery, he had been promoted already to the rank of a colonel. In both form and feature he was the very picture of a soldier—not such a soldier as was the emperor, but such an one as finds a place in the heart as well as in the head. He was tall, and of admirable proportions, with a face of great personal beauty and regularity of feature. Such, in appearance, was Count Feodor Ruric. He had been left an orphan at an early age, and from his father he had inherited a title, though his countship came to him with but little property to make it valuable. All who knew the young colonel count loved him. They loved him because he was bold and frank, kind and generous, and because they knew that he was ever ready to risk his life in the sacred cause of true friendship. We said all who knew him loved him. So all did who knew him truly. But there were some who cared not to know his heart—some were jealous of the love he received—and such there were who hated him. It would be difficult to find a bold, handsome, generous man, who could live without enemies; and we shall generally find that the more love and respect a man is capable of inspiring, the more rank will be the jealousy from those who envy him. So the Count Feodor Ruric, so generally beloved, had a few most bitter enemies.

We must go back now to the evening previous to the day on which we have opened our story. An old man—a man who had once been a Polish officer—was confined in the prison awaiting the doom of death. His crime was that he had lent his influence secretly towards exciting the Poles to join with the Hungarians in a general revolution. He had boldly acknowledged that such was his desire, and he was very unhesitatingly condemned to die. Count Ruric had charge of the prison in which several state prisoners were confined, or, at least, he had immediate control of the prison guard, and was responsible. At a late hour in the evening a woman came to the room in which Ruric was seated. She was a young woman, and possessed a winning, natural loveliness which was well calculated to enlist sympathy in her behalf. The count could see traces of tears upon her cheeks, and her whole countenance was expressive of the most intense anguish. Ruric bade her to be seated, and then he asked her business.

"You are Colonel Ruric?" she tremblingly said. To which he of course answered in the affirmative.

"And you have charge of the prison?"

"Yes."

"I must go in there, sir."

"Impossible, lady."

"But my father is confined there, and he is under sentence of death. O, I must see him."

"Your father, lady?"

"Yes—Slavinski."

"The Pole?"

"Yes—a poor old man who is sentenced to die. I am his child—his only child. I must see him once more on earth—once more before he dies. It will make his death easier, and it will be a lasting blessing to me." She sank upon her knees as she spoke, and with her hands clasped, and the big tears streaming down her fair cheeks, she begged for the simple boon she sought.

It was a hard case for the young count. He knew the duty which was imposed upon him, and he knew that he was answerable for the fulfilment of that duty with his life. Yet the weeping, imploring woman had moved his heart, and when once his heart was moved, it was hard for his judgment to go the opposite way. He struggled a while between inclination and duty, and then he gave his heart the victory.

"You shall go," he said; and then he tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote an order.

The woman blessed him as she received the paper, and Ruric felt gratified to think he had contributed to the happiness of a suffering follow-creature.

On the next morning, however, the young officer's feelings of happiness received a severe check. He was in his private room, just raising a cup of warm wine to his lips, when one of the guard hastily entered and informed him that the Polish prisoner had escaped, and that a young woman had been found in his place. Ruric hastened to the cell, and, sure enough, there he found his visitor of the previous evening.

"Alas, lady, what have you done?" cried the count, as soon as he had convinced himself that the startling tidings he had received were true.

"I have given liberty to my father," nobly returned the female. "I gave him a portion of my own dress, and he has escaped. I know what my fate must be, and I am ready to receive it. I told my father that I could escape, else he would not have gone and left me. I must die, but I shall die happy since I know he is safe."

"Ah, lady, it will not be you who shall die," said Ruric, in a painful tone.

"Not me? Surely they will not catch my father."

"No. I am the one who must die. You do not know the temper of our emperor, if you think I shall escape the fatal result of this."

The woman gazed up into the face of the handsome officer, and at first she could not believe that what he said was true, but as soon as she was made to realize it, she tore her hair with frenzied anguish. Ruric tried to calm her, but her grief was too deep. He saw that she now had a real agony on his own account, and he forgave her for what she had done. She knew that she was forgiven, and then her strength gave way beneath the weight that had come upon her. And thus the count left her.

The emperor sat there upon his horse, with the terrible frown growing more dark upon his massive brow, as the count approached. Feodor Ruric was very pale, but he did not tremble.

"Dismount! dismount!" ordered the emperor, in a tone like the premonitory rumbling of an earthquake.

Ruric slipped from his saddle and bowed before his royal master.

"Colonel Ruric," said Nicholas, "where is Slavinski?"

"He has escaped, sire," returned the count, summoning all his fortitude—for it was no small task to stand unmoved before such a master.

"Did you not have charge of the guard, last night?"

"The guard was under my official control, sire."

"So I supposed. Now how did the Polish rebel escape?"

Ruric related the circumstances as briefly as possible.

"So," said the emperor, with a look of ineffable scorn, "you have thrown off your allegiance, and own rule now by strange women. You forget your duty to your imperial master when a woman bawls in your ear."

"Sire, I meant not to have done wrong."

"So much the worse, for I gave you some credit for judgment, but now I find you are void of both judgment and obedience."

"Sire——"

"Stop! Did you not know your duty?"

"Yes, sire."

"And yet you violated it. See now how base you are. Knowing your duty, you did it not; and possessing a free mind you throw away your judgment. Ah—here comes Menzikoff. We shall see."

The individual thus alluded to was the Prince Alexander Menzikoff, a general in the imperial army, and a man who had much power—that power mostly resulting from his vast wealth.

"How now, Menzikoff?" hastily inquired the emperor. "What of the Pole?"

"He has escaped, sire," returned the prince, with a shake of his head. "Search has been made, but in vain. He could not have escaped by the river, but must have gone off some other way."

"You are sure he has gone?"

"Perfectly sure."

Nicholas turned towards the count. His movements were heavy and deliberate, and the expression of his countenance was an index to a determination that was not to be easily changed.

"Feodor Ruric," he said, "for your individual sake I might overlook what has transpired by simply banishing you, but there is more at stake. We must have an example. You must die! I have heard of your other acts of treason."

"But one word, sire," uttered the count, in an imploring tone.

"No sir, not a word."

"But my motives, sire?"

"I care not for your motives. Facts are what the world sees, and by facts alone must such cases be judged. I will hear no more. Take him off, Menzikoff, for he is your prisoner till to-morrow, and then he shall be shot. You shall answer for him."

"I will, sire," returned the prince; and as he spoke there was more of exultation upon his countenance, than of sorrow. The very glance which accompanied the words seemed to signify, "With pleasure."

Feodor Ruric's horse was led away, while he himself followed Menzikoff from the spot. It was easy to see that most of the officers were pained deeply by what had transpired. They dared not murmur, for they were in the presence of their master, but they could not repress the expressions which worked upon their countenances. It was evident that Menzikoff was not in very high esteem among the imperial guard. He was known to be a sort of spy—a self-constituted spy—who reported all that he saw, and who, it was believed, oftentimes reported what he did not see.

After the prisoner had been led away, the emperor went on with the review. He saw the troops exercise, and he passed his orders as usual. It may be that he was more taciturn than was his wont, but no one could have told from his manner that anything unusual had happened.