CHAPTER XII

A GRIM BEGINNING OF A REIGN

“What are we to do now?” asked Pauline of Wilfrid, when, as their carriage drew near to the Imperial Square, they found approach to the Winter Palace impossible by reason of the dense crowd. “We can’t expect these good people to open a way for us to the front, and yet, as we are, we shall see nothing!”

Her situation at that moment contrasted singularly with that of her father. While _he_ was within the stately palace and occupying a high place among the Imperial _entourage_, she was outside in the open square upon the skirts of a tumultuous swaying crowd.

Her glance, wandering around, rested upon the façade of the Hôtel de l’Etat Major, the seat of various governmental departments. Situated upon the south side of the Imperial Square, its front, nearly two furlongs in length, sweeps round in a magnificent arc, and faces the south side of the Winter Palace. The windows and balconies of this vast edifice were occupied by groups of well-dressed men and women, whose elevated position gave them a good view of all that was going on.

“That’s where we’ll go,” said Pauline, glancing up at one of these windows.

She drove up to the chief entrance of the hotel, and, being well known to those in authority there, soon obtained for herself and Wilfrid a place among a little group upon one of the upper balconies.

As Wilfrid gazed downwards it seemed to him that all the city’s five hundred thousand inhabitants must be gathered together in the space fronting the Winter Palace. They were prevented from getting too near the Imperial edifice by serried ranks of cavalry and infantry, whose numbers were being increased minute by minute.

Wilfrid, with his semi-military tastes, took pleasure in watching the advent of the various regiments that from different points kept continually debouching into the square. Ever and anon from some new quarter the rolling of drums and the wild strains of martial music heralded the approach of some fresh band, till it seemed that not only must all the civilian population of St. Petersburg be there, but the whole of the Czar’s vast army as well.

And the variety and oddity of the uniforms!

Circassians were there, whose burnished helmets with steel veil falling upon the shoulder, shirts of linked mail, and long lances, seemed to recall the days of mediæval chivalry; Polish heydukes, whose upper lips were adorned by triple moustaches, the first twisted upwards, the second quite straight, and the third twisted downwards; Zaporogian Cossacks, whose trousers were smeared with tar to show the wearer’s contempt for the costly scarlet cloth of which they were composed.

“A soldier’s pride should be in his arms, not in his dress,” remarked Pauline in reference to these last-named warriors, adding that this strange practice was permitted by the government.

The marchings, wheelings, and evolutions of these troops were all directed towards the formation of three main bodies, the first extending along the entire front of the Palace; at each end a shorter division was thrown forward at right angles to the main body, so that the arrangement formed three sides of a rectangle.

The fourth side of the rectangle was formed by the front ranks of the people, who were kept from pressing into the interior space by mounted Cossacks, who, whenever the crowd was pushed forward by the pressure from behind, did not hesitate to ply their whips with merciless vigour.

Upon the open ground thus kept clear by the lash of the Cossacks were numerous mounted officers, who rode leisurely to and fro, now conversing with one another, now issuing some order.

Conspicuous among these was General Benningsen on his famous black steed Pluto; and there, too, was Prince Ouvaroff in command of the Preobrejanski Guards.

These two, being the only officers known to Wilfrid, came in for a good deal of his attention, and watching them for some time by the aid of a lorgnette, he observed that though Benningsen seemed to have a word for nearly every one among his equals and subalterns, he paid no attention whatever to Ouvaroff, who, on his part, seemed to ignore the General. It was evident that there was some estrangement between the two men, who, till the previous day, had been on good terms; and Wilfrid could not help wondering to what it was due.

Of the three divisions, that on the right hand, which stood, as previously said, at right angles with the main body, consisted of infantry, whose snub noses and upturned moustaches proclaimed them to be the Paulovski Regiment.

“I don’t see my friend Voronetz among them,” muttered Wilfrid. “I trust he has not been cashiered.”

Surveying these troops through his lorgnette, he observed that the face of each, without exception, was marked by a sullen expression, a fact to which Benningsen was keenly alive, for he eyed them from time to time as if apprehending some disturbance on their part.

“The Paulovski Guards seem dissatisfied this morning?” remarked Wilfrid to Pauline.

“Naturally, seeing that they are about to be disbanded.”

“Paul’s favourite regiment to be disbanded! Why?”

“Because they are too faithful to his interests.”

Wilfrid elevated his eyebrows.

“Fidelity is an extraordinary reason for disbanding a regiment.”

“Nevertheless it is the true reason,” replied Pauline.

Though somewhat annoyed at this mystification on her part Wilfrid curbed his curiosity.

From the crowd his gaze wandered to the rear of the Winter Palace where flowed the Neva, a broad winding stream of vivid blue. On its surface floated miniature icebergs, varying in tint from white to rose colour. Carried along by the current, and assuming every conceivable shape, they crashed, and dived, and mounted one upon another as if they were trying each to be first in the race to the sea.

The sounds produced by the collision were like the sharp rattle of artillery, and could be heard above the hubbub of the crowd.

On the other side of the river, and grimly grey in the morning sunlight, rose the Petropaulovski Fortress, an object of interest to Wilfrid as being the place in which he would at that moment have been a prisoner but for Pauline’s bold rescue.

On the waters of the river before the principal gate of the Citadel floated a sort of state barge, rich with gilding, and gay with coloured flags. This Bucentaur was being rapidly filled with officials from the Citadel, conspicuous among them being the Governor, Count Baranoff.

As soon as he had taken his place in the barge a puff of white smoke issued from the ramparts, accompanied by salvos of artillery, that were repeated at regular intervals.

“That gun is a signal that the river is becoming passable for boats,” said Pauline. “We are about to witness an interesting ceremony.”

“Of what nature?”

“On reaching this side of the river the Governor will proceed to the Winter Palace, taking with him a goblet containing water from the Neva. No matter upon what business the Czar may be engaged, custom enjoins that he shall come forth and drink from the goblet in sight of all the people. He then returns the cup filled with gold pieces. The ceremony is a kind of homage paid to the Neva, an acknowledgment of the advantages to be derived from the free course of commerce.”

“Petersburgers think a good deal of the Neva, then?”

“So much so that I have seen a youth welcomed home from his travels, not with champagne or the like, but with a goblet of Neva water.”

Wilfrid watched the progress of the Bucentaur. While its rowers plied their oars, men stationed at the prow and provided with poles kept the passage clear from the floating ice. In the wake of the state barge followed a long train of boats, filled with merchants and citizens clad in gala attire.

Count Baranoff, in his seat of honour, was in a jubilant mood that morning, as became a man who saw the elements conspiring to favour his interests. A break-up of the ice in a single night was a phenomenon almost without parallel in the history of the Neva.

He carried with him a secret, the disclosure of which would remove all enemies from his path, and open a way for him to the highest offices in the State. Fondly refusing to believe that any ill _could_ have happened to Paul—though his brother who sat in the boat with him, was troubled with doubts—he purposed after the Czar should have performed the customary ceremony in the matter of the goblet, to ask for a private interview, in the course of which he would put the treasonable document into Paul’s hands with the words, “Read that, Sire.”

Eager for the coming of this moment, Baranoff urged the rowers to greater speed, and as soon as the barge grated against the steps of the granite quay he sprang hastily ashore, and taking his place among the detachment of military sent to escort him, he moved onward to the Imperial Square.

His coming drew a satirical smile from Pauline.

“There are surprises for you, Sir Count,” she murmured.

He had now arrived at the principal entrance of the Winter Palace, an entrance lofty and arched, and surmounted by a spacious balcony, upon which Paul, whenever the humour took him, was accustomed to show himself to his people. Against this archway there had been set a staircase, covered with scarlet cloth, leading to the balcony above it.

Assuming an air of dignity suitable to the occasion, Baranoff ascended the staircase, bearing in both hands the historic golden goblet filled with water taken from the Neva.

As he slowly mounted aloft he became the mark of all eyes in and around the square. His appearance was greeted with a loud “_Hourra!_” from the crowd. Their long waiting was over. Usage prescribed that the Czar must come forth without delay to drink from that notable cup.

In truth, before Baranoff had gained the top stair the troops were presenting arms, and a military band, stationed beneath the balcony, broke forth into the soul-stirring music of Russia’s national anthem.

A tall window giving access to the balcony was flung wide, and there stepped forth a lofty and majestic figure, arrayed in a rich uniform. Behind him came a train of magnates, civil, military, and ecclesiastical; among this last and bearing in his hands a tall golden cross was the Archbishop Plato, conspicuous by his long snowy hair and beard, his stately person and majestic flowing robes.

The train paused while the figure in the rich uniform advanced to the edge of the balcony, and bowed to the populace, who greeted the action with thunders of applause.

But though the figure was far distant Wilfrid, without having recourse to the lorgnette, could tell that it was not Little Paul. Who was it that thus assumed to himself all the honours of Czardom?

Wilfrid’s feeling was one of surprise merely; that of Baranoff’s was absolute, overwhelming dismay.

First on the list of conspirators to be denounced by him came the hateful name of the imprisoned Alexander, and lo! it was Alexander himself that faced him and put forth his hand for the goblet!

“None but the Czar can drink from this cup,” said Baranoff huskily, drawing back a pace or two.

“True, and the Czar is before you,” returned the other.

“Yesterday it was Paul.”

“And to-day it is Alexander. To-morrow it may be—who can tell? Is Fortune ever constant?”

Mechanically Baranoff surrendered the goblet to Alexander, who, turning to the now silent people, cried with a loud voice—

“To the health of the Russian nation!”

He drank, and returned the goblet to Baranoff, first calling upon one in attendance to fill it with gold coins in conformity with ancient usage.

The populace looked on in silent wonderment. What mood had come over Paul that he should depute this duty to the Czarovitch? Was any explanation to be given? Yes, there was. Hush! little Sasha is speaking.

“People of St. Petersburg, my father Paul——” His voice shook with emotion. He stopped, and turned to a minister in his rear, as if desiring him to act as speaker. Count Pahlen, for he it was, proceeded to make the momentous announcement.

“People of St. Petersburg, it is my melancholy duty to state that last night our little father Paul was seized with apoplexy, and died at a quarter to twelve.” He made a pause, and then added, “The Czar is dead”—and, pointing to Alexander—“Long live the Czar!”

For a moment the people were dumb with surprise. The news seemed too good to be true. Then a mighty shout rent the air.

“Long live little Sasha!”

The cavalry spontaneously waved their sabres in an ecstasy of loyalty; among the infantry helmets danced aloft upon the points of bayonets; a remark, however, not applicable to the Paulovski Guards, who, in spite of the addresses of their officers, could not be made to show the least token of enthusiasm.

The civilian crowd, however, were wild with delight; it seemed as if their cheering would never cease. There could be no doubt as to the popularity of Alexander with the great mass of the people, and the ministers upon the balcony, who, for reasons best known to themselves, had feared that the news of Paul’s death might provoke a very different feeling, began to be relieved, a relief somewhat discounted when they noticed the demeanour of the Paulovski Guards, many of whom, having grounded their rifles, were leaning upon them with a sullen and moody air.

Their action was, of course, unseen by the greater part of the people, who, after the fashion of crowds, began to make comments upon what they had just heard.

“The great Catharine was right. She said that Paul would not long outlive her.”

“True. He hasn’t reigned five years.”

“A terrible blow this—to the Empress Mary.”

“A blow! Say rather a piece of good luck! But yesterday, so ’tis said, Paul threatened to put her into a convent for life.”

“Lucky, too, for Alexander. To think that he was a prisoner yesterday, threatened with death, and to-day the Czar!”

There was no disputing the fact that Paul’s departure from this world had been very opportunely timed for Alexander by that particular angel who has the arrangement of such matters; very opportunely indeed—so opportunely that, perhaps, it may not have been an angel at all, but——

There was less cheering now. Men began to stare suspiciously at one another. But what each thought he kept to himself, mindful of the Muscovite saying, “If three persons be seen conversing, one of them is a spy.” How many spies must there be, then, in a crowd so vast! In Russia the wise man is the silent man.

Wilfrid’s remote situation had prevented him from hearing the announcement made by Count Pahlen, but he quickly became apprised of it by the thunderous shouts of “Hourra, Alexander! Hourra, the new Czar!”

“Paul dead!” he exclaimed, turning to the Baroness. “So this is the secret you have been keeping from me? When did he die?”

“Late last night, suddenly of apoplexy, so Benningsen says. We shall see a full account of it in to-day’s _Journal de Petersbourg_.”

Wilfrid, aided by the lorgnette, took a long and critical survey of the new Emperor.

He beheld a man as different in appearance from his father Paul as the day is from the night. Alexander exhibited in his person all the beauty of the Romanoff family. His figure, over six feet in height, was well proportioned and graceful in movement; his hair, light brown in colour, with a tendency to curl. His face was singularly handsome; he had eyes of a dark blue, a profile purely Grecian, and a complexion as clear and almost as colourless as marble. In short, it was no wonder that all the ladies in St. Petersburg were in love with him, for, externally, he was just the sort of man to captivate a woman’s imagination. To add to his attractiveness the graces of his mind were, according to Pauline, far superior to those of his person. His conversation was lively and charming. In scholarship he far surpassed his equals in age; indeed, his grandmother Catharine had kept him to his studies so closely as somewhat to impair his eyesight.

Wilfrid listened with some indifference as Pauline ran over the list of the Czar’s accomplishments. Truth to tell, Wilfrid felt a latent spirit of antagonism to the new ruler, finding—somewhat absurdly it must be confessed—a ground of complaint in the very fact that he should owe his recovered freedom to the action of this Czar, for the power to set free implies likewise the power to imprison. That the liberty of an Englishman and a Courtenay should depend upon the irresponsible will of an autocrat of twenty-three was galling to his high spirit. That young man, without consulting either judge or jury, could banish Wilfrid from his dominions, and, if he chose, could order Pauline to receive the knout. There was nothing in Russia to stop him. The wealth, the liberty, the lives of sixty millions were at his absolute disposal.

When Pauline went on to speak of Alexander’s swordsmanship, and of how, in that art, he excelled every officer in his army, Wilfrid became more than ever critical and depreciatory. Empire might belong to the Romanoffs, but when it came to a question of swordsmanship, let them not presume too much.

“Can beat every officer in his army, can he?” muttered Wilfrid. “Humph! I shall never be happy till I have crossed swords with his Czarship.”

Alexander did not retire immediately upon his proclamation as Emperor, but remained upon the balcony for the space of two or three minutes, possibly with the object of giving the people time to take a good look at their new ruler.

And then came a grim and significant incident, never forgotten by those who witnessed it.

Just as the Archimandrite Plato was preparing to pronounce a benediction upon the people, and with this view had raised his hand, an action which produced a solemn hush over the vast assembly, there came a sound like the shivering of glass. The panes of a window in the lower part of the palace were falling outward by reason of blows dealt from within, and through the opening thus caused there leaped forth a wild figure.

Alighting upon all fours in the rear of a squadron of horse, he sprang to his feet immediately, and though hands, and even sabres, were put forth to stay his progress, he contrived, by adroitly turning and twisting beneath the horses’ bellies, to elude capture and to gain the open space fronting the palace, thus becoming visible to the Czar and his staff upon the balcony. The incident was not lost upon Wilfrid, who turned his lorgnette upon this sudden apparition.

Some twenty hours previously Wilfrid had seen the man’s face, but now, disfigured all over with medical plasters, it was barely recognisable.

“My God! it’s Lieutenant Voronetz!” said a lady sitting next to Pauline.

“And who’s Lieutenant Voronetz?” asked her companion.

“The officer whose duty it is to guard Paul’s bedroom at night.”

Lieutenant Voronetz it was, and a more ghastly figure was never seen.

Moved by some overpowering impulse he had evidently escaped from the bed in which he had been put by the kindly, or perfunctory, care of the physician. He wore no clothing except swathings and bandages, which, criss-crossed all over trunk and limbs, suggested the idea that he had been hacked and slashed by sharp weapons from head to foot. The exertion of moving had caused his wounds to open afresh; his linen swathings had lost all their whiteness—from neck to ankle he was one red hue!

There was death in his face, death within a very short time; why then, instead of remaining peacefully on his bed, had he chosen to come forth in this startling fashion?

Voronetz, casting a wild glance around, had no sooner caught sight of the group upon the balcony than he raised his right arm and fiercely shook it at Alexander. With a thrill of horror Wilfrid perceived that the arm thus raised was without a hand—it had been severed at the wrist!

Those who at that moment happened to be looking at the Czar whispered afterwards that he trembled and turned pale. The benediction that the Archimandrite was about to pronounce died upon his lips.

Turning from the balcony the grim red figure ran, or, to put it more correctly, reeled forward in the direction of the Paulovski Guards. Trotting quietly in his rear, as if to keep an eye upon him, came Benningsen upon his black horse Pluto.

“Men of the Paulovski Guards,” gasped Voronetz in a hollow voice, “do not ... shout for ... Alexander! Listen! I have a tale ... to ... tell....”

“Tell it, then, in hell!” growled Benningsen, as he whirled his sabre on high.

Men talked for days afterwards of that mighty stroke. When Benningsen lifted his sabre again Voronetz lay on the ground, cloven from skull to breast!

Angry cries broke from the Paulovski Guards. Many of them levelled their rifles at Benningsen, who, to do him justice, did not flinch at this critical moment.

“Eyes right!” he yelled.

So well had these troops been drilled that in a moment their eyes, in spite of their will, turned to the right.

There was no need for Benningsen to say more. The Guards saw what he wanted them to see.

A body of infantry near by had suddenly receded some six paces or more, revealing the startling fact that they had been posted as a sort of screen to mask a battery of twenty cannon, whose gleaming nozzles, obliquely turned, were trained full upon the whole line of the Paulovski Guards. Beside each piece stood a gunner ready with lighted match. If that battery should be discharged it was certain that, though many civilians in the rear would at the same time fall, the Paulovski Guards themselves would be blown out of existence, and with the recognition of that fact vanished, for that day at least, all hope of revolt.

“Pile arms, ye snub-noses!—Paulovski Guards that were!” said Benningsen with an insulting smile.

Slowly and sullenly the discomfited regiment proceeded to obey, and defiled from the square, escorted on each side by mounted Cossacks, who grinned rejoicingly that an end had come to the favoured regiment with its high privileges and high pay.

The young Emperor turned away, his face already shadowed by that melancholy that was never to leave it.

“What a beginning to a reign!” he murmured.

“Sire, its future glory shall make men forget its beginning,” said Count Pahlen.