“I do not agree with you, but I will serve you,” had answered one of these, and the Czar, who did not know where to turn to find the man he needed, accepted such service.
For a throne stands in isolation2, and no man may judge another by looking down upon him, but must needs descend3 into the crowd, and, mingling4 there on a lower level, pick out for himself the honest man or the clever man—or that rare being, the man who is both.
Kings and emperors may not do this, however. Despots dare not. Alexander II. acted as any ordinary man acts when he finds himself in a position to confer favors, to make appointments, to get together, as it were, a ministry5, even if this takes no more dignified6 a form than a board of directors. He suspected that the world contained precisely7 the men he wanted, if he could only let down a net into it and draw them up. How, otherwise, could he select them? So he did the usual thing. He looked round among his relations, and, failing them, the friends of his youth. For an emperor, popularly supposed to have the whole world to choose from, has no larger a choice than any bourgeois8 looking round his own small world for a satisfactory executor.
Coming to the throne, as he did, in the midst of a losing fight, his first task was to conclude a humiliating peace. He must needs bow down to the upstart adventurer of France, who had tricked England into a useless war in order to steady his own tottering9 throne.
Alexander II., moreover, came to power with the avowed10 intention of liberating11 the serfs, which intention he carried out, and paid for with his own life in due time. Russia had been the only country to stand aloof12 on the slave question, thus branding herself in two worlds as still uncivilized. The young Czar knew that such a position was untenable. “Without the serf the Russian Empire must crumble13 away,” his advisers14 told him. “With the serf she cannot endure,” he answered And twenty-two millions of men were set free. In this act he stood almost alone; for hardly a single minister was with him heart and soul, though many obeyed him loyally enough against their own convictions. Many honestly thought that this must be the end of the Russian Empire.
It is hard to go against the advice of those near at hand; for their point of view must always appear to be the same as one's own, while counsel from afar comes as the word of one who is looking at things from another stand-point, and may thus be more easily mistaken.
Alexander II., called suddenly to reign15 over one-tenth part of the human race, men of different breed and color, of the three great contending religions and a hundred minor16 churches, was himself a nervous, impressionable man, suffering from ill-health, bowed down with the weight of his great responsibility. His father died in his arms, broken-hearted, bequeathing him an empire invaded by the armies of five European nations, hated of all the world, despised of all mankind. Even to-day there is a sinister17 sound in the very name of Russian. Men turn to look twice at one who comes from that stupendous empire. It is said that an hereditary18 melancholy19 broods beneath the weightiest earthly crown. History tells that none wearing it has ever reached a hale old age. Soldiers still hearty20, still wearing the sword they have carried through half a dozen campaigns, bow to-day in the Winter Palace before their sovereign, having taken the oath of allegiance to four successive Czars.
Half in, half out of Europe, Alexander II. awoke with his own hand the great nation still wrapped in the sleep of the Middle Ages, only to find that he had stirred a slumbering21 power whose movements were soon to prove beyond control. He poured out education like water upon the surface of a vast field full of hidden seed, which must inevitably22 spring up wheat or tares—a bountiful harvest of good or a terrific growth of evil. He made reading and writing compulsory23 to the whole of his people. With a stroke of the pen he threw aside the last prop24 to despotic rule. Yet he hoped to continue Czar of All the Russias. This tall, pale, gentle, determined25 man was a man of courage. When the time came he faced the consequence of his own temerity26 with an unflinching eye.
“What do you want of me?” he asked, the very moment after he had been saved almost by a miracle from assassination27. For he knew that he was giving more than was wise. It is said that he was puzzled and thoughtful after each attempt upon his life.
The war with Turkey was the first sign that Russia was awakening28—that the soldiers knew how to read and write. It was the first time in history that the nation forced a Czar to declare war, and Servia was full of Russian volunteers fighting for Christian29 Slavs before the Emperor realized that he must fight—and fight alone, for no nation in Europe would help him. He had taught Russia to read; had raised the veil of ignorance that hung between his people and the rest of civilization. They had read of the Bulgarian atrocities30, and there was no holding them.
To rule autocratically what was then the vastest empire in the world was in itself more than one brain could compass. But in addition to his own internal troubles, Alexander II. was surrounded by European difficulties. England, his steady, deadly enemy, despite a declaration of neutrality, was secretly helping32 Turkey. Austria, as usual, the dog waiting on the threshold, was ready to side with the winner—for a consideration. No wonder this man was always weary. It is said that all through his reign he received and despatched telegrams at any hour of the night.
No wonder that his heart was hardened towards Poland. The most liberal-minded Czar had his mean point, as every man must have. There are many great and good men who will write a check readily enough and look twice at a penny. There are many who will give generously with one hand while grasping with the other that which is really the property of their neighbor. Alexander's mean point was Poland.
On the occasion of his first imperial visit to Warsaw he said, in the cold, calm voice which was so hated and feared: “Gentlemen, let us have no more dreams.” Eleven years later he reminded an influential33 deputation of Polish nobles of the unforgiven and unforgotten words, commending the caution to their attention again. He paid frequent visits to Warsaw on one excuse or another. This dreamer would have no dreaming in his dominion34. This mean man must ever be looking at his hoard35. The chief interest in the study of a human life lies around the inexplicable36. If we were quite consistent we should be entirely37 dull. No one knows why this liberal autocrat31 was mean to Poland.
From Warsaw, the city which has been commanded to stand still, Cartoner travelled across the plains of endless snow towards the north. He found as he progressed a hundred signs of the awakening. The very faces of the people had changed since he last looked upon them only a few years earlier. These people were now a nation, conscious of their own strength. They had fought in a great and victorious38 war, not because they had been commanded to fight, but because they wanted to. They had followed with understanding the diplomatic warfare39 that succeeded the signing of the treaty of San Stefano. They had won and lost. They were men, and no longer driven beasts.
It was evening when Cartoner arrived at St. Petersburg. The long northern twilight40 had begun, and the last glow of the western sky was reflected on the golden dome41 of St. Isaac's, while the arrowy spire42 of the Admiralty shot up into a cloudless sky.
The Warsaw Railway Station is in a quiet part of the town, and the streets through which Cartoner drove in his hired sleigh were almost deserted43. It was the hour of the promenade44 in the Summer Garden, or the drive in the Newski Prospect45, so that all the leisured class were in another quarter of the town. St. Petersburg is, moreover, the most spacious46 capital in the world, where there is more room than the inhabitants can occupy, where the houses are too large and the streets too wide. The Catherine Canal was, of course, frozen, and its broken surface had a dirty, ill-kept air, while the snow was spotted47 with rubbish and refuse, and trodden down into numberless paths and crossings. Cartoner looked at it indifferently. It had no history yet. The streets were silent beneath their cloak of snow. All St. Petersburg is silent for nearly half the year, and is the quietest city in the world, excepting Venice.
The sleigh sped across the Nicholas Bridge to the Vasili Island. The river showed no signs of spring yet. The usual pathways across it were still in use. The Vasili Ostrov is less busy than that greater part of the city which lies across the river. Behind the academy of Arts, and leading out of the Bolshoi Prospect, are a number of parallel streets where quiet people live—lawyers and merchants, professors at the university or at one or other of the numerous schools and colleges facing the river and looking across it towards the English Quay48.
It was to one of these streets that Cartoner had told his driver to proceed, and the man had some difficulty in finding the number. It was a house like any other in the street—like any other in any other street. For St. Petersburg is a monstrous49 town, showing a flat face to the world, exhibiting to the sky a flat expanse of roof broken here and there by some startling inequality, the dagger-like spire of St. Peter and St. Paul, the great roof of the Kasan Cathedral, the dome of St. Isaac's—the largest cathedral in the world.
When the sleigh at length drew up with a shrill50 clang of bells the door-keeper came from beneath the great porch without enthusiasm. His was a quiet house, and he did not care for strangers, especially at this time, when every man looked askance at a new-comer and the police gave the dvorniks no peace. He seemed to recognize Cartoner, however, for he raised his hand to his peaked cap when he answered that the gentleman asked for was within.
“On the second floor. You will remember the door,” he said, over his shoulder, as Cartoner, having paid the driver, hurried towards the house, leaving the dvornik to bring the luggage.
Cartoner's summons at the door on the second floor was answered by a clumsy Russian maid-servant, who smiled a broad, good-natured recognition when she saw him, and, turning without a word, led the way along a narrow passage. The smell of tobacco smoke and a certain bareness of wall and floor suggested a bachelor's home. The maid opened the door of a room and stood aside for Cartoner to pass in.
Seated near an open wood-fire was a man with grizzled hair and a short, brown beard, which had the look of concealing51 a determined chin. He was in the act of filling a wooden pipe from a jar on the table, and he stood up, pipe in hand, to greet the new-comer.
“Ah!” he said. “I was wondering if you would come, or if you had got other work to do.”
“No, I am at the same work. And you?”
“As you see,” replied the bearded man, dragging forward a chair with his foot and seating himself again before the fire. “I am here still, where you left me”—he paused to make a brief calculation—“five years ago. I stayed here all through the war—all through the Berlin Congress, when it was not good to be an Englishman in Petersburg. But I stayed. Tallow! It does not sound heroic, but the world must have its tallow. And there is a simplicity52 about commerce, you know.”
He gave a short laugh—the laugh of a man who had tried something and failed. Something that was not commerce, for his voice and speech had a ring of other things.
“Can you put me up?” asked Cartoner. “Only for a few days, perhaps.”
“As long as you stay in Petersburg you stay in these rooms,” replied the other, gravely.
Cartoner nodded his thanks and sat down. Their attitude towards each other had the repose53 which is only existent in a friendship that has lasted since childhood.
“Well?” he inquired.
“Gad!” exclaimed the other, “we are in a queer way. I went to the opera the other evening. He showed his face in the imperial box and the house was empty in half an hour. He always drives alone in his sleigh now, so that only one royal life may go at a time. They'll get him—they'll get him! And he knows it.”
“Fools!” said Cartoner.
“They are worse than fools,” answered the other. “The man is down, and they strike him. His asthma54 is worse. He has half a dozen complaints. His policy has failed. It was the finest policy ever tried in Russia. He is the finest Czar they have ever had. He gave them trial by jury; he abolished corporal punishment. Fools! they are the scum of this earth, Cartoner!”
“I know,” replied Cartoner, in his gentle way, “students who cannot learn—workmen who will not work—women whom no one will marry.”
“Yes, the sons and daughters of the serfs that he emancipated55. It makes one sick to talk of them. Let me hear about yourself.”
“Well,” answered Cartoner, “I have had nothing to eat since breakfast.”
“That is all you have to tell me about yourself?”
“That is all.”
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1
forgo
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| v.放弃，抛弃 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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51
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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52
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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53
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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54
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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55
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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