“Mais elle etait de ce monde oh lee meillenres choses
Ont le pire dentin;
Et Rose elle a vdcu ce quo vivent lee roses,
L’espece d’un printemps.”
A HAPPY quiet year passed away at Nicolofsky; then Ivan and Clemente removed to St. Petersburg, where they established themselves for the coming winter in one of the palaces on the Fontanka. Clemente, upon this her first visit, found the city wonderful and fascinating in its very strangeness. It seemed a thing of yesterday; the magnificent buildings, the stately streets and squares, looked as if they had sprung into being at the touch of an enchanter’s wand. Not yet had the hand of time left its impress anywhere. When she arrived, all was life, color, animation; every pulse of the great city was throbbing, and the din of its multitudinous and busy noises smote strangely upon ears accustomed to the quiet of the country. But soon a change came. The snow spread its soft white mantle over the crowded thoroughfares, the sounds of traffic were hushed, the steps of passers-by fell silently, and the bright blue waters of the Neva were chained by the genii of the frost. “It is like a city of the dead,” thought Clemente.
But she thought differently when Ivan took her, well wrapped in furs, for her first winter drive in St. Petersburg. It was pleasant to glide rapidly through the clear frosty air along the Neva Prospekt, filled with glittering throngs on foot or in gaily-decorated sledges. Costumes the most various and striking showed that every race and kindred, from Persia and Japan in the far East to the forests of America in the West, had its representatives in that northern metropolis. Tartars in their robes of fur, Cossacks in their hooded cloaks, mingled with bearded Russians in blue caftans, and Englishmen and Germans in the sober attire patronized by modern Europeans. Officers in uniform were without number; and the robes of ecclesiastics, Romish as well as Greek, diversified the scene; while fair ladies, in elegant though slightly exaggerated Parisian toilets, bowed from their sledges to their friends, or alighted at the doors of the handsome and brilliantly-decorated shops.
Their life in the capital was full of interest to Clemente and Ivan. The best and most brilliant society received them with open arms. Ivan’s comrades in the late war gathered round him, and many were their pleasant social meetings. Clemente was soon presented at Court, and won the marked approval of the dignified Empress Mother, and―what she prized much more highly― the favor of the gentle Empress Elizabeth. Both the Empresses found their chief enjoyment in assisting the Emperor in his works of mercy. The more active disposition of the elder led her to take delight in the management of the great Foundling Hospital (her especial favorite); also in the establishment for the education of young ladies; in the School for the Deaf and Dumb, where the methods of the Abbe Sicard were being carried out with diligence and success; and in many other institutions, which were either founded or fostered by the benevolence of Alexander. When the Winter Palace set the example, it was no marvel that charity became the fashion in St. Petersburg. Not from fashion, but from a far higher motive, Clemente and Ivan engaged heartily in such pursuits, spending much of their leisure and their substance in the work of serving “Christ in his poor.”
There were at this time in the best society of St. Petersburg two distinct religious circles, differing widely, and each in its own way very influential At the Sardinian Embassy, the “old man eloquent,” Count de Maistre,―with his white hair and eyes of fire, his “esprit fin” indescribable in English, his keen, quick sympathies, and his brave, high, chivalrous spirit, ―strove hard to turn the stream of religious thought into a strong and steady current leading Romewards. He was worthy to have been the champion of a better cause; but he and those like him never really knew for what they were contending. They were as loyal-hearted soldiers who fight and die heroically beneath the banner of a usurper, honestly believing they are serving their true king. Madame Svetchine, Countess Tolstoi, and other devout women, were just then yielding to the fascination of De Maistre’s eloquence; and a colony of Jesuits, zealous, active, and not over-scrupulous, were furthering the work of proselytism after their peculiar fashion.
Around Prince Galitzin, Alexander Tourgenieff, Princess Metchersky, and others of a similar character, there gathered a very different circle—earnest students of Scripture, simple evangelical Christians, with whom faith and love were the fulfilling of the law, and forms occupied a very subordinate place. These were in constant communication with the leaders of the evangelical movement in other countries, and especially with the agents of the Bible Society. They knew themselves the objects of suspicion and aversion, not only to the Romanizing party, but also to the zealous members of the Greek Church, the men of the old school, who were strongly attached to things as they were, and jealous of all reform. But they were strengthened by the knowledge that the heart of the Emperor was with them, though his sense of justice made him endeavor to hold the balance evenly between the contending parties, and his natural attachment to the Church of which he was the head deterred him from any course that he thought likely to endanger its stability or weaken its influence. Ivan from the first, and eventually Clemence also, gave a decided preference to the society of Galitzin and his friends; although they occasionally frequented the Sardinian Embassy, and Clemence found a warm personal friend in the Countess Tolstoi.
The Christmas festivities drew on, and Clemence and Ivan were amongst the guests invited to the grand ball and supper given at the Winter Palace to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday. Ivan was extremely anxious that Clemente should be present at one of these magnificent entertainments, which had all the brilliancy imperial wealth and splendor could give, with the addition of what does not always accompany them—the charm of exquisite taste and “sovereign elegance.” He returned from the levee, where he had spent most of the day, in high spirits and full of pleasurable anticipation. But his surprise was great to find Clemence, still in her usual dress, bending with a troubled face over the cot in which their little Rosebud lay.
“Surely there is nothing wrong with our darling” he said, stooping tenderly over the sleeping babe. “It cannot be. She was so bright and full of life when I left you this morning.”
“There is something wrong,” Clemence whispered, looking up, but scarcely stirring, for the little hand of the sleeping child had closed about her mother’s finger. “I cannot but be anxious, since that terrible attack of croup she had when the cold weather began. Listen!―her breathing is still quick, though quieter now than an hour ago. But I must be here to do what is wanted―and to do it at once. I cannot go with you, Ivan,” she said pleadingly.
Ivan was greatly disappointed, but he would not combat his wife’s resolve. After a pause, he said gently, “It shall be as you like, dearest. I see little Rosebud is stronger than the Czar.”
“Say all that is right for me,” Clemence continued. “But I don’t think you will have any trouble there. We have not only imperial courtesy to deal with, but kind hearts and true.”
“Hearts that often bleed beneath their purple trappings,” Ivan answered. “The Empress Elizabeth does not appear at this ball: she is mourning tonight for the death of a little girl whom she had adopted, and to whom she was tenderly attached. ‘Everyone dies in whom I take an interest,’ she says. Perhaps her own frail health makes her look the more sorrowfully upon all things. Pray for her, Clemence.”
“Indeed I will. How the happy ought to pray for those on whom life’s shadows seem to fall! We have all sunshine, Ivan.”
But even then a shadow was falling over their happy home. The little Rosebud, so lovingly watched and tended, was fading quickly. When Ivan returned that night from the Winter Palace, with its splendor, its lights, its music, his own dwelling was hushed and still The Master had come for their treasure. Unmurmuringly, though with tearful eyes and aching hearts, they gave it into his keeping. They might have said, had they known the words,
“God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee, he won the victory,
And thou art sanctified.”