The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 42
CHAPTER XLII.
SNOW-DRIFTS.
"Where the frost king breathes on the slippery sails,
And the mariner wakes no more,
Lift high the lamp that never fails,
On that dark and sterile shore."
FIVE years have passed away. To Ivan they have been years of toil and conflict, and yet happy years. In the land of his exile he has laboured earnestly to introduce order, good government, civilization, and, above all, to sow the seeds of Christianity. A district, or "circle," in the north-east of Siberia, immense in extent, but sparely peopled, has been his charge; and he has had to travel many a weary league over snow and ice, and through dense forests of pine and larch. In order that every portion of the wide area intrusted to his care might enjoy the careful personal superintendence indispensable to its prosperity, he established his head-quarters, for six months or a year at a time, in the different settlements within his circle, and thence he made journeys through the surrounding districts.
Clémence seconded all his efforts; and her wise and loving ministrations made each of her temporary homes a little spot of light amidst the darkness. In selecting the numerous retinue who accompanied him from Europe, Ivan had endeavoured to make choice of the persons best fitted to aid him in his philanthropic labours for the improvement of his people. The most useful of these were the able and energetic German, Dr. Krausekopf; and Pope Yefim, the friend of his youth, and one of the earliest fruits of the Evangelical revival in Russia. He was now the sole chaplain of the household, since the venerable Grandpierre had gone to his rest, and Clémence did not desire a successor of the Roman Catholic faith. Ivan found him a zealous and devoted helper, especially in missionary work.
Meanwhile the cheerful prophecies of Clémence about the children had been amply fulfilled. They grew in strength and beauty as well and as quickly as they could have done beneath the beams of a southern sun. Alexander and Feodor had now a little fair-haired brother Henri to play with and take care of, and, to their great delight, a baby sister also to admire and caress. She had recently been baptized by the name of Victoire, because, as Clémence said, "the eldest daughter of the House of Talmont used always to be called Victoire."
A winter of very unusual severity, which surprised Ivan and his household in one of the most northerly settlements of his circle, for the first time since he left Europe cut him off completely for some months from the world of civilization. Towards the end of January violent snow-storms set in, continuing for weeks with little intermission, and rendering impassable the poor apologies for roads which were all that he as yet had been able to construct. So the great fast before Easter found him still sending out fatigue parties to clear the paths, and watching anxiously for the first adventurous sledger who should make his way across the fields of ice and snow with despatches from Tobolsk.
Easter eve came at last; and still isolation and solitude reigned at Novoi Nicolofsky,—as Ivan, in memory of his early home, had named this settlement, of which he was the founder. The short day had closed; and Ivan, robed in furs from head to foot, came in from his manifold labours to enjoy a quiet half-hour with Clémence. He was now about two-and-thirty, and looked even older; for thought and toil and the habit of command had set their seal upon his broad, open forehead. Yet he had lost nothing of his frank, cheerful air; and when he flung off his furs, and seated himself at the fire by the side of Clémence, they looked as handsome and as happy a couple as could have been found in any land or clime.
With a smile of welcome Clémence laid aside her work—a little pair of reindeer-skin moccasins. "I am glad you have come so early, Ivan," she said. "We can have a few minutes' quiet talk before we go down to the church to listen to the reading. How pleasant it is to keep, here in the far north, our dear Russian custom of the Easter evening Bible reading!"
"Yes; our little church is crowded to-night. I have just been looking in. Vanka the huntsman was reading the story of our Lord's Passion according to St. John, and I saw many a tearful face and heard many a sob in the stillness. I meant to have read for them myself, but I would not disturb him. I can read by-and-by, when we go there together."
"What a beautiful custom it is, this reading of God's Word for his brethren by any poor man who is able to do it!" said Clémence. "Where is Pope Yefim?"
"In his own room, I believe. You know that on Easter eve our priests usually leave the churches to the people."
"The poor lads who are out on duty miss something."
"True; but they will have their turn by-and-by. We all must miss something," he added, smiling. "But then we all have our compensations."
"I think the want of tidings from our dear ones is our only real trial," Clémence answered. "I sometimes long to see my mother's face, Ivan, and to show her our darlings. What a happy little visit that was which she paid us in St. Petersburg before we left! But for that I should have felt the long separation far more."
"It was very good of her to come such a distance on such short notice; and it sent us on our way with lightened hearts. And does not the thought that Henri is at Tobolsk help to break the sense of separation?"
"Really it does: compared with Paris, or even with St. Petersburg, Tobolsk seems close at hand."
"How well he is getting on there, too," said Ivan. "In a year or two, God willing, he may settle near us in Moscow or in St. Petersburg; and our dear mother can then divide her time between her son and daughter."
"What a happy dream!" said Clémence. "And yet not a dream, but a sober, practicable plan, a hope that may soon be realized. How good God is to us, Ivan!"
A handsome boy of eight or nine bounded into the room, his fair hair streaming over his fur jacket, and his bright face glowing with exercise and excitement. "Softly—softly, my boy," said his father.
"Papinka, they are coming!—they are coming!" he shouted, confident that the importance of his tidings justified any amount of haste and clamour in their delivery.
"Who are coming, my dear boy?"
"Sledges, papinka, sledges! Three of them!" he cried breathlessly. "From the south!"
"Do not let us be too sure," Ivan said quickly to Clémence. "They may be only, after all, from some neighbouring settlement."
"They are from the south, papinka," the boy repeated. "They have signal-flags. Matvei saw them in the moonlight, quite plainly."
"I must see them too," said Ivan, hastily putting on his furs again.
It was true. Their long isolation was over. Tidings and letters and friends from the outer world had reached them at last. Much more and better—Clémence sprang forward with a cry of joy as a rough, sealskin-coated figure entered the room. "Is it thou,—is it really thou, Henri?" she asked between smiles and tears.
"Yes, my own sweet sister, it is I," said Henri de Talmont. "My work in Tobolsk is finished, so I have come to visit you."