The Merchant of Berlin Part 21

"In three hours from now the spectacle will take place," said he, with a forced laugh. "In three hours the wedding-torches shall be lighted, and in order to make it the pleasanter, we will have the wails of the people of Berlin as a musical accompaniment."

"In three hours, then," said Count de Lacy, bowing low; "I hasten to announce it to my officers. I am burning with impatience to witness this rare spectacle."

Count de Lacy departed, and General Tottleben was again alone.

For a long time did he pace his room in abstract meditation, anger and pity, fear and terror struggling in his soul. He was perfectly aware of the danger which threatened him. He knew that Count Fermore hated him as a dangerous rival for the smiles of the empress, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to overthrow him. He was therefore obliged to yield to this cruel necessity; the Berlin armory must be sacrificed.

Suddenly his countenance lighted up, and his features a.s.sumed an expression of joy. He hastened rapidly to the door and summoned his body servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch. "Ivan," said he, with the stern and cold composure of a Russian--"Ivan, I have a commission for you, and if you are successful in its execution, I will not have your son Feodor hung, although I know that yesterday, contrary to my order, he was present at the plundering of a house."

"Speak, master, what am I to do? I will save my son, even if it cost my own life."

"It will cost your life, Ivan."

"I am your property, master, and my life belongs to you," said the serf, sadly. "You can have me whipped to death any time it pleases you. Say, then, what I must do to save my son."

"Fifty Cossacks are to ride immediately to the powder-mills to bring powder. You will accompany them."

Ivan looked at him with astonishment. "Is that all I have to do?"

asked he.

Tottleben was not yet sufficiently Russian. His German heart would a.s.sert its rights. As he met the inquiring look of Ivan, he turned his eye away. He forgot that it was only a serf he was speaking to, and not a human being.

But he soon recalled it. "You will accompany these Cossacks to the powder-mills, I say, and as you do so you will smoke your pipe, and see that the tobacco burns well, and that you are burning tinder on top of it."

An expression of comprehension shone in Ivan's eyes. "I will smoke, master," said he, sadly.

"When you are in the powder-mills, and the Cossacks are loading the powder, you will help them, and in doing so you will let the pipe fall out of your mouth," said Tottleben, in an undertone, and his voice trembled ever so little. There was a pause--Ivan leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall. General Tottleben had turned away, as if afraid to encounter the pallid, terrified countenance of his slave.

"If you do not execute my command," said he, finally, "I will have your only son hung, as he deserves to be. If you betray to any one soever a word of my order, I will have your wife whipped to death. Now think of it."

Ivan shook as if in an ague. His teeth chattered together. "I will smoke, master," said he, at last, with an effort, "and I will drop my pipe in the powder-mills. Have pity on my son, master, and spare my wife!"

"I will do so, Ivan," said Tottleben. "I will give them both their freedom, and a pension."

Ivan dropped his head, and a convulsive groan burst from his breast.

"Time pa.s.ses; make haste!" cried the general, with a.s.sumed harshness.

"I go, master," sighed Ivan. "You will not, then, string up my poor Feodor, nor have my wife whipped?"

"If you execute my order strictly and punctually, I will care for them."

Two tears coursed slowly down Ivan's brown cheek. "I will carry out your orders, master; I will smoke, and I will drop my pipe. Farewell, master!"

He approached his master with slavish humility, and kissed the seam of his garment. "Farewell, master. I thank you, for you have always been a kind master to me," said he, and his tears moistened the general's coat.

General Tottleben was as yet unable completely to convert his German heart into a Russian one. He felt himself touched by this humble and heroic submission of his slave. He felt as if he must give him some comfort on his fatal road.

"Ivan," said he, softly, "your death will save, perhaps, not only the property, but also the lives of many hundred other men."

Ivan kissed pa.s.sionately his proffered hand. "I thank you, master.

Farewell, and think sometimes of your poor Ivan."

A quarter of an hour afterward was seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on their swift-footed little horses, racing down Frederick Street.

Each man had a powder-sack with him, and seeing them ride by, people whispered to each other, "They are riding to the powder-mills. They have shot away all their own powder, and now, in true Cossack style, they are going to take our Prussian powder." At that time Frederick Street did not reach beyond the river Spree. On the other bank began the faubourgs and the gardens. Even Monbijou was then only a royal country seat, situated in the Oranienburg suburb. The powder-mills, which lay beyond the gardens, with a large sandy plain intervening, were sufficiently remote from the town to prevent all danger from their possible explosion.

Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottleben, rode by the side of the officer of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.

"How beautiful that is!" exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of the Cossacks. "Just look--what a handsome steppe!"

"Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!" sighed one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.

"This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany," cried another.

"What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!"

"Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe," said a fourth, "and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home."

"Yes, agreed! let us!" cried all, ranging quickly their horses in line.

"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I can't sing, you all know, and I've only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe so that I can smoke." He struck fire with his steel, and lighting the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his spark-scattering pipe. "Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song from home," said Ivan.

"Hurrah! hurrah!"

They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus, the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?"

Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee, Leave my happy, heather plains?

Ah! this parting does not grieve thee, Though still true my heart remains.

Far from thee I roam, Sadly see the sunbeams shining, Lonely all the night I'm pining Far from thee alone."

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he pa.s.ses about his pipe; he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire the burning tobacco shines out of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pa.s.s, and, joking and laughing merrily, the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with powder for the blowing up of the a.r.s.enal. How joyous and careless they are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.