But the people of Western Europe distrusted him as much as their rulers worshipped; and some of these same presents to their rulers have become trifle-monuments of no mean value in showing that popular idea of Russian policy.  Foremost among these stand those two bronze masses of statuary in front of the Royal Palace at Berlin,—­representing fiery horses restrained by strong men.  Pompous inscriptions proclaim these presents from Nicholas; but the people, knowing the man and his measures, have fastened forever upon one of these curbed steeds the name of “Progress Checked,” and on the other, “Retrogression Encouraged.”

And the people were right.  Whether sending presents to gladden his Prussian pupil, or sending armies to crush Hungary, or sending sneering messages to plague Louis Philippe, he remained proud in his apostolate of Absolutism.

This pride Nicholas never relaxed.  A few days before his self-will brought him to his death-bed, we saw him ride through the St. Petersburg streets with no pomp and no attendants, yet in as great pride as ever Despotism gave a man.  At his approach, nobles uncovered and looked docile, soldiers faced about and became statues, long-bearded peasants bowed to the ground with the air of men on whose vision a miracle flashes.  For there was one who could make or mar all fortunes,—­the absolute owner of street and houses and passers-by,—­one who owned the patent and dispensed the right to tread that soil, to breathe that air, to be glorified in that sunlight and amid those snow-crystals.  And he looked it all.  Though at that moment his army was entrapped by military stratagem, and he himself was entrapped by diplomatic stratagem, that face and form were proud as ever and confident as ever.

There was, in this attitude toward Europe,—­in this standing forth as the representative man of Absolutism, and breasting the nineteenth century,—­something of greatness; but in his attitude toward Russia this greatness was wretchedly diminished.

For, as Alexander I. was a good man enticed out of goodness by the baits of Napoleon, Nicholas was a great man scared out of greatness by the ever-recurring phantom of the French Revolution.

In those first days of his reign, when he enforced loyalty with grape-shot and halter, Nicholas dared much and stood firm; but his character soon showed another side.

Fearless as he was before bright bayonets, he was an utter coward before bright ideas.  He laughed at the flash of cannon, but he trembled at the flash of a new living thought.  Whenever, then, he attempted a great thing for his nation, he was sure to be scared back from its completion by fear of revolution.  And so, to-day, he who looks through Russia for Nicholas’s works finds a number of great things he has done, but each is single, insulated,—­not preceded logically, not followed effectively.

Take, as an example of this, his railway-building.