ALEXANDER.
“Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a
shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts.”
Amidst the splendid environs of St. Petersburg, where Art has done all
in her power to atone for the sparing hand with which Nature has strewn
her bounties, there is a picturesque group of wooded islets embraced by
the clear blue waters of the Neva, and conspicuous for the splendour of
the “datcha,” or country houses, which adorn them. One of these islets,
called Kamenoi-Ostrov, or the stony island, contains an imperial
residence, a castle surrounded by gardens; and here, while Moscow
was still in flames, arrived Colonel Michaud, the eminent Sardinian
engineer, with a sad and heavy heart.[29]
He had travelled with the speed and almost in the style of a courier.
When he alighted from his unpretending vehicle at the castle gate, he
saw that the place had a deserted look; and only a single Cossack, who
happened to be on duty as sentinel, perceived his approach. Although
the Emperor was still here, even his very guards had been despatched
to the seat of war. Michaud briefly gave his name, and asked for an
audience.
He was introduced at once into the cabinet of the Czar. Alexander
looked worn and anxious; young as he was, a few threads of silver
showed themselves already in his chestnut hair. He saluted Michaud
courteously; but asked immediately, with a keen and searching look, “Do
you not bring me sad tidings, colonel?”
“Very sad, sire;--the evacuation of Moscow.”
“Have they given up my ancient capital without a struggle?”
“Sire, the environs of Moscow offer no position in which we could
hazard a battle with our inferior forces. The marshal[30] thought
he did well in preserving your army, whose loss without saving
Moscow would have been of the greatest consequence; and which, by
the reinforcements your Majesty has just procured, and which I met
everywhere along my road, will soon resume the offensive, and make the
French repent of invading Russia.”
“Has the enemy actually entered the city?”
“Yes, sire. At this moment Moscow is in ashes. I left it in flames.”
Here Michaud stopped abruptly, for the agony depicted on the Emperor’s
face, “the expression of his eyes,” completely unmanned him,--he could
say no more.
It was Alexander who, after a few bitter moments, and maintaining his
self-control with a strong effort, resumed the conversation.
“I see that God requires from us great sacrifices. I am ready to submit
to his will. But, Michaud, tell me frankly, what of the army? What do
my soldiers say upon seeing my ancient capital abandoned without a
struggle? Must not this have exercised a most disastrous influence upon
the spirit of the troops?”
“Sire, may I speak to you quite frankly, and as a loyal soldier?”
“Colonel, I have always required this frankness; now I entreat of
you to use it. Hide nothing from me: I desire absolutely to know the
truth.”
“Sire, I left all the army, from the generals to the meanest soldier,
possessed with one overpowering and terrible fear--”
“How? Whence these fears? Are my Russians overcome by the first
misfortune?” the Czar interrupted with emotion which even he could not
restrain, and which, as Michaud says, “altered for a moment the noble
calm of his fine features.”
“Never, sire!” resumed the colonel. “Their one fear is that your
Majesty, out of kindness of heart, may be persuaded to make peace.
They are burning to fight for you, and to prove their devotion by the
sacrifice of their lives.”
At these heroic words the light flashed once more across the clouded
face of Alexander. “You reassure me, colonel,” he said. “Well then,
return to the army. Say to our brave men, say to all my subjects
wherever you meet them, that if I had not a soldier left, I should put
myself at the head of my dear nobles, of my faithful peasants, and
expend to the uttermost the resources of my empire. They are greater
than my enemies think. But if it be the will of God that my dynasty
shall cease to reign upon the throne of my ancestors, then--after
having done all else that man can do--I will let my beard grow to
this,” said Alexander, placing his hand upon his breast, “and I will
eat potatoes like the lowest of my mujiks, rather than sign the
humiliation of my country and of my dear people, whose sacrifices for
my sake I appreciate.” Here his voice failed: it was easier to speak
of his own ruin than of the love of his subjects. Greatly moved, he
turned away from Michaud, and walked to the other end of the cabinet.
But he came back almost immediately with long and rapid strides,
and a face that had quickly changed from a deadly pallor to a fiery
flush. Pressing his hand on the arm of the officer, he said, “Colonel
Michaud, do not forget my words; perhaps one day we shall remember them
with pleasure. Napoleon or I--I or Napoleon--we can no longer reign
together. I know him now; he shall never deceive me again.”
“Sire,” cried the colonel joyfully, “your Majesty signs in this moment
the glory of the nation and the deliverance of Europe.”
His words were true--with this qualification, that the glory of Russia
and the deliverance of Europe were not the work of a moment, but of
long months of patient, heroic resolution. Alexander had not wished for
war--perhaps, indeed, he had striven too long to avert it. Personally,
in his earlier years, he admired Napoleon: the fact is undeniable,
though it has been the subject of much exaggeration. From the dawn of
manhood his favourite dream had been of a universal and durable peace,
and he imagined he saw in the victories of Napoleon so many steps to
its attainment. What are now called “Les idées Napoléoniques,” seem to
have captivated for a season this young, ardent, somewhat visionary
mind. But the veil once torn from his eyes by the insatiable ambition
and the repeated perfidies of the French usurper, thenceforward it was
between them war to the death.
When Napoleon suddenly poured his enormous hosts across the Niemen,
Alexander at once and emphatically announced his resolution, “I will
not sheathe the sword while a single foreigner remains in arms upon the
soil of Russia.” At that moment the eyes of all Europe were upon him,
and neither friend nor foe believed it possible that he could make good
his word.
“Napoleon,” said an astute observer, “thought he could terrify the
Emperor of Russia by his menaces without drawing a sword; he thought
he could make him lose his head by beginning the war suddenly in the
midst of negotiations; he thought he could end that war by a single
battle. But nothing happened that he thought.”[31] In a letter written
by him about this time, which was intercepted and brought to his rival,
were these words: “Alexander is a child. I will make him weep tears of
blood.” Alexander upon reading it remarked: “He said to me himself that
in war determination always carries the day. We shall see who has the
most determination, he or I.”
But the determination of the strongest heart might well have quailed
before the perils that beset the Czar in this solemn crisis of his own
and his people’s history. Six hundred and fifty thousand fighting men
had crossed his border under a leader hitherto invincible, whose name
was the terror of the civilized world. No man felt more keenly than
Alexander his own inferiority to Napoleon as a general. The bitter
memory of Austerlitz, his “unfortunate day,” never left him. Nor had
he any commander whose surpassing merit might inspire the army with
confidence. The excellent Barclay de Tolly had unfortunately become so
unpopular both with the army and the nation, that Alexander, though
with much regret, was obliged to remove him. Of his successor, the aged
Kutusov, he had no very high opinion; but when everything depended
upon the cordial support of his people, he was in a manner obliged to
consult their wishes.
Meanwhile the French were marching onwards into the very heart
of the country. The retreat of the Russians before them was no
doubt a master-stroke of policy, but to the sovereign of Russia
it was unutterably painful. From the thought of the sufferings of
his people,--the murders, the plundering, the desolation,--his
sensitive heart recoiled in horror. Nearer and nearer came the fiery
deluge, leaving a track of ruin behind it. Consternation seized his
counsellors, his court, his very family. The foreign envoys at St.
Petersburg packed up their effects in readiness for an immediate
flight. Even the Grand Duke Constantine made the hard task of the
brother he idolized harder still by assuring every one that the French
would inevitably conquer,--it was hopeless to resist them. He called
for peace, it was said, “as men call for water in a conflagration.”
To aggravate and crown all this misery, dejection, and terror, came the
overwhelming tidings of the destruction of Moscow. In some ways it was
a calamity more bitter, more crushing than that of St. Petersburg would
have been. While the one was the official capital, the other was the
real heart of the old Muscovite empire. Here the Czars were baptized,
were crowned, were buried; here were heaped all the treasures, were
concentrated all the glories of their past. It was their holy city,
their Jerusalem. No one knew as yet that its destruction had been a
signal act of patriotism and self-sacrifice; almost all the world,
including the Czar himself, believed that the French had consummated
their atrocities by setting fire to the city. Nor could he or others
foresee the future, or discern at once amidst the dust and smoke of
the conflict that the victory, in truth, was won. The final hour of
Napoleon’s triumph had struck, but the toll of fate was audible neither
to friend nor foe; and to Alexander and to Russia the day that saw the
fall of Moscow seemed the darkest that had ever dawned upon them.
In the heart of Alexander it left “a profound and bitter sorrow,” which
neither time, nor victory, nor glory could ever wholly obliterate.
Long afterwards, when conquered France offered the conqueror pecuniary
compensation, he answered with proud sadness, “Gold can never give
me Moscow back again.” Yet not for one moment did his courage fail
or his determination falter. His wife implored him with tears to
make peace, or to allow her to leave the empire. His mother, less
submissive, actually prepared to go. He gently dissuaded her from a
course so injurious to the interests of the country, and at last,
when she refused to listen, he said firmly, “I have entreated you
as a son; I now command you as your sovereign. You shall not go.”
Amidst the universal panic he alone stood firm. Naturally susceptible,
tender-hearted, perhaps even irresolute, the hour of trial found him
undaunted as the fiercest of his barbarian ancestors. Like the delicate
mainspring of some complicated machine which sustains a pressure that
would shatter a bar of iron, so this fine sensitive nature assumed the
best attributes of strength, and bore up triumphantly against a world
in arms.
Amongst the first words which he addressed to his people after the
fall of Moscow were these:--“An oppressed world looks to us for
encouragement, and can we shrink from the honourable mission? Let us
kiss the hand that selected us to act as the leader of nations in the
struggle for independence, and contend with courage and constancy to
obtain a durable peace, not only for ourselves, but for those unhappy
countries forced by the tyrant to fight in his quarrel: it is glorious,
it is worthy of a great nation, to _render good for ill_.” The
proclamation ends with a prayer:--“Almighty God, is the cause for which
we are battling not just? Cast an eye of compassion on our holy Church.
Preserve to this people its courage and constancy. Suffer it to triumph
over its adversary and thine. May it be in thy hand the instrument of
his destruction; and in delivering itself, redeem the independence of
nations and of kings.”
Here we recognize the secret of Alexander’s strength. He knew himself
in the hands of God; he and his people were instruments to do his will.
Some years later he said to a friend, “The conflagration of Moscow
illumined my soul.” It certainly marked a crisis in his spiritual
history; but with souls the sudden illumination of a tropical sunrise
is the rare exception, while light “increasing more and more unto the
perfect day” is the ordinary rule. From Alexander’s earliest years it
had seemed as if God was drawing his heart towards himself. While yet
a little child he would rise from his bed at night, and kneel unbidden
to ask forgiveness for some childish fault. Then and throughout his
life his tenderness of heart was remarkable. He “never willingly hurt
any living thing;” and so beautiful was the influence he exercised
over his wayward brother Constantine, that a plan for having the latter
brought up amongst Greeks as their future sovereign was abandoned,
because it was wisely concluded that no political advantage could
counterbalance the loss of Alexander’s example and companionship.
Unfortunately, the Empress Catherine had intrusted the education of
her favourite grandson to freethinkers like herself, of the school of
Voltaire and Diderot. He was early taught to look upon all forms of
religion as antiquated superstitions, useful, perhaps, for the vulgar,
but beneath the notice of the wise. His natural benevolence was not
discouraged, but justice and humanity were inculcated to the utter
exclusion of piety.
With such an education, and while yet a boy, he was launched upon the
troubled sea of one of the most dissolute, frivolous, and vicious
courts in Europe. He did not wholly escape contamination, but all the
dreams of his youth were noble and lofty. To be the benefactor of
his kind, to free the oppressed--such were the visions he nursed in
solitude or breathed into the ear of a sympathizing friend during the
long walks in which he delighted. The voice of God was never quite
silent in his heart. He himself says that with regard to religion,
“things were at the court of St. Petersburg very much as everywhere
else--many words, but little meaning; many outward practices, but the
holy essence of Christianity was hidden from our eyes. I felt the void
in my soul, and a vague presentiment accompanied me everywhere. I
went--I came--I sought to distract my thoughts.”
The void within of which he spoke was deepened by sorrow. During the
reign of his father, who disliked and dreaded him as a rival, his
position was both difficult and painful. Personally, he was submissive
and patient; but he was brave in interceding for the oppressed, and in
using for the good of others any measure of authority that was allowed
him. After four years, the tragedy which terminated the reign of the
unfortunate Paul placed the imperial crown upon the head of Alexander,
but cast a shadow over his life which never wholly passed away. To
his latest hour, in every period of sorrow or despondency, “the agony
returned.” It was not exactly remorse, for he was guiltless; but it
was poignant grief and horror. It deepened that inherited tendency to
morbid gloom and depression which perhaps, even amidst the happiest
surroundings, might have developed as years went by.
In one of these sorrowful moods he confessed his dejection to an
intimate friend, hinting that he envied him his unfailing cheerfulness.
Prince Galitzin told him in reply that he had found in the Bible the
source of true comfort and happiness. The story was a remarkable one.
Early in his reign Alexander nominated Galitzin “Minister of Public
Worship.” “But I know nothing about religion,” objected the Prince,
who, like his master, had been educated in an atmosphere of French
infidelity. “That is a point in your favour,” replied the philosophic
Czar. “It will secure your impartiality. You have only to hold the
balance even, and do justice to every one.” But Galitzin, not quite
satisfied, asked Archbishop Plato to recommend him some book which
would give him a knowledge of religion. The venerable metropolitan
advised him to read the Bible; which he did, at first very reluctantly,
afterwards with ever deepening interest and profit.
Alexander determined to follow the example of his friend, and next day
surprised the Empress Elizabeth by asking her to lend him a Bible.
She gave him a French copy of the Sacred Word--De Sacy’s translation,
printed at Cologne--and it became thenceforward his inseparable
companion. For a long time he was haunted by sceptical doubts; but
he persevered in his study, and the shadows that obscured his soul
gradually and slowly passed away.
Notwithstanding the general unbelief and indifference of the higher
classes, there were at that time in the Russian court a few “devout
and honourable women,” who were earnestly seeking light from above.
To these the Czar was an object of interest, as “not far from the
kingdom of heaven.” When the French war was impending, and the burden
of anxiety from which few hearts were free was known to weigh most
heavily upon his, a message, which proved to be indeed from God,
came to him through one of them. It was the night before he started
for Vilna, and, according to his usual custom, he was spending it
in transacting business, content to find what sleep he could in his
open carriage while dashing at headlong speed through the country. As
he was diligently arranging his papers, a lady entered his cabinet
unannounced, and looking up in great surprise he recognized the wife
of his Grand Marshal, the Countess Tolstoi. She apologized for her
unseasonable visit, and put a paper into his hand, which she entreated
him to read, saying he would find true comfort there. His unfailing
courtesy led him to accept it and thank her; and she withdrew. He put
the paper in his pocket, resumed his occupation, and thought no more
of it until, after two days and nights of rapid travel, he changed his
clothes for the first time. Upon removing his coat he found it, and saw
that it was a copy of the ninety-first psalm. He lay down; but, worn
out with fatigue, was unable to sleep, so he called his chaplain and
requested him to read to him. Strangely enough, the portion which the
priest selected was that very psalm, and the Czar was greatly impressed
by the coincidence.[32] The glorious words of promise, so exactly
suited to his need, were received with simple faith. From that day
forward he said of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress: my God;
in him will I trust.”
His study of the Divine Word became more earnest and systematic: from
this period until the end of his life he read three chapters daily,
even under the most difficult circumstances, “when the cannon were
thundering about his tent.” He prayed constantly, “using no form,”
as he said himself, “but the words which God’s Spirit taught him,
according to his needs.” And he sought to conform his conduct to the
will of God, so far as he understood it.
This was not done without a struggle. His life had not been blameless,
and much once dear had to be surrendered. But henceforward his court
became a model of purity; and moreover his fear of God showed itself in
an increase of gentleness towards man. He made great efforts to control
his naturally passionate temper; and if, after this period, he was
betrayed into a hasty expression, he would frankly apologize, not only
to a member of his suite, but even to the humblest of his attendants.
He had always known that his enormous power was intrusted to him for
the good of others, not for his own happiness or glory. “Fifty millions
of men are worth more than one man,” had been an axiom with him from
the beginning of his reign. But now he knew himself the steward of God,
responsible to _him_ for its exercise. “You should be in my place,”
he said to a friend, “to understand what is the responsibility of a
sovereign, and what I feel when I reflect that one day I must render an
account of the life of every one of my soldiers.”
Amongst the commands of Christ which impressed him most deeply were
these: “Love your enemies: do good to them that hate you.” He learned
to forgive personal injuries, “which in other reigns would have
drawn down thunder.” One instance amongst many may be given. Admiral
Tchichagof, one of his ministers, quarrelled with his colleagues, and
at length withdrew to Paris, where he said many bitter and injurious
things about the Czar, which were all reported to him, and probably
exaggerated. Just before the outbreak of the war, Tchichagof’s wife
died, and, in accordance with her last request, he brought her body to
St. Petersburg for interment. He wrote to the Czar to inform him of his
return and its reason; and Alexander replied by an autograph letter,
which Tchichagof showed in confidence to his friend De Maistre. “What
a letter!” wrote the Sardinian ambassador to his sovereign. “The most
tender and most delicate friend could not have written otherwise.”
And he said to Tchichagof, as he handed back the precious paper, “You
ought to die for the prince who wrote you that letter.” An interview
followed, in which the reconciliation was cemented. “I know what you
have said of me,” said Alexander, “but I attribute all to a good
motive.” Need it be added that henceforward Tchichagof served him
faithfully?
But what of the French--of Napoleon? What of his desolated country, his
murdered subjects, his fair and favourite city laid in ashes? Could
these things be forgiven? Or is it true, as many would tell us, that
the precepts of Christ are admirably suited for women and children,
perhaps, at the utmost, for men in their private relations each with
the other, but a nullity or a failure when applied to larger scenes
and interests, utterly ineffectual to guide and control the statesman
in his cabinet or the monarch on his throne? We shall see how far the
story of Alexander answers this question.
For two or three years he might truly have been said to “abide under
the shadow of the Almighty,” although not as yet did he “dwell in the
secret place of the most High.” He trusted in God, he sought to obey
Christ, long before he knew him as the Saviour upon whom his sins were
laid. Again, to use his own words, “I did not arrive there in a moment.
Believe me, the path by which I was conducted led me across many a
conflict, many a doubt.”
The light that shone within him was like the slow dawn of a Northern
day--
“An Arctic day that will not see
A sunset till its summer’s gone.”
Those were indeed the beams of the sun which flooded the whole horizon,
gladdening the heart of every living thing; but the sun itself was
still unseen, because as yet unrisen. Its light was there; its glory
was yet to come.