THE MOSCOW MEDAL.
“Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!”
The very next day Henri de Talmont was removed from the horrible
Convent of St. Basil to one of the other hospitals of the town--in
which, indeed, every palace, every public building sufficiently large,
was now being transformed into a hospital. As he passed through
the streets, he observed that large fires were burning in all the
thoroughfares; and the Russian physician who took charge of the party
of invalids told them this was done to purify the air and to destroy
infection.
A delicious sensation of rest stole over the weary frame of Henri when
at last he found himself lying on a comfortable pallet, in a clean,
well-warmed room. Nourishment sufficient for his need and suitable to
his weak condition was given him with a willing hand. He had escaped
the deadly hospital fever, but the prostration of his strength was
excessive, the vital forces seemed exhausted. For many days he lay in
a kind of contented apathy, slumbering continually, and even when not
asleep floating in hazy dreams amongst vague remembrances of the past.
Once or twice he roused himself sufficiently to make some inquiry after
his fellow-sufferers. “Be at rest,” said his nurse. “All are cared for
now; just as well as the wounded Russians.” But he used to waken up
thoroughly whenever the Emperor came to inspect the hospital where he
lay. He would watch with pathetic eagerness for a word, even for a
look, from him, and live upon the recollection until his next visit.
To most of the other French prisoners the person of their benefactor
remained unknown; and as Alexander moved in and out amongst them,
listening to their complaints, ministering to their needs, and speaking
words of comfort, they took him generally for the aide-de-camp of St.
Priest.
One day Henri, feeling rather stronger than usual, observed with
interest a handsome, splendidly-equipped young Russian, who had come to
visit one of his countrymen in the same ward. The conversation, carried
on in their own language, was unintelligible to Henri; but something
in the face of the visitor touched a chord of memory. The Russian,
seeing the sick Frenchman look at him earnestly, and as he thought
imploringly, came to his side and asked kindly in French, “Can I do
anything for you?”
“No, sir, no; I thank you. I have everything I want. Stay though,” he
added with a slight increase of animation; “I should like to know, if
you will be good enough to tell me, how the Grand Duke is to-day.”
Strange to say, the eccentric, passionate Constantine, at other times
even wantonly cruel, was now so wrought upon by the example and
influence of the brother he adored that he emulated his works of mercy,
and had actually caught the hospital fever in his ministrations to the
prisoners. Alexander himself seemed to bear a charmed life through
every peril; for God fulfilled unto his servant the word upon which he
had caused him to hope: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten
thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”
The Russian answered, “He is much better. Dr. Wylie has pronounced him
out of danger. You know Dr. Wylie?”
“Yes; he comes here often. He examined me one day, and said he would
like to bleed me, only I was too weak.”
The Russian could not suppress a smile. “You enjoyed a most unusual
exemption,” he said. “Dr. Wylie’s lancet is not easily escaped. But I
hope, as you _have_ been so fortunate, that you are growing stronger?”
“I scarcely know. I ought to be; for I am not in pain, not hungry, not
cold. All that is so strange now, so pleasant. But, pardon me, have I
not seen your face before? Where can it have been?”
“I do not remember yours,” was the answer. That was not wonderful;
for Henri was a melancholy shadow of his former self, with ghastly,
shrunken features, and frame reduced to a skeleton. The hardships of
a very severe campaign had told also upon Ivan Pojarsky, but in a
different way; he looked bronzed and weather-beaten, and much older
than he really was.
“I remember now,” Henri resumed after a pause. “I saw you during the
Occupation, in a church in Moscow. After the service some Russians
attacked me, and I might have been killed, but for that brave fellow
with one hand. He appealed to you, and you protected me. Ah!” he added
with a sigh, “if I had known then what sufferings were before me, I
might have prayed you to plunge your sword into my breast!”
“I am glad to find you amongst the living,” Ivan said kindly.
“And that day,” mused Henri, “was little more than three months ago,
while it is but two since we left Moscow. Were there ever two such
months since the beginning of the world?”
“Of suffering?--I think not,” said Ivan thoughtfully, as he took a seat
beside him.
“Of suffering for us, of glory for _you_. How you must triumph, you
Russians! Five months ago Napoleon crossed your border with half a
million of men; and now the miserable remains of that splendid host
are dying in your hospitals, pensioners of your bounty. Surely such an
overthrow was never seen since Pharaoh and his armies perished in the
waters of the Red Sea!”
“How we triumph, we Russians!” Ivan repeated. “Should you like to know
how? Our Emperor said the other day in confidence to a friend, ‘This
miserable campaign has cost me ten years of my life!’”
“_Miserable!_ when it has been for him and his one long glorious
victory!”
“True; but the sufferings he has witnessed have well-nigh broken his
heart.”
“The sufferings _of his enemies_,” said Henri, as tears filled his eyes.
“They have so cast our own into the shade, that we ourselves almost
forget them. Yet you must not think we have suffered nothing. Remember
Moscow, our beautiful, our holy city; remember Borodino and the other
battles in which the best blood of our country was poured out like
water. Moreover, the ice-king has thinned our ranks as well as yours.”
“Ah! not so fatally.”
“No; we had wholesome food, and warm clothing, and care and comforts
for the sick. As a rule, our invalids recovered, while yours died.
Yes, oh yes, God has surely given us a great deliverance; would it
had been at less cost to others! Look here, monsieur,”--Ivan took a
silver medal, new and bright, from his neck, where it hung attached to
a sky-blue ribbon. “The Czar has just given one of these to every man
who has borne part in this winter’s campaign, from the general to the
youngest recruit.”
Henri examined it with interest. One side bore a Triangle surrounded by
rays, and in its centre an Eye.
“What does that mean?” he inquired.
“It is, with us, the symbol of the Divine Presence,” Ivan answered,
crossing himself. “It typifies the All-seeing and Ever-present--the
Three in One. Beneath, you read ‘1812,’ the ever-memorable year when He
himself interposed to deliver us. Now, turn the other side.”
Henri did so, and saw, though he could not read, an inscription in the
old Slavonic tongue.
“That is, translated literally, ‘_Not us! not us! but His Name!_’
In your French Bible--the same which I use also--the verse reads
thus:--‘Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give
glory.’”
“Beautiful!” said Henri; and as he gave back the medal, he looked with
interest at the brilliant young Guardsman, who spoke in such a simple,
manly, unaffected way of God’s Word and Providence.
“To-morrow the Czar leaves this,” said Ivan, replacing his medal. “We
of the Chevalier Guard go also, of course.”
Henri’s cry of distress made all the sick men in the ward raise their
heads.
“What is the matter?” Ivan asked compassionately.
“The Emperor is going!” Henri said, or rather sobbed, for so weak was
he that he could not restrain his tears.
“You need not be afraid that will change anything, my poor friend.
He has made arrangements for the safety and the comfort of all the
prisoners. Henceforth they will want for nothing.”
“I was not afraid of wanting food or shelter,” Henri said. “But, M. le
Garde, when I lay in that horrible prison, dying in black despair, it
was _his_ voice called me back from the gates of the grave, and showed
me what the mercy of God was like. I would give half the little life
left in me to hear that voice yet once again.” After a pause he added,
with an effort to control himself, “Still, he stayed among us longer
than we could have dared to hope. Is he going home now?”
Ivan shook his head. “His work is not half done yet; nor ours,” he said.
“What will you fight for now?” asked Henri with a sad smile. “For
vengeance?”
“For _peace_,” returned Ivan. “Shall I tell you what the Czar says
about that? He speaks without anger or bitterness of your Emperor.”
“Call him not _mine_,” Henri interrupted, with a flush on his pale
cheek. “Mine he never was. I am a Royalist.”
“Well, then, of Napoleon. ‘What a brilliant career,’ said the Czar,
‘that man might have run! He could have given peace to Europe--he could
have done it; and he has not. Now the charm is broken.’”
“At least you Russians cannot regret that,” said Henri with enthusiasm;
“for the olive crown of the peace-maker which Napoleon has put aside
awaits the brow of Alexander.”
“So said the friend to whom the Czar was speaking.[46] ‘If only peace
is made,’ was his answer, ‘what does it matter by whom, whether by him,
or by me, or by another?’ It is a good time to think of peace,” Ivan
added. “To-morrow will be Christmas day, when peace and good-will upon
earth were sung by the angels.”
“To-morrow?” repeated Henri. “Am I dreaming? Surely I remember noticing
that one of the first blessed, restful days I spent here was Christmas
day.”
“You forget,” said Ivan with a smile, “that we Russians are behind
the Western world by twelve days. Our Christmas is your feast of the
Epiphany. After divine service to-morrow, the Czar begins his journey,
and we follow.”
“You do not accompany him?”
“No; he travels with far greater speed than we could do. For guards he
never cares anything.”
“Strange,” said Henri--“strange; and how perilous! Think of the
country, overrun by war, swarming with stragglers from the army, with
desperate characters of every kind!”
“He has no fears,” returned Ivan; “nor we for him. Even our
white-haired general, with all the caution of his seventy years,
answered to some one who spoke as you do, ‘Who could have the courage
to harm him?’[47] But, my friend, I must go now, for it is late.
Accept my best wishes for your recovery.” He clasped Henri’s hand
warmly, and contrived to leave in it a few pieces of gold. Henri tried
to remonstrate, but was quickly silenced. “Soldiers always help one
another; that is a matter of course. If you like,” added Ivan, with
a touch of playful malice, “you can repay me after the first French
victory. Good-bye.”
“What a fine young fellow!” thought Ivan as he left the hospital; “so
grateful and so patient. And I have forgotten even to ask his name!
How thoughtless of me! Too late to return now. But I am sure he is
well born, particularly since he calls himself a Royalist. Probably he
belongs to one of those noble families of the old _régime_ Napoleon
delights to oppress and humble.”
Over Ivan himself great changes had passed, and were passing even then.
Perhaps his share in the foregoing conversation has already indicated
these with sufficient clearness; if not, his conduct during the events
that have yet to follow may complete the picture.
Amongst the works of faith and love which in all ages have been
inspired by the precepts and the example of “the forgiving Christ,” the
labours of Alexander on behalf of his perishing enemies undoubtedly
deserve a place. It is good for the world to keep such deeds in
remembrance, although to those who do them the world’s remembrance may
avail but little. It was not the motive that inspired, nor will it be
the reward that crowns them.
A few years later, at Cherson in the Crimea, Alexander stood beside
the grave of a philanthropist whose character and work he held in
genuine veneration--John Howard, the prisoners’ friend. With his own
hand he designed a monument to mark the resting-place of Christ’s
honoured servant, choosing for its sole inscription those words of
Christ himself--“I was sick, and you visited me; I was in prison, and
you came unto me.” “Where the kings of the nations lie in glory, every
one in his own house,” the Czar Alexander Paulovitch has his stately
sleeping-place; and well might it bear the same inscription. No human
hand has placed it there; but we doubt not Divine lips will one day
utter the commendation, “Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the
least of these, you have done it unto Me.”