“THE GRAY SISTER OF HEARTS.”
“Why should we dream youth’s draught of joy,
If pure, would sparkle less;
Or that the cup would sooner cloy
The Saviour deigned to bless?”
Ivan could afford just now to be very generous and very patient,
because he was very happy. There was sunshine not only on his path
but in his heart. Almost at the same time that the best of earthly
blessings had been given him, he was given also the conscious
possession of the love divine; and he received it in thankful, trustful
joy. Christ had come to him, not in sorrow, as he comes to many, but
making the brightest hours of life infinitely brighter by his presence.
He thought he had nothing to do but to tell Clémence the new happiness
he had found, and that she would immediately understand and share
it; that she would no longer be content to wait for acceptance with
God until some future day, but would henceforth enjoy the glad
consciousness of being already accepted in the Beloved. But to her
tender conscience and thoughtful mind difficulties presented themselves
which had never troubled the eager, impulsive Ivan. Her fears of
self-deception, of presumption, of spiritual pride, raised up a host
of shadowy disturbers of the peace within, which Ivan had not skill
enough to combat. He urged her therefore to come with him and hear the
teachers from whom he had learned so much.
Madame de Krudener had come to Paris, and established herself in a
house adjoining the Elysée Bourbon, where she held what would now be
called “drawing-room meetings,” to which all the rank and fashion of
Paris were flocking. It was strange that for once religious meetings
became the rage in the very stronghold of ungodliness, vice, and
frivolity. Many of the visitors had their curiosity piqued by the
extraordinary reports that reached them, and wished to ascertain
the truth for themselves; many more “went to scoff,” and of these a
goodly number “remained to pray.”[64] But the greatest attraction to
these _soirées_ was the hope of seeing the Emperor of Russia--a hope,
however, not often gratified. Far from parading his religion, Alexander
was strongly tempted to conceal it. His sensitive nature dreaded
ridicule; and he was well aware that a profession of personal religion
would expose him to the most polished shafts of that exquisite Parisian
wit, which, keen as the scimitar of Saladin, could divide asunder, with
fine, unerring touch, the most delicate fibres of thought and feeling.
Even in Protestant London--which he always placed in honourable
contrast to Paris for seriousness and morality--he had observed
that religious laymen were looked upon almost with contempt. It was
therefore not without much prayer and conflict that he took his stand
on the side of God in the face of all the world.
He did not often mingle with the throng that filled the drawing-rooms
of Madame de Krudener to overflowing on three or four evenings of every
week; but he frequently came later, when his day’s work was over, for
prayer and quiet study of the Scriptures. These hours of communion
were prolonged until far into the night; yet he always rose at five in
the morning, so that no man was able to reproach him with any lack of
diligence in business, nor was any part of the heavy burden of care
and responsibility that fell to his lot neglected or avoided.
Clémence would gladly have accompanied Ivan to some of Madame de
Krudener’s meetings; and Madame de Talmont, though she had her
objections, might have gone also, but for the determined opposition
of Madame de Salgues. “In my time,” said the lady of the old régime,
“women did not preach; and certainly, if they had done so, ‘gens comme
il faut’ would not have gone to hear them. Why should you need Madame
de Krudener to tell you to repent and believe? I suppose you hear those
Christian duties inculcated every Sunday and holiday when you go to
church.”
“Many people go to hear Madame de Krudener who never enter a church,”
Clémence observed.
“That is possible,” returned Madame de Salgues. “Sick people, who
will not eat wholesome food, sometimes take a fancy for extraordinary
messes, and a wise doctor gives them their way. But you, my dear niece,
are certainly not in that position.”
“Madame de Krudener does not always speak; sometimes it is M. Empaytaz,
a Swiss pastor, who gives the address,” Clémence ventured again.
“Worse and worse, my dear! A _Protestant_!” cried Madame de Salgues in
a tone of horror. “I sometimes wonder what the world is coming to. All
barriers, all distinctions seem to be swept away in these revolutionary
days.”
Henri was sitting in another part of the room, occupied with a book;
and none, save Clémence, noticed the flush of pain that overspread his
face at these words.
Ivan and Clémence agreed that it would not be right for the latter to
set aside the expressed wish of a relative to whom she owed so much.
Therefore, instead of listening to Madame de Krudener or Empaytaz,
she studied the Bible diligently, both alone and with Ivan, and lost
nothing by going to the fountainhead, instead of to streams, not always
of undeniable purity.
Yet her desire to see and hear the remarkable woman whose words were
making so great an impression was very natural, and was destined at
length to be gratified. One morning, while the family were seated at
their eleven o’clock _déjeûner_, they were honoured by a visit from
Stéphanie de Sartines. The little girl was intensely conscious of a new
silk dress--green shot with pink, which shone and glistened with each
of her quick, restless movements--and of a large Tuscan hat adorned
with a wreath of blush roses. She exchanged greetings, in a highly
satisfied tone, with every one in the room, and then, coming to the
side of Clémence, began as usual, “Papa says he will allow me--”
The smile that passed round the group was not unnoticed by the
observant Stéphanie. She looked up quickly, but resumed her little
speech after a moment’s hesitation. “Papa says he will allow me to go
and hear Madame de Krudener preaching to the children, if you will be
kind enough to accompany me, mademoiselle,--I mean Madame la Princesse;
and if M. le Prince will permit you,” she continued, bowing towards
Ivan with the air of a little queen.
“If no one objects more than I do, Madame la Princesse is quite at
your service, mademoiselle,” answered Ivan, with a smile and a bow
as ceremonious as her own.--“I am on duty to-day, as you are aware,
m’amie,” he added in a lower voice to Clémence.
“I thought the old lady kept her ghostly admonitions for those who
needed them--hardened transgressors like M. de Talleyrand, for
example,” said Emile. “Does she lecture children too, for variety?”
“It appears she does. _You_ ought to go and hear her, M. Emile,”
returned Stéphanie gravely. “It would do you good.--But really,
madame,” she added, addressing Clémence again, “you _must_ come. It
will be so--so delightful, so exciting, so _amusing_.”
“My dear child, one does not go to a religious service to be amused,”
observed Madame de Talmont.
“Ah, madame, you cannot imagine how delicious it is! My cousin Coralie
has told me all about it. Madame de Krudener visited Coralie’s pension
and preached to the young ladies, and you never saw anything like it!
They were all moved--they shed torrents of tears--it must have been
grand, beautiful; a great deal better than going to the theatre--even
when Talma is acting, as papa would say. I would give the whole world
to see it for myself, and to know what it is all about. Come--_do
come_, mademoiselle--madame, I mean.--Prince Ivan, I beg of you to send
her with me.”
“You are most welcome to her escort as far as I am concerned,” Ivan
answered. “But, mademoiselle, if you or I were going to meet even
an earthly monarch, I think we should do so with a little more
seriousness.”
“Ah, that reminds me--that is the best thing of all. Coralie says that
the Czar is coming to the meeting to see the children.--What do you
think of _that_, M. Emile?”
“I think he may go wherever he pleases; he is sure to be welcome,”
returned Emile with unusual graciousness.
Ivan gave him a quick glance of surprise and pleasure, then said,
turning to Stéphanie, “May I ask where you heard that, mademoiselle?
For it does not look very probable.”
“Oh, M. de Berckheim told Coralie’s father; for he is a great friend
of his. This is not a little meeting in a school-room, Prince Ivan;
it will be quite a grand affair. Any children who like may come, and
grown-up people too. There will be crowds, no doubt. I daresay we shall
find it hard to get seats. It will be altogether delightful. Besides, I
am longing to see the Czar.”
A few questions about time and place were asked, and the answers showed
that Stéphanie had carefully considered every detail of her plan. “We
can get a fiacre,” she said, “and be there in three-quarters of an
hour.”
Madame de Salgues, who had been silent hitherto, now spoke in a
gracious tone. “If you are to hear this woman at all, Clémence, it
appears to me that you could not do so in a manner less open to
objection. Go, my dear niece, if you wish it.”
“I am at your service, Stéphanie,” Clémence said smiling; and she rose
to leave the room. As she passed the chair of her aunt she kissed her
hand with a grateful look; and the old lady responded kindly, “I hope
you will enjoy yourself, my dear.” She had been greatly touched, though
she had said nothing, by the quietness with which Clémence had given up
what was evidently her own and her husband’s wish, in deference to her
feelings.
“I must own, mon ami,” Clémence said to Ivan, who joined her while she
was making her simple toilet, “I think it is a pity the Czar should go
to a meeting such as Stéphanie expects this to be.”
“Why so, if it please you, my princess?” asked Ivan, rather surprised.
“Because,” she answered, “the children will all be gazing at the great
people instead of listening to what Madame de Krudener is saying to
them. Besides, it is bad for them--is it not?--to think themselves
objects of attention. The less the religion of children is noticed and
talked about the better.”
“Oh, you need not fear. The presence of half-a-dozen gentlemen, in
a large public room, will be scarcely observed by the children; and
who is to tell them that one of them is the Czar? You don’t know,
Clémence,” he added with a change of tone, “how his heart yearns over
the little ones. In England, no sight pleased him so well as the
annual gathering of the charity children under the dome of St. Paul’s
Cathedral. And I have seen him myself in Dresden, when he lodged in the
Bruhl Palace, come out in the evening to watch the children playing in
the gardens, which he would not allow to be closed against them. Three
little princesses--‘daughters of Russia’--are sleeping in the Church
of St. Alexander Nevsky at St. Petersburg, and God never gave him a
son.”
But Stéphanie’s impatient voice was heard in the passage, so, after
a tender little farewell to Clémence, Ivan escorted the ladies to a
fiacre, and saw them depart.
The room where the meeting was held was crowded when they arrived.
However, Coralie saw her cousin and Clémence seeking a place, and
persuaded the governess who had charge of her party to make room for
them. Clémence at first regretted this, for the girls began to chatter
amongst themselves about their dress and other trifles in a way well
calculated to put to flight all serious impressions.
Meanwhile she looked with much interest on the face and figure of the
person about whom Ivan had told her so much. Perhaps on the whole she
was disappointed: the worn and haggard features had in her eyes no
charm save one, the charm of intense earnestness and utter sincerity.
The thought passed through her mind, “That is a woman from whom I might
learn much as a teacher, but I could never trust her as a guide.”
One thing, however, she learned that day--that the Pietists neither
thought lightly of sin themselves, nor induced others to think lightly
of it. The “Gray Sister of Hearts” (so Clémence remembered Ivan’s
calling Madame de Krudener) denounced in scathing accents just those
sins of which the world thinks least--the sins of childhood. Conceit,
selfishness, disobedience, forgetfulness of God, were exposed in terms
that Clémence might have thought exaggerated, had she not remembered
that the poison-seed is the poison-plant in embryo. Never before had
she felt so thoroughly--
“That the most childish sin a child can do
Is yet a sin which Jesus never did
When Jesus was a child, and yet a sin
For which he came in lowly pain to die.”
By-and-by the speaker’s tone changed, and with a tenderness of look
and manner of which Clémence felt all the charm, she spoke of “the
child-loved Lover of children,” of the Shepherd who gathers the lambs
in his arms and carries them in his bosom, who gave his life for the
sheep and the lambs so willingly, so patiently, so lovingly. “My little
child,” she seemed to say to every one present, “he died for _thee_, he
loves _thee_, he speaks to _thee_ and says, ‘My son, or my daughter,
give me thine heart, and give it to-day.’”
While she listened, the head of Stéphanie had sunk very low, her face
was quite shaded by the broad leaf of her hat, and Clémence saw with
wonder that tears were falling quick and fast upon the cherished silk,
utterly unheeded by its owner. She tried gently to take her hand; but
Stéphanie, with a quick, impetuous movement, drew it away.
When the meeting was at an end, any who wished for private conversation
were invited to remain.
“Shall we go home, dear?” Clémence whispered. Stéphanie shook her
head with a vehement negative. Her slight frame was quivering with
convulsive sobs. After an interval Clémence asked gently, “Why are you
weeping so bitterly? Tell me, dear. Is it for your sin?”
The child looked up quickly. “Not all--not _most_--for that. Most
because I have grieved Him, and He is so good.”
Clémence said no more; she prayed in silence for her little friend. Her
own deep inward life had taught her great reverence for the soul of
another. Even in that of a child there might be mysteries with which no
hand but God’s could deal aright. Stéphanie prayed too, for the first
time in her life.
Meanwhile the “Gray Sister of Hearts” was going quietly amongst the
children who, like Stéphanie, had remained, advising, comforting, and
instructing them, according to the power God had given her. At last
she came to Stéphanie. “My little girl, why do you weep?” she asked,
with that peculiar tenderness which in great measure accounted for the
spiritual magnetism she exercised.
“I am holding out my hand to the Lord Jesus, and he will not take it,”
was the answer.[65]
“That is only because his arms are around you already, dear little
one,” she said. She added many loving words, to which Clémence as
well as Stéphanie listened with deep interest. At length she kissed a
farewell to her little pupil, in whose eyes a happy light had begun to
shine. “I am ready to go now,” said Stéphanie, putting her hand in that
of Clémence.
It was late when they reached home. Madame de Salgues and Madame de
Talmont were beginning to grow uneasy, and Henri had just volunteered
to go in search of the wanderers. They were warmly welcomed; and, as
had been already arranged, Stéphanie remained to spend the rest of the
day with her friends.
While Madame de Talmont asked Clémence many questions about the
meeting, Emile opened a fire of banter upon Stéphanie, about the effect
her dress and appearance had produced upon the assembly, and especially
upon the Czar, “The very least I expected of his Imperial Majesty,”
he said, “was to send an aide-de-camp to inquire who was the charming
young lady in pink and green silk.”
But Stéphanie did not reply with her usual saucy readiness; and Henri,
noticing her agitation, quickly came to her relief, making some
commonplace inquiry about the numbers who were present.
“Ah, I see what is the matter,” said Emile: “the Czar was not there
after all. Very unlike him, to disappoint so many young ladies.”
Stéphanie gave the surprising answer, “I do not know if he was there. I
never thought of him at all.”
Then Clémence drew her gently away to her own room, leaving her there
in quiet until supper was ready. As she went out Madame de Salgues
observed, “I really think that child is improving--at least in
appearance. This evening she looks almost pretty.”
“I have always said that Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Sartines will one
day be a beautiful woman,” Henri answered in a tone of decision.