TWO HAPPY DAYS.
“The shadow had passed from his heart and brow,
And a deep calm filled his breast;
For the peace of God was his portion now,
And his weary soul found rest.”
“You must all come, my friends,” said Ivan. “I have set my heart upon
it.” He had been describing the preparations for the grand review
of the Russian army which was to take place a few days later in the
“Plaine des Vertus.”
“Ah, yes; you must all go, certainly,” remarked Madame de Salgues.
“Unless Madame de Salgues is obliging enough to be of the party, no one
will go,” said Ivan. “I know that at least I can speak for Clémence.”
“But what to do, my friend? It will take three days at the very
least--one to go, one to stay, and one to return. And then, think of
the crowds! Who knows even whether we shall find room in any of the
hotels?”
“You need have no anxiety about that, madame. The Emperor has engaged
all the hotels and posting establishments of the district. I have only
to obtain his order, through his secretary, for everything you require,
and I know that I can do so. You must stay for the religious service on
the day following the review; it will be the Emperor’s name-day.”
“I should certainly like to witness _that_,” said Madame de Talmont.
“I am sorry that my duties must deprive me of the pleasure of being
your attendant cavalier,” pursued Ivan. “But Henri and Emile will more
than supply my place; and you may perhaps wish to invite a friend to
join your party.”
“If we engage a carriage,” said Madame de Talmont, “we can accommodate
another lady. Who shall it be, ma tante?”
“It is for Prince Ivan to express his wishes on that point.”
Ivan gracefully referred the choice to the ladies, and Clémence pleaded
for Stéphanie. “She has been so good lately, poor child,” she said.
“And this will be a pleasure she will remember all her life.”
“By all means. Let us have her father too,” suggested Emile. “For I
hear that this wonderful Madame de Krudener is to be there; and as
she is the only person who has ever succeeded in taming mademoiselle,
perhaps a little arrangement with M. de Sartines--”
“Hold thy peace, Emile,” said Madame de Salgues. “I will have no jests
levelled in my presence at religious persons, be they whom they may;
and I suppose this enigmatical old lady is some kind of irregular nun,
or at least a Carmelite. I cannot pretend to say what she is:--but, my
dear grandson, you must permit me to observe that your tone of late
has been very offensive to me. It is entirely that of the Empire, not
that in which you have been educated. Your manners, too, have quite
deteriorated. They are becoming absolutely bourgeoise.”
“Pardon, madame,” returned Emile with a bow. “I am sorry they do not
please you. But you must acknowledge they are not likely to be mended
by the life I am leading,” he added a little bitterly. “Idleness is the
mother of mischief.”
Madame de Salgues relinquished the useless altercation with a sigh;
and Ivan for the second time sought a private interview with Emile,
following him into the little room where he was wont to indulge his
habit of smoking at a safe distance from his grandmother.
Ivan showed him a piece of paper. “I shall not insult you by asking
whether you know anything about this,” he said.
It was the copy of a letter addressed to the Czar by a person who
signed himself “Captain of Regicides,” threatening him with instant
death if he would not immediately proclaim Napoleon II.
“I should like to hear you do it!” cried Emile indignantly, as he
flung the paper on the ground, and set his heel upon it. “I should
like better still to find out the author of that precious document,
and to treat him _so_,” he added, grinding it beneath his foot. “Such
scoundrels bring the good cause into disrepute. But the Emperor
Alexander has too much courage and good sense to regard them.”
“True; yet others may be forced to regard them for him. The threat has
not been an empty one, Emile. They have tried to poison him.”
“_Never!_” cried Emile, starting and changing colour.
“And nearly succeeded,” Ivan continued sadly. “All our joy in the
present, all our happy plans for the future, might to-day have been
turned into mourning. And not ours only--”
“But how was it?” Emile interrupted.
“It occurred to his cook, contrary to his usual practice, to taste the
wine laid ready for his master’s use at dinner. The poor fellow’s life
has been saved with the utmost difficulty.”
“That is abominable!” cried Emile. “If I but knew the miscreant who did
it, I would spare the executioner a bad business. Peste! if we want a
victim, we Imperialists--and perhaps it is not unnatural we should--we
ought to take Gneisenau who proposed a scaffold for the Emperor,
Talleyrand who deceived and betrayed everybody impartially all round,
or old Louis himself who ran away from his throne without striking a
blow. We might spare at least the one chivalrous enemy who always
spared us.”
“It would be better for yourselves,” said Ivan. “And for others too.
Baron Muffling[66] says he is longing to get the Czar out of Paris, as,
if he is assassinated, or even insulted, no power on earth would be
able to avert a general massacre of the inhabitants by the Allies.”
“Which _you_ would take part in, Prince Ivan.”
Ivan was silent for a moment, then he said in a tone of deep feeling,
“Do not ask me. I am a Christian, I hope, but I am a _man_ also. I know
not what I would do. God grant I may not be put to the test.”
There was a pause, then Emile asked, “What does _he_ say?”
“If I tell you, will you scoff?”
“At him? No; that I can promise you.”
“Well, then, he has asked his friends to pray for him.”
“Useless, but harmless,” said Emile with an air of generous toleration.
“Very clever persons have worn amulets; and even the great Napoleon was
not free from a superstition or two.”
“Not as an amulet against steel or poison does my Czar think of prayer.
‘Do not pray,’ he says, ‘that I may be guarded from the evil that man
can do to me; I have no fears on these grounds. I know that I am in the
hands of God.’”
“That is like Napoleon’s confidence in his star,” thought Emile. He had
almost uttered his thought aloud, but he checked himself in time. For
he reflected that this was not blind confidence in a thing, in some
unknown power--chance, fate, or destiny--but rather, what Ivan had
spoken of to him before, trust in a _Person_.
Ivan resumed presently, “What he desires his friends to ask for him is
protection from the evil influences of the world, and specially _from
those of this city_. Emile, you understand something of his meaning,
and of mine?”
Emile turned aside to avoid meeting the eyes of Ivan, for his words had
touched a chord within. Thrown in idleness upon the great, unquiet,
corrupt world of Paris, the position of the youth was truly perilous.
Secret political intrigue was wooing him upon the one hand, while
vice was spreading its snares to allure him upon the other. Ivan had
succeeded in conveying an emphatic warning at the same time against
both.
“I wish I were more like Henri,” Emile said at last. “He is sometimes
tiresome--a little, but he is as steady as a rock, a perfect gentleman,
and a stainless man of honour.”
“God will help you, Emile; then all will be well,” said Ivan as he left
the room.
The manifold excitements of the next few days put aside for the time
all graver thoughts. The unpretending carriage of the De Talmonts
mingled with a continuous stream of other vehicles on their way to
the Plaine des Vertus, and the striking and amusing sights afforded
by the journey were almost sufficient to turn the brain, of Stéphanie
at least. But the grand review itself confused and bewildered the
imaginations of far more experienced spectators. “Do not ask me what
I think of it,” said Madame de Salgues in the evening, when at last a
happy, weary, excited party sat down to rest in their hotel. “I feel
as if for a whole year at least I had not been myself, but some one
else, and had been living amidst glare and glitter, bright colours and
splendid uniforms. Such masses of men moving as one--such glorious
martial music!--such deafening thunder of artillery!--I could not have
dreamed of anything like it.”
Emile whistled softly to himself. “It has made my grandmother quite
poetical,” he said.
“That is not wonderful,” remarked Madame de Talmont. “It was indeed the
poetry of war.”
“Yes,” said Henri thoughtfully; “and if _I_ had not been forced to
read the stern and rugged prose, I should have looked at it with other
eyes. But all the time I could not help thinking how many gallant men
like those I had seen die in misery.”
“But did you know what they were doing at the end?” asked Emile. “That
last tremendous charge, that made all the ladies start and change
colour, was what is called a charge in line. It was right well done
too, though it has long been thought no one could manage it except the
English. With such material, and under such leadership, nothing is
impossible. With an army like that,” he added a little sadly, “Napoleon
would conquer the world.”
Just then Ivan came in to pay his friends a short visit, and to see
that they were comfortably accommodated. Many were the compliments
addressed to him and the questions asked of him, especially by Emile.
“The discipline of your army seems admirable,” said he. “I should like
to know how it is managed.”
“Like all other discipline worth the name,” Ivan answered; “by justice
and mercy. The Czar knows how to punish, though he loves to pardon.”
“Of course he must punish sometimes; but one does not hear of it.”
“He knows how to punish in ways you could not hear of. A word, a look,
silence even, he can make a terrible punishment. But this power he
rarely uses. I have heard it said that he ‘can annihilate a man without
touching him;’ but I have never seen him do it, and I hope I never
shall.”
“Nor I either,” said Emile.
“I know of _one_ reproof he administered. One of our colonels failed
to have his regiment ready at the time appointed for reviewing it.
He received a severe reprimand, and was broken-hearted. The Czar saw
it, sought him out afterwards, and comforted him, telling him that
‘it was not for one mistake the faithful services of years could be
forgotten.’”
“If,” said Madame de Talmont, “there was any drawback to our enjoyment
to-day, it was the difficulty we found in recognizing the great
personages we wished to see amidst all the brilliant confusion. We
needed our Chevalier of Malta by our side to point them out to us.”
“He would willingly have been there, madame,” said Ivan bowing.
“But to-morrow you will find it easier to distinguish them. At the
grand religious ceremony all will be present. You will see the royal
personages assembled in the tent where they are to hear the service.”
“Ah,” said Stéphanie, “that will be delightful! I am longing to see the
great English Duke Vellington, who conquered General Buonaparte,--or
the ex-Emperor, as one may say,” she added considerately, with a sly
glance at Emile.
Their expectations were not disappointed. The solemn pageant of the
following day was graced by a glittering galaxy of royal stars, upon
which no eye could rest without emotion. Beside Alexander stood the
wayward, ungainly Constantine, unlike him in all but brotherly love;
and next to him, the young Grand Dukes, Nicholas and Michael. The King
of Prussia was there, with his two sons,--one of them destined to wear
hereafter an imperial diadem; the Emperor of Austria, with some members
of his family; and, most admired of all perhaps, little Stéphanie’s
hero, the Iron Duke.
But the sense of these great earthly presences passed away and was
forgotten in the solemn awe of the scene that followed. “An immense
army of conquerors” all at the same instant fell on their knees in
prayer and thanksgiving. Each regiment, led by its own chaplain, moved
in harmony with the rest. Magnificent vestments, fragrant incense, and
the most exquisite vocal music contributed their charms; until, to
those who witnessed it, it seemed as if this worship scarcely belonged
to earth. After the breathless, spell-bound silence that followed the
last chanted psalm of praise, Clémence faltered tearfully, “I think
it is like that perfect worship in the courts above, where the great
multitude, whom no man can number, fall on their faces before the
Throne.”
“Ah, sister mine!” said Henri with a sigh, “there is no perfect worship
here. And this,--beautiful as it is, is far indeed from perfect. I
doubt even whether it is quite in accordance with what we know of the
will of God. But,” he added softly, “‘the good Lord pardon every one
that prepareth his heart to seek the Lord God of his fathers, though he
be not cleansed according to the purification of the sanctuary.’”
The religious service over, the guests strolled through the camp,
enjoying the sweet summer weather, and the curious and interesting
sights that met their view on every side. Amongst the crowd of visitors
there was no happier party than that of Madame de Talmont. Joy had
ripened the quiet grace of Clémence into a sweet and rare loveliness;
there was a soft and steady light in her dark eyes, and the glow of
perfect health upon her cheek. She was dressed that day with unusual
care; Ivan himself had superintended her toilet for the expedition,
and had chosen the simple exquisitely-fitting robe of silver gray silk
which she wore. And that morning, before the service, he brought her
the loveliest of roses, crimson and cream colour, and fastened them in
her belt, “for the Emperor’s fête,” he said.
In the course of the afternoon his friends met him; he was walking with
a group of officers of distinguished appearance. Coming to the side of
Clémence, he took her hand and led her gently forward. “His Imperial
Majesty wishes to be presented to you,” he said quietly.
If Clémence felt a momentary embarrassment, it was quickly dispelled;
for a very courteous gentleman was bowing over her hand, and a kind
voice was saying pleasant things of “my friend Prince Pojarsky,” and
of the welcome which awaited Madame la Princesse for his sake in St.
Petersburg. What she answered, or what other introductions followed
she scarcely knew, for all that passed seemed like a dream, only far
more easy and natural. “_That_ the Emperor!” said Stéphanie afterwards.
“I should not have been at all afraid to talk to him myself. He was
only a gentleman.”[67]
“_Only_ a gentleman?” Madame de Talmont repeated. “Such gentlemen are
not so plentiful, my little Stéphanie.”
“But that Prince Ivan is doubtless well acquainted with the etiquette
of his own court, I should say he made a blunder,” observed Madame de
Salgues. “A lady, were she the highest of the land, would be presented
to the King of France, not the King to the lady.”
“Yes; and the King would go in to dinner before his guest, were that
guest an Emperor,” said Emile. “Certainly no one can call Louis
Dix-huit ‘only a gentleman.’”
“Prince Ivan may be trusted in matters of etiquette,” said Henri. He
added apart to Clémence, “Do you remember, sister mine, the good things
we two agreed to ask for the man who saved my life?”
“Love, joy, peace, God’s best gifts. And there is that in his face
to-day, Henri, which makes me think God has heard and answered our
prayer.”
They were not mistaken. A few words, spoken that evening to intimate
friends, show how truly Alexander dwelt then in the secret place of the
Most High. “This day has been the most glorious of my life, I shall
never forget it,” he said; but never surely did king or conqueror give
so unique a reason for his joy and triumph: “My heart has been filled
with love for my enemies. I have been able to pray fervently for them
all; and it is with tears and at the foot of the cross that I have
prayed for the welfare of France.”
Such joy as this is like the name in the white stone, “which no man
knoweth save he that receiveth it.” It would lose its beauty and its
reality if passed from lip to lip as a common thing. Nor was it. It was
told at the time in confidence to those who should have held it as a
sacred trust; and the confidence was not violated until, for Alexander,
all earthly joys and sorrows were no more. His _joy_ was his own; but
his _faith_ was a thing to be confessed before all the world. And such
a confession was the real meaning and purport of the celebrated Holy
Alliance,--so greatly discussed, ridiculed, wondered over, blamed.
To Alexander, and to Alexander alone, belongs unquestionably the
responsibility of this act, in which, not without much difficulty, he
obtained the concurrence of his brother sovereigns. There is no doubt
that it was his hand which penned the remarkable document itself, as
well as the private letter which accompanied it when sent for signature
to the English Prince Regent. A few words from this letter may explain
his intention. “The events,” says Alexander, “which have afflicted
the world for more than twenty years have convinced us that the only
means of putting an end to them is to be found in the closest union
between the sovereigns whom Divine Providence has placed at the head
of the nations of Europe. The history of the three last memorable
years is a proof of the happy effect this union has produced for the
safety of mankind. But to assure to this bond the solidity required
by the greatness and purity of the end to which it tends, it ought to
be founded on the sacred principles of the Christian religion. Deeply
penetrated by this important truth, we have signed the act we submit
to-day to the meditation of your Royal Highness. You will see its
object is to strengthen the ties uniting us, in forming the people
of Christendom into one family, and in assuring to them, under the
protection of the All-Powerful, the happiness and safety of peace in
the ties of an indissoluble fraternity.”
The purpose of the Holy Alliance was threefold. It was firstly, as
has been intimated, a solemn confession of faith in Christ, which
Alexander, both as man and as sovereign, made for himself, and desired
his brother sovereigns to make also. It was, moreover, a solemn
declaration of the brotherhood and unity of all Christian nations.
And, lastly and chiefly, it was a bond and pledge of peace. A stable,
enduring, universal peace had been the dream of Alexander from the
days of his youth. He had seen much of the miseries of war; and to
his noble, sensitive, romantic spirit, ever full of longings for the
happiness of humanity, the vision of terminating all these miseries,
and ushering in a glad new period of joy, security, and prosperity,
robed itself in the fairest colours. Once and again did he say, at
different epochs, that he would willingly give his own life for the
peace of the world. It was a poet’s dream, to be wrought out, not in
the stately march of rhythmic words, but in the more enduring language
of golden deeds.
Two good things, which seemed to bring nearer the fulfilment of his
dream, happened almost at the same time. His great antagonist, the
troubler of nations, who had hitherto made peace impossible, was laid
low; while to himself Christ came in conscious, realized presence,
saying to his soul, “I am thy salvation.” Was it strange if he thought
the great work Christ had given him to do was to establish this
longed-for peace upon the foundation of a firm and enduring faith in
Him? “Oh, how happy I am!” said he in one of those moments of private
intercourse with congenial friends in which heart and lips were opened.
“My Saviour is with me. I am a great sinner, but he will make me his
instrument in obtaining peace for the people. Oh, if all people would
understand the ways of Providence, if they would but obey the gospel,
how happy they would be!”
That splendid, impossible “if” was the rock upon which the whole
project--like a gallant bark richly freighted--foundered and was
wrecked. As it has been well said, “In desiring to Christianize the
world, Alexander attempted the impossible. He vainly flattered himself
that he could regulate according to the gospel the transactions of
nations and individuals who had never submitted to the gospel; but it
was the error of a noble heart, and so much the more excusable because,
uniting in himself the civil and religious supremacy within his own
empire, he had no means of ascertaining how far the reign of Christ is
not of this world. Because he misconceived this truth, he sowed his
path with inextricable difficulties, he saw his noble desires abandoned
to ridicule.”[68]
If the leading statesmen of Europe, to each of whom in turn the Holy
Alliance had to be submitted, did not venture to ridicule it openly,
it was not so much because the document came from an imperial hand,
as because they thought it involved them in difficulties of too grave
a character. It was natural that Metternich and Talleyrand should
hesitate to advise their sovereigns to sign such a paper; regarding it,
as they did, as a mere rodomontade, with no more bearing upon practical
business than a tale out of the Arabian Nights. Castlereagh’s letter
to Lord Liverpool presents a vivid picture of these perplexities. He
foresees that, “as Wilberforce is not yet in possession of the Great
Seal,” there may be some difficulty in passing the document through
the ordinary course of office; but he considerately hopes that no
person will blame the Prince Regent for not refusing to sign it, “when
the objection lies rather against the _excessive excellence_ than the
quality and nature of the engagement.”
Doubtless from their point of view the statesmen were right. The Holy
Alliance was an anachronism. The world was not ready for it. It was
like a spring flower which, opening ere the frosts of winter have
departed, is doomed to wither in their chill ungenial breath.
But the flower, though it perishes untimely, has not lived in vain. It
has told its tale and borne its message. It is not only one of Nature’s
unfulfilled promises, it is also one of her unconscious prophecies.
In every age and season there are hints and premonitions and vague
foreshadowings of that which is to follow, promises “which are written
upon the heart of things.” Winter has her prophecies of spring, and
spring of summer. It is the very nature of these to be abortive, or at
least to bear no fruit unto perfection. In one sense they are failures,
but in another they are nobler and more precious than all present
successes.
“The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard,--
Enough that He heard it once, we shall hear it by-and-by.
_For what is our failure here but a triumph’s evidence
For the fulness of the days?_”
The music that throbbed and swelled and found an utterance--imperfect,
indeed, but genuine--in the Holy Alliance, has not quite died
away amidst the laughter of fools, and the clamorous, discordant
voices of selfish politicians. “We shall hear it by-and-by,” when a
harmony serene and perfect--like that of the morning stars that sang
together--shall usher in the reign of peace and righteousness for which
the weary waiting earth has so long been yearning. For “the earth shall
be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters
cover the sea.” “The kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms
of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever.”
“In his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so
long as the moon endureth.” “Nation shall not lift up sword against
nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”