The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI.
ALEXANDER.
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.[1]
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[2] 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."[3] 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 suferings 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.[4] 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.
- ↑ The conversation which follows is given as it was recorded by Michaud himself. All the details in this chapter are historical, without any admixture of fiction.
- ↑ General Kutusov.
- ↑ De Maistre.—Sir Robert Wilson, an Englishman, was of great use in this crisis as the friend and counsellor of Alexander.
- ↑ Another story is told, connecting Alexander's first acquaintance with the ninety-first psalm with Prince Galitzin, but that given above seems on the whole to be preferable.