The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 26

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 26

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.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.

 

IN THE CAMP.