The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 36
CHAPTER XXXVI.
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[1] 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 some thing 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 Wellington, 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."[2]
"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."[3]
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."
- ↑ The Governor of Paris.
- ↑ "He 'has the honour of being presented' to a lady; he 'begs that they will excuse' him, etc.; he says, 'will you permit?' as well as others. He is right, for he is a true gentleman, which is not quite so easy as some believe."—De Maistre.
- ↑ Vie de Madame de Krudener, par M. Eynard.