“Yea, thou wilt answer for me, righteous Lord!
Thine all the sorrow, mine the great reward:
Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the golden crown;
Mine the life won, and thine the life laid down.”
IT is amongst the minor yet very real troubles of life that promptitude, courage, and self-denial so often appear to be wasted. The call to action reaches our ear: we spring up responsive, buckle on our armor, and hasten to the front, ―only to hear the bugles sounding the retreat, and to find that the conflict has been adjourned sine die. So it happened to Ivan. He was stopped on his way to Vienna by tidings that the Chevalier Guard was now in Poland with the main body of the Russian army. To Poland accordingly he went; but only to linger in enforced idleness day after day, even week after week, first at Wiasma, and then at Prague. He could not dismiss the thought, ―Might he not just as well have spent all this time with his bride at Versailles? He certainly might, except for the important consideration that it can never be just as well for a man to neglect his duty as to do it.
Meanwhile the accounts from France added to his perplexity and uneasiness. Napoleon, received everywhere with open arms by the military, swept through the land like an unresisted torrent, and on the 19th of March entered the capital once more. Louis XVIIL abandoned it at his approach without striking a blow―a pusillanimity which made old Royalists like De Sartines and De Cranfort hang their heads with shame. It was natural that Ivan should feel the deepest anxiety about the household at Versailles, and for the sake of those so dear to him he could not be otherwise than thankful that a battle had been avoided, although on more public grounds it grieved him to the heart that Napoleon had succeeded so easily in establishing himself once more in Paris.
During his stay in Prague, Ivan was cheered by a letter from Clemente, bearing the impress of her own true, tender, and courageous spirit. Henri wrote also, giving a more detailed account of public events; and Emile contributed a version of his own, which was by no means unwelcome. The student of the Polytechnique wrote as though the entire glory of bringing back the Emperor belonged to him and his schoolfellows; and he exhorted Prince Ivan not to be in the least uneasy about the family at Versailles, assuring him that they would enjoy his powerful friendship and protection, with a naive simplicity that gave his correspondent a hearty laugh. “But after all,” thought Ivan, “some atonement is due to the vanity of Emile, which used to suffer so often from the keen though polished thrusts of his Legitimist friends.”
All this time a burden of pain and apprehension lay heavy on the heart of Ivan. It was probable that by the return of Buonaparte from Elba, the great work of the Czar would be undone; it was already certain that his expectations were frustrated and his predictions falsified. He intended to do good, and the good had become the occasion of evil. Every mouth was opened now to reproach him with the untoward results of his chivalrous kindness to the vanquished. “You see, sire,” said Francis of Austria, “what has occurred in consequence of your protection of the Liberals and the Buonapartists.” “We are far,” said Talleyrand, “from accusing that greatness of soul which treated a conquered Power almost like a conqueror; but at least we cannot accuse ourselves of the imprudent generosity we admired but could not prevent, though we have now become the victims of it.” Doubtless Talleyrand only expressed the sentiments of all the Royalists of France; yet it was as well for him that he did not at that time fall in with the Emperor of Russia’s Chevalier Guard. But infinitely worse to Alexander than all these reproaches was the imminent prospect of another great war, to water the soil of Europe with blood and tears, and renew the horrors it had been the dearest wish of his heart to terminate. Ivan was not surprised when a report reached him that the Czar was ill at Vienna. He knew―he was not likely ever to forget―that each remembrance of the useless slaughter at Austerlitz touched the chords of a lasting sorrow. He had heard of the terrible months of depression that followed the murder of the Emperor Paul, when the attendants of the new sovereign trembled for his reason or his life; nay, he himself had witnessed a partial recurrence of the same depression at the time of the death of Moreau. The sad face of his Czar, as he had seen it then, haunted him day and night, and from the very depths of his heart the cry went up to heaven, “O God, uphold and comfort thy servant, who putteth his trust in thee!”
At last the long-wished-for marching-orders came, and the early days of June saw the headquarters of the Russian army established in Heidelberg, under the personal command of the Czar.
To the great joy of Ivan he looked well, and what surprised him still more, instead of the expected depression, there was such brightness in his countenance, such cheerfulness in his whole demeanor, that he thought some specially good tidings must have arrived. Meeting his friend Tolstoi, he asked him if such were the case. But Tolstoi reported, on the authority of his uncle the Grand Marshal, that there were no good tidings, but rather the reverse. Matters, he said, looked very serious. It was to be feared the whole strength of the Allies would be required to overthrow Napoleon, and a plan of united action was being arranged amongst them. The Czar was only anxious to do what was best for the general welfare, and it was probable he would be called upon to make the first attack; but time and place were as yet uncertain. “If I were the Czar,” Tolstoi added indignantly, “I would see every Bourbon of them all drowned in the Seine before I would stir a finger to save them. You have heard of the practices of M. Talleyrand―how the old fox induced King Louis to enter into a secret treaty against us with the other Powers before the return of Buonaparte, who found the precious document on a table in the Tuileries, where it had been left behind by accident, and sent it to the Czar, just to show him what sort of friends he had.”
“No, I did not hear that,” said Ivan, keenly interested. “Well, what did the Czar do?”
“Put it into the fire. ‘It is not I who am to be thought of,’ he said, ‘but the peace of the world.’ I think, Prince Ivan, something else will be thought of if we take Paris again and M. de Talleyrand sees fit to stay there.”
Ivan had abundance of leisure at this time, some of which he spent in wandering about the beautiful environs of Heidelberg, looking at the picturesque old town from the “Angel’s Meadow,” or watching the sun go down behind the shadowy purple hills. He sometimes prolonged these rambles until late in the evening, enjoying the solitude, for thought was busy within him, and had endless materials upon which to work.
On one of these occasions he strayed into a hilly path, secluded from general observation, and found that it led to a cottage, in the window of which a light was placed. He drew nearer, intending to ask his way; for he was surprised to find himself in a place probably not more than a mile from the town, and yet so entirely new to him. As he approached, he was struck by the singular air of neatness which distinguished a dwelling that in size and appearance was little more than a laborer’s cabin. Presently he became aware that two or three other persons were toiling up the pathway. An old man, with a consumptive-looking girl leaning upon his arm, attracted his attention, and after a courteous salutation, he inquired of him in French, “Who lives yonder?”
“That is the dwelling of the French lady who speaks so beautifully about our Lord Jesus Christ,” returned the old man in the same language. “There is to be a prayer-meeting tonight, and Adele and I are going. Will you come too, monsieur? It will do you no harm to remember your Creator in the days of your youth.”
“I trust I do remember him,” said Ivan frankly; “but I shall be glad to come in. I suppose you are all Catholics here?” “The good French lady is a Catholic, but the young minister who expounds the Scriptures and prays at the meetings is an ‘Evangelical,’ as they call it, from Switzerland. But they both love the Lord Jesus Christ, and talk as if they had seen him face to face.”
“Ay, indeed they do,” the girl said timidly. “They make you feel him so near.”
The old man looked at her affectionately. “The visits of Madame, and the little meetings in her cottage, have indeed been new life to thee, my child,” he said.― “You cannot think, monsieur, what a change there is in her―how much stronger and better she is since these happy thoughts have come to us.”
“It is true,” the girl assented. “Last year I thought I was dying; and oh, monsieur, the grave seemed so dark, so awful! Now the fear of death is quite gone, thank God. Still I think He means to let me stay here a little longer, and I am glad―if it is his will.”
“Come, dear,” said her grandfather; “the door is open. ―Come, monsieur.”
Ivan hesitated. “Shall I be welcome?” he asked.
“Oh yes, monsieur. There is a gentleman, the son-in-law of Madame, I believe, who is always there, and another, a tall and handsome officer, who is seldom absent. He seems to be a devout soldier, like Cornelius of old. The rest are only friends ―people like ourselves.”
Ivan went in, took a seat on a bench beside his new friends, crossed himself, and bowed his head for a moment in prayer, then looked about him. It was now late, and the little room was lighted, somewhat dimly, with candles of an ordinary kind. Fortunately he was placed where he could clearly see the very striking face and figure of the lady whom Adele pointed out to him with the one whispered word― “Madame.” Her hair was silver, her face worn and haggard, with the look “of one that had travailed sore.” Less than fifty she could not have been―Ivan thought her much more; but hers had been one of those intense and passionate lives which are measured “not by months and years,” but by fears and hopes, by joys and sorrows, perhaps by raptures and despairs. There was fire in her dark, eyes, and upon her pale and wasted features an expression at once of dreamy mysticism and of ecstatic ardor. In youth she had been very beautiful, but no mere physical beauty could survive the storms that had swept over her. Yet some better thing had come to her in place of her faded loveliness; so at least they said who saw her when she spoke of that which was God’s special gift and message to her soul― “the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.” It was this secret whispered in her ear that, in spite of many errors and some serious faults, made Julie de Krudener a power for good in her day and generation. She had this treasure in an earthen vessel―in one that was flawed and well-nigh broken; but she had it, and gave of it to others.
Though Ivan could read little of this in her face, yet he was greatly struck by its expression. “She ought to be a sibyl or a prophetess,” he thought. The persons on either side of her scarcely attracted his attention at all; they were her son-in-law, the Baron de Berckheim, and a young Swiss pastor, whom Adele called M. Empaytaz.
Just as the clock in an adjoining apartment began to strike the door opened once more, and an officer of tall and commanding aspect entered the room. He went quietly to what was evidently his accustomed place, close to one of the lights, laid a Bible which he had brought with him on the table, and sat down. Ivan found it as much as he could do to suppress a cry of amazement―for it was the Czar. But he held his peace, and neither by look nor sign betrayed what he felt.
A prayer was offered, in which Ivan was far too bewildered to join; he scarcely even observed that it was unlike any prayer he had ever heard before, being extempore. Then the young pastor opened his Bible, read a passage, and began to expound it. But Ivan heard little; for he could not withdraw his eyes from the Czar, who was listening intently to every word, and who found and read every passage of Scripture referred to, making constant use of the little eyeglass he always carried in his sleeve.
After some time, however, it occurred to Ivan that what interested the Czar so deeply ought to interest him too. Surely some mysterious power must dwell in the words which could thus enchain a soul already filled with weighty cares, tremendous responsibilities, soaring projects. Of what was the pastor speaking?
A sentence reached his ear that caught and held his thoughts, making him also an absorbed and eager listener. It would not be true to say that he forgot thenceforward the presence of the Czar―that would have been impossible―but he felt it only as an influence which added a conclusive weight of evidence and a potent undefinable charm to all that was said.
The pastor’s theme was the forgiveness of sins, a subject now full of interest for Ivan. He had long outgrown the stage of spiritual life in which he said that he felt no “abyss” within him. Prayer, study of the Scriptures, and intercourse with Clemence had by this time taught him much of the hidden evil of his own heart. Of his sins he could say now in uttermost sincerity, “The remembrance of them is grievous unto me; the burden of them is intolerable.” How he was to be relieved of that burden had never been very clear to him. He knew that pardon had come to mankind through Christ, and that it was connected in some way with his death upon the cross; but how it was to reach his own need, to avail for his own sin, he scarcely knew. He supposed that he ought to read his Bible and to pray, to repent truly, to obey God in all things, and to put his whole trust in him; and this was what for some time past he had been earnestly endeavoring to do.
But this new teacher, to whose voice his Czar was listening with such reverence, spoke of the death of Christ as an atonement not merely for the sins of the world, but for the special transgressions of each and every believer in him. “I can say,” he added, “to each one present here, ‘Thy sin was laid upon him.’ Whoso believes in him, accepts the grace he offers, is forgiven and justified through him. Such has, even now, everlasting life, and cannot come into condemnation, but has passed from death unto life.”
Ivan listened, wondering. Could this indeed be true? Might it be possible for him to leave that room, not as he had entered it, hoping, praying, longing to be one day forgiven and accepted of God, but in actual present possession of that priceless boon! This “glad evangel” would have seemed to him far too glad to be anything more than a beautiful dream, had not the radiant countenance of the Czar given the clearest evidence that he believed it. When the lecture was concluded―and to Ivan it seemed far too short―he hastened home to search his well-worn Testament, and to find out, if he could, from its pages whether these things were so.
After some hours of reading and prayer he reached the conclusion that it was he himself who had hitherto been blind and stupid. He marveled that he had not earlier discovered what now seemed to shine upon him from every page of the Book he loved―the glorious truth of present forgiveness and acceptance through faith in Christ. And thus that night one who had hitherto only “believed” dimly and afar off “on the name of the Son of God” came to “know that he had eternal life,” and to “believe” consciously and fully “on the name of the Son of God.”
A strange new joy burst upon his soul, flooding it with sunshine. He knelt down and thanked God for teaching him this truth. He could say now “my God” and “my Saviour.” He knew now what was meant by those words of the apostle, “Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
At length he rose from his knees, went to the window of his apartment and looked out. The town clock had just struck the second hour after midnight. The scene without was calm and still, sleeping in the soft summer moonlight. It seemed to Ivan a beautiful world, over which God was watching, and which he had so loved as to send his Son to die for it. “To die for me!” he said in his heart. “What can I do to show my love and gratitude to him?”
As he stood looking out, a solitary figure passed down the silent empty street. Ivan saw it was the Czar, who was only then returning from the cottage on the hill. His attendants were well accustomed to their master’s habit of taking long and lonely walks, and his absence, even for many hours, would occasion neither question nor remark. If, instead of communing with nature, he chose to spend the midnight hours in prayer and study of the Scriptures, none need know it.
But Ivan suddenly remembered that a grand review of the whole Imperial Guard was to take place that morning at six o’clock, so he dismissed the idea of writing at once to tell Clemence the wonders he had witnessed, and wisely threw himself upon his pallet to snatch a few hours of necessary slumber.
When he came to the parade ground in the morning he felt like one bewildered. There, in the midst of his brilliant staff, their uniforms glistening with gold and jewels, and the costly trappings of their magnificent horses glancing in the sunlight, stood the Czar, at once the center and the heart of all that martial pomp and pride. As Ivan, in his place in the Chevalier Guard, advanced, retreated, wheeled to the right or the left, in instant obedience to the word of command that issued from those imperial lips, he wondered silently which was the dream―this splendid pageant, or the scene last night in the lowly cottage; but when he looked again upon the calm and joyous face of the Czar he knew that both were real.
It was not until long afterward that he heard the story of how God had spoken to the heart of the Czar. Madame de Krudener for some time past had been acquainted with the Empress Elizabeth, and other persons belonging to the Russian Court. What she heard from everyone of the noble character of Alexander awakened in her mind an intense desire to be of use to him. “I have great things to say to him,” she wrote to a friend; “for I have felt much upon his account. My business is to be without fear and without reproach, his to be at the feet of Christ.” Such impulses are sent from above.
It was late in the night of the 4th of June. Alexander sat in his quarters at Heilbronn, depressed and weary, trying to read a book of devotion, but unable to profit by what he read. He had heard of the conversations of Madame de Krudener with his wife, and the thought passed through his mind, “I wish she would come and talk to me.” At that moment his confidential attendant, Volkonski, entered the room, and told him, with much ill-humor, that there was a lady in the antechamber who insisted upon seeing him, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.
“I cannot get rid of her, sire,” said the irritated aide-de-camp.
Alexander inquired her name.
“Madame de Krudener.”
“Ask her to come in,” said the Emperor. He afterward told a friend that he felt as though he were dreaming, so strange did the coincidence appear to him.
Madame de Krudener entered. Certainly she did not fear the face of man. She prophesied no smooth things to the monarch of all the Russian. Perhaps she scarcely knew how far God had led him already; for she told him, with uncompromising boldness, that never yet had he come to the foot of the cross with the prayer of the publican on his lips, and that until he did so there could be neither pardon nor peace for him. Much more she added, perhaps not altogether wisely; but since she held up Christ and his cross before him, there was power in her words to reach and to bless a heart which had been prepared of the Lord to receive them. Seeing him affected even to tears, she apologized for her boldness, and would have paused, but he entreated her to go on. This proved the first of numerous interviews.
Many a quiet talk over the Bible, prolonged into the hours of the early morning, took place in the laborer’s cottage at Heidelberg, where. Madame de Krudener had established herself in order to be near the Emperor. The young Swiss pastor, Empaytaz, who shared in these conversations, has left a brief record of them. One day he summoned courage to ask the Emperor plainly, “Sire, have you now peace with God? Are you assured of the pardon of your sins?”
Alexander was not a man who could hear or answer such a question without emotion. For a time he was silent, apparently questioning his own heart. Then “it seemed as if a dark veil was lifted from his face,” and he looked up and answered, “Yes, I am happy―I am very happy. I have peace, even the peace of God. I am a great sinner; but since Madame”―glancing towards Madame de Krudener, who was present “has shown me that Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost, I know and believe that my sins are pardoned. The Word of God says that he who believes in the Son of God―in God the Saviour―is passed from death unto life, and shall not come into condemnation. I believe; yes, I have faith.” Two words were at this time often on his lips― “I am very happy,” and “I am a great sinner.” They supplied the double keynote of his inner life. His joy in the forgiving Christ kept pace with his sorrow for the sins that had grieved him; the one grew and deepened in the same proportion as the other.
Years afterward he said to a friend―tracing his conversion, it is interesting to observe, not merely to his conversations with Madame de Krudener, but to the whole course of God’s dealings with him from the time of the burning of Moscow― “Since then I have known God as the Holy Scriptures have revealed him. Then I learned to understand, and I understand now, his will and his law; and the resolution to consecrate to him only, and to his glory, my life and my reign has ripened and strengthened within me. Since then I have become another man; to the deliverance of Europe from her ruin I owe my own salvation and deliverance. It is only since Christianity has become important above all things else to me, since faith in the Redeemer has been manifested in me, that his peace―for which I thank God―has entered into my soul. Ah, but I did not arrive there at once: the path by which I was led stretched across many a conflict and many a doubt.”
It was no wonder that now he found it less difficult than ever to pardon his enemies. It seemed to him something which he could not help doing, because he had been himself forgiven. “Why should I do otherwise?” he said, when Madame de Krudener expressed her surprise at some act of forgiveness extraordinary even for him; “have I not the gospel in my heart? I know only that; and I think that if any one were to compel me to go a mile with him, I should willingly go with him twain.” So glad was his heart in those early days of faith and love.
God had given this man the seventh part of the habitable globe to rule over. He had given him the splendor of a throne, the wealth of an imperial treasury, the command of mighty armaments. He had given him even more―victory over all his foes, success in all his undertakings; at this time nothing that he sought to accomplish was denied him. Yet the man’s deep heart was still unsatisfied. “All these things were too little” for him. One thing he desired of the Lord, that he sought after― “to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple.” That also God gave him. The brightest glory, the “crowning mercy” of Alexander’s life, was no earthly triumph, no victory in war or diplomacy; it was that God answered him in the joy of his heart, and enabled him to say, with the poorest and humblest of his believing children, “My Father, my Saviour.” The secret of the Lord was with him, and He showed him His covenant