The Catholic World, Vol. 07, April 1868 to September, 1868

by Various

Glimpses Of Tuscany.

II.
The Boboli Gardens.

The high wall of our raised garden binds on the southern entrance to the Boboli: our white spirae droops down into it like a willow, so large and in such perfect bloom that strangers stop to sketch it as they pass. The good grand duke has gone since I last was here; the Sardinian bayonet is gleaming exactly where the Austrian sentinel stood. The Boboli has changed masters—not for the first time—and accepts the situation with the serenity of a veteran.

It is a bright Sunday morning. There is still time for a walk there before the Military Mass at Santo Spirito. Twelve years have not disturbed the placid sameness of this creature of the hill-side: the laurels are clipped just as evenly, the old busts and statues look at you, or at each other, just as archly or just as stolidly. It is all thoroughly man-made—intensely artificial. Every impulse of nature has been stifled in tree and shrub, until they no more dare to lean out of line than soldiers on parade. The very crocuses steal timidly through the grass, as if they were afraid of doing wrong.

"Grove nods to grove, each alley has its brother;
One half the garden represents the other."

It looks human, every inch; the Lord is completely banished; his Spirit could not possibly walk in such a garden. And yet this creature of man seems clothed with imperishable bloom: this death of all nature seems able to outlive all other life. You cannot despise it, for it possesses the semblance of indestructibility— unchangefulness in the midst of change. In the forests, dissolution and reproduction are palpably waging their unending warfare; even on the eternal Apennines, the snow comes and goes, the lights and shadows of the clouds are endlessly shifting. But in this miniature world monotony counterfeits the terrible fixity and relentlessness of fate. Nature is deprived of all free-will, and moves obedient to a fixed design.

It is difficult to say how far civilization, apart from religion, may go with advantage in remodelling the natural man. It is equally difficult to say how far art may safely encroach upon nature in reconstructing a landscape. Some of the grand elemental presentations disdain our interference. We have no control over the clouds, or the curves of the ocean, or the nocturnal radiance of the skies. But the surface of the earth is an unfinished sketch, which the Creator has left us to humanize, in some small degree, after our fancy. We do not make even the smallest impression upon its planetary aspect; but, after centuries of toil, we succeed in partially changing its more immediate expression. We take the groundwork ready made, accept the laws as we find them, and then, inspired by the supreme longing after unrevealed beauty, which, in some shape or other, haunts every human soul, proceed to establish a little paradise of our own.

But above and beyond that last temporal Eden, there is still another—the one beyond the grave. I, who am an immortal spirit capable of sharing the celestial joy of angels, predestined for the beatific vision; I, whose hereafter should be passed amid perpetual light, and peace, and beauty; may I not have imaginings of better forms, of sweeter faces, of fairer prospects, of deeper skies, and even of diviner stars than those revealed to the senses? Did Raphael ever see a face that equalled hers of the San Sisto? Was there ever in the flesh a form to rival the Apollo of the Vatican? Is there any pattern in nature for Giotto's Campanile? Is there any voice in the woods or seas to suggest the melodies of Kreutzer or the harmonies of Beethoven? And may we not, then, poetize our landscapes too, and throw into the face of nature the expression of a human soul? But here is precisely the difficulty: the landscape has a soul of its own, which must not be murdered, even to make way for ours. The Grand Master has been at work before us; his works have wandered, of their own sweet will, into shapes and combinations that exhibit the grace beyond the reach of art. The mountains, the streams. the valleys, are full of these sweet surprises. The true artist can do little more than reproduce them, squared and framed, for parlor contemplation: the true gardener can do little more than display them to the best advantage.

It is more than likely, though, that, when the Boboli Gardens were laid out by the Medici, the artists employed had only to deal with unornamented slopes of olive orchards and arable land. The landscape was less to be remodelled than created. The surface under treatment was artistically as blank as uncolored canvas— as meaningless as quarried marble. With this difference, however: that while the groundwork of the painter fades and wrinkles, while marble stains and shatters, while even the sculptured arches of great cathedrals crumble into dust, the living canvas on which the landscape gardener works is not only imperishable, but so charged with vitality that it gains instead of losing by duration; or, should a touch of decay at last appear, it is but in transition to new phases of beauty. One would think that, where human fancy is free to conceive a garden of delight, and human means sufficient to ransack the ages and spoil the climes for its embellishment, the result could not escape being a public and paramount attraction. I take this Boboli Garden as a sample of most public gardens or parks. Are they popularly, or even selectly, attractive? Are they ever thronged, except at stated hours, when people chiefly congregate to exhibit themselves and criticise each other? Was an artist, by any miracle, ever caught there more than once, save in the capacity of casual saunterer? Are they not startlingly unfrequented, in spite of their superb richness and beauty? However conducive these civic Edens to municipal health, have not the park police an almost exclusive monopoly of the fresh air and gravel? Do these magnets draw by dint of their intrinsic beauty? It may safely be questioned. And may not this failure be attributed to our vague, unpronounced repugnance to having nature out of harmony with itself and ourselves? Notwithstanding all the gilt and carmine of the new emblazonry, we keep asking the gay palimpsest to restore the lost features of our first friend.

The curse that fell on Adam also visited the earth from which he was taken. The heart of fallen man is full of yearning; the face of nature is full of sympathetic sadness; her voice is nearer a sigh than a song. More than half the year is clouded, more than half the hours belong to night, and over more than half the world goes the wail of the unresting seas. The vast distances are everywhere softened or shaded into pensiveness; the very sunshine turns to blue and purple on the hills; it is only the small near which presumes to be glad with the flash of a rivulet, the song of birds, or the glance of flowers. And, in these minor poems too, there is apt to lurk some sly suggestion of the unattained. Even where the universe is transfigured by the coming morn, and the world thrills with the joyous cry of reawakened life, the momentary exultation, the piercing delight of existence, are soon sobered by toil, or care, or thought; and, bright as the coming day may prove, the impression left on human hearts is that of promise unfulfilled. The poorest part of sunrise is the sun itself; the horns on the Rigi are silent as soon as the orb is fairly up.

It may not be overbold to affirm that some of these grander parks, such as the Bois de Boulogne, bear no mean resemblance to the first paradise itself. But our lot is changed since then; the primitive tradition of Deity incarnate has been fulfilled. Eden could no longer content us; we would not care to pass those Cherubim with the flaming sword, even if we dared. Between us and any possible paradise lies the grave. It is worse than mockery to expect the sorely laden Christian heart to find more than casual enjoyment in arbitrary walks, and endless beds of roses, and artificial fountains, and manufactured grottoes. Sorrow, passion, death, were encountered by God in descending to man; sorrow, passion, death, must be encountered by man in ascending to God. Spiritual felicity is less to be extracted from violets and roses than from sackcloth and ashes. Temporal happiness is not to be compassed by meandering through shaded avenues and even lawns, but by the sweat of the brow and the work of the hands; and in our respites from toil we like the wild, suggestive irregularities of nature better than a too glaring array of brightnesses with which we are seldom in complete accord. The post-Adamic garden needs depth and gloom and mystery as well as sunshine and flowers.

I do not mean to say that the Boboli is wholly glad; much of it is sad or saddening enough. That long, grim avenue of cypress would suit the valley of the shadow of death. Arnolfo's dark, mighty wall goes striding down the hill-side like a phantom. The Boboli was only meant to be wholly glad. Though probably not designed by a Greek, it is nevertheless Grecian, or rather Athenian; for, in art, Athens is Greece. By an exceptional felicity and refinement of mental, moral, and physical organization, the Athenian realized in himself the most perfect development of natural civilization. The dark, religious mysteries which tinge and sadden Hindu, Egyptian, and most Gentile life had little hold upon the Greek. Athens, in her prime, succeeded in escaping the pressure and responsibility of the hereafter. She aimed at making time a success independent of eternity. The real heaven of the Athenian and his disciples, in both classic peninsulas, was this world, not the next. Eternity was but the ghost of time, a vague prolongation of the present for better or worse in Elysium or Hades, the shadow projected by a vast material world as it moved through endless space. The poets of Greece dictated her popular theology; her sculptors carried beauty to the very borders of the beatitude, giving such glory to form that the inspired likeness is mistaken for the divine original. It is impossible to tell where the hero ends and the god begins. We have the deification of man in marble or fable, instead of the humanization of God in the flesh; or, in other words, the identity of religion and art. This pleasant way of being one with God, this graceful fulfilment of destiny, imparted a complacency to Athenian life which we cannot imitate.

"In every dark and awful place,
Rude hill and haunted wood.
This beautiful, bright people left
A name of omen good.
"Unlike the children of romance,
From out whose spirit deep
The touch of gloom hath passed on glen.
And mountain, lake, and steep;
On Devil's Bridge and Raven's Tower,
And love-lorn Maiden's Leap."

Grecian life, in its highest aspect, was an attempt to reproduce the perfections of a lost Eden; Christian life, in its highest aspect, is purification, self-denial, self-immolation, for a paradise which can never be reached in this world, and only in the next after life-long fear and trembling. And although we strive more or less successfully to substitute the joys of the spirit for those of the flesh, yet "Even we ourselves, who have the first-fruits of the spirit, groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption of the sons of God, the redemption of our body." (St. Paul. [Footnote 208]) After the knowledge of good and evil, our paradise must have no walls. The broad expanse of which each one of us may chance to be the centre, bounded by the horizon and vaulted by the sky—the whole visible landscape, with its fitful light and shade, its changing blight and bloom, its alternating sigh and song, whether subdued into use or wild as on the morning of the first Sabbath—this whole visible universe is the only garden in harmony with the vast aspiration, the ceaseless yearning of Christian life. Our opened eyes would weary of the walled Eden, as Rasselas wearied of the Happy Valley.

[Footnote 208: For the suggestion of this text of St. Paul the writer is indebted to a notice in the Freeman's Journal of Father Ryan's beautiful lines, "Why does your poetry sound like a sigh.">[

It is a pure and paramount joy to grapple with the rugged earth and bend it to your will; a joy to pierce the forest to your liking and smooth a bare expanse into velvet lawn: of mortal joys perhaps the purest and most enduring. But when all is done?—

Take your stand behind the Pitti Palace almost anywhere high up the hill, on the observatory itself, if you choose. All the wide valley of the Arno, with its circumference of cultured hills and woodless mountains, is before you. For thousands of years industrious generations have been at work on that fair panorama. Yellow villas are dotting all the heights; olive-trees are wrapping all the slopes in pale monotony; the vines are trailing everywhere in endless procession over mutilated mulberries; the long gray walls are solemnly parcelling out the small Tuscan farms. All Florence is beneath you, with its domes and towers and spires, its streets and bridges, its memories and suggestions. The atmosphere is so transparent, the cultivation so perfect, that the area described by half the radius of vision seems to enclose only a vast kitchen-garden. But further on, the mist and haze are settling; the enchantment of distance is falling; Vallambrosa, gleaming on its mountain's breast, turns into some mysterious opal; the records traced by man through all those centuries are gradually erased by the quiet alchemy of nature, and the same eternal story reappears as vividly as if the superscription were but the shadow of a dream.

Turn to the Boboli at your feet. Do you wonder it is a failure—that Florence never goes there? They love their own little gardens dearly and the flowers in their windows; for these are but sweet thefts from nature to embellish home. But for these attempts to compress universal beauty into a given space, for this overprizing, overadorning of the near, only to be lost, or merged, or overlooked in the glory of the far, the Christian heart can have but little relish.

The bells of Santo Spirito are ringing; and I wonder, on my way there, if that cold white hand of Athens will ever quite relax its hold on Christian life.

---

Translated From Le Correspondant.
Anecdotical Memoirs By A Former Page
Of The Emperor Nicholas.

One day, some months after my admission among the pages, as the classes were being dismissed, I heard a great noise. People were running to and fro, agitated and hurried; officers of the service, pages of the bedroom, inspectors, all seemed to be in a state of extraordinary excitement.

"Gentlemen, look out! look out! the emperor!" cried in an authoritative tone the head of our company, while his deep, sonorous voice reechoed throughout the dormitory, where, according to custom, we were all assembled before dinner.

At this name I was deeply moved. My mother and my companions had often, very often spoken to me of the emperor in recitals where legend mingled with reality, but I had not yet seen him face to face. The officer on duty arranged us in military order, each one standing near his own bed, and so we waited for him.

Soon the captain of the guard announced that the czar was coming up the great stairway. The dormitory, ordinarily so noisy, became perfectly still. There was a moment of solemn silence, religious in its perfect stillness. We hardly dared to breathe. The officer, with his helmet on, placed himself at the threshold. Suddenly, in the opening of the large doorway, appeared a man of tall stature, in the uniform of a general and in the midst of a cortége of superior officers. His countenance was severe, his whole exterior imposing. This was Nicholas I.

Since then I have seen, and closely, most of the sovereigns of Europe, and more than once have been admitted to the honor of direct conversation with them; but never have I beheld a figure more royal or more profoundly imprinted with supreme majesty; never have I since experienced the icy impression that this view of the czar produced upon me.

He walked straightforward in lordly style, his leaden eyes coldly fixed on those of each person to whom in turn he addressed himself, and gazing deeply into each face with a penetration that seemed to mark the very secrets of the soul. His step impressed you; his aspect intimidated; and his attitudes, so truly sovereign, added to a physiognomy so haughty, reflected the guiding sentiment of his life, his utter contempt for mankind, and his mystical faith in his own all-powerfulness. Of colossal height and admirably beautiful in face, his hard and penetrating eye subjugated you at once. Simply clad, even in peasant attire, he would have been recognized by his look and his imperial carriage, and surrounded even by twenty generals in full uniform, the cry would have resounded, "The emperor! it is he!"

He made the tour of the room, and, after speaking to several pages, came at last to where I stood. As he neared my bed, the director approached him and said:

"Sire, this is D——."

"Ah!" bowed the emperor, and turning toward me:

"How is your mother?"

"Well, sire."

"She is a good friend of mine. Are you satisfied with your present position?"

"Yes, sire."

"How long since he entered among the pages?" asked the czar of the director.

"About two months since, sire."

"And conducts himself well?"

"Very well."

"Bravo!"

Until now the conversation had been in French.

"And," resumed the emperor, but this time speaking Russian, "have you learned Russian?"

"Not yet, sire," I replied in French.

"What! here two months, and not yet a word! Why, that is outrageous. Can't you even say no in Russian?"

"I ask pardon, your majesty; I do speak Russian with my comrades."

"Well, why then, stupid, if you can speak it with your comrades, do you answer me in French when I address you in Russian?"

"Because, if I express myself incorrectly to a simple page, I am not annoyed, whereas, with your majesty—"

"Very well, that will do."

I had heard he wished nothing badly done in his presence, and I knew too little Russian to dare venture it before his majesty.

"Did you hear that?" said the emperor; and turning toward General Philosophoff, "Here is one who will never be a fool," added he, and passed on.

Nicholas I., Paulowitch, the third son of the Emperor Paul III., had never dreamed of a crown. He believed himself destined for the pompous and useless life of a grand duke. Between him and the empire were two older brothers, both young and both intelligent.

However, since his earliest youth his character had shown itself self-willed, domineering, and tyrannical, in a manner the presage of his reign and harbinger of his politics. There has been discovered among the books used in his education while he was quite a child, a volume of the History of Russia, by Karamsin, and on the margin of which are written in his own hand these remarkable words, "The Czar Ivan IV., the Terrible, was a severe but a just man, as one ought to be to govern a nation."

Such sentiments loudly expressed by Nicholas could not fail to alarm a people and court who still remembered the reign of his father, Paul I., only dead twenty-three years. The reign of this crowned fool had, notwithstanding its short duration, tired out even Russia itself—Russia, too, already so corrupted by the habit of despotism; and a revolution in the palace had at last put an end to the follies of this barbarian, this second Heliogabalus.

During the reign of Alexander I., the court and town spoke freely of the despot Paul. Nicholas, who neither could nor dared reinstate the memory of his father, and who considered it impolitic to permit a people to express themselves irreverently of a czar, forbade throughout his whole empire even the mention of a name so abhorred. The legend of his death he especially interdicted, and so long as the reign of Nicholas lasted, the memory of Paul I. remained in silence and obscurity.

While his brother Alexander I. governed the empire, Nicholas, who, as we have said, believing it impossible he should ever reign, kept himself in comparative obscurity, concentrated all his attention on the troops, each day passing them in review, and occupied himself only with the lot of the soldier and the amelioration of his condition. The marriage of the Grand Duke Constantine with the Princess of Lowicz brought him unexpectedly nearer the throne. At the death of the Emperor Alexander, and notwithstanding the unequal marriage of his brother, he was still uncertain of his approaching advancement. But when he learned, first by the will of Alexander, then by the letter of Constantine intrusted to the Senate, and finally from Constantine himself, his renunciation of the empire, he accepted the crown, and from the day he did so, faithful to his character, he understood how to reign fully and absolutely.

Firmly convinced that he represented celestial power on earth, sincerely persuaded that to his own people he was the mandatary of God, and held within himself divine prerogatives, he watched with an overshadowing jealousy the sacred deposit with which he believed himself charged, and any attempt against his authority appeared to him a sacrilege and proved him inexorable. The conviction that he never pardoned even the simple appearance of such a crime isolated him in the midst of his court and people, enveloped him in an atmosphere of gloom and terror, and placed him at a distance that added to his prestige and the respectful fear he inspired.

It is said that one evening, about two years after his death, one of his aides-de-camp, (in the midst of an animated conversation,) recognizing the portrait of the emperor in the drawing-room, suddenly left his place, and quickly turned its face to the wall. "During the life of the czar, I had such a terror of him," said he, "that I fear the copy, with its terrible eyes fixed upon me, may disconcert and embarrass me as greatly as did the model."

This very intentness of look was in truth the power of intimidation which the emperor possessed. Intending to win a confidence from any one or force a confession, he fastened on his victim his cold and immovable eyes. The unfortunate was literally fascinated. He knew that a word or a gesture from the autocrat sufficed to annihilate him, and the least contraction of his brow froze the blood in his veins. Terror is the necessary auxiliary of every despotism, democratic or aristocratic, monarchical or republican.

Yet these jealous instincts, and this implacable firmness in punishment, were not solely due to the character of the Emperor Nicholas, but also to the sad experiences which signalized the commencement of his reign. Conspiracies against the new czar, revolts occasioned by the appearance of cholera, indeed all sorts of disorders, Nicholas had to suppress on his accession to the throne. From the very first he learned these bloody retaliations, and never pardoned.

The first conspirators of his reign, Pestel, Mouravieff-Apostol, and the poet Relieff, were condemned to be hung. The emperor signed the decree after the Russian formula, "Byt po siemau" (So be it.) They were then conducted to the place of execution. Relieff, a poet of the highest order, was the first one led to the scaffold. Just at the moment when the executioner, having passed the slip-knot, over his head, had raised him on his shoulders to launch him into eternity, the too weak cord broke, and he fell forward bruised and bleeding.

"They know not how to do anything in Russia," said he, raising himself without even turning pale, "not even to twist a rope."

As accidents of this kind—besides being very rare, were always considered occasions of pardon, they sent, therefore, to the Winter Palace to know the will of the emperor.

"Ah! the cord has broken?" said Nicholas.

"Yes, sire."

"Then he was almost dead? What impression has such close contact with eternity produced on the mind of the rebel?"

"He is a brave man, sire."

The czar frowned.

"What did he say?" asked he severely.

"Sire, he said, 'They know not how even to twist a rope in Russia.'"

"Well," replied Nicholas, "let them prove to him the contrary." And he went out.

A wealthy Polish lord, the Prince Roman Sanguszko, had been condemned, as a conspirator, to serve the rest of his life as a simple soldier, and to immediately join a regiment fighting in Caucasia. On the margin of the sentence, the emperor wrote in his own hand, "On foot!"

Such severity was in him a system. He sincerely believed in it as a necessity, and a part of the sanctity of absolute power. In Russia, especially, his knowledge of the character of his people fortified him in his belief, and he let no opportunity escape to declare his despotism.

Of all the heterogeneous elements that compose the immense empire of Russia, there is not one that ever seems likely to develop in the slightest degree the idea of liberalism; not a single nationality in which servilism is not innate, and to which the people themselves are not as much attached as the nations of the East to liberty. Hence it is that among the Russians, properly so-called, and who constitute the main portion of the population, we find the nobility infected with an inveterate sentiment of servile obsequiousness, and the people predisposed by temperament, and moulded by past experience, to the most abject submission. They all have the same character as the great princes of Kieff, who, when under the yoke of the Tartars, went to receive the investiture of the Khan of the Horde d'Or; and who, after having held his stirrup and offered him a glass of koumys, [Footnote 209] were obliged to lick from the neck of his horse the milk that dropped from his moustaches. Do we need greater evidence of the servility of the Russian people than the reign of the crowned tiger, Ivan IV. the Terrible, a despot without parallel in history, whose subjects, more patient than the Romans under Caligula and Nero, not only were contented to bear with his follies and crimes, but actually supplicated him to resume the throne, after his voluntary abdication through disgust of others and himself? The reign, too, of Peter the Great, whose savage grandeur could not absolve him from cruelty, and even the possibility in the nineteenth century of such a despot as Nicholas I., what greater proofs do we require?

[Footnote 209: Camel's milk fermented.]

As to the half-savage nations of the northern limits of Russia and Siberia, with populations perhaps only yesterday awakened to anything like social life, their need is still, as with children, the master, and the ferule.

It is easy to understand, then, how a man armed like Nicholas with an iron will and immense authority, and comprehending perfectly the character of his people, should have conceived this superhuman idea of his own power. Never thwarted by the least resistance, only now and then by an occasional murmuring, we can need no better explanation of his apparently exaggerated despotism, of his inveterate faith in the sanctity of his domination, his conviction that in himself centred his whole empire, and the faculty, in fine, which he possessed in so great a degree, of entirely ignoring mankind.

One day, a short time before the Crimean war, at a grand military review at Krasnoe-Selo, the emperor, on horseback, presented his troops to the empress seated in her carriage. Suddenly appeared on the drill ground a cariole drawn by one horse, and out of which stepped a feld jaguer, (courier of the palace,) charged with two autographic letters from the King of Prussia to the emperor and empress. As the empress was the more easily approached, he handed her the first letter, and ran toward the emperor to present the second. But some steps from him he pauses, turns pale, and bursts into tears. The letter is lost.

Trembling from head to foot, he retraces his steps to try and find it, but the soldiers, the aides-de-camp, the horses, have already trodden it in the dust, and the precious envelope cannot be found.

"What ails that animal?" asked the emperor of one of his aides-de-camp.

"I do not know, sire."

"Well, go and ask him, and bring me his reply."

The aide-de-camp spurred his horse, and from the lips of the poor feld jaguer he learned that an autograph letter from the King of Prussia to the Emperor of Russia had been lost. He brought the czar the information.

The face of Nicholas clouded instantly; his expression was gloomy and severe.

"Take charge of this man yourself and without allowing him to communicate with any one, conduct him immediately to Siberia. Let him not be harshly treated, but let him never again appear in Europe."

The aide-de-camp, as well as the unhappy feld jaguer, were both to set out, without even changing their boots, for this journey of 2000 leagues. The aide-de-camp returned eight months afterward, and was recompensed by promotion from the emperor, but the poor courier was doubtless dying or dead in the neighborhood of Tobolsk, such faults as his having escaped an amnesty.

Such instances (I witnessed the one I am about to relate) were not rare in the life of Nicholas. One morning in the spring, when a freshet of the Neva had rendered its crossing extremely perilous, the emperor, on looking from the window of his Winter Palace, saw a large crowd watching, in evident stupefaction, a man directing himself, by leaps from one piece of ice to another, toward the opposite shore.

He called his attendant aide-de-camp.

"Look at that fool," said he. "What courage! Run and see what motive he has for so exposing his life."

The aide-de-camp learned the particulars and returned.

"Sire, he is a peasant who has bet he would cross the Neva for twenty-five roubles, and is trying to gain the reward."

"Give him twenty-fire lashes," replied Nicholas; "a man who risks his life in this miserable way would be capable of anything for money."

To a desperate caprice of the same kind is due the construction of the railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow, called the Nicholas railroad. The emperor had in his court a certain general, Kleinmichel, a disagreeable person, exceedingly unpopular, and of equivocal fidelity, but who pleased by his reticence and promptness in executing orders. When the road was decided upon by a counsel of ministers, and its erection considered urgent, a map of Russia was brought to the czar, who was asked to look over the course designated by the different engineers and give his preference. Nicholas, without saying a word, took the map, marked a straight line from Moscow to St. Petersburg, and said to the stupefied engineers:

"This is the line of the railroad."

"But," they all cried, "impossible. Your majesty will find no one to undertake such a work. It would be to hide treasures in a desert."

"No one undertake it when I command it to be done!" said Nicholas. "We shall see."

And signalling Kleinmichel from a corner:

"Kleinmichel," said he, "you see this line?"

"Yes, sire."

"This is a new railroad I propose constructing in my empire."

"Sire, it is magnificent!"

"You think so? Will you charge yourself, then, with the execution of my orders?"

"With the greatest pleasure, sire, if your majesty orders it. But the funds, the funds?"

"Don't be troubled about them. Ask for all the money you want."

And turning to the engineers:

"You see," said Nicholas to them, "I can get along without you. I will build my own railroad."

And the construction of this road lasted ten years. It did not deviate an inch from the line marked out by the imperial finger; and leaving on one side, at about a distance of ten leagues, the villages of Novgorod, Twer, and a host of others equally rich and important, it traversed, in the midst of marshes and woods, nothing but immense solitudes; 706 kilometres of iron rail cost Russia 400,000,000 francs—a little more than half a million a kilometre—of which the devoted Kleinmichel, but that as a matter of course, took a good share. Nicholas, however, was right in saying nothing could resist him.

Some weeks after the inauguration of this railroad an ambassador arrived at St. Petersburg. According to custom and to pay him attention, everything was shown him in detail, all the objects of interest in the city. He expressed no surprise or admiration; his oriental gravity was proof against either.

"What could we show him that would astonish him?" asked the emperor of Menschikoff.

"Show him the accounts of Kleinmichel for the Nicholas railroad," replied the prince, laughing.

A few days later, General Kleinmichel, in presence of the emperor, was discussing with Menschikoff some question upon which they could not agree. The general proposed to the prince a wager.

"With pleasure," replied the latter, "and this shall be the stake, if your excellence permits it. He who loses shall be obliged—at the expense of the winner—to go to Moscow and return by the railroad your excellence has just finished."

"What joke is this?" asked the emperor.

"A very simple one, sire. The road is so constructed that one is very sure to break his neck on it; so, you see, we are playing for our lives."

The emperor laughed heartily at the joke, but Kleinmichel took care not to accept the bet.

These two instances prove that Nicholas knew how, now and then, to listen to a truth well said. He was too certain that none of his subjects dared fail him in the respect he required, so he could afford to listen to those who were bold and witty enough to approach him with the truth. Menschikoff, the same who commanded at Sebastopol, was one of these; better than any other, he always maintained before the czar his frank speech, and Nicholas, little accustomed to such frankness, loved him dearly, and frequently amused himself with his sallies.

General Kleinmichel was the aversion of Menschikoff. One day the latter entered the cabinet of Nicholas at the moment when the emperor was playing with one of his grand-children, the Grand Duke Michel, still quite an infant.

Astraddle on the shoulders of his grandfather, the little prince made the czar serve for his horse.

"See," cried Nicholas gayly, "see how this little imp treats me. I am growing thin under it. The little monkey is so heavy, I shall fall with fatigue."

"Zounds!" quickly replied Menschikoff, "little Michel (in German Klein-michel) ought not to be a very light load, if he carries about him all he has stolen."

Notwithstanding his jokes, which spared no one, Menschikoff delighted Nicholas, who could readily enough withdraw him from the chief command at Sebastopol, but would not deprive him of his friendship. This was of more ancient date, and founded on the two good qualities of courage and sincerity. Sometimes, but rarely, others approached the emperor as familiarly. The celebrated poet, Pouchkine, for example, dared to express himself in his presence with a frankness which, even in occidental Europe, and in a constitutional state, would pass for audacity.

In the palace of the Hermitage, where they were walking together, the emperor had led the poet into a gallery of pictures that contained the portraits of all the Romanoffs, from Michel Fedorovitch to the last reigning sovereign, and had ordered him to improvise some verses on each.

Pouchkine obeyed; but coming to the portrait of Nicholas, he was silent.

"Well, Pouchkine," said the emperor, "what have you to say of me?"

"Sire!"

"Some flattery, of course? I don't wish to hear it; so tell the truth."

"Your majesty permits me?"

"I order you. Believe in my imperial word, you shall not suffer."

"So be it, sire."

And he wrote the famous distich:

"Des pieds à la tête la toile est admirable;
De la tête aux pieds le tzar est détestable."
[Footnote 210]

[Footnote 210:
"From feet to head the picture is admirable:
From head to feet the czar is detestable.">[

The emperor made no reply, but he asked Pouchkine for no more verses.

Notwithstanding his despotism, and the arbitrary acts that signalized his reign; notwithstanding the innumerable banishments into Siberia and Caucasia, it is seen the emperor could sometimes bear to hear the truth. The instinct of justice was born in him; despotism had smothered it, unfortunately, but his better nature frequently triumphed. Often the hereditary grand duke had, in this respect, to submit to severe reprimands. One day, in 1832, a year after the revolt of the Poles, whom Nicholas had handled with implacable rigor, the grand duke, in the presence of his father, had called them accursed. Rebuking publicly his son:

"Imperial Highness," said Nicholas, "your expressions are unseemly. If I chastise the Poles, it is because they have revolted against my authority; but to you they have done no harm, and you are destined to reign over them. You have no right to make any difference in your future subjects. Be assured, such sentiments make bad sovereigns."

The sentiment of gratitude was no more a stranger to the Emperor Nicholas than the spirit of justice. True, he guarded as faithfully the remembrance of injuries as of services, and if he never forgot those who had served or defended him, neither did he ever forgive those who had made the least attempt against his power. While the Troubetskois, the Mouravieffs, the Tchernicheffs, worked in the mines of Siberia, still there could be seen, at the end of his reign, several generals perfectly unqualified, yet provided with advantageous employments, without any great power, it is true, but well lodged, well fed, honored, and tranquil. If they committed any absurdity, and this frequently happened, he changed their places according to capacity, or sometimes secretly directed them in the exercise of their functions, never failing in his goodness toward them. These men, in the military revolt of 1826, had offered their swords to assist his growing power.

Strange character! Curious mixture of faults and good qualities, of littleness and grandeur; brutal and chivalrous, courageous even to temerity, and distrustful even to poltroonery; equitable and tyrannical, generous and cruel, at once the friend of ostentation and of simplicity! His palace was magnificent, his court splendid, the luxuriousness of his courtiers dazzling, while, in his own person, his habits and tastes, he affected an imposing austerity. His working cabinet was almost bare; he slept always on a camp bed. The oldness of his uniform, and of his military cloaks, was proverbial at St. Petersburg. Worn out, pieced in different places, they evidenced, by their shining neatness, how carefully they were preserved. At his repasts even, he drank no wine; he never smoked, and the odor of tobacco was so disagreeable to him that it was forbidden, not only in the Winter Palace, but in the streets of St. Petersburg. Even the Grand Duke Alexander, the czar truly, and an inveterate smoker, was obliged to sit under the mantel-piece, to enjoy the luxury of a cigar in the imperial palace.

Loving beyond everything military discipline, and rigorous in his formulas, Nicholas, who for thirty years was accustomed to this refrain, "Master, thy slave is here to obey thee"—Nicholas could only comprehend order and uniformity. Reviews were his favorite passion; during his reign, he transformed his empire into a barrack. He passed his life in manoeuvres, exercises, and miniature wars. The soldiers adored him, although he was only eclipsed in the severity of military rule by the Grand Duke Michel. It is true, the latter pushed his worship of discipline to such an extent that the emperor himself was often amused at the expense of his younger brother. One day he met an officer with his clothes torn and covered with mud, and without helmet or sword. The officer, finding himself discovered, and knowing he was to blame, was terribly frightened, and nearly fell backward in making the military salute. Nicholas fixed a severe look upon the poor devil, which made him totter. But, suddenly changing his tone and countenance, he said gayly:

"Go, dress yourself; but take good care you don't meet my brother!"

Rising with the dawn, and at work from the earliest hour of the day, whether at his palace in winter or in the field in summer, he hardened himself, as well as others, to both cold and fatigue. An excellent rider, his horses were magnificent and marvellously cared for; he always mounted alone those that were reserved for him, and out of two or three hundred sent every year to his stables for his own use, he could scarcely find a dozen to suit him. In manoeuvres I have seen him twenty times, at the moment of the loudest cannonade and in the most frightful noise, jerk, in his impatience, his horse's bit until the jagged lips of the poor beast were streaming with blood. Sometimes this torture lasted several minutes; the sides of the beautiful animal whitened with foam; he trembled in agony, and yet never lost for a moment his statue-like immobility.

Such methods of proceeding, applied by Nicholas equally to everything that surrounded him, generals, servants, horses, and courtiers, were fortunately tempered in him by the sense of justice, of which I have already spoken, and especially by the fear of public opinion, not only in Russia, but in all Europe. He seemed ashamed of the despotism he practised, and strove to conceal it from the governments and people of the West. In proportion as he affected to despise their arms, so much the more did he respect their ideas.

We know that it is customary at the court of St. Petersburg to be presented to the emperor in full uniform. And even more, that there is no condition in life, however trifling, which has not its distinctive costume. It is related that one morning Lord ——, ambassador from England, arrived in his carriage at the gate of the Winter Palace, was recognized, and went up to the apartments of the emperor. He was in his great-coat. Seeing it, the chamberlain-in-waiting, who did not dare remark this infringement of the laws of etiquette in such an important person, immediately sent word to the chancellor of the empire. Count Nesselrode, and meanwhile retained the ambassador under various pretexts. The count arrived in haste, and the morning toilet seemed to have the same effect on the chancellor as on the chamberlain.

"I am delighted to see you, my dear count," said Lord —— to M. de Nesselrode. "I wanted to speak to his majesty on some very important business, but I have been detained here nearly an hour."

"Because we do not dare, my lord—"

"Do not dare—what?"

"We cannot introduce you to the emperor in such morning négligé."

"Négligé!" said he, throwing a rapid glance at his person, and aware of his reputation for elegance, and supposing he had been guilty of some impropriety in his toilet.

"In Russia, no one is admitted in similar costume to the presence of the sovereign."

"Would full uniform be necessary?" asked smilingly the reassured ambassador.

"Exactly, my lord."

"Oh! pardon me, then. I will go dress myself." And he left, shrugging his shoulders.

The emperor was furious when he heard of the adventure.

"Cursed fools!" he grumbled, "they represent me a barbarian!"

When, an hour afterward, the ambassador returned to the palace in official uniform, the emperor excused himself with great anxiety, blaming the narrow-mindedness of his servants, and declaring loudly that he did not occupy his brain with such trifles.

"When you wish, my lord," added he, giving him his hand, "to come and see me as you did to-day, do not be incommoded, I beg of you, by any such formula."

This fear of Western irony affected all his relations with Europeans. We know the flattering reception he gave the Marquis de Custine, Horace Vernet, and twenty other illustrious strangers. Those employed in his empire were as anxious to throw dust in the eyes of travellers as himself. Nothing could be more amusing than the arrival of a stranger at St. Petersburg, under the reign of Nicholas. As no one could remain in the city without a permit, all new-comers hastened to the police to have their cards presented them, and the scenes enacted were truly comical.

The following dialogue will give a good idea of them:

"You wish to live at St. Petersburg?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long?"

Each one then fixed the probable duration of his stay.

"Well, your permit will be given you."

Here a pause. The policeman gives the necessary order, then resumes the conversation.

"Well, what do you think of St. Petersburg?"

"It is an admirable city."

"Are not our theatres as fine as those of Paris?"

"Most assuredly."

"Is not the perspective from Newski a superb view?"

"Truly."

"Do they not tell idle stories of us in Paris, and are they any freer than we?"

"Prejudices these, nothing more. Travellers, like me, are here to rectify such errors. A proof that Russia is free, I can move about with perfect liberty."

"Have you seen the emperor?"

"Yesterday evening at the Théâtre Michel."

"Is he not a remarkably handsome man?"

"The handsomest I have ever seen."

"Sir, your permit must be ready by this time. Will you go and receive it, and prolong your stay in Russia as long as you please. You will see that you have judged our country correctly."

Notwithstanding all his efforts to conciliate European opinion, the Emperor Nicholas was not rewarded in his travels by any praise whatever. Once out of his own country, he quickly discovered he had deceived no one, and his despotism was in Europe the object of universal unpopularity.

From the Holy Father he received his first lesson: a lesson, however, both given and received with dignity.

It was well known that he had changed hundreds of Catholic into Greek churches, in all the western provinces of Russia and Poland.

Curious to visit Rome, he asked permission of Gregory XVI. to enter the holy city. The pope asked, in return, by what ceremonial he wished to be received.

"As a Catholic sovereign," replied the emperor.

Lodged at the Quirinal, he went the next day in Eastern style with a guard of Cossacks to visit the holy father, who received him standing at the head of the staircase of the Vatican. Nicholas knelt to receive the benediction of the venerable pontiff, who, after having given it to him, without being at all impressed with his Attila-like costume, said to him with a serenity almost angelic:

"My son, you persecute my sheep."

"I?" cried Nicholas in a disconcerted tone.

"Yes, you, my son. You are powerful. Do not use your strength to oppress the weak."

"Holy father, I have been slandered."

The conversation continued some time in the cabinet of the pope, and the emperor remained, during his stay in Rome, on terms of the most affectionate respect with Gregory XVI. He afterward sent him a magnificent altar of malachite, that may be admired at the church of St. Paul, outside the walls. An inscription, dictated by Nicholas to St. Peter at Rome, recalls his visit to the Capital of Christianity:—"Nicholas came here to pray to God for his mother, Russia."

In London, as is well known, he was received with great popular demonstrations. We need not relate here the tumultuous scenes to which he had to submit, and how his carriage was more than once covered with mud.

With a brutality unworthy a sovereign, and at times a delicacy astonishing in a man of such a character, the most contrary qualities and defects reproduced themselves in a hundred acts of his life. For instance, one night I saw him fisticuff a poor Jew in the face, and accompany the act with the most sonorous oaths, because in giving light to the postilions of the Berlin imperial, he had awakened him with a start, by throwing the light of his lantern into his face. Again, at Warsaw, where he went to receive the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria, he took Francis Joseph into his arms to force him to occupy the seat of honor in his carriage, which the young emperor was unwilling to accept: a courtesy, according to the Cossack, that would have exactly suited him.

Yet this man, so rude and so haughty, evidenced occasionally great delicacy of sentiment. One very cold day, returning from a review, where he had been almost frozen, he stopped at the house of a lady, whom he knew to be in ill health, and met the doctor in the waiting-room.

"How is Madame ——?" said he to the latter.

"Very poorly, sire. The cold of St. Petersburg is killing her."

"Ah! the cold is injuring her? Feel my hands. They are frozen, are they not?"

"Very cold, sire."

"Well, I will wait here until they are warm; I would not for the world increase her malady."

And the emperor waited in this sort of an antechamber, talking to the doctor, until his hands resumed their natural warmth.

So this character, which, at first sight, appeared all of a piece, was composed of contrasts the most dissonant. Nicholas bared his breast to the revolted regiments in 1826 and recalled them to duty by this single attitude; at the time of the cholera, alone amid a populace mad with terror and exasperated by famine, a gesture from him, a single word, could constrain the delirious multitude and throw them on their knees before him; in cases of fire, so frequent at St. Petersburg, and under the burning beams, a hundred times he uselessly risked his life; yet on another occasion, when the safety of an empire depended upon him, he resolutely refused to repair to Sebastopol.

His long reign was fatal to Russia. For nearly thirty years it accomplished nothing. During the lifetime of Nicholas, the wheel-work of the machine moved regularly under his powerful hand, the cogs upon which he impressed the movement never being completely paralyzed. But the evil, being hidden, was not the less deep or real. Under this show of factitious strength, the downfall was already visible, and the approaching disaster keenly felt. The army, upon which Nicholas concentrated all his attention and intelligence—the army, his strength, his hope, his pride, began to be disorganized under the influence of an administration without control. Alone, the will of the czar sustained the edifice, and his pride sustained his will. And this word pride embodies to my mind the character, the conduct, the whole politics, of the Emperor Nicholas. His ruling passion was pride, a pride incommensurable, a pride such as neither Louis XIV., Henry VIII., nor Solyman the Magnificent—these three crowned representatives of capital sins—could ever equal. The idea of humiliation would leave him smiling, so entirely he believed such an event impossible. It may be truly said that he never submitted, for the first repulse he had to suffer killed him.

This pride in him passed all bounds, and touched sometimes on the aberrations of a Schahabaham. One day, one of his aides-de-camp came to him very much excited, and throwing himself at his feet:

"Sire!" cried he, "I beg your majesty to grant me a favor."

"Speak."

"Permit me to fight a duel."

"Never!" replied the emperor.

Nicholas had a horror of duels. In his eyes, all blood was criminally shed in Russia that was not for the country or in his service, and he punished the guilty in this respect most severely.

"Sire, I am dishonored. It is necessary for me to fight."

"What do you say?"

"I have been struck in the face."

"Ah!" said the emperor, contracting his brows. "But no, I cannot permit a duel. You must come with me."

And taking him by the arm, he conducted him before the assembled court, and, in presence of all, kissed him on the offended cheek.

"Go, now," said he, "and resume your tranquillity; the affront is washed out."

During the war of the Crimea, and especially in the first part of it, Nicholas, very restless, waited every day for news from the south. Each one tried his best to conceal the bad turn affairs had taken; but after the battle of the Alma, the truth had to be confessed. A courier, Colonel A., was despatched to him in great haste. He received orders to repair immediately to the czar.

"Well! what news?" said the emperor to him brusquely, giving him scarcely time to enter or fulfil the accustomed formalities of etiquette.

"The battle has been fought, sire."

"Finish!" said the emperor, with an emotion that caused his usually firm voice to tremble.

"Alas!—"

"You say—?"

"Fortune has failed us."

"We are—?"

"We are beaten, sire."

The emperor arose from his seat.

"It is impossible," said he in a quick manner.

"The Russian army has taken flight."

"You lie!" cried Nicholas with a frightful explosion of anger.

"Sire—"

"You lie. My soldiers never fly."

"Sire, I have told you the truth."

"You lie, I say, you lie."

And his eye beaming with anger, his lips contracted, his hand raised, he threw himself on the military courier and tore off his epaulettes.

"Go! You are now only a soldier."

The unhappy colonel, pale with shame, smothering his rage and the tears that rose to his eyes, went out, his soul in despair. But hardly had he reached the staircase, when he heard the voice of the emperor begging his return. He retraced his steps, and Nicholas, running to meet him, embraced him ardently, begged pardon for his brutality, and offered for his acceptance the post of aide-de-camp.

"May your majesty hold me excused," replied the poor officer; "for, in taking off" my epaulettes, you have deprived me of my honor. I leave them in your hands with my dismissal."

"You are right," replied Nicholas. "It is not in my power to repair the offence of my hasty action. Ah! we are both unhappy, and I am vanquished. Yes, completely vanquished!"

And, walking up and down with an agitated step, the subdued lion in his cage, his heart bleeding with the wound given his pride:

"Go, leave my empire," continued he, turning to Colonel A——, "and pardon me. We must not meet again. Both of us would suffer too much in each other's presence."

The mortification attending the first reverses of his army before Sebastopol was a mortal blow to his health; yet, had not his stubborn pride brought about these reverses? Self-deceived thoroughly as to the real condition of his empire, the disastrous news of the Alma came upon him like a thunder-bolt. Some honest men, sent to the different stations, signalized the imperfect state of the fortifications of Sebastopol, the disorganization of the army, the deplorable condition of the roads. They informed the emperor that the soldiers, in their march toward the south, were dying by thousands for want of sufficient nourishment and necessary clothing. Thanks to the bad quality of the grass and hay, whole regiments were in a few days entirely dismounted. And now the alarming news spread with rapidity. Each day brought fresh tidings of new embarrassments, new checks, and new misfortunes. Nicholas at last opened his eyes. He saw the colossus, with its feet of clay, tremble to its base; he felt his power crumble in his hands, his prestige fade and disappear. From the windows of Peterhoff, his loved summer residence, he could follow with his telescope the evolutions of the allied fleet. Turkey itself, hitherto so despicable in his eyes, was transformed into a redoubtable enemy. Now he began to think of the ravages that continued theft had made in his empire, the disorders in the finances, the corruption of public morals, and every one was doomed to punishments. By his order, judgments, condemnations, banishment to Caucasia and Siberia, were daily multiplied. It was too late; the gangrene had reached the wound.

Tears of grief and rage flowed with the consciousness of his impotence. He opened his eyes to the fall of Russia with each victorious flash of the allied cannons; and the edifice of terror that had taken him twenty years to build, he saw crumbling, stone by stone, and felt that the military quackery with which he had intimidated Europe had frightened no one. With the mocking pride of Titan, he bled at every pore. Repeated blows of this kind ended by undermining his constitution, till now so vigorous. Little by little he sank, bent his haughty head, and tottered, with slow and saddened step, to the grave.

It was February. Under a gray and cold sky, a penetrating, driving snow enveloped St. Petersburg in a whitened dust. The streets, the houses, the beards and furred great-coats of the passers-by, all were white. The great city resembled a giant asleep under the snow. An inexpressible sadness took possession of you, weighed down your whole being, and froze your very heart. You seemed to be at the pole itself.

On this day the emperor, an early riser as usual, came out of his bedroom and entered his cabinet, where were already assembled his general aide-de-camp, his other aides, the chamberlain, and gentlemen of the bed-chamber. Perceiving his general aide-de-camp, he called to him, and said:

"I am suffering. Send for Mandt."

"I will go myself, sire."

"Yes. I have a grand review at the end of the week, and must be there."

Mandt, his attendant physician, Prussian by birth, a man of science, and an excellent practitioner, hastened to the emperor, who, after having given his orders, had returned to his apartments.

"It will be nothing, gentlemen," said the doctor to us on leaving the imperial chamber; "only the emperor should abstain from going out, as the least imprudence may aggravate a malady which at present portends nothing serious."

The emperor remained two days in his room, and there was a sensible improvement in his condition. But his wasted figure, his dull eyes, and waxy color betrayed the existence of a hidden malady. The third day, the courier from the south brought him news—sad news, certainly, for it had been a long time since his couriers had anything happy to tell him. The next day was terribly cold, icy, heavy, impregnated with the boreal fog; yet this was the day of the review at which the czar wished to assist.

He threw a small military cloak over his uniform, and at the appointed hour left his cabinet, to mount his horse.

Mandt was waiting for him in the antechamber.

"Sire!" said the doctor to him in a supplicating voice, and trying to retain him.

"Oh! it is you, doctor. I am better, thank you."

"Yes, sire, better, but not well yet."

"Oh! indisposed merely,"

"No, sire, a serious malady. I come to beg your majesty not to go out."

"Impossible!"

"Sire, for pity's sake—"

"You are crazy, Mandt."

"Sire, you had better be resigned."

"You believe there is danger?"

"It is my duty to warn you of it."

"Well, Mandt, if you have done your duty in warning me, I will do mine by going out."

And the emperor, without listening to another word, pursued his way.

Mandt, stupefied for a moment, ran after him, and rejoined him in the court-yard, at the moment he mounted his horse.

"Sire," cried he, resuming his supplications, "deign to listen to me—"

"I have said it, Mandt. I thank you, but to insist would be useless."

"Sire, in this condition!"

"Well?"

"It is your death, sire."

"And then?"

"It is suicide."

"And who has permitted you, Mandt, to scrutinize my thoughts? Go, and insist no longer. I order you."

After the review, he returned to the palace, pale, trembling, icy cold.

"I am threatened with my malady," said he to his aide-de-camp.

"Shall I send for Mandt?"

"Useless; he has already warned me."

"He warned your majesty?"

"Yes; that I would kill myself."

The aide-de-camp turned pale.

"Ah sire! what do I hear?"

"To die, is it not the best thing I can do? Farewell, my old friend, I have need of rest. Let no one disturb me."

All night the imperial family, who had been apprised of his condition, the doctors, Mandt and Rasel, united in the anteroom, waited with anxiety—not daring to knock at the door of the emperor—for the moment he might call to them. Obedience, in this court, was so blindly servile that it imposed silence on the most natural and imperious sentiments. Toward two o'clock something was heard between a groan and a sigh. Mandt thought he might knock gently at the door of the imperial chamber.

"I have forbidden any one to disturb me," murmured the emperor, in a voice still feeble, but which retained an accent of authority.

That night was spent in mortal inquietude, in inexpressible anguish, and not until the next morning was the doctor informed by the valet de chambre that his august patient would like to see him.

"Well, Mandt, you were right. I believe I am a dead man."

These were the first words of Nicholas.

"O sire! I spoke as I did to dissuade your majesty from so great an imprudence."

"Let us see: look me in the face and tell me if there is yet hope."

"I believe so, sire."

"I tell you I am a dead man. I feel it. Go on, make use of your trade. Sound my lungs; I know that science will confirm my conviction."

Mandt, having accomplished the orders of the emperor, shook his head.

"Well?"

"Sire—"

"You are troubled, Mandt; your hand trembles. See, I have more courage than you. Come, let us have the sentence, and quickly, for I have to settle my affairs in this world, and I have a great many of them."

"Your majesty troubles yourself unnecessarily. No case is ever desperate, and with the grace of God—"

Nicholas gazed at his doctor fixedly in the eyes.

The latter looked down confusedly.

"You know, Mandt, I cannot be deceived easily. Let us have the truth now, and only the truth. Do you think that Nicholas does not know how to die?"

"Sire—"

"Well?"

"In forty-eight hours you will be dead or saved."

"Thank you, Mandt," said Nicholas in a voice of deep emotion. "Now good-by, and send me my family."

The doctor prepared to leave the room.

"Mandt!" called Nicholas, on seeing him direct his steps toward the door.

"Sire."

"Let us embrace each other, my good old friend. We will perhaps never meet again on earth. You have been an honest and faithful servant. I will recommend you to my son."

"What do you say, sire? Never see you again! I sincerely hope the contrary, and that my attentions—"

"Your attentions will be superfluous. There will be time for me only to see my ministers and my priest, and make my peace with God. Human science can do no more for me, and, indeed, I do not wish to try it."

"And now at the close, sire, I revolt," cried the doctor. "I have no right, and my duty forbids my thus abandoning you."

"Mandt, do you answer for my cure?"

The doctor hung his head, and could not reply.

"Farewell, then, my friend."

"Sire, if not, then, as your physician, permit me as a devoted servant to see you again. Who can tell? God is great! and for the destiny of the Russia which he protects, may work a miracle."

"And because I know that God protects Russia, so neither do I wish nor hope for my restoration to health. Mandt, let my family come now. I assure you the time will soon fail me."

Mandt wept. With tears in his eyes, he went out and related to the courtiers his conversation with the emperor. Strange contradiction! This man, whom I have tried to depict as so severe and haughty, was adored by all who approached him. Courtiers, soldiers, servants, burst into tears. Lost in the crowd with them, I mingled my complaints and prayers.

Then, after the empress and the grand hereditary duke, the imperial family, all in tears, entered the apartment of the emperor. The door closed upon them, and all that passed there, all that was said in this supreme grief, only God knew. Mandt, however, with a voice choked with emotion, continued his recital, and we listened to him with the keenest attention. How and by what indiscretion the news he had just given us was spread in the city, I cannot tell; but already, before the death of the czar, it was believed at St. Petersburg that Mandt had helped to poison him. From this to the pretended act itself there was but one step toward belief, and this was soon overcome; so the exasperation, true or false, against the honest doctor, knew no bounds, and they would have torn him to pieces in the streets. The name of Nicholas still inspired such terror that every one endeavored to give some public demonstration of grief as a claim on his benevolence in the event of his returning to life. Yet after his death these manifestations changed their character, and the contrast between such marks of affection and the epithets with which they loaded his memory when they were certain he really ceased to exist, was a lesson for kings to contemplate. For the time, though, the anger of the people against the poor doctor was so blindly furious, that it is related of a thief, seized by the collar by a passerby, from whom he had tried to steal his watch, that in order to escape, he raised the cry, "Hist! hist! it's Mandt, comrades, it's Mandt!"

The interview between the emperor and his family lasted three hours, three long hours, during which expectation for us was changed into real anguish. By degrees retired, one by one, the children, the grand-children, and his brothers. The grand hereditary duke came out last, bathed in tears. An hour flew by, and not a sound was heard from the imperial chamber; no one dared enter. Mandt listened attentively, holding his breath. Suddenly a loud noise was heard in the corridors; a courier from Sebastopol arrived. As the whole court knew the impatience with which the emperor awaited the news from the Crimea, the aide-de-camp general on duty, thinking to please the emperor, knocked at his door.

"Do they still want me?" murmured the emperor; "tell them to let me rest."

"Sire, a courier from Sebastopol."

"Let him address himself to my son; this concerns me no longer."

Soon the primate, followed by the clergy, arrived to offer the last consolations of the church. Then the ministers were presented, the Count Orlof at their head. This lasted during the night. At ten o'clock, the emperor asked for the officers of his household. His face already bore the impress of death; a cadaverous paleness betrayed the progress of the decomposition that preceded the fatal moment; lying on his camp-bed, he addressed us some farewell words, which the first strokes of death-rattle interrupted, and took leave of us with a waive of his hand. None of us slept that night in the Winter Palace, none of us after that hour ever saw the emperor alive.

The next day, the 18th of February, at mid-day, the grand chamberlain of the palace was sent for by the physicians to the imperial bed. At half-past twelve o'clock, returning among us, "Nicholas Paulowitch is dead," said he.

We went out silent and sad.

The next day, on the walls of St. Petersburg could be read this inscription: "Russia, grateful to the Emperor Nicholas I. for the 18th of February, 1855."

---

Translated From The French
Of The Pere Landriot—
Addressed To Women Of The World.

Household Duties.

"She giveth meat to her household,
and a portion to her maidens."

We finished the question, vulgar perhaps in one sense, yet so important in many others, of sleep: [Footnote 211] a benefit of divine Providence accorded us each day to repair our strength, renew our life, and provide for the weakness and precipitation of man; a time for repose and sage counsel.

[Footnote 211: See "Early Rising" in The Catholic World for September, 1867.]

Sleep is a precious dictate, a solitary bath for body and soul, and a prudent counsellor and daily preacher to remind us of our approaching and last departure. But like all good things, sleep is subject to abuse, and then it produces effects entirely contrary to the will of the Creator: weakening, stupefying, and dulling the faculties, it becomes for humanity a living sepulchre. If the abuse of sleep coincides with the quality, that is to say, if the hours by nature destined to it are considerably changed—night turned into day, and day into night—the constitution is assuredly ruined, and an infirm old age prepared, a never-ceasing convalescence. Parties and midnight revels have killed more women than the most exaggerated mortifications and if religion commanded the sacrifice the world requires of its votaries, the recriminations against it would be unending. In a hygienic light, physical as well as moral, it is better to retire and rise early. Everything gains by it—health, business, and the facility and excellence of prayer. But we must not dissimulate; and the struggle with the pillow is, in its very sweetness, one of the most violent that can exercise man's courage; and to break these chains of bed, it is necessary to exercise an almost superhuman energy. The enemy is deceitful, dangerous in his caresses, and generally ends in persuading us; we think he is right; and, after all, it is a cruelty to martyrize ourselves. I have not wished, ladies, to conceal the difficulties; but I have pleaded my cause, which is also yours. To your wisdom and reason I submit it, and I trust to succeed at such a tribunal. If you wish to appeal, and present the cause before the tribunal of Idleness, listening to its numerous lawyers, in advance I may tell you the first judgment will be suspended. Well, I will consent to lose, but on one condition—that you will insert this explanation in the judgment: that the case was gained before Judge Reason; but that, in the supreme court of Indolence, Idleness, surrounded by his lawyers, revoked the decision.

Now for the end of our text: "The strong woman giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens."

Formerly, ladies, when families and societies were truly Christian, the domestics, according to the etymology of the word, were really a part of the house; for domestic comes from the Latin word domus, which signifies house. In those days, a family formed a body; the father and mother were head, and the domestics themselves had their place in the organization of the family; they were only subordinate members, but they were a part of the body. Therefore, they always lived in the house, passed their lives there; and when they were no longer able to work, they were cared for with paternal and filial affection; and when the hour of death came to them by length of time, they had fallen into decay as a branch dying on its trunk. The relations of benevolence and Christian charity united masters to servants; and while the latter accepted the place of inferiority, they felt themselves loved, and loving in return, a tie was formed stronger than massive gold—the tie of love. Saint Augustine speaks to us with much feeling of the nurse who cared for his mother's infancy, and who had even carried on her back the father of St. Monica, as young girls then carried little children: "Sicut dorso grandiuscularum puellarum parvuli portari solent." [Footnote 212]

[Footnote 212: Confessions, i. 9, c 8.]

"This remembrance," continued St. Augustine, "her old age, the excellence of her manners, assured her in a Christian house the veneration of her masters, who had committed to her the care of their daughters; her zeal responded to their confidence; and while she exercised a saintly firmness to correct them—to instruct, she was always guided by an admirable prudence."

Nowadays, ladies, things have changed. Such examples are rare; but without doubt, there are still honorable exceptions—servants who love their masters, and who make part of the family as true children of the house, serving with ease and gentleness, because they are guided principally by affection, and bearing the faults of their masters, who, in return, are patient with them, until household affairs glide on with a smoothness which, though sometimes very imperfect, is, after all, a small evil. Yes, we do still find Christian families where domesticity is thus understood; but alas! they become rarer every day! In our time, owing to a spirit of pride, independence and irreligion are spreading everywhere; good servants are hard to find, and perhaps also good masters; and as two fireplaces placed opposite each other are mutually overheated, so the bad qualities of the domestics increase those of the masters, and vice versâ. Servants have exaggerated pretensions; they will not bear the least reproof; everything wounds them; and on the other side, masters do not command in a Christian spirit. Thus, everywhere is heard a general concert of complaint and recrimination; masters accuse their servants, servants do as little as possible for their masters; and certain houses become like omnibuses, where the servants enter only to get out again at their convenience.

I have told you, ladies, that, if I had to preach to your husbands, I could add a kind of counterpart, not adverse to your interests, but to complete my instructions; but, addressing myself to you, my words must be limited to your duties. I would add here, also, that, if I had to preach to your servants, I would be obliged to give them advice very useful for your household organization; but they are absent; my instruction is to you; so I must leave in shadow all their shortcomings.

It appears to me your duties to them will be well accomplished if you enter into the spirit of this text: "She riseth while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens." Look at the sun; it rises on the horizon, and, in shedding its beams, seems to distribute work to every creature, and, by way of recompense, prepares their nourishment in advance. Is it not he who, while lighting the world, invites the artisan to his shop, the laborer to his field, and the pilot to leave his port? Is it not he who prepares the germs in the bosom of the earth—who warms them, and conducts them to that point of maturity that the statesman waits for as impatiently as the laborer? "Woman," says the Scripture, "should be the sun of her household." She should lighten and warm like the planet of the day. Her rays are emitted in indicating to each one his duties, in distributing the work in wise and suitable proportions, and, when all is justly ordered, superintending its execution. Then everything goes on admirably, because brightened by the spirit of regularity that guides the mistress of the house. Her glance, given to all around her, projects the light; and this light is the strongest and most insinuating of counsellors, as well as a gracious but severe monitor. A woman who presides well over her household need talk but little; her presence speaks for her, and the simple conviction that she has her eyes everywhere, and that the least detail is not unknown to her, prevents any irregularity. But see, on the contrary, a house where the mistress rises late, and sleeps morally the rest of the day. Everything is left to chance; disorder introduces itself everywhere, in heads as in business; a general pell-mell of ideas and objects—a confusion which recalls the primitive chaos. Madam sleeps late, the servants rise only a little earlier; during the day, madam dreams, occupies herself with her toilet, in matinees, and visits, and the house, given up to itself, becomes what it may. The children are almost abandoned, and work accumulates in the most delightful disorder.

Woman, the sun of her house, should not be satisfied to illuminate it; she should warm it also, and with her heart.

You ought, ladies, to watch your servants, demand an account of their proceedings in-doors and out, watch over them particularly in their connection with your children; for too often the heart and mind are lost by servants, and, were it permitted to reveal all the human heart can tell us in this respect, you would be seriously alarmed.

About twenty years ago, I had charge of a seminary. One day I received a visit from a very indignant father, who told me with bitterness that his child had been corrupted in our establishment. I knew to the contrary; but I had no defence to offer, so in silence I bore an unmerited reproach. Some time afterward I had permission to speak, when I was able to prove to him that it was in his own house that his child was lost, by keeping company with a servant.

Watch, then, your children, ladies, by watching your servants. Watch their going out and coming in, their bearing and their company; watch their words and actions. But, I beg of you, watch with kindness, for the light of your supervision should be warm with Christian affection. Love your servants, and always remember that they are human—the image of God, and that they have been bought by the blood of Jesus Christ. As much as possible, speak to them with kindness, and, if an occasional impatience escapes you, endeavor to repair it by sincere benevolence. That your watchfulness may not engender suspicion and restlessness, do not appear a spy on their actions. We often make people good by believing them so, and bad by accusing them of qualities they do not possess; or, at least, we freeze their hearts, and permanently harden them. Avoid everything which appears like ill-humor, meanness, or caprice. To-day madam is in a good humor, and all goes well; the servants may be as merry, and make as many mistakes as they please; nobody notices them. To-morrow the moon reddens in its first quarter: woe to the inhabitants of the house! woe to the servants! Madam's coffee is cold, yet it bears its ordinary temperature; the soup is too salty, yet the usual quantity was put into it. The room is full of smoke, it was the servant's fault, and yet the poor creature made neither the wind nor the chimney. A racket in the kitchen; madam's voice is heard from the cellar to the garret— from the court-yard to the neighboring houses. Nothing renders authority more ridiculous than such conduct. The servants are tired out; they lose every sentiment of affection and confidence, because they see no regard is shown them; that they are considered inferior beings, entitled to no respect; and that, even on days when caprice is not predominant, they only encounter airs of silent pride and haughtiness.

Without doubt, ladies, there is a just medium to be preserved. Many servants are unreasonable, and take advantage of favors accorded them; are exacting and indiscreet; they require masters without faults, and are completely blinded to their own. "Treat them as friends," said an ancient philosopher, "and they lack submission; keep them at a distance, and they resent your conduct and hate you." [Footnote 213]

[Footnote 213: Confucius, Entr. Philos. c. 17.]

The middle course of wisdom is therefore hard to find; but it is so in all worldly affairs, yet it is necessary to resolve it. The heart of a Christian woman appears to me best adapted for this work of conciliation; she can preserve her authority by demonstrating a wise firmness, recalling the words of Fenelon: "The less reason you find in men, the more fear requisite to restrain them." [Footnote 214] The strong woman must be able to cope with such difficult minds, often so pretentious and ridiculous in their exactions, and put them in their place when wisdom and occasion demand it. But, in her ordinary conduct, let her remember that she commands her brethren, for whom our Lord died; that love and gentleness are the best, the most Christian roads to persuasion, and that severity should always be reserved for circumstances where reason and charity fail.

[Footnote 214: De l'Education des Filles, c. 12.]

Fenelon says again that, in certain houses, "servants are considered no better than horses—of natures like theirs—human beasts of burden for their masters." [Footnote 215] Nothing can be more opposed to sentiments of faith and reason; servants are brothers, to be loved and treated as such; they owe you their service and fidelity, and if they fail, recall them to duty prudently, with a charitable compassion and firmness that does not exclude affection. A single word will often dispel a cloud and dissipate increasing shadows, and give you, in return, the deep and solid friendship of your servants. Is this not far better than forced relations, coldness and constraint that freeze the heart and poison innumerable lives? The fable itself teaches us a lesson in telling us that the friendship of the ant is not to be despised.

[Footnote 215: Ibid.]

"The strong woman giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens." The spirit of God neglects no detail, because in life everything is important. Let your servants work; nothing is better for them; but do not traffic with either their food or duties. Treat them a little like the children of the house; you will not only interest your charity, but your service will gain by it. Do not calculate with an avaricious hand what may do them good and alleviate their lot. You will gain on one side what you lose on the other; and besides, is not the true affection of a devoted heart worth more than a piece of gold? It is not only food and material comforts you must assure your servants. How I love to see the Christian woman enlarge her maternal heart and reserve in it not only a place for her children, but for all the people of her household! Yes, she must have a mother's affection for all, and let the least one understand that he has part in the warmth of her soul and the fireside of her heart. Thus she realizes the comparison that I always love to repeat, because she is truly great in her splendor and simplicity, and, in proportion as she is examined, new aspects are discovered; then the strong woman is the sun of her household: sicut sol oriens.

The planet of day sheds its light on the clouds, the high mountains, and the gilded palaces, but he never omits the little valley flower or the blade of grass that claims his warmth. He does not give it so abundantly as to the oaks of the mountain, but it is always the same light, and suffices for their life and happiness. Thus the strong woman pours her intimate affections on her family and her true friends, but her soul has still a reserve for her servants. She gives them less than her husband and children, but it is all from the same source, and bears with it for them the same unction.

After such a distribution of work, of care and affection, do not expect to find no faults in your servants. To these servants, I would say: Bear with the faults of your masters and mistresses; the best of them are imperfect, and for you the true way to modify their defects is to reply only by patience and an immovable docility; sweetness and patience do much more than anger and violent recrimination, as various elastic substances are, we know, among the best agents to arrest the impetuous movement of the cannon-ball. To you, ladies, I say: Bear with the faults of your servants, as they are never wanting. With two such sureties, with the certainty of patience on the part of the servants, and in return on that of the masters, you will be sure to pacifically organize the interior of your households. If the tether of patience is short at one end, you can stretch it at the other; and such is the admirable teaching of Christianity, wherever the relations of mankind exist, it establishes reciprocal duties on so firm and solid a foundation that, if one is lacking, the other becomes more strong to resist it. Thus it preaches to the husband love and respect; to the wife, love, respect, and submission; to masters, benevolence; to servants, deference and patience; but in such a way that, if the first are faithless to their duties, the fidelity of the second will more than repair the defect. Nature evidently holds another language; if our neighbor fails in his obligations, we believe ourselves freed from ours, and this spirit of free exchange in point of bad proceedings is not, perhaps, one of the least causes of our perturbations in the family and society.

"There are some faults," says Fenelon, "that enter into the marrow of the bones." "Then," said the Archbishop of Cambrai, "if you wish to correct such in your servant, he is not wrong to resist correction, but you are foolish to undertake it." [Footnote 216]

[Footnote 216: Lettres Spirituelles, 193, t. 1. p. 554, éd. Didiot.]

You have a horse that is one-eyed, you would wish him to see clearly with both eyes; it is you who are entirely blind. Alas ladies! in this world we are all slightly one-eyed, therefore we must bear with each other.

You have a servant who does not always display the judgment you require of him; tell me, why do you employ him in any delicate business? He has made a blunder, but were you not the first cause of it? You have another who never sees more than a few steps before him; you cannot expect better of him, he is short-sighted. You are angry because he cannot see leagues off; you are the unreasonable one. Another one is lame, and him you would have walk straight; do you not see that you exact the impossible? I tell you, ladies, that poor human nature is full of weaknesses, and having once perceived certain infirmities in your neighbor, keep them in remembrance, and don't demand a reform in what cannot be corrected. "Bear ye one another's burdens," said Saint Paul; it is the rule of true wisdom, of peace and domestic happiness: "Alter alterius onera portate." [Footnote 217]

[Footnote 217: Galat. vi. 2.]

But, you say, he is thick-headed, I cannot put up with him. Alas! thick heads we meet with everywhere. Have you not yourselves sometimes the same complaint? Besides, don't be so hard to please in servants; you may end by finding none at all. You have one who pouts, another who is violent; you may have one impertinent, another pettish; choose between them. The best course, believe me, is to put up with the evil, provided it is bearable. This world and all it contains is only one grand misery; accept your share of it; murmuring and changing those who surround you will do no good.

Well and good, I hear you say. You have just spoken of those who keep many servants; I am more modest; a nurse, or at most a cook, constitutes my household. In this case, if you will permit me, I will find you an establishment where the retainers are numerous and very difficult to govern. The fathers of the church teach us that the human soul, in its organization, is a house complete in itself. We find in it intelligence, the soul properly called, the imagination, and the senses. Intelligence is the husband, the soul the wife; and imagination, with its numerous caprices, represents an establishment of troublesome servants; while the five senses may portray five grooms at the carriage-ways opening into the street. To listen to such a world as this, and make it agree, is no easy matter. Intelligence wishes one thing, the soul another; the husband and wife are just ready to quarrel. Then imagination comes in with its thousand phantoms, its fantastical noises, its clatter by night and by day: can you not believe your household in good condition to exercise your patience? Then the porters of this castle, the eyes, the ears, without considering the nerves—a sort of busy battalion which makes more noise than all the rest. What an interior! what confusion! what a tower of Babel! Ladies, I will repeat here the words of Scripture: "Rise early to give work and a portion" to this establishment of servants; put them in order from the first dawn of day. Clear up your imagination; it needs more time and care than a disordered head of hair. See how your ideas fly hither and thither; how the mad one of this dwelling sings and grows impertinent; how she reasons, how she scolds, and how absurd she is. Intelligence would restore her reason; useless to try! time lost! She cries louder, and becomes longer and more violently nonsensical. She makes so much noise that it could be called, according to Saint Gregory, the multiplied voices of several servants, whose tongues are perfectly sharpened: "Cogitationum se clamor, velut garrula ancillarum turba, multiplicat." [Footnote 218]

[Footnote 218: Moral, i. I, c. 30, t 1. p. 546, éd, Migné.]

Here is a beautiful household to organize every morning. You complain of having no work for it. I have just found you some. Bring peace into the midst of this distraction; substitute harmony for confusion, and so adjust this harmony that it shall last undisturbed until evening, and I will give you a brevet, a certificate, as an excellent mistress of a house. Formerly, the poor human head was not subject to such distraction; and why? Because it was subject to God; and from thence all the powers of man, mind, heart, will, imagination, senses, all were submitted to the head of the house, because this head himself was obedient to God. Since the primitive revolt, all has been upset in man; and our poor nature has become like a house where all dispute, husband, wife, and servants, that is, mind, heart, imagination. There is a simple way to re-establish peace, not quite complete, but at least tolerable, for this would bring back God into the house: let God be head, the commander of all; let the thought of him preside everywhere, and soon order will be entirely restored. In the morning especially, I know nothing that can pacify us interiorly and calm all around us better than a look toward heaven, a thought of love directed on high, and bringing, in return, the peace of God. In the morning, if the head aches, rest it at the foot of the cross; if the heart suffers, place it on the heart of our Lord; if the imagination is feverish, calm it with a drop of the blood of Jesus Christ; and if the whole being is in ebullition, ask God to send it refreshment in the dew of heaven! Be faithful to these recommendations, ladies, and you may repose the length of the day under your vine and your fig-tree; that is, you will enjoy the intimate happiness that God has promised his friends, and which is one of the sweetest recompenses of virtue: "Et sedit unusquisque sub vite suâ, et ficulneâ, suâ, et non erat qui eos terreret." [Footnote 219]

[Footnote 219: I Mach. xiv. 12.]

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