Here we recognize the secret of Alexander’s strength. He knew himself in the hands of God; he and his people were instruments to do his will.
Some years later he said to a friend, “The conflagration of Moscow illumined my soul.” It certainly marked a crisis in his spiritual history; but with souls the sudden illumination of a tropical sunrise is the rare exception, while light “increasing more and more unto the perfect day” is the ordinary rule. From Alexander’s earliest years it had seemed as if God was drawing his heart towards himself. While yet a little child he would rise from his bed at night, and kneel unbidden to ask forgiveness for some childish fault. Then and throughout his life his tenderness of heart was remarkable. He “never willingly hurt any living thing;” and so beautiful was the influence he exercised over his wayward brother Constantine, that a plan for having the latter brought up amongst Greeks as their future sovereign was abandoned, because it was wisely concluded that no political advantage could counterbalance the loss of Alexander’s example and companionship.
Unfortunately, the Empress Catherine had intrusted the education of her favourite grandson to freethinkers like herself, of the school of Voltaire and Diderot. He was early taught to look upon all forms of religion as antiquated superstitions, useful, perhaps, for the vulgar, but beneath the notice of the wise. His natural benevolence was not discouraged, but justice and humanity were inculcated to the utter exclusion of piety.
With such an education, and while yet a boy, he was launched upon the troubled sea of one of the most dissolute, frivolous, and vicious courts in Europe. He did not wholly escape contamination, but all the dreams of his youth were noble and lofty. To be the benefactor of his kind, to free the oppressed—such were the visions he nursed in solitude or breathed into the ear of a sympathizing friend during the long walks in which he delighted. The voice of God was never quite silent in his heart. He himself says that with regard to religion, “things were at the court of St. Petersburg very much as everywhere else—many words, but little meaning; many outward practices, but the holy essence of Christianity was hidden from our eyes. I felt the void in my soul, and a vague presentiment accompanied me everywhere. I went—I came—I sought to distract my thoughts.”
The void within of which he spoke was deepened by sorrow. During the reign of his father, who disliked and dreaded him as a rival, his position was both difficult and painful. Personally, he was submissive and patient; but he was brave in interceding for the oppressed, and in using for the good of others any measure of authority that was allowed him. After four years, the tragedy which terminated the reign of the unfortunate Paul placed the imperial crown upon the head of Alexander, but cast a shadow over his life which never wholly passed away. To his latest hour, in every period of sorrow or despondency, “the agony returned.” It was not exactly remorse, for he was guiltless; but it was poignant grief and horror. It deepened that inherited tendency to morbid gloom and depression which perhaps, even amidst the happiest surroundings, might have developed as years went by.
In one of these sorrowful moods he confessed his dejection to an intimate friend, hinting that he envied him his unfailing cheerfulness. Prince Galitzin told him in reply that he had found in the Bible the source of true comfort and happiness. The story was a remarkable one. Early in his reign Alexander nominated Galitzin “Minister of Public Worship.” “But I know nothing about religion,” objected the Prince, who, like his master, had been educated in an atmosphere of French infidelity. “That is a point in your favour,” replied the philosophic Czar. “It will secure your impartiality. You have only to hold the balance even, and do justice to every one.” But Galitzin, not quite satisfied, asked Archbishop Plato to recommend him some book which would give him a knowledge of religion. The venerable metropolitan advised him to read the Bible; which he did, at first very reluctantly, afterwards with ever deepening interest and profit.
Alexander determined to follow the example of his friend, and next day surprised the Empress Elizabeth by asking her to lend him a Bible. She gave him a French copy of the Sacred Word—De Sacy’s translation, printed at Cologne—and it became thenceforward his inseparable companion. For a long time he was haunted by sceptical doubts; but he persevered in his study, and the shadows that obscured his soul gradually and slowly passed away.
Notwithstanding the general unbelief and indifference of the higher classes, there were at that time in the Russian court a few “devout and honourable women,” who were earnestly seeking light from above. To these the Czar was an object of interest, as “not far from the kingdom of heaven.” When the French war was impending, and the burden of anxiety from which few hearts were free was known to weigh most heavily upon his, a message, which proved to be indeed from God, came to him through one of them. It was the night before he started for Vilna, and, according to his usual custom, he was spending it in transacting business, content to find what sleep he could in his open carriage while dashing at headlong speed through the country. As he was diligently arranging his papers, a lady entered his cabinet unannounced, and looking up in great surprise he recognized the wife of his Grand Marshal, the Countess Tolstoi. She apologized for her unseasonable visit, and put a paper into his hand, which she entreated him to read, saying he would find true comfort there. His unfailing courtesy led him to accept it and thank her; and she withdrew. He put the paper in his pocket, resumed his occupation, and thought no more of it until, after two days and nights of rapid travel, he changed his clothes for the first time. Upon removing his coat he found it, and saw that it was a copy of the ninety-first psalm. He lay down; but, worn out with fatigue, was unable to sleep, so he called his chaplain and requested him to read to him. Strangely enough, the portion which the priest selected was that very psalm, and the Czar was greatly impressed by the coincidence.[32] The glorious words of promise, so exactly suited to his need, were received with simple faith. From that day forward he said of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.”
His study of the Divine Word became more earnest and systematic: from this period until the end of his life he read three chapters daily, even under the most difficult circumstances, “when the cannon were thundering about his tent.” He prayed constantly, “using no form,” as he said himself, “but the words which God’s Spirit taught him, according to his needs.” And he sought to conform his conduct to the will of God, so far as he understood it.
This was not done without a struggle. His life had not been blameless, and much once dear had to be surrendered. But henceforward his court became a model of purity; and moreover his fear of God showed itself in an increase of gentleness towards man. He made great efforts to control his naturally passionate temper; and if, after this period, he was betrayed into a hasty expression, he would frankly apologize, not only to a member of his suite, but even to the humblest of his attendants.