On the 1st of December, 1825, a truly great misfortune fell upon Russia: the best of European sovereigns had ceased to exist. When he vanished from the political arena, only the finer side of his life came into view; the remainder was given over to oblivion. A contemporary who was at the same time a poet writes: “You see arising before you that beautiful spirit that was welcomed with such joy in 1801; you see that glorious czar to whom Russia owes the years 1813 and 1814; you see the comforter of the people after last year’s inundation; you see that gracious, benevolent man who was so amiable in personal intercourse,” and who, in the words of Speranski, will ever remain a true charmer. There was much that was ideally beautiful in his soul, he sincerely loved and desired good, and attained to it. There was indeed cause for grief, particularly in view of the uncertainty of the future that awaited Russia, which, according to the picturesque expression of a Russian writer after the death of Alexander, had, as it were, to enter a cold, uninviting passage to a long dark tunnel. This was a feeling that was shared by many contemporaries.
Independently of the grief which fell upon all Russia, for the persons who had surrounded the deceased monarch at his death a truly tragic moment had approached. Far from the capital and from all the members of the imperial family, in an isolated town (Taganrog) of the Russian empire, at two thousand versts from the centre of government the terrible question arose: Who would now be emperor, to whom was the oath of allegiance to be taken, and by whom in future would orders issue? Moreover, it was amidst the ramifications of a vast conspiracy and a universal fermentation that these questions presented themselves.
“The sphinx, undivined even to the grave,” as the poet justly called Alexander, had not revealed his royal will, and even in view of the inevitable end he had not considered it necessary to refer by a single word or hint to the question that was of such crucial interest to the welfare of Russia. On the contrary, during the last days of his life Alexander had as though consciously set aside all earthly matters and died like a private individual who has closed his accounts with the world. Therefore it is not surprising that he failed to indicate the successor he had chosen; being satisfied with the dispositions he had previously made in secret, he seemed to think: “After my death they will open my will and testament and will learn to whom Russia belongs.”
During the life of Alexander no one knew of the existence of the act naming the grand duke Nicholas Pavlovitch heir to the throne except three state dignitaries: Count Araktcheiev, Prince A. N. Galitzin, and the archbishop of Moscow, Philaret. By a fatal concurrence of circumstances, not one of them was present at the decease of the emperor at Taganrog. Of the three persons of confidence who were with Alexander, Adjutant-general Prince Volkonski, Baron Diebitsch, and Tchernichev, not one was aware that the elder brother’s right to the succession of the throne had been transferred to the second. Adjutant-general Diebitsch afterwards said to Danilevski: “The emperor, who had confided many secrets to me, never, however, told me a word of this. Once we were together at the settlement, and he, directing the conversation to the grand duke Nicholas Pavlovitch, said, “You must support him.” I concluded from these words only that, judging from the age of the grand duke, he might be expected to outlive the emperor and the czarevitch, in which case he would naturally be their successor.”
Such were the limits of the knowledge that Diebitsch had at his disposal in Taganrog as the question of the succession. Nor did Prince Volkonski know anything about the matter. Even the empress Elizabeth Alexievna was in the same ignorance regarding the rejection of the grand duke Constantine Pavlovitch.
“When the illness of Alexander at Taganrog no longer gave any hopes of recovery,” relates Diebitsch, “Prince Volkonski advised me to ask the empress to whom, in case of the emperor’s death, I as chief of his majesty’s general staff must address myself, for my position was one of very great difficulty; I was left chief of the army at a time when instances of a conspiracy were being disclosed. I could not decide upon personally proposing such a question to the empress, fearing to distress her, besides which, although I enjoyed her favour, yet it was not to such a degree as Prince Volkonski, who was the friend of the imperial family; therefore I urgently requested him to take upon himself this explanation with the empress. He only consented under the condition that I should be present. We went together into the room where the emperor was lying unconscious, and Prince Volkonski, going up to Elizabeth Alexievna said to her that I, as chief of the staff, requested her to say to whom, in case of misfortune, I was to address myself? ‘Is the emperor then so ill that there is no hope?’ asked the empress. ‘God alone can help and save the emperor: only the tranquillity and security of Russia demand that the traditional forms should be observed,’ answered the prince Volkonski.
“‘Of course in case of an unhappy event the grand duke Constantine Pavlovitch must be referred to,’ said the empress. The words plainly proved the empress’ ignorance as to who was named heir to the throne. Prince Volkonski and I supposed that the late emperor Alexander had made a will, for he had an envelope with a paper in it always with him, which never left him. When we opened it after his death we found that it contained some written-out prayers.”
Such being the position of affairs it only remained for Adjutant-general Diebitsch to inform the czarevitch Constantine Pavlovitch in Warsaw of the melancholy event, as the person who, according to the law of succession, had become emperor of all the Russias. It was then that Diebitsch wrote a letter to the empress Marie Feodorovna in which he said in conclusion: “I humbly await the commands of our new lawful sovereign, the emperor Constantine Pavlovitch.” The act of the decease of the emperor Alexander was drawn up in Taganrog, annexed to the report of Baron Diebitsch, dated December 1st, 1825, and sent to the emperor Constantine.[b]
ALISON’S ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER I
Majestic in figure, a benevolent expression of countenance, gave Alexander I that sway over the multitude which ever belongs to physical advantages in youthful princes; while the qualities of his understanding and the feelings of his heart secured the admiration of all whose talents fitted them to judge of the affairs of nations. Misunderstood by those who formed their opinion only from the ease and occasional levity of his manner, he was early formed to great determinations, and evinced in the most trying circumstances, during the French invasion and the congress of Vienna, a solidity of judgment equalled only by the strength of his resolution. He had formed, early in life, an intimacy with the Polish prince, Czartorinski, and another attachment, of a more tender nature, to a lady of the same nation; and in consequence he considered the Poles so dear to him, that many of the best informed patriots in that country hailed his accession to the throne as the first step towards the restoration of its nationality. A disposition naturally generous and philanthropic, moulded by precepts of Laharpe, had strongly imbued his mind with liberal principles, which shone forth in full and perhaps dangerous lustre when he was called on to act as the pacificator of the world after the fall of Paris. But subsequent experience convinced him of the extreme danger of prematurely transplanting the institutions of one country into another in a different stage of civilisation; and his later years were chiefly directed to objects of practical improvement, and the preparation of his subjects, by the extension of knowledge and the firmness of government, for those privileges which, if suddenly conferred, would have involved in equal ruin his empire and himself.[g]