Just at dawn the emperor came alone in his calèche, not even attended by a servant. The outer gates were then carefully reclosed, the mass was said, the old prelate gave him a crucifix to accompany him on his journey, the priests once more chanted their anthem, they then conducted him to the gate, and the ceremonial closed.
But the more curious feature of the scene was to follow.
Seraphim, the old prelate, invited the emperor to his cell, where, when they were alone, he said, “I know your Majesty feels a particular interest in the Schimnik.” (These are monks who live in the interior of the convents in the deepest solitude, following strictly all the austerities prescribed to their order, and are venerated as saints.) “We for some time have had a Schimnik within the walls of the Holy Lavra. Would it be the pleasure of your majesty that he should be summoned?”—“Be it so,” was the reply, and a venerable man, with an emaciated face and figure, entered. Alexander received his blessing, and the monk asked him to visit his cell. Black cloth covered the floor, the walls were painted black, a colossal crucifix occupied a considerable portion of the cell. Benches painted black were ranged around, and the only light was given by the glimmer of a lamp, which burned night and day before the pictures of saints! When the emperor entered, the monk prostrated himself before the crucifix, and said, “Let us pray.” The three then knelt and engaged in silent prayer. The emperor whispered to the bishop, “Is this his only cell? where is his bed?” The answer was, “He sleeps upon this floor, stretched before the crucifix.”—“No, sire,” said the monk, “I have the same bed with every other man; approach, and you shall see.” He then led the emperor into a small recess, screened off from the cell, where, placed upon a table, was a black coffin, half open, containing a shroud, and surrounded by tapers. “Here is my bed,” said the monk, “a bed common to man; there, sire, we shall all rest in our last long sleep.”
The emperor gazed upon the coffin, and the monk gave him an exhortation on the crimes of the people, which, he said, had been restrained by the pestilence, and the war of 1812, but when those two plagues had passed by, had grown worse than ever.
But we must abridge this pious pantomime, which seems evidently to have been got up for the occasion, and which would have been enough to dispirit any one who had left his bed at four in the morning in the chill of a Russian September.
The emperor at length left the convent, evidently dejected and depressed by this sort of theatrical anticipation of death and burial, and drove off with his eyes filled with tears.
On his journey he was unattended. He took with him but two aides-de-camp, and his physician, Sir James Wylie, a clever Scotsman, who had been thirty years in the imperial service. The journey was rapid, and without accident, but his mind was still full of omens. A comet had appeared. “It presages misfortune,” said the emperor; “but the will of Heaven be done.”
The change of air was beneficial to the empress, who reached Taganrog after a journey of three weeks; and the emperor remained with her, paying her great attention, and constantly accompanying her in her rides and drives. The season happened to be mild, and Alexander proposed to visit the Crimea, at the suggestion of Count Woronzoff, governor of the province. This excursion, with all its agreeabilities, was evidently a trying one to a frame already shaken, and a mind harassed by its own feelings. He rode a considerable part of the journey, visited Sebastopol, inspected fortifications in all quarters, received officers, dined with governors, visited places where endemics made their haunt; ate the delicious, but dangerous fruits of the country, received Muftis and Tartar princes; in short did every thing that he ought not to have done, and finally found himself ill.
He remarked to Sir James Wylie, that his stomach was disordered, and that he had had but little sleep for several nights. The physician recommended immediate medicine, but Alexander was obstinate. “I have no confidence,” said he, “in potions; my life is in the hands of Heaven; nothing can stand against its will.” But the illness continued, and the emperor began to grow lethargic, and slept much in his carriage. With a rashness which seems to be the prevalent misfortune of sovereigns, he still persisted in defying disease, and suffered himself to be driven every where, visiting all the remarkable points of the Crimea, yet growing day by day more incapable of feeling an interest in any thing. He was at length shivering under intermittent fever, and he hurried back to the empress. On being asked by Prince Volkonski, whom he had left as the manager of his household, what was the state of his health,—“Well enough,” was the answer, “except that I have got a touch of the fever of the Crimea.” The prince entreated him to take care of his health, and not to treat it as he “would have done when he was twenty years old.” On the next day his illness had assumed a determined character, and was declared to be dangerous, and a typhus.
Unfortunately, at this period, an officer of rank arrived with details of one of those conspiracies which had been notoriously on foot for some time. His tidings ought to have been concealed: but sovereigns must hear every thing, and the tidings were communicated to the emperor. He was indignant and agitated. The empress exhibited the most unwearied kindness; but all efforts were now hopeless. On the 1st of December he sank and died.