The Czar: A Tale of the Time of the First Napoleon/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV.
ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS.
"War is mercy, glory, fame,
Fought in Freedom's holy cause,
Freedom such as man may claim
Under God's restraining laws."
Wordsworth.
BETWEEN the opening month of 1813 and that of the following year a great change swept over Europe. Men of Teutonic race, true-hearted sons of their dear Fatherland, look back upon that era with honourable pride. They talk with enthusiasm of "the war of liberation," telling gratefully beside their hearths, or by the vine-clad banks of their glorious "German Rhine," how prince and peasant armed for the fight, and flung from them the intolerable yoke of the foreign oppressor. Körner's patriotic lyrics thrilled every heart, and many another tuneful voice, then and since, has chanted the pæan of Germany's deliverance,—
"How the crowned eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain,
So was the triumph won."
But there are other heroes besides the pre-Homeric of whom it may be said,—
"They had no bard, and died."
In that memorable battle fought long ago in the valley of Elah, we are told how the men of Israel arose with a great shout, and rushing upon their Philistine oppressors, chased them with tremendous slaughter to the very gates of their own fastnesses. It was a glorious victory; but it would scarcely have been won at all if the Hebrew champion had not first slain Goliath "in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of Israel." In like manner the battle of the deliverance of Europe was really fought and won upon the frozen plains of Russia.
The early days of 1813 found the Russian hosts upon the frontiers of their own country. Within that country, through the blessing of God upon their valour and constancy, not an enemy remained except in captivity. By the first month of 1814 the still victorious armies of the Czar had reached the boundaries of France. That unhappy land seemed now about to suffer what she, or her rulers, had once and again inflicted upon others. "Woe to thee that spoilest, and thou wast not spoiled; and dealest treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously with thee! when thou shalt cease to spoil, thou shalt be spoiled; and when thou shalt make an end to deal treacherously, they shall deal treacherously with thee." So has it ever been since the world began: wrong begets wrong, cruelty engenders cruelty; "they that take the sword perish with the sword." It was the hour of retribution. Slavs and Teutons, whose homes and hearths had been made desolate by French bayonets, gazed, flushed with triumph, on the fertile plains of France, and promised themselves and their dead a terrible vengeance. "We will reward her even as she rewarded us, and the cup which she hath filled we will fill to her double," they said in their hearts. It was the voice of Nature.
But in that hour another voice was heard. "Soldiers," said Alexander to the armies of Russia, "your valour and your perseverance have brought you from the Oka to the Rhine. We are about to enter a country with which we are waging a sanguinary and obstinate war. The enemy, entering our empire, brought on us great evils, but suffered for it an awful punishment. Let us not take example by them; cruelty and ferocity cannot be pleasing in the eyes of a merciful God. Let us forget their deeds, and render them, not vengeance and hatred, but friendship, and a hand stretched out for peace. Such is the lesson taught by our holy faith. Divine lips have pronounced the command, 'Love your enemies; do good to them that hate you.' Soldiers, I trust that by your moderation in the enemy's country you will conquer as much by generosity as by arms; and, uniting the valour of the soldier against the armed with the charity of the Christian towards the unarmed, you will crown your exploits by keeping stainless your well-earned reputation of a brave and moral people." This was not the voice of Nature, but of Grace.
But these noble words, did they die upon the ears of those who heard them, leaving only an echo, faint though musical, to remind them of the existence of such things as mercy and humanity? or did they really prove strong enough to restrain the excited passions of a hundred thousand fighting men? Strange to tell, the voice of Alexander was obeyed. It was not easy to secure such obedience; it would not have been even possible, had not he whose lips uttered the command been passionately loved, as well as feared and honoured. But a touching proof how well it was secured was given years afterwards. When, through the length and breadth of Europe, the tidings flashed from lip to lip, "The Emperor of Russia is dead," the peasants of the French provinces through which he marched at the head of a victorious hostile army crowded unbidden to their churches to offer their humble prayers, useless indeed but sincere, for the repose of his soul.
Two months of hard fighting brought the Allies from the banks of the Rhine to those of the Marne, which they crossed on the 28th of March, and found themselves in the rich and fertile plain that surrounds Paris. The Chevaliers of the Imperial Guard had borne their full share in the glories and dangers of the war; for their place was near the person of a sovereign of whom it was said with truth that "the only life he ever exposed without reflection was his own." Their ranks were sorely thinned: one gallant youth had fallen by a shot from the same battery as that which killed Moreau, two at Toplitz, others at Leipzig and elsewhere. But their arms were as bright, their equipages as splendid, as when they left the banks of the Neva; and their massy silver cuirasses reflected the sunshine of France from surfaces as stainless as those which flashed upon the parade-ground of St. Petersburg.
Ivan Pojarsky was an ensign now—he had won his colours on the banks of the Elbe—and he wore besides the Order of St. George along with the Moscow medal on the breast of his crimson tunic. He had escaped without a wound; but his friend Tolstoi was looking very pale, and had his left hand in a sling. As the Chevaliers rode together towards Paris on the evening of the 29th of March, their party was joined by some noble young Prussian volunteers, their personal friends. One of these, named Schubart, was vaunting to the Russians the courage and ability of Blucher, and telling them the story of some of his exploits.
"All that is very well," said Tolstoi, with a little irritation. "Far be it from me to deny that Prince Blucher is a brave soldier and a good general. But where, I ask you, would he be now, but for his Russian auxiliaries? You know as well as I that his army contains four Russians for one Prussian. Still," he pursued, "there is all the difference in the world between your fine old hero and that Austrian trimmer and time-server, who, I verily believe, would have us all prisoners in the camp of Napoleon, if he were left to himself."
"I am not any more in love with Prince Schwartzenberg than you are," said the Prussian; while Ivan whispered to Tolstoi, with a warning glance, "Take care."
"Oh yes, I'll take care," answered Tolstoi lightly. Then, as a spasm of pain passed across his face, "What a nuisance this hand is! Lucky it is not the right one, though."
"If it had been," said Ivan, "you would have done as Diebitch did at Austerlitz—taken the sword in your left, and fought on."
"I am sorry to see you are wounded," remarked Schubart. "How was it?"
"Oh, it is nothing," returned Tolstoi. "I got the hurt three days ago, in that fight with Pacthod's corps."
"A brilliant affair. We have all heard of it," said the Prussian.
"Ay," answered Tolstoi; "those Frenchmen fought like demons."
"Like heroes, you mean," said Ivan. "Certainly the empire Napoleon has kept over the hearts of his soldiers is no less than a miracle, especially when we know how little he would care if all of them were dead to-morrow, provided he had as good to replace them. It was sixteen thousand men with guns and cavalry against six thousand without either; and yet they would not yield to us. Our guns raked their lines. Still they stood undaunted, resolved to resist to the death. The Czar sent an aide-de-camp with a flag of truce to them. They shot him dead."[1]
"Not very chivalrous that," Schubart interposed.
"No, truly. But how gallantly they fought! They would have kept their places till they were cut to pieces, man by man. And to that it must have come, but the Czar would not have it. He called on us to follow—us of the Chevalier Guard," said Ivan with a look of pride—"and dashed headlong into the midst of them, breaking up and scattering their compact square by the sheer impetus of his charge. It was a glorious mêlée—the grandest I have ever seen. Think of Pacthod giving his sword into the Czar's own hand, and not dreaming until afterwards that the gallant cavalry officer whose courage and promptitude averted a massacre was the Emperor himself!"[2]
"Ach, wunderschön!" cried Schubart. "Herr Tolstoi, I would take your wound twice over to have been in the midst of it."
"Look!" Ivan suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the scene before them. While absorbed in their eager talk, they had been ascending an eminence, from the top of which they now caught their first sight of the magnificent capital of France. The sun had just set, but its parting beams still lingered upon the gilded dome of the Hôtel des Invalides and the stately summit of the Pantheon. "Paris! Paris!" was the exclamation that broke from every lip, and resounded far and wide in lengthened cries of fierce joy and exultation. "Paris! Paris!" was shouted again and yet again, as rank after rank of that gallant army beheld the goal of all their aspirations, the end of all their toils.
After the first involuntary cry Ivan was silent. At length he said quietly to his friend Tolstoi, "When I think of that terrible September, the last but one, and of the flames of Moscow, the wonder and the gladness seem too great, too awful for words."
"Those flames are burning in many a heart now," Tolstoi answered.—"I suppose they will hardly let us in yonder without a struggle," he added in an altered tone. "What will to-morrow bring?"
- ↑ The aide-de-camp was Rapatel, a protégé of Moreau, who had attached himself to Alexander out of gratitude for his kindness to the family of his friend and patron.
- ↑ A distinguished English officer, who was present, says this was the only occasion on which he ever saw Alexander put himself personally forward; he was usually, though only too ready to share the perils of war, careful to leave its glories to his generals. But this was to save life.