past him, waits for the keys of the town. At Vienna and Milan, at Madrid
and Berlin, he had ridden through the gates as a conqueror. Are these
Tartars ignorant of the fine old Roman custom? From afar can be heard the
noise made by Kutusoff’s soldiers, as the half-beaten army evacuates the
Eastern side of the town, while Napoleon’s men are streaming in from the
west. The advance guard of the French and the rear guard of the Russians
are almost in touch. It is a silent entry, for the town is like a city
of the dead; the houses are empty. “Still, there are plenty of houses,”
think the weary campaigners; “we shall find food, and be able to sleep at
our ease.”
The Emperor and his staff ride slowly through the streets whose silence
is so ominous. The Kremlin is their destination. Here is the ancient
fortress. The newcomers look with astonishment at its walls. All the
gates are open, but there is no one there to act as guide. The golden
and red halls are forsaken, as in the vision of a dream. The invaders
make their way into a huge room where the windows are boarded up. The
grenadiers knock the boards away with the butt ends of their muskets, and
the Emperor recognises by the canopy that he is in the coronation room of
the tsars of Muscovy; but the throne is veiled.
Peace is the only thing lacking to him in this moment of fulfilment.
Where is the peace? He has nothing but a victory. Who has cheated him
of its fruits? Only the vast, strange land; the steppe has cheated him
to-day, as the desert cheated him thirteen years ago. Why did he not
free the serfs in Lithuania, and thus win guides and new soldiers, as he
had planned to do aforetime with the liberated Arabs? What if he were to
adopt this policy now? The town is deserted, but there are peasants in
the surrounding countryside. Why not summon them, make terms with them?
We are masters here; this enigmatic realm can still offer much of what we
desire!
Night comes, but sleep is coy. “Let us do some work, then, to distract
our minds,” he says to Caulaincourt. He opens the map of Poland;
satisfies himself that it was impossible to stay there; in six weeks he
can be in St. Petersburg. The muster rolls (they are his Bible, which
he always takes with him on a journey, and perpetually cons even in
peace time) show him what forces are still at his disposal. His spirits
rise as he looks at the columns of figures. “In a few weeks I could get
together a quarter of a million men here. There are plenty of roofs to
cover them, but what about food? The city seems to be in the middle of a
desert!”
A red glare shows through the windows. Fire! Oh, well, we’re used to
that. There were several fires here and there yesterday evening. But
orderlies rush in, and generals arrive. A hundred messengers have
reported the outbreak of fires all over the city. Not accidental fires,
but prearranged, for the fire-engines have been broken or removed. Do
these lunatics mean that Holy Moscow should go up in flames? What will
the Emperor do? Ségur, who was with him in these dark hours, tells us
what happened:
“It seems as if the encircling flames have spread to the Emperor’s mind.
By turns, he leaps to his feet, sits down again, or tramps hastily
through the rooms of the palace. His abrupt movements betray his terrible
agitation. He abandons an urgent task, resumes it, abandons it once more,
that he may fling the window wide. He exclaims:
“‘What a dreadful sight! Their own work! So many palaces! How stupendous
a decision! Who could have expected anything of the kind? What men they
are! They are Scythians!’
“Suddenly we are informed that the Kremlin has been mined. Some of the
servants are panic-stricken; the guard quietly awaits orders. The Emperor
smiles incredulously, but he continues to pace convulsively to and fro,
halting at every window to watch the raging element as it seizes the
bridges and the gates, simultaneously imprisoning him and besieging
him. The air is full of smoke and flying sparks; the equinoctial gale
increases the fury of the conflagration.
“Murat and Eugene arrive hotfoot, force their way to the Emperor, and
urge him to flee. In vain! Napoleon, master in the palace of the tsars,
is steadfast. He will not yield even to devouring flame. But suddenly
comes the cry: ‘Fire in the Kremlin!’ The Emperor is to see the danger
close at hand.
“A Russian military policeman has been seized in a turret of the
arsenal. Brought before the Emperor, the man admits that he has fired
the Kremlin, acting under orders. The Emperor makes a sign of rage and
contempt. The prisoner is led out into the courtyard and is cut down by
the grenadiers. This incident decides the Emperor’s action.
“We hasten down the northern staircase, and the Emperor orders us to
guide him out of the town. But all the gates of the citadel are blocked
by the flames. At length an alley-way leading to the Moskva is discovered
between two rocks. Through this narrow passage we are able to escape from
the Kremlin. But what has been gained? How can we cross the river? The
soldiers, blinded by the sparks and deafened by the storm, do not know
where they are, and the streets are hidden amid the smoke. The only way
out of the inferno is through a winding street where the houses are on
fire.
“Heedlessly the Emperor strides along this dreadful exit, undismayed
by the crackle of the flaming beams and by the crash of the falling
roofs.... We can hardly breathe, so intense is the heat. Our guide loses
his way, and we should all have ended our lives in the flames had not
some marauders belonging to the first army corps recognised the Emperor
and found a way for him and the rest of us out of the smoking ruins.
“We meet Davoust. He has been injured on the Moskva, but has had himself
carried back among the blazing houses, hoping to find the Emperor or
perish with him. The general embraces Napoleon in a fever of delight.
The Emperor responds in friendly fashion, but with that calm which never
leaves him in the hour of danger.”
He awaits the end of the conflagration in the Petroffsky palace, a
suburban retreat. On the fourth day, he returns to the Kremlin, where
very little damage has been done. On the fifth day, his patience gives
out. For the third time, he writes to the tsar. Even now, when he is in
possession of the capital, he feels he is grasping at the air. He is so
cut off from the enemy that once more he has to make use of a Russian
prisoner (this time only a captain), in order to find a contact with the
tsar. Napoleon receives the man in the throne room. Does he sense the
heroic grotesqueness of the scene? An officer of no account, powerless,
unknown, is the representative of Holy Russia; before him, in the storied
hall of the tsars, stands the mighty Emperor of the French, the conqueror
at whose slightest nod all Europe trembles. The Emperor speaks, chaffers,
poses conditions with this man, as though the occasion were another
Tilsit and the captain the tsar.
“I am conducting a purely political war,” Napoleon reiterates. “All I
need is the fulfilment of our treaties. Had I taken London, I would not
have offered to leave it so speedily. From here, however, I intend very
soon to withdraw. If the tsar wants peace, he must let me know of his
desire.... I am setting you free, but on condition that you make your way
to St. Petersburg. The tsar will be glad to see an eyewitness of recent
happenings in Moscow. You must tell him everything.”
“I shall not be permitted to enter his presence, Sire.”
“Appeal to Court Chamberlain Tolstoy. He is an upright man. If he fails
you, get the tsar’s body servant to introduce you to his presence, or you
must approach His Majesty during one of his daily walks....” The captain
gets cold all over; it seems to him that he is being urged to commit a
crime, an attempt on the tsar’s life. He can promise nothing; stammers.
The Emperor says: “Very well. I shall write a letter to your emperor and
you must see that he gets it.” This last missive, which finds its way
from one emperor’s hands into those of the other, is the strangest of the
trio.
“My Lord Brother.... Beautiful, magical Moscow exists no more.... This
deed is loathsome, and to no purpose. Did you wish to rob me of my
means of support? They were in the cellars, to which the flames never
penetrated. How could you consign to destruction the loveliest city in
the world, a city it has taken hundreds of years to build; how could you
lay it waste for so little gain!... Out of kindness, and in the interests
of Your Majesty, I have now taken charge of the town which the Russian
army had sacrificed. At least the municipal authorities and the militia
should have been left in the city, as was the case in Vienna, on two
occasions, and in Berlin and Madrid; Milan, likewise, acted thus when
Suvaroff entered at the head of his army.... It is surely impossible that
you, with your high principles and your good heart, can have consented
to such abominations, for they are unworthy of a great ruler and a great
nation. Your people were so busy getting the fire-engines away, that they
abandoned one hundred and fifty pieces of ordnance.... I have warred
against Your Majesty without bitterness. A sign from you, before or
after the last battle, would have stayed my forward march; nay, for Your
Majesty’s sake, I should have wished to forego my entry into Moscow....
If you have preserved any of your former friendship towards me, you will
receive this letter favourably. In any case, you will be grateful to me
for informing you of the recent occurrences.”
The letter of a tutor to his pupil, angry and threatening, written from
the depths of his isolation, with intent to rouse the recipient. Thus
might an impeccable moralist write to a ne’er-do-well! The whole epistle
turns upon the two words “receive favourably”; this is the aim; on these
words are built up the writer’s hopes. Will the letter fulfil its mission?
The advance of the invader, the threatening proximity of the foe, the
burning of Moscow, have filled all hearts in St. Petersburg with despair.
The court is for peace. Can a more favourable opportunity present itself?
The enemy is becoming more embarrassed day by day. Emperor Napoleon is
eager for negotiations. The madcap grand duke Constantine is in favour
of a parley; the tsarina-mother, she who hates the upstart, who refused
her daughter to him as bride, who railed at Alexander for weeks after
the Tilsit meeting, even she advises the tsar to clasp hands once more in
friendship with the Emperor. Now is the time!
But Alexander held firm. Two men were responsible for his unwonted
steadfastness. One was a Frenchman, Bernadotte. He and the tsar had
recently met in Finland, and Bernadotte had strengthened Alexander in his
determination to persevere, had even handed back the Russian auxiliary
corps which the tsar had lent for the conquest of Norway. Bernadotte’s
hatred was so fierce, he had so inflexibly made up his mind to destroy
Napoleon, and he so greedily coveted the crown of France which the tsar
had promised him, that he would stick at nothing.
The other was a German, the best the nation had nurtured in its downfall
and in its fight for freedom. Four years had passed since Napoleon
pronounced a verdict of outlawry on Baron vom Stein. The baron spent them
far from his homeland; and had become the tsar’s trusted adviser. In
every respect he was Napoleon’s exact contrary. He was now to fight the
Emperor to a decisive issue.
This time Stein would conquer.
VI
In many lands, among the many wise and energetic men, who for seventeen
years had pitted themselves against the General, the Consul, and the
Emperor, none proved equal to the task except Talleyrand and Stein: The
former did so, because he succeeded in paralysing Napoleon’s productive
will by the genius of his malicious cunning; the latter, because, to
Napoleon’s amoral energy, he contraposed a moral energy which was
wedded to fervour. Just as Stein embodied the virtues of the Germans,
so Napoleon gathered into himself the talents of the Italian character;
and yet, since neither Teutonic virtues nor Italian talents are mutually
exclusive, but, rather, cut athwart one another, each man could
understand the opponent so far, that Stein, had he been a Frenchman
(Carnot’s blood brother), might have proved the mainstay of the Emperor.
Pride and practical good sense would have brought the two men together.
But this mutual respect could never have bridged the abyss of alienation
which must have continued, in spite of everything to hold them asunder.
For, just as Napoleon lived entirely without feeling for a fatherland;
just as he would gladly have made his career anywhere, and merely placed
the French before other peoples because he chanced to be their emperor,
so, on the other hand, Stein lived and wrought entirely for the sake of
his fatherland; and his Teutonic solidity (firmly rooted in the native
soil), the whole weight of his rich soul, remained estranged from the
agility, the swiftness, which was so essential a part of Napoleon’s
make-up, and which the Emperor utilised so adroitly. Here was a statesman
whose one thought was Germany and the Germans, who wanted unity among the
stocks speaking the same speech, even if such unity had to be achieved
against the wishes of the weakling princes. Over the way stood the man
who could only think in terms of Europe and Europeans, people whom he
wished to weld together for a fight against the self-same princes.
A baron of the empire, and therefore an independent though petty prince,
Stein was a worthy son of ancestors who for seven centuries had tilled
and ruled the same fragment of German soil. Having left the home of his
fathers for one reason only, that he might serve the nation, he regarded
with mistrust, and soon with growing contempt, the other German princes,
who were so eager to barter lands and liberties—their own and their
subjects—for the favour of the world conqueror. Napoleon, sprung from
an impoverished noble stock, a man who had in early youth been driven
forth from the ancestral vineyard, despised these lickspittle princes
as heartily as did Stein, and in secret he honoured none but the few
irreconcilables.
But whereas the contempt with which he regarded the decadence of the
European princes was mingled with amusement, Stein’s attitude towards
them was purely one of rancour. Their innate impotence, which encouraged
the self-confidence of the brilliant upstart, was a challenge to the
self-respect of Stein, the man who would fain believe in the knightly
order to which he belonged; and just as the Corsican used his own career
as an argument to strengthen his conviction that a new and splendid epoch
was in the making, the German could not fail to consider the behaviour
of his fellow-princes as melancholy evidence of the collapse of the old
order, and must perforce regard the king of Prussia with a contempt no
less hearty than the hatred he cherished for the Emperor of the French.
Thus Napoleon’s pronouncement of outlawry against Stein was symbolic of
the differences between the two men in respect of nationality, class, and
epoch. Had the imperial baron been a king, he would, far more worthily
than any Habsburg, or Hohenzollern, or other among the defeated monarchs,
have embodied, in opposition to the son of the revolution, that idea of
legitimacy for which the German nation was willing to battle with no less
ardour than it would display in the fight against the foreigner. Apart
from the duke of Brunswick and one or two of the younger princes, Stein
stood alone in those days as saviour of the pride and dignity of the
German rulers.
Now his great moment has come. From Madrid, the Emperor had sent forth
his decree of banishment against the Prussian minister. Twice, for
this, time was to exact vengeance. Now was the first occasion. Nothing
but the sentence of outlawry had brought Stein into contact with the
tsar, for whose soul he was wrestling with his old enemy. In all
Alexander’s vacillations, no influence did more to strengthen him than
the indomitable spirit of the German exile. When the Emperor, not long
before, holding forth to the Russian general, had spoken with so much
acerbity about Stein, it was because, from afar, he had sensed this
influence, and because he was afraid of the imperial baron. He knew
Stein to be a vigorous idealist, an undismayed monarchist; and he knew
that in the decisive hour such a man was likely to exercise a potent
suggestive influence upon the tsar, also an idealist, though irresolute
and timid. Stein, knowing human character as he did, and knowing that
the tsar, in a hazy fashion, was eager to live in accordance with the
moral law, would dilate upon Napoleon’s contempt for morality and itch
for dictatorship. Stein would not tempt Alexander with countries to be
annexed, but with principles to be obeyed; and would rouse to action
a modern monarch who would know better than the German princes how to
defend rule by right divine.
This German was the only person at the tsarist court who had no axe to
grind. Driven from his own home by the homeless Napoleon, he was ready
betwixt night and morning to change his present hospitable asylum for
any other. The tsar knew that Stein was not a place-hunter, but an
independent foreigner whose counsel was not tainted by any thought of
personal advantage; for this reason, he had more trust in the German
baron than in his own Francophil minister. Perhaps he had heard of the
splendid words uttered by the German when the news of the burning of
Moscow had arrived. Stein, sitting at table, had raised his glass, and
had exclaimed: “Three or four times, ere this, I have lost my baggage. We
must get used to throwing away such things. Since we must die, let us be
valiant.”
His enemy in Moscow will soon make up his mind to the same thing. He
throws away the baggage of the past, and marches on; he makes up his mind
to retreat. Not a word has come from St. Petersburg. Five weeks have been
wasted, and the winter draws near! He has been waiting on events, waiting
and listening; this is ill suited to his temperament, out of keeping with
his energetic nature. The novels he has ordered from Paris have not yet
come to hand, so he hunts up whatever can be found in the Kremlin. But he
reads very little. After meals, which, contrary to his usual custom he
protracts to the uttermost, he sometimes lies for hours, book in hand,
but meditating with fixed gaze.
What is there to do in a burned city where nothing is left to organise!
On one or two evenings, the Emperor has some French plays performed
by a troupe of actors which had remained behind at the time of the
evacuation. This reminds the holiday-making ruler of the charter of the
Comédie Française, and he sends instructions for its amendment. Half the
day is whiled away in issuing army orders which by no means appear to
emanate from a wearied brain, and are far from being commonplace; on the
contrary, they are as crystal clear as in earlier days. But since nothing
remains to be hoped for, since provisions are dwindling and the cold
season is imminent, he calls a council of war in mid-October, although he
knows that only one way lies open to him.
Daru counsels: make the winter quarters here; await reinforcements from
liberated Lithuania; in the spring, march upon St. Petersburg. The
Emperor remains for long in a brown study. Then he says:
“That is the advice of a lion. But what will Paris say? Who can calculate
the effect of six months’ separation? France may grow accustomed to my
absence; Germany and Austria might turn it to account.” The only possible
order is for the whole army to turn back. What trophies shall we bring
back with us to Paris? The giant cross of gold from the church of St.
John within the Kremlin walls is taken down from the cupola that it may
be set up on the dome of the Invalides. But can we not devise some better
revenge against the false friend? The Emperor orders the Kremlin to be
blown up.
Eight miles away from Moscow he reins in, and waits for news of the
explosion. The unending stream of the grand army flows steadily by the
Emperor; it is flanked by the sick and the wounded; it is laden with
booty, rested but undisciplined. At last come tidings: the explosion has
missed fire. He is silent. But when Rapp expresses anxiety about the
approach of winter, Napoleon rebukes him, saying: “Can’t you see how
lovely the weather is, even to-day, on October 19th? Do you not recognise
my star?”
Such words hardly ever fall from his lips, and this day he is full of
cares. He realises that the baggage train is going to cause delay, and
yet he has not the heart to order his men to leave their booty behind;
they must have something to take home. Russian troops have encircled the
French army, and recently they pressed so hard on Murat’s squadrons as to
drive these back upon the town. On the eastward march, the Emperor had
longed for nothing so much as a good action to take place; but now, on
the westward march, there is nothing he dreads more than to have to put
up a fight. Get to Smolensk as quickly as possible; we will find winter
quarters there!
Is the beginning of his career falling into step with the end? Again,
as in Egypt, the army marches with the baggage in the middle; again
the troops have to defend themselves from the swarming enemy. Once
the Emperor is saved from being made prisoner only by the presence of
mind of one of his men. “Cossacks! Turn about!” cries Rapp, pointing
to a thicket. The Emperor will not follow this advice. The adjutant,
thereupon, seizes the bridle-rein and turns Napoleon’s horse round. “You
must!” Never, in his whole life has he heard such an order addressed to
him. What is he to do? Reason tells him to flee.
But the Emperor remains where he is, and draws his sword. Rapp, Berthier,
Caulaincourt, do the same. They place themselves to the left of the road
and await the riders, who are barely forty paces away. Then the officers
of the suite cover Napoleon until the guard cavalry comes to the rescue
and puts the Cossacks to flight.
New thoughts flit through his brain after this adventure. Shall Alexander
harness him to a triumphal car? He procures a dose of poison from his
physician, and wears it always in a black silk bag around his neck, in
case he should be made a prisoner. Since the day when he was so nearly
captured, the ambition of every Russian flying column is to procure the
head of the “wicked infidel.” Russian headquarters issues a warrant
against the Emperor; it is embellished with his picture, and orders the
corps leaders to have “every man of small stature” among the prisoners
brought before them for examination: any one of them may be Emperor
Napoleon!
As in Egypt the heat of the march had killed hundreds of men, so now does
the Russian cold devour them by thousands. Snow and ice bring down the
horses, guns get stuck, munition wagons are blown up, cavalry soldiers
must pad the hoof, frozen men line the roads.
Not more than fifty thousand reach Smolensk, one-tenth of all the
invading host. They have no more supplies, and cannot winter here. The
freezing army pushes forward. Thousands have thrown their weapons away;
now, even the guard weakens. The Emperor comes among his grenadiers:
“You see the disorder of my army. These poor deluded men are throwing
their muskets away. Are you going to follow this shameful example? If so,
then there is no hope left to us! On you the whole future of the army
depends!” He marches among them. A silent procession (thus described
by one who met it): first come the generals, few of whom are mounted.
Ghosts in rags, in scorched cloaks, lean, grey, with matted beards, bent
and silent: prisoners of fate. These are followed by the Holy Legion, a
legion composed of officers, most of them leaning upon sticks, their feet
swathed in remnants of sheepskin. Then come the survivors of the cavalry
guard.
Last of all three men on foot: to the right, the king of Naples, no
longer concerned about his peacock splendours; to the left, the viceroy
of Italy. In the middle walks a little man, wearing a Polish fur coat and
a cap of red fox, and helping himself along with a birchen staff. Thus in
silence he wends his way through Russia.
VII
What is Paris saying?