“There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men”.
The dance is the harmony of motion wedded to the harmony of sound.
Since men have loved music they have loved dancing, and the perfection
of the dance will be a fascination until the love of music is dead in
the souls of men.
Herodias dances before the King, and off goes the head of John--a
victim to the sensuous poetry of motion. Nor was Herod the only
intoxicated monarch whose imperial will was seduced by music and the
dance. Ancient history is full of it--this witchery of voluptuous music
and voluptuous motion, the sway of the woman of the dance.
As far back as we can see into the dim ages of the past, the record
is the same. The story of the witchery of melodious sound and the
rhythmical movement which brings the charm of music to the eye as
well as to the ear, is traced in whatever of sculpture, of painting,
of literature has been saved from the ravages of time. Graven on the
stone, carved upon the frieze, cast in the entablature, delicately
wreathed about the vase, we still see how the ancients loved music, and
how the music made the dance.
Out of the annals of the dead nations come the living names of their
national dances, and it may be that the fire which burned in the heart
of the Spartan when he went through the Pyrrhic dance was the same as
that which kindled the ardor of the Red Man of the American tribes when
he celebrated his war dance.
There was the dance of the Furies, the dance of the Harvest, the dance
of May-day, the dance of the religious rite, the dance of rejoicing,
the dance of the marriage feast, the dance of the funeral rite.
In the Greek Chorus the whole city gave itself to the melody of sound
and the harmony of motion, just as the _farandola_ of to-day is, in
Southern France, an unlooped garland of music and dance drawing into
itself the entire community. Only the Roman refused to dance, and the
Roman is the most unlovely national character in history.
“Wine, woman, and song!” cried the revellers in the dawn of time;
“Wine, woman, and song!” shout the revellers now; and between these
flowery banks of Pleasure runs the steady, everlasting stream of
earnest purpose, consecration to duty, and love of noble standards,
that bears precious freight toward havens yet unknown.
* * * * *
As Thackeray says, there never was, since the days of Darius, such a
brilliant train of camp-followers as hung around Wellington’s army in
the Low Countries, in the year 1815.
French noblesse who had fled their country, English lords and ladies
who had crossed over to the Continent, diplomats connected with
various European courts, travellers who had stopped at Brussels to
await the issues of the campaign--all these crowded the city. With the
officers of the English and Belgian armies, this made a brilliant and
distinguished society, and many social entertainments were being given.
Owing principally to the fact that hers was connected with the march of
the English army and the crowning victory of Waterloo, the Duchess of
Richmond’s ball has, historically, obliterated every other. Lord Byron
immortalized it in “Childe Harold”; and after him came Thackeray with
his masterly descriptions in “Vanity Fair.”
Until a comparatively recent date it has not been known for certain
where the ball took place, for it was well known that it was not given
in the house which the Duke of Richmond was temporarily occupying.
Sir William Fraser has published a most interesting account of how his
industrious search for the famous ball-room was at length rewarded
by the discovery that the place actually used for the dance was the
store-room, or dépot, of a carriage-builder, whose establishment
joined the rear of the Duke of Richmond’s palace. Instead of being a
“high-hall” as Byron imagined, it was a low room, 13 feet high, 54
feet broad, and 120 feet long. For the two hundred invited guests it
afforded ample accommodations.
We can assume that this storage-room for vehicles had been transformed
with hangings and decorations until it presented an appearance
sufficiently brilliant, and we can imagine the eagerness with which
“the beauty and the chivalry” had looked forward to this night. We can
imagine the intrigues for tickets. We can imagine fair women leaning on
the arms of the brave men, and the crash of music, as the band strikes
up, and then,
“On with the dance!”
Yonder is the Prince of Orange, heir to the illustrious house which
boasts such names as William III and William the Silent. To whom does
the modern world owe more,--for freedom of conscience, of speech, of
person,--than to the heroic Dutchman who stood, almost alone--and
triumphantly!--against the whole power of the Spanish Empire and the
Pope? From whom have we received a finer lesson in patriotism, and in
desperate determination to be free, than from William III when, as the
armies of the Grand Monarch came irresistibly on, sternly ordered,
“_Cut the dykes! We’ll give Holland back to the sea, rather than become
the slaves of France!_”
Over there is the Duke of Brunswick--whose father, in 1789, had led
into France that ill-fated invasion which struggled with mud and rain
and green grapes until it was in condition to be demoralized by the
slight cannonade of Dumouriez and the cavalry charge of Kellerman--thus
bringing derision upon its commander who had issued the famous
proclamation in which he threatened Paris with destruction.
There is Pozzo di Borgo, the Corsican, the boyhood acquaintance of
Napoleon. They had taken different sides in petty Corsican politics;
there had been an affray at the polls, Pozzo had been knocked down and
roughly handled by the Bonaparte faction. Here was the origin of one
of the most active, vindictive and persistent hatreds on record; and
there is no doubt whatever that the Corsican gentleman who now glitters
in this brilliant throng, in the Duchess of Richmond’s ball-room, has
done Napoleon a vast deal of harm. It was he, more than any other,
who influenced the Emperor Alexander against Napoleon. It was he,
more than any other, who in 1814 persuaded the Allies to revoke the
order, already given, to retreat upon the Rhine and, instead, to march
straight upon Paris.
More notable still, is another opponent of Napoleon whom we see in this
famous ball-room. It is Sir Sydney Smith. “_That man caused me to miss
my destiny!_” exclaimed Napoleon. For Sir Sydney was the unconquerable
Englishman who threw himself into Acre and showed the Turks how to
defend it. Against those walls the French dashed themselves in vain.
Baffled, exhausted, his rear threatened, his heart filled with impotent
rage, Napoleon had to abandon his gorgeous visions of Eastern conquest
and drink to the dregs a bitter cup of humiliation.
Of course the Duke of Wellington is here, and many of the officers
of his army. The French nobles (emigrés) are represented by some of
the proudest names of the _Ancient Régime_. Ladies of high degree are
present--ladies of beauty, wit, and grace, some from Belgium, France,
England, but none of these are so well known as a certain pretty,
doting, neglected wife named Amelia, and a dashing, brilliant, wicked
adventuress, Becky Sharp, whom Thackeray brings to the ball. As long
as there is such a thing as English literature these two, together
with the prodigal George Osborne and honest William Dobbin, will move
amid those revellers and live amid the stirring scenes of the Eve of
Waterloo.
“A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again,
And all went merrily as a marriage bell.”
There was no boom of cannon to halt the dance. There was no opening
roar of battle that broke in upon the revelry. The Duke of Wellington
sat down comfortably to the table where the midnight supper was served,
and the officers remained at the ball hours later. Then, as they had
been ordered, they withdrew quietly, one by one, and finally the Duke
came to make his own adieus.
The youngest daughter of the Duchess of Richmond was awakened and
brought down to the ball-room. With her tiny fingers she buckled on the
great soldier’s sword.
Do we not all of us recall how Major Dobbin seeks out Captain George,
who has been madly gaming and madly drinking?
“‘Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The Duke’s wine is famous.’
“‘Come out, George,’ said Dobbin gravely. ‘Don’t drink.’
“Dobbin went up to him and whispered something to him, at which George,
giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, clapped it on
the table, and walked away speedily on his friend’s arm.”
What Dobbin said was this: “The enemy has crossed the Sambre: our left
is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in three hours.”
“And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star,
While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips--‘The foe! They come, they come!’”
Again, Thackeray: “The sun was just rising as the march began--it was a
gallant sight--the band led the column, playing the regimental march;
then came the major in command, riding upon Pyramus, his stout charger;
then marched the grenadiers, their captain at their head; in the center
were the colors, borne by the senior and junior ensigns; then George
came marching at the head of his company. He looked up, and smiled at
Amelia, and passed on; and even the sound of music died away.” And
Amelia and thousands of other wives go back to wait, to weep, to pray.
How hard it is to believe that after the officers had hurried away
to join their commands, after the Duke of Wellington had left, after
every young man and young woman in the ball-room _knew_ that their late
partners were hastening to the battlefield, _the ball should continue_.
Instead of being broken up by the booming cannon and the agonizing
leavetakings imagined by Lord Byron, the revel went on till morning,
when it ended in the usual way.
* * * * *
Not until six in the morning of June 16th did the Duke of Wellington
leave Brussels, and, had the orders which he issued the evening before
been carried out, he would have found Ney between himself and the
English army, with the Prussians annihilated! Acting upon their own
responsibility, Major Normann and the Prince of Saxe-Weimar had taken
possession of Quatre Bras. The Prince of Orange’s Chief of Staff,
Constant Rebecque, delivered to the officers the written orders of
Wellington, but told them verbally, in effect, not to obey. As a matter
of fact, these officers paid no attention to the written orders, but
acted upon their own judgment. They could see for themselves what ought
to be done, and they did it. They all rushed to Quatre Bras, determined
to hold it at whatever cost.
At ten o’clock, Wellington arrived, and he congratulated General
Perponcher on being in possession of Quatre Bras, whose vital
importance he now recognized for the first time.
Not being attacked at Quatre Bras, Wellington rode to the heights of
Brye to see, for himself, what was going on at Ligny. He and Blücher
went up in the mill of Bussy, from whose roof they could plainly see
every movement of the French.
It was now too late for the Prussians to escape battle. Therefore,
Wellington, in parting from Blücher to return to Quatre Bras, coolly
said, “I will come to your support provided I am not attacked myself.”
To his aide Wellington remarked, “If he fights here he will be damnably
licked.”
No wonder that Gneisenau, Chief of Staff to Blücher, formed the opinion
that Wellington was a “master-knave.”
Had the Prussian hero, Blücher, been as craftily selfish as Wellington,
there would have been no Waterloo.
On his arrival at Quatre Bras, Wellington found that Ney had at last
realized the true meaning of the Emperor’s orders, and he made frantic
efforts to regain what he had lost. Too late. Vainly Jerome Bonaparte
fights with desperate courage to win and hold the Boissou wood: vainly
Kellerman hurls his handful of horsemen upon the ever-increasing
infantry of the enemy; vainly Ney exposes himself to the hottest fire,
rallying broken lines and leading them back to the charge. Too late.
Regiment after regiment of the English army arrives. In hot haste, the
young officers, who, a few hours ago, had been dancing at the Duchess
of Richmond’s ball, throw themselves into the fight, still in the silk
stockings and buckled shoes of the ball-room.
So impetuous had been the assault of the French that at first the
English and Hanoverians were driven. The Duke of Wellington, narrowly
escaping capture, was borne backward by the rout. In person he rallied
his men and led a cavalry charge which broke on the French line. Not
until the coming up of Picton’s division did the tide decisively turn;
but then the French, heavily outnumbered, were worsted at all points.
“The fate of France is in your hands,” the Emperor had written, and
Ney had not understood. All the hours of the morning of the 16th he
had not understood. Precious hours had glided by unimproved. Now it is
afternoon, and at last Ney understands.
And it is too late. Were he the ally of Wellington and Blücher, he
could not serve them better. Were he the mortal enemy of France, he
could not serve her worse.
Overwhelmed by the sudden consciousness of his terrible mistake, the
heroic Ney was almost demented. “Oh, that all these English balls were
buried in my body!” Impotent rage, vain remorse: _the English were up,
and all of Wellington’s delays and blunders were remedied_.
Verily, those who say there is no such thing as _Luck_ have never
studied the history of the Hundred Days!
* * * * *
The fatality of the day was, of course, the pendulum swing of D’Erlon’s
corps--a pendulum which swung first toward Napoleon, then toward Ney,
reaching neither. Had not the Emperor turned it back when on its way to
join Ney, Wellington would have been crushed. Had not Ney recalled it
when it was in sight of the Emperor, Blücher would have been destroyed.
But Napoleon took it away from Ney, and Ney took it away from Napoleon,
and neither got to use it.
D’Erlon’s corps of 20,000 men was utterly lost to the French, although
it was on the march all day and burning to be in the fight. Nothing in
military history equals the ill-luck of this day. In the first place,
Soult’s order to D’Erlon was ambiguous. D’Erlon did not understand
it, and the inexperienced staff-officer, Forbin-Janson, was unable to
explain it. This accounts for D’Erlon showing up at the wrong place and
creating consternation among the French which delayed the final blow
and saved Blücher.
In the second place, Soult sent only one staff-officer, and this one
did not carry out orders. _He did not inform Ney._
An experienced staff-officer would have understood the necessity of
notifying Ney of the Emperor’s orders to D’Erlon, for the Emperor had
placed D’Erlon under the immediate command of Ney. As it was, Marshal
Ney was needing D’Erlon as badly as the Emperor needed him, and was
expecting him every minute. Therefore, he continued to send urgent,
peremptory orders that D’Erlon should hasten to join him.
Even when General Delcambre, sent by D’Erlon after D’Erlon was well on
his way back to Ligny, reported the retrograde movement to Ney, the
insubordinate Marshal flew into a passion and sent General Delcambre
back with an imperative order that D’Erlon should march on Quatre
Bras. In taking upon himself to overrule his Emperor, he did not even
consider the lateness of the hour, which made it impossible for D’Erlon
to join him in time to be of any service.