Then the Lord God says: "Armies you shall have, and luck you shall have;
and so long as you are merciless you shall never be defeated in battle;
but remember that the moment you begin to feel sorry for the shedding of
blood--of your own people or of others--that moment your power will
end. From that moment your enemies will defeat you, and you shall
finally be made a prisoner, be put into chains, and be sent back to Buan
Island to watch geese. Do you understand?"
"Exactly so," says Napoleonder. "I understand, and I will obey. I shall
never feel pity."
Then the angels and the archangels began to say to God: "Lord, why have
you laid upon him such a frightful command? If he goes forth so, without
mercy, he will kill every living soul on earth--he will leave none for
seed!"
"Be silent!" replied the Lord God. "He will not conquer long. He is
altogether too brave; because he fears neither others nor himself. He
thinks he will keep from pity, and does not know that pity, in the
human heart, is stronger than all else, and that not a man living is
wholly without it."
"But," the archangels say, "he is not a man; he is made of sand."
The Lord God replies: "Then you think he didn't receive a soul when my
water of life fell on his head?"
Napoleonder at once gathered together a great army speaking twelve
languages, and went forth to war. He conquered the Germans, he conquered
the Turks, he subdued the Swedes and the Poles. He reaped as he marched,
and left bare the country through which he passed. And all the time he
remembers the condition of success--pity for none. He cuts off heads,
burns villages, outrages women, and tramples children under his horses'
hoofs. He desolates the whole Mohammedan kingdom--and still he is not
sated. Finally he marches on a Christian country--on Holy Russia.
In Russia then the Tsar was Alexander the Blessed--the same Tsar who
stands now on the top of the column in Petersburg-town and blesses the
people with a cross, and that's why he is called "the Blessed."
When he saw Napoleonder marching against him with twelve languages,
Alexander the Blessed felt that the end of Russia was near. He called
together his generals and field-marshals, and said to them: "Messrs.
Generals and Field-marshals, how can I check this Napoleonder? He is
pressing us terribly hard."
The generals and field-marshals reply: "We can't do anything, your
Majesty, to stop Napoleonder, because God has given him a word."
"What kind of a word?"
"This kind: 'Bonaparty.'"
"But what does 'Bonaparty' mean, and why is a single word so terrible?"
"It means, your Majesty, six hundred and sixty-six--the number of the
Beast [Footnote 3: A reference to the Beast of the Apocalypse. "The
number of the beast is the number of a man: and his number is Six
hundred threescore and six" (Rev. xiii. 18).]; and it is terrible
because when Napoleonder sees, in a battle, that the enemy is very
brave, that his own strength is not enough, and that his own men are
falling fast [Footnote 4: Literally, "lying down with their bones."], he
immediately conjures with this same word, 'Bonaparty,' and at that
instant--as soon as the word is pronounced--all the soldiers that have
ever served under him and have died for him on the field of battle come
back from beyond the grave. He leads them afresh against the enemy, as
if they were alive, and nothing can stand against them, because they are
a ghostly force, not an army of this world."
Alexander the Blessed grew sad; but, after thinking a moment, he said:
"Messrs. Generals and Field-marshals, we Russians are a people of more
than ordinary courage. We have fought with all nations, and never yet
before any of them have we laid our faces in the dust. If God has
brought us, at last, to fight with corpses--his holy will be done! We
will go against the dead!"
So he led his army to the field of Kulikova, and there waited for the
miscreant Napoleonder. And soon afterward, Napoleonder, the evil one,
sends him an envoy with a paper saying, "Submit, Alexander
Blagoslovenni, and I will show you favor above all others."
But Alexander the Blessed was a proud man, who held fast his
self-respect. He would not speak to the envoy, but he took the paper
that the envoy had brought, and drew on it an insulting picture, with
the words, "Is this what you want?" and sent it back to Napoleonder.
Then they fought and slashed one another on the field of Kulikova, and
in a short time or a long time our men began to overcome the forces of
the enemy. One by one they shot or cut down all of Napoleonder's
field-marshals, and finally drew near to Napoleonder himself.
"Your time has come!" they cry to him. "Surrender!"
But the villain sits there on his horse, rolling his goggle-eyes like an
owl, and grinning.
"Wait a minute," he says coolly. "Don't be in too big a hurry. A tale is
short in telling, but the deed is long a-doing."
Then he pronounces his conjuring-word, "Bonaparty"--six hundred and
sixty-six, the number of the Beast.
Instantly there is a great rushing sound, and the earth is shaken as if
by an earthquake. Our soldiers look--and drop their hands. In all parts
of the field appear threatening battalions, with bayonets shining in the
sun, torn flags waving over terrible hats of fur, and tramp! tramp!
tramp! on come the thousands of phantom men, with faces yellow as
camomile, and empty holes under their bushy eyebrows.
Alexander, the Blessed Tsar, was stricken with terror. Terror-stricken
were all his generals and field-marshals. Terror-stricken also was the
whole Russian army. Shaking with fear, they wavered at the advance of
the dead, gave way suddenly in a panic, and finally fled in whatever
direction their eyes happened to look.
The brigand Napoleonder sat on his horse, holding his sides with
laughter, and shouted: "Aha! My old men are not to your taste! I
thought so! This isn't like playing knuckle-bones with children and old
women! Well, then, my honorable Messrs. Dead Men, I have never yet felt
pity for any one, and you needn't show mercy to my enemies. Deal with
them after your own fashion."
"As long as it is so," replied the corpse-soldiers, "we are your
faithful servants always."
Our men fled from Kulikova-field to Pultava-field; from Pultava-field to
the famous still-water Don; and from the peaceful Don to the field of
Borodino, under the very walls of Mother Moscow. And as our men came to
these fields, one after another, they turned their faces again and
again toward Napoleonder, and fought him with such fierceness that the
brigand himself was delighted with them "God save us!" he exclaimed,
"what soldiers these Russians are! I have not seen such men in any other
country."
But, in spite of the bravery of our troops, we were unable to stop
Napoleonder's march; because we had no word with which to meet his word.
In every battle we pound him, and drive him back, and get him in a
slip-noose; but just as we are going to draw it tight and catch him, the
filthy, idolatrous thief bethinks himself and shouts "Bonaparty!" Then
the dead men crawl out of their graves in full uniform, set their teeth,
fix their eyes upon their officers, and charge! And where they pass the
grass withers and the stones crack. And our men are so terrified by
these unclean bodies that they can't fight against them at all. As soon
as they hear that accursed word "Bonaparty," and see the big fur hats
and the yellow faces of the dead men, they throw down their guns and
rush into the woods to hide.
"Say what you will, Alexander Blagoslovenni," they cry, "for corpses we
are not prepared."
Alexander the Blessed reproached his men, and said: "Wait a little,
brothers, before you run away. Let's exert ourselves a little more. Dog
that he is, he can't beat us always. God has set a limit for him
somewhere. To-day is his, to-morrow may be his, but after a while the
luck perhaps will turn."
Then he went to the old hermit-monks in the caves of Kiev and on the
island of Valaam, and bowed himself at the feet of all the
archimandrites and metropolitans, saying: "Pray for us, holy fathers,
and beseech the Lord God to turn away his wrath; because we haven't
strength enough to defend you from this Napoleonder."
Then the old hermit-monks and the archimandrites and the metropolitans
all prayed, with tears in their eyes, to the Lord God, and prostrated
themselves until their knees were all black and blue and there were big
bumps on their foreheads. With tearful eyes, the whole Russian people,
too, from the Tsar to the last beggar, prayed God for mercy and help.
And they took the sacred ikon of the Holy Mother of God of Smolensk,
the pleader for the grief-stricken, and carried it to the famous field
of Borodino, and, bowing down before it, with tearful eyes, they cried:
"O Most Holy Mother of God, thou art our life and our hope! Have mercy
on us, and intercede for us soon."
And down the dark face of the ikon, from under the setting of pearls in
the silver frame, trickled big tears. And all the army and all God's
people saw the sacred ikon crying. It was a terrible thing to see, but
it was comforting.
Then the Lord God heard the wail of the Russian people and the prayers
of the Holy Virgin the Mother of God of Smolensk, and he cried out to
the angels and the archangels: "The hour of my wrath has passed. The
people have suffered enough for their sins and have repented of their
wickedness. Napoleonder has destroyed nations enough. It's time for him
to learn mercy. Who of you, my servants, will go down to the earth--who
will undertake the great work of softening the conqueror's heart?"
The older angels and the archangels didn't want to go. "Soften his
heart!" they cried. "He is made of sand--he hasn't any navel--he is
pitiless--we're afraid of him!"