While I was enjoying myself thus, among the towns and villages on the
banks of the Danube, admiring the scenery, cultivating the acquaintance
of the industrious rural population of the great river, and making an
occasional trip into the interior, the dogs of war were let loose, and
the curtain rose on the darkest tragedy of the nineteenth century.
The comic and the tragic are inextricably mingled in this world. I
believe that this is no accident, but, like everything else, a special
arrangement. "All fun makes man a fool," but "all sorrow" makes him a
desperado. The feeling of anxiety aroused by the war news was, I may
say, mitigated by the manner of its announcement.
"Sir," cried Lancey, bursting into the cabin one afternoon while I was
preparing for a trip ashore, "the Roossians 'as declared war, an' the
whole country is gettin' hup in harms!"
Of course I had been well aware for some time past that there was a
prospect, nay, a probability, of war; but I had not allowed myself to
believe it, because I have a strong natural tendency to give civilised
men credit for more sense than they appear to possess. That Russia
would really draw the sword, and sacrifice millions of treasure, and
thousands of her best young lives, to accomplish an object that could be
more easily and surely attained by diplomacy, with the expenditure of
little money and no bloodshed, seemed to me incredible. That the other
European nations should allow this state of things to come to pass,
seemed so ridiculous that I had all along shut my eyes to facts, and
proceeded on my voyage in the confidence of a peaceful solution of the
"Eastern question."
"In days of old," I said to my skipper, in our last conversation on this
subject, which we were fond of discussing, "the nations were less
educated than now, and less imbued perhaps with the principles of the
peace-teaching gospel, which many of them profess to believe; but now
the Christian world is almost out of its teens; intercommunication of
ideas and interests is almost miraculously facile. Thought is well-nigh
instantaneously flashed from hemisphere to hemisphere, if not from pole
to pole; commerce is so highly cultivated that international exhibitions
of the raw material and the fabrics of all nations are the order of the
day; while good-will between man and man--to say nothing of woman--is so
prevalent, that I really find it hard to believe in the possibility of a
great European war."
"Nevertheless," replied Mr Whitlaw, in a tone of cynicism, to which at
times he gave pretty free indulgence, "the Crimean war occurred in the
nineteenth century, and the American civil war, and the young widows of
the Franco-Prussian war are not yet grey-haired, while their children
have scarcely reached their teens. Truly, civilisation and the progress
of knowledge, which men boast of so much, seem to be of little value."
I pointed out to Mr Whitlaw that he was wrong in supposing that
civilisation is of little value. "If you compare the condition of the
United States or England," I said, "with that of the Red Indians of your
own land, or with the semi-barbarous states of Asia, you must allow that
civilisation has done much. It seems to me that the fault of mankind
lies in expecting too much of that condition. Civilisation teaches man
how to make the world most comfortable to himself and to his fellows;
but there is a higher attainment than that, and it is only Christianity
which can teach man how to sacrifice himself for others, and, in so
doing, to attain the same ends as those arrived at by civilisation, with
more important and lasting ends in addition."
"Well, then, on that principle," objected the skipper, "you ought to
expect war just now, for there is very little Christianity going that I
can see, though plenty of civilisation."
"On these points we differ, Mr Whitlaw," said I, "for there seems to me
very little civilisation at present, considering the age of the world;
and, on the other hand, there is much genuine Christianity,--more, I
believe, than meets the careless or the jaundiced eye. However, now
that war _has_ been declared, it becomes necessary that we should get
out of the Danube as fast as possible."
Accordingly, the yacht's head was turned eastward, and we descended
rapidly with the stream. My intention was good, but the result was
disastrous; not an unwonted state of things, the best intentions in
human affairs being frequently doomed to miscarry.
I must ask the reader now to turn aside with me from my own personal
adventures, to events which had occurred near the banks of the Pruth,--
the river that divides Russia from Turkey.
Here, on Tuesday, the 24th of April 1877, a scene of the utmost
animation and excitement prevailed. The Emperor of "all the Russias"
was about to review his troops previous to the declaration of war on
Turkey. Up to that time, of course, war had been expected--as regards
the army, eagerly desired; but no declaration had absolutely been made.
Ungheni, where the railway crosses the Pruth, and not far from
Kischeneff, the capital of Bessarabia, was fixed on as the spot where
the grand review should take place.
Great were the preparations for the reception of his Majesty, for
whether "majesty" be right or wrong, majesty must be honoured and
cheered. Majesty, male or female, represents _power_, and power _must_
be treated with respect, nay, ought to be so treated--when it behaves
itself!
There is something overwhelmingly grand in multitude. Humanity cannot
resist the influence. It is quite clear that the human race were meant
to be gregarious. What were the orator without his multitude? I might
go further, and ask, What were the multitude without its orator? Flags
and banners waved, and ribbons rippled that day in Bessarabia, for the
serried legions of Russia marched in almost unending columns towards
Ungheni, on the Roumanian frontier, and, after they had passed, the
Emperor himself made for the same point with the Grand Duke Nicholas,
and the Czarewitch, and General Ignatieff, and the Minister of War, and
many other dignitaries of the empire, with a numerous and gorgeous
staff.
The day was magnificent. The people who streamed out to see the review
were enthusiastic. Perhaps, if they had been Bulgarian peasantry, and
had been able to foresee the future, their enthusiasm would not have
been so great. Yet I do not say that their enthusiasm was misplaced.
They saw a nation's chivalry assembled to fight and die, if need be, in
the nation's cause, with its Emperor to patronise, and its nobles to
lead the legions on, in all of which there was ground for real
enthusiasm.
Among the regiments that marched that day to Ungheni was one to which I
would draw special attention. It was not much better, perhaps, than the
others, but it was a good typical Russian regiment, and had a commander
at its head who looked as if he could do it justice. They marched at a
smart pace, four miles an hour, with a long, dogged, steady tramp that
was clumsy to look at, but seemed likely to last. Few of the men were
tall, but they were burly, square-set fellows, broad of shoulder, deep
of chest, and smart of limb. They wore a French-like blue cap, with a
red band round it, and a blue tunic, with loose blue trousers stuffed
into boots that reached the knee. Their knapsacks were hairy, and their
belts black, the latter suggesting deliverance from that absurdity of
old, pipeclay. Their great-coats, heavy and brown, were worn in a roll
over the left shoulder, and each man carried his own kettle, the latter
being suggestive of tea and tuck-in, followed by tobacco and turn-in.
Among these warriors, in his proper position, marched a noteworthy young
lieutenant. He was my old college chum and brother-in-law to be,
Nicholas Naranovitsch, head and shoulders over his fellows, straight as
a poplar, proud as a peacock, and modest as an untried man ought to be.
The spot for the review was well chosen, on a gentle undulating
hillside, which enabled the spectators to see the whole army at once.
The weather was bright and sunny, as I have said, and the glitter of
uniforms and thousands of bayonets with the broad blaze reflected from a
long line of polished field-pieces, sent a thrill through many a heart,
suggesting "glory." There were a few hearts also, no doubt, to whom
they suggested the natural end for which these glorious things were
called together--blood and murder, national ruination, broken
constitutions, desolated homes, and sudden death.
Holiday reviews are common enough all over the world, but this was no
holiday review. Every one knew that it was the prelude to war, and
there was an appropriate gravity and silence in the conduct of
spectators. It was deeply impressive, too, to watch the long lines and
masses of troops,--each unit full of youth, strength, energy,
enthusiasm, hope,--standing perfectly silent, absolutely motionless,
like statues, for full an hour and a half. Their deep silence and
immobility seemed to produce a sympathetic condition in the spectators.
There was no laughing, jesting, or "chaff" among them.
Even when the Emperor arrived there was no cheering. A greater than the
Emperor had overawed them. They merely swayed open and took off hats
deferentially as he passed. It was not till he began to ride round the
lines with his brilliant staff that the silence was broken by music and
cheers.
Of the review itself I will not speak. That, and the three-quarters of
an hour mass which followed, being over, a murmur of expectation ran
through the crowd and along the ranks like a solemn growl. Then there
was a deep, intense silence, which was faintly broken by the Bishop of
Kischeneff reading the manifesto. He had not read far, when sobs were
heard. It was the voice of the Emperor Alexander, who prided himself on
the fact that the glory of his reign had hitherto been its peaceful
character. They say that it had been his boast and hope that he should
finish it without a war. Previously he had said to the troops: "I have
done everything in my power to avoid war and bloodshed. Nobody can say
we have not been patient, or that the war has been of our seeking. We
have practised patience to the last degree, but there comes a time when
even patience must end. When that time comes, I know that the young
Russian army of to-day will not show itself unworthy of the fame which
the old army won in days gone by."
What the "young army" thought of the fame of its elder brother, as well
as of the sobs of its present Emperor, may be gathered from the fact
that it went all but mad with enthusiasm! When the Bishop finished
reading, there went up a wild and universal shout of joy of exultation,
of triumph, of relief, as though a great weight of suspense had been
lifted from the hearts of the multitude. It spread through the army
like light, and was raised again and again, until the very vault of
heaven seemed to thunder, while the soldiers tossed their caps in the
air, or twirled them on their bayonets for several minutes.
Then the _ordre du jour_ of the Grand Duke Nicholas, commander-in-chief
of the army, was read to every battalion, squadron, and battery, and the
day's work was done. The right was legally and constitutionally granted
to some hundreds of thousands of young men to go forth and slaughter,
burn, and destroy, to their hearts' content--in other words, to "gather
laurels."
It was a sad day's work--sad for Turkey, sad for Russia, sad for Europe,
and especially sad for the women, children, and old people of the
theatre of the future war. It was a good day's work for nobody and for
nothing; but it was the legitimate outcome of work that had been going
on for years before.
In pondering over the matter since, I have often been led to ask myself
with considerable surprise, Why did this war occur--who wanted it? It
is quite plain that Europe did not, equally plain that Turkey did not,
still more plain that the Emperor Alexander did not, for he wept at the
prospect of it "like a child." Who, then, _did_ desire and cause it?
There are some things in this remarkable world that no man can
understand. At all events I cannot. When I put the same question, long
afterwards, to my dear and ever-sagacious mother, she replied, "Do you
not think, Jeff; that perhaps the men in power, somewhere, wanted it and
caused it? There are some countries, you know, where the _people_ are
mere chessmen, who have nothing whatever to do or say in the management
of their own affairs, and are knocked about, wisely or foolishly as the
case may be, by the _men in power_. England herself was in that sad
case once, if we are to believe our school histories, and some of the
European nations seem to be only now struggling slowly out of that
condition, while others are still in bondage."
I think my mother was right. After much consideration, I have come to
the conclusion that war is usually, though not always, caused by a few
ambitious men in power at the head of enslaved or semi-enslaved nations.
Not always, I repeat, because free nations, being surrounded by savage,
barbarous, and semi-free, are sometimes wheedled, dragged, or forced
into war in spite of themselves.
After the review some of the regiments started directly for the
frontier.
Nicholas Naranovitsch was summoned to the presence of his colonel.
Nicholas was very young and inexperienced; nevertheless, during the
brief period in which he had served, he had shown himself possessed of
so much ability and wisdom that he was already selected to go on a
secret mission. What that mission was he never told me. One result of
it, however, was, that he and I had a most unexpected meeting on the
Danube in very peculiar circumstances.