THE SAME. OUTSIDE THE CITY
[A hill forms the foreground, called the Hill of Salutation, near
the Smolensk road.
Herefrom the city appears as a splendid panorama, with its river,
its gardens, and its curiously grotesque architecture of domes and
spires. It is the peacock of cities to Western eyes, its roofs
twinkling in the rays of the September sun, amid which the ancient
citadel of the Tsars--the Kremlin--forms a centre-piece.
There enter on the hill at a gallop NAPOLEON, MURAT, EUGENE, NEY,
DARU, and the rest of the Imperial staff. The French advance-
guard is drawn up in order of battle at the foot of the hill, and
the long columns of the Grand Army stretch far in the rear. The
Emperor and his marshals halt, and gaze at Moscow.]
NAPOLEON
Ha! There she is at last. And it was time.
[He looks round upon his army, its numbers attenuated to one-fourth
of those who crossed the Niemen so joyfully.]
Yes: it was time.... NOW what says Alexander!
DARU
This is a foil to Salamanca, sire!
DAVOUT
What scores of bulbous church-tops gild the sky!
Souls must be rotten in this region, sire,
To need so much repairing!
NAPOLEON
Ay--no doubt....
Prithee march briskly on, to check disorder,
[to Murat].
Hold word with the authorities forthwith,
[to Durasnel].
Tell them that they may swiftly swage their fears,
Safe in the mercy I by rule extend
To vanquished ones. I wait the city keys,
And will receive the Governor's submission
With courtesy due. Eugene will guard the gate
To Petersburg there leftward. You, Davout,
The gate to Smolensk in the centre here
Which we shall enter by.
VOICES OF ADVANCE-GUARD
Moscow! Moscow!
This, this is Moscow city. Rest at last!
[The words are caught up in the rear by veterans who have entered
every capital in Europe except London, and are echoed from rank to
rank. There is a far-extended clapping of hands, like the babble
of waves, and companies of foot run in disorder towards high ground
to behold the spectacle, waving their shakos on their bayonets.
The army now marches on, and NAPOLEON and his suite disappear
citywards from the Hill of Salutation.
The day wanes ere the host has passed and dusk begins to prevail,
when tidings reach the rear-guard that cause dismay. They have
been sent back lip by lip from the front.]
SPIRIT IRONIC
An anticlimax to Napoleon's dream!
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
They say no governor attends with keys
To offer his submission gracefully.
The streets are solitudes, the houses sealed,
And stagnant silence reigns, save where intrudes
The rumbling of their own artillery wheels,
And their own soldiers' measured tramp along.
“Moscow deserted? What a monstrous thing!”--
He shrugs his shoulders soon, contemptuously;
“This, then is how Muscovy fights!” cries he.
Meanwhile Murat has reached the Kremlin gates,
And finds them closed against him. Battered these,
The fort reverberates vacant as the streets
But for some grinning wretches gaoled there.
Enchantment seems to sway from quay to keep,
And lock commotion in a century's sleep.
[NAPOLEON, reappearing in front of the city, follows MURAT, and is
again lost to view. He has entered the Kremlin. An interval.
Something becomes visible on the summit of the Ivan Tower.]
CHORUS OF RUMOURS [aerial music]
Mark you thereon a small lone figure gazing
Upon his hard-gained goal? It is He!
The startled crows, their broad black pinions raising,
Forsake their haunts, and wheel disquietedly.
[The scene slowly darkens. Midnight hangs over the city. In
blackness to the north of where the Kremlin stands appears what at
first seems a lurid, malignant star. It waxes larger. Almost
simultaneously a north-east wind rises, and the light glows and
sinks with the gusts, proclaiming a fire, which soon grows large
enough to irradiate the fronts of adjacent buildings, and to show
that it is creeping on towards the Kremlin itself, the walls of
that fortress which face the flames emerging from their previous
shade.
The fire can be seen breaking out also in numerous other quarters.
All the conflagrations increase, and become, as those at first
detached group themselves together, one huge furnace, whence
streamers of flame reach up to the sky, brighten the landscape
far around, and show the houses as if it were day. The blaze
gains the Kremlin, and licks its walls, but does not kindle it.
Explosions and hissings are constantly audible, amid which can be
fancied cries and yells of people caught in the combustion. Large
pieces of canvas aflare sail away on the gale like balloons.
Cocks crow, thinking it sunrise, ere they are burnt to death.]