ass—nay, I am believed to possess some little tact; but what demon could
have possessed me to talk of an actor _to_ an actor?
“Do you think Franz greater than any of your English actors?” he asked,
fretfully.
“Why, I cannot say that exactly. But I was amazingly struck with his
performance. My observation, however, principally applied to the general
‘getting-up.’”
“But Franz—Franz. I wish to hear your opinion of him.”
“He is young,” I replied; “has a fine figure, a noble voice, a grand
carriage, and, although new to the stage, and consequently deficient in
some technical matters, yet he has that undefinable something which men
call genius.”
“Hm!” was the significant answer.
I then saw whither my stupidity had led me. This, however, I will say
for myself, if ever I do get into a dilemma, I have generally readiness
of mind enough to extricate myself. I do not say this out of conceit,
for I am not at all conceited—I merely mention it as a fact. This is how
I turned my blunder to account.
“Although,” said I, “he has not _your_ mastery, yet he reminded me a
great deal of you. I cannot pay _him_ a higher compliment.”
To my surprise he did not see the flattery of this, but moved to another
part of the room; and I did not speak with him again till supper.
This little incident excited my attention. I puzzled my brain for an
explanation of the riddle which his conduct presented, and spoke to
several of my friends about it, who could only tell me that Schoenlein
was jealous of this new actor Franz.
Did you ever sup in Berlin, reader? If not, let me inform you that
supper there is a most substantial affair. I had not read Miss Bremer’s
novels when first I went there; so, not being prepared for the infinite
amount of eating and drinking which is transacted in the north, I
confess my astonishment was a little mingled with disgust to find a
supper begin with white-beer soup, (capital soup, by the way,) followed
by various kinds of fish, amongst them, of course, that eternal hideous
carp—roast veal, poultry, pastry, and dessert. To see the worthy
Berliners sup, you would fancy they had not dined, and to see them dine
next day, you would fancy they had not supped, and breakfasted _twice_.
Eating is an art. It is also—and this fact we are prone to overlook—a
habit. As a habit it may be enlarged to an indefinite extent; and
lisping _fraüleins_ have demonstrated the capacity of the human stomach
to be such as would make our beauties stare.
It must not be supposed that I am a coxcomb, since nothing can be
farther from the truth; nor must I be held to share with Lord Byron his
horror at seeing women eat. In fact I like to see the darlings enjoy
themselves: but—and I care not who knows it—to see German women eat, is
more than I can patiently endure.
Let me cease this digression to remark that, except myself, the great
tragedian was the only person at table who was not voracious—and that
because he was unhappy. While knives and forks were playing with
reckless energy he talked to me, but there was a coldness and constraint
in his manner which plainly told me that my praises of Franz had deeply
mortified him.
Poor Schoenlein! Unhappy he came to Madame Röckel’s; for, amidst the
storm of applause which saluted him at the theatre, he heard the
applause which was saluting his rival at Dresden; and he had left the
theatre for a friendly circle of admirers only to hear his rival praised
by an Englishman. All the applause of all Berlin weighed as nothing
against one compliment paid to Franz!
It was nearly twelve, and the company had gradually departed. I was left
alone with Madame Röckel; and, as usual, I stayed half-an-hour later
than the others, to have a quiet chat with her. I wanted to ask her for
an explanation of Schoenlein’s conduct. Much as I had seen of the vanity
of actors—well as I knew their petty jealousy of each other—I was not
prepared for what I had seen that night.
Madame Röckel had resumed her knitting—the never-failing accompaniment
of a German lady—and I drew a chair close to the sofa, and told her what
had passed.
“His story is a strange one,” she said; “and to understand him you must
know it.”
“Can you not tell it me?”
“Willingly. Schoenlein is a man well born and well bred, who feels his
profession is a disgrace.”
“A disgrace!”
“Very absurd, is it not? but that _is_ his feeling. At the same time,
just as the opium-eater, knowing the degradation of his vice, cannot
resist its fascination—so this actor, with an intense feeling of what he
regards as the sinfulness of the stage, cannot resist its fascination.”
“You astonish me!”
“He is an austere man—what you English would call a puritan—who looks
upon the stage as the theatre of vice, and yet cannot quit it because it
is the theatre of his triumphs!”
“But how came he to be an actor!”
“Why, thrown upon the stage when the stage seemed the only means of
livelihood open to him—forced on it by necessity, success has chained
him there. I have heard him say that every time he performs it is with
the conviction that he is performing for the last time. But the
fascination still continues—his heart is still greedy of applause—his
mind still eager for its accustomed emotions. He goes on the stage sad,
struggling, and repentant; to leave it with throbbing pulses and a
wild-beating heart. He accepts no engagement, he only plays by the
night. He has from time to time made vigorous efforts to quit the stage,
but at the end of a fortnight he invariably returns. He once set out for
Italy, thinking that if away from Germany he should be able to wean
himself from the theatre; but he got no farther than Vienna, and there
played for twenty nights.”
“But don’t you think there must be a great deal of humbug in all this?”
“Not a bit.”
“Do you really believe in his scruples?”
“I know him too well to doubt them. There are many men quite as
inconsistent. He deludes himself with all sorts of sophistry. He
persuades himself that he acts only to realise an independence for his
son, and to secure his own old age. But the truth is, he acts because he
has an irresistible impulse to act. It is a sort of intellectual
dram-drinking which he cannot forego.”
“To be sure, men are strange bundles of contradictions; and I suppose
one must give Schoenlein credit for being sincere.”
“He is his own dupe, for to no one but very intimate friends has he ever
disclosed his real opinions.”
“Then his life must be a constant struggle?”
“It is. This it is which has made him prematurely old: the struggle of
his conscience with his passions. But this it is also which gives such
touching pathos to his acting—which makes his voice so mournful that it
vibrates through your whole being. As the poet’s sufferings are sublimed
into song, and become the delight of mankind, so from the ground of this
tragedian’s despair springs the well of his inspiration, which makes him
truly great.”
We were both silent for a few moments.
“I have said enough,” added Madame Röckel, “to explain how such a man
must necessarily be, above all others, envious—how the success of
another must be torture to him. Nothing but intense vanity could keep
him on the stage. Hitherto he has really had no rival—he has stood
alone; other tragedians have not been named beside him. But now, within
the last few weeks, there has arisen this young Franz, who has only
played at Leipsic and Dresden, yet whose fame has spread all over
Germany.”
“But I have seen Franz, and I assure you he is not so great an actor as
Schoenlein. To be sure, he has youth on his side.”
“It is not his success alone which is so exasperating; it is because the
critics, as usual, will do nothing but compare the young Franz with the
old Schoenlein; while the public, with its natural inconstancy, begins
to discover that Schoenlein is no longer young. It is a sad thing,” she
pursued, with a faint smile, “for those who have reigned supreme over
audiences to feel their dynasty is drawing to a close—sad for those who
have swayed all hearts, to feel that another is now to usurp their
place. We women know what it is, in a slight degree, when we grow old.
Do we ever grow old, and _know_ it? When our glass still tells us we are
young, that the bloom is still upon our cheeks, the lustre in our eyes,
the witchery in our smiles, now as of yore—and yet what the glass tells
us, what our feelings confirm, we do _not_ see mirrored in the
admiration of those around us! We also know what it is when we see our
former adorers pass to newer beauties, and we perhaps overhear such a
phrase spoken of us as, ‘Yes, she has been handsome!’ But even we cannot
know the actor’s triumph or the actor’s humiliation. To feel that our
presence is the signal for applause, that every word we utter is
listened to with eager interest, that every part we play is an image
which we engrave upon the minds of thousands, there to abide as a thing
of beauty and of wonder—this is beyond us.”
“But, my dear Madame Röckel, I see no diminution of admiration for
Schoenlein in Berlin. Surely no audience can be more enthusiastic. Why
should he fear a rival?”
“You might as well ask a beauty,” she replied, “why she is jealous of a
woman less pretty than herself. The _why_ is not to be explained by
logic, for envy does not _calculate_—it _feels_.”
“Yet, when Franz comes to Berlin, which will be next month, there will
then be no possible doubt as to which is the finer actor.”
“Perhaps not. But the public will nevertheless applaud Franz; and
however slightly they do so, to the envious ears of Schoenlein it will
sound like thunder.”
The clock striking twelve warned me to depart, for in Berlin they keep
early hours; and I went away thinking of what I had just heard, and
feeling no small contempt for Schoenlein’s preposterous jealousy: “What
a contemptible feeling is envy!—as if only one person in the world had a
right to admiration!”
At that moment I stepped into a droschke, and was driving to my rooms,
when I passed that miserable puppy Fürstenberg, whom, I am sorry to say,
little * * * admires so much; though, for the life of me, I never could
see wherefore. Yet this uncouth German, aping the dandy, usurps all her
conversation, even when I am by!
It is not that I am jealous, for that is not my character; but I
_cannot_ bear to see so charming a girl so miserably deceived in any one
as she is in Fürstenberg!
CHAPTER II.
Schoenlein did not play for a fortnight, and, as the time of Franz’s
engagement was drawing near, I imagined he was sulking. I communicated
my suspicions to Madame Röckel.
“I would wager fifty thalers,” she replied, “that he has gone to Dresden
to see his dreaded rival, and judge for himself.”
It was as Madame Röckel said: goaded by irresistible jealousy,
Schoenlein had set off for Dresden to see his rival play.
Arrived there, he was three days before he could summon resolution to
enter the theatre. Franz’s name met him every where. At the
_table-d’hôte_ he heard nothing but praises of Franz: in the newspapers
he read nothing but invidious comparisons between Franz and himself, in
which the palm was awarded to his rival. “Franz,” it was said, “had all
the energy of Schoenlein, with youth, and grace, and beauty in his
favour. The same power of distinct conception and unexaggerated
execution, without Schoenlein’s tendency to conventional ‘points.’”
Strangers asked him if he had seen Franz. The very waiters at the hotel
recommended him to go and see Franz!
Schoenlein never hated his profession so much as at that moment. Yet,
such was his exasperation, that he was constantly tempted to appear on
the stage at Dresden, and crush his rival by acting in the same theatre
with him—constantly tempted to show the fickle public the genius of the
actor they were fast forgetting.
It was the fourth day of his presence at Dresden. Hamlet was to be
performed that evening, and Schoenlein had resolved to be there. As the
hour drew near, he was seated at a table on that beautiful terrace,
which no one who has visited Dresden can ever forget, and which the
Hahn-Hahn has so graphically set before us in her _Faustine_. He was
smoking a meditative cigar, gazing abstractedly at the promenaders, who,
in their gay dresses, passed to and fro in light happy talk, while the
sounds of a good orchestra in the Café came mellowed by the distance,
and lent another charm to the exhilarating scene. His thoughts were not
at all in harmony with that happy scene—they were fixed mournfully on
his own condition. He felt the sadness of a fallen favourite.
There he sat, and saw the sun go down over the antique bridge—saw its
last rays shimmering on the placid bosom of the Elbe, which winds its
undulating course beneath the terrace—saw the groups of promenaders
gradually disappear, and the tables all deserted. The calls for ices,
for cigars, for “light,” were becoming rarer and rarer. The music had
ceased—night had shut in. Still he sat there in the same mournful mood,
tempted to go to the theatre, so close at hand, but repelled by the idea
of hearing Franz applauded.
At the conclusion of the third act, several playgoers reappeared upon
the terrace, to cool themselves in the evening air, and to take an ice.
Their conversation, of course, turned but upon one man, and that man was
Franz. They spoke of his Hamlet as the finest part he had yet played.
Three men seated themselves at Schoenlein’s table. In the midst of their
enthusiastic criticism one of them remarked—
“Well, Franz is certainly very fine; but it is absurd to compare him
with Schoenlein.”
“I think him better,” said another.
“Nonsense!—you would not say so if you could see them together. You will
find that in a little while the public will come round to my opinion.
Let them once get over the novelty, and they will judge correctly.”
A thrill ran through the actor’s frame as he heard this. He called the
waiter; paid; rose; departed. In another instant he was in the
_parterre_ of the theatre, feverishly impatient for the curtain to rise.
The brief scene between the King and Queen, which opens the fourth act,
seemed to that impatient man as if it never would end; and when
Rosenkranz was heard within calling, “Hamlet, Lord Hamlet!” the
perspiration burst from every pore, and he trembled like a leaf as
Hamlet appeared, uttering the “Soft—what news? Who calls on Hamlet?”
Schoenlein heard no more. The tones of that voice raised a mist before
his brain—stung and perplexed him with rage and astonishment. He heard
nothing, saw nothing—his brain was in a whirl.
The Hamlet before him—Franz, the dreaded rival—was his son!
CHAPTER III.
It is necessary here to take a retrospective glance into Schoenlein’s
history, that we may understand the horror which possessed him at the
discovery of his son upon the stage.
We may readily conceive how his dislike to his profession made him very
sedulous of keeping his child from all contact with it, lest its
fascination should mislead him also. He had never permitted him to see a
play. He brought him up strictly, religiously, austerely. He had no
friends among actors: acting was never spoken of in his presence. Yet,
by an inconsistency easily enough explained, the works most constantly
read and talked about by him were those of Shakspeare, Molière, Göthe,
and Schiller. These were his household gods. Young Franz was early
initiated into their beauties, and would declaim, (in private,) with
great gusto, all the long speeches.
Franz was sent to the university of Leipsic, where it was his father’s
fond hope he would distinguish himself as a student of theology. For the
first year he was assiduous enough; but theology grew inexpressibly
wearisome, while poetry became irresistibly alluring to him. Göthe’s
_Wilhelm Meister_ fell into his hands, and was read with rapture. He
fell in love with the actor’s life, and felt secret yearnings to quit
the university, and throw himself upon the world in quest of
adventure—especially in quest of a Marianne, a Philina, and a Mignon! He
had not as yet dared to disobey his father’s strict commands—he had
never ventured inside a theatre; but he had imbibed the dangerous
poison—he had learned to look upon an actor’s life as a life of poetry.
The seed was sown!
About this time my cousin William went to the Leipsic university, and
became the fellow-student and companion of Franz. From him I learned
most of these details. William was by no means a model of select
virtue—in fact, was what, in the jargon of the day, is called “rather a
fast man;” and he led Franz into many a debauch which would have driven
Schoenlein wild, had he known it; but he could not persuade him to go to
the theatre.
Franz was ready enough at a duel, and had spoiled the beauty of some
half-dozen faces by the dexterous sword-cut which draws a line over the
nose, and lays open the cheek. He was ready enough, too, with his
beer—few youths of his age had more promising talents that way: and as
to patriotic songs, energetically demanding of the universe where the
German’s fatherland might be, or the probability of tyrants long
crushing free hearts beneath their heels, together with frantic calls
upon the sword, responded to by the clatter of beer-jugs—in these Franz
was distinguished.
At last he did brush away his scruples, and accompanied William to the
theatre. They played Schiller’s _Don Carlos_. Conceive his rapture at
this first taste of the long-coveted forbidden fruit! He thought the
Marquis of Posa a demigod. But words cannot express his adoration of the
Princess Eboli, that night played by Madame Clara Kritisch. She was to
him the “vision of loveliness and light,” which an actress always is to
an impassioned youth, the first time he sees one. Her large voluptuous
eyes, her open brow, her delicate nostrils, her full and not ungraceful
figure, together with the dazzling beauty of her (theatrical)
complexion, made a powerful impression on him. Her acting seemed to him
the acting of an angel.
He left the theatre madly in love with her.
We all know what it is to be in love with an actress. We have all of us,
in the halcyon days of boyhood, offered up the incense of our young
hearts to some painted, plain, conventional, and perfectly stupid
actress, round whose head we have thrown the halo and the splendour of
our imaginations. We have had our Juliets, our Desdemonas, our Imogens,
our Rosalinds, our Violas, our Cordelias, who, though in the
flesh-and-blood reality they were good, honest, middle-aged women,
mothers of families or disreputable demireps, to us were impersonations
of the ideal—fairy visions, to whom we have written verses, whose
portraits have hung over our beds!
Therefore, having known a touch of this “exquisite fooling,” we can
sympathise with Franz. Never having seen an actress before, any hag
painted for the heroine of the night would have charmed him. But Clara
was by no means a hag: in fact, his passion was excusable, for on the
stage she was charming.
Franz went again and again, only to return home more in love than
before. He fancied she had remarked him in the pit; he fancied the smile
on her ruddy lips was a smile of encouragement addressed to him. He
wrote her a burning love-letter, which she quietly burned. He waited
impatiently for an answer, and went to the theatre expecting to read it
in her looks. He could read nothing there but her loveliness.
He wrote again; he wrote daily. He sent her quires of verses, and reams
of “transcripts of his heart,” in the form of letters. He lived a
blissful life of intense emotion. Fatherland was forgotten; the sword
was no longer called upon; all tyrants were merged in the cruel one whom
he adored.
At length he gained admittance behind the scenes; nay, more—he was
introduced to Clara.
Alas! the shock his sense of loveliness received, when he beheld before
him the fat, rouged, spangled woman, whom he had regarded as the
incarnation of beauty! Her complexion—was this its red and white? were
its roses and lilies gathered by the hare’s foot and the powder-puff?
He could not speak; the springs of his eloquence were frozen; the
delicate compliments he had so laboriously prepared, faded away in an
unmeaning stammer. The first illusion of his life was gone.
Perhaps there is nothing more striking to a young man than his first
experience of the stage behind the scenes. That which, seen from the
boxes, looks health and beauty, behind the scenes is weariness and
paint; that which in the house is poetic, behind the scenes is horrible
mechanism. What scene-painting is when looked at closely, that are
actresses seen in the green-room.
Franz was staggered, but not cured. He could not divest his heart of her
image, and began to see her again as he had always seen her. Growing
accustomed to the reality, he again beheld it in its ideal light; and as
on the stage Clara was always enchanting, she carried with her some of
the enchantment when she left it. Poor fellow! how patiently he stood
there, hungering for the merest word—the simplest look! He saw others—a
privileged few—speaking to her boldly; jesting with her; admiring her;
giving their opinions respecting her costume, as if she were an ordinary
woman, while he could only stammer out some meaningless remark. What
would he have given to feel himself at ease with her, to be familiar, so
that he might be seen to advantage!
At last he thought of a plan for making himself better known to her. He
wrote a play, in which the heroine was destined for her; and as hers was
the only character in the piece which was effective, she pronounced it
the finest thing which had been written since Schiller. Franz was in
ecstasies. She read the play herself to the manager, and exerted all her
eloquence in its behalf. But the manager saw well enough her
motive,—knew that she was so delighted with the play merely because her
part was the important one, and declined to produce it. The play gained
its author’s end however. It had established him among Clara’s friends.
She began to notice his love for her, began to recognise its
seriousness. She knew how to distinguish between the real homage of a
heart, and the lip-homage which others offered her.
There is something inexpressibly charming in knowing yourself possessed
of a heart’s first love; and women—especially those who have passed the
first flush of youth—are more gratified by the love of a boy, than by
that of twenty men. A boy’s love has something in it so intense, so
absorbing, so self-forgetting! It is love, and love only, unmixed with
any thoughts of responsibilities; looking forward to no future,
reflected by no past. There is a bloom on first love. Its very
awkwardness is better than grace; its silence or imperfect stammerings
more eloquent than eloquence; there is a mute appeal in its eyes, which
is worth all the protestations in the world.
Clara, who had been accustomed to the admiration of _roués_, felt the
exquisite charm of this boy’s love. In a few weeks he became her
acknowledged lover; and excited no little envy among the _habitués_ of
the theatre, who could not for the life of them comprehend “what the
devil she could see in that bumpkin.”
But if boys love intensely, they love like tyrants, and Clara was made a
slave. Jealous of every one who approached her, he forced her to give up
all her friends; she gave way to every caprice; she began to idolise
him.
This connexion with an actress, as may easily be foreseen, led to
Franz’s adopting the profession of the stage. Clara taught him in a few
months that which ordinary actors take years to acquire; but this was
owing to his hereditary dramatic talent more than to her instruction.
His appearance on the stage, which would, he knew, profoundly hurt his
father, was not the mere theatrical ambition which possesses most young
men: it was stern necessity; it was the only profession open to him, for
he had married Clara!
Yes! he, the boy of one-and-twenty, had married a woman of
five-and-thirty! It was a mad act—the recklessness or delirium of a boy:
but it was an act which has too many precedents for us to wonder at it.
He had by this act separated himself, he feared, from his father for
ever. His only hope of pardon was, as he fondly thought, dramatic
success. Could his father but see him successfully following in his
footsteps, he would surely forgive him. It was a proud moment—that boy’s
triumphant debut; proud because he had succeeded, proud because his
pardon was purchased—as he thought!
Franz had only played a few weeks, and Germany was ringing with his
praises. So great was his success, that when a few critics and actors
whose judgments were all _traditional_, objected that he could not be a
good actor because he had not gradually worked his way upwards, they
were speedily silenced by the incontestible fact that he _was_ a great
actor. A brilliant engagement had been offered him at Berlin; and he was
about to appear on the same stage with his father, before that father
had the faintest suspicion of his son’s ever having entered a theatre.
CHAPTER IV.
The curtain fell. Franz had reappeared to receive the enthusiastic
homage of the audience, and was now in his room undressing, when the
door opened, and his father stood before him.
Instead of rushing into his arms, Franz stood confused, blushing,
trembling. The haggard sternness of his father’s face told but too
plainly with what feelings he was regarded.
It was a moment of cruel silence.
The position was humiliating. With his clothes scattered about the room;
with the paint still unwashed from his face; with his room in
disorder;—swords, playbills, theatrical dresses, a wig, a rouge-pot, and
washing-stand, lying about; himself in the undignified attitude of
drawing on his stockings;—all combined to present the miserable and
prosaic side of his profession to the angry glance of an incensed
parent.
“So!” said the old man, “these are your theological studies! This is the
end of all my care! you have disobeyed me. You have destroyed all my
hopes, and gone upon the stage, for which you well know my detestation.
I find you _thus_!”
Franz could make no answer.
“While I fondly believed you still at the university, pursuing an
honourable career—a career useful to mankind and honourable to
yourself—you were like a runaway apprentice taking to this odious life.”
“But, sir,—I have succeeded!”
“So much the worse!”
“Is not that my excuse?”
“No; it is your condemnation.”
“Surely, father, it proves that I have chosen right. It proves I have a
vocation for the stage?”
“It only proves your disobedience. Vocation, indeed! Any man has a
vocation for the stage: any man who has brains, and is not physically
too weak to utter the thoughts of an author. Vocation! You might as well
tell me you had a vocation for the highway—and if you had robbed a man,
by placing a pistol to his head, and bidding him stand and deliver, that
your success was your excuse!
“Is it not enough,” pursued Schoenlein, after a pause, “that there
should be _one_ actor in the family: one whose necessities have driven
him on the stage, and who, once there, is forced to remain there?”
“But I, for my part, see nothing reprehensible in the life of an actor.”
“I do.”
Franz saw there was no appeal from such a decision, so he dressed
himself in silence.
He was hurt, angry. He expected that his father would have been
delighted with his performance, would have rejoiced in his success. To
be treated like a schoolboy, to hear such tones and see such looks,
irritated him.
“Come with me to my hotel,” said Schoenlein, as Franz completed his
dressing.
They had not taken many steps before a stout middle-aged woman,
enveloped in a fur cloak, said to Franz:
“_Lieber Franz_, the carriage is waiting.”
Schoenlein did not hear the whispered reply, but strode hastily onwards:
his son followed.
“Who was that,” he inquired, as they came out into the street, “who
called you _Lieber Franz_?”
“Oh! that—an actress—one of our company—Madame Kritisch.”
“Hm!” growled the old man; but he did not speak again till they reached
the hotel. Arrived there, they went up into his room.
“Franz, my dear boy,” said Schoenlein, with great tenderness, “you must
promise me to quit this life, and I will forget that you have ever
disobeyed me. Let us look on it as a boyish freak, now over.”
Franz was silent.
“It is your father who speaks. Remember he is your best friend; and he
earnestly implores you to quit a career which even success can only make
a gilded disgrace. Will you promise me this?”
He felt very uncomfortable, and knew not what answer to make.
“You are young,” pursued his father; “young and hopeful. You look as yet
only to the bright side of life, and see only the pleasures of the
stage. You think it glorious to be applauded, to have your name in the
mouths of men, your portrait in shop windows. In a little while all this
applause will pall upon your ear; all these portraits will look like so
many signs of your disgrace, and caricatures of yourself. The charm will
pass away, and you will feel yourself to be a mountebank, painted to
amuse a gaping crowd! Then the wear and tear of the profession, its
thousand petty irritations and miserable anxieties, will be as stings of
wretchedness, and you will curse the day you first trod upon a stage.
“Look at me!” he said, suddenly pausing in the angry walk which he was
taking up and down the room. “Have _I_ not been successful? have _I_ not
been flattered, envied? have _I_ not known what it is to be a great
tragedian, to dictate terms to managers, to sway audiences? Have _I_ not
known all this? And yet, since you can remember me, have you ever seen
me happy? Is not my life an example? Does not my whole life cry out to
you, Beware! Will you not profit by the bitter lessons of my
experience?”
“But, my dear father, you forget one thing: you have always looked upon
the profession with disgust. I do not.”
“You will learn to do so.”
“I cannot believe it. You are the only actor in Germany who thinks so.
Besides, I have, as it seems to me, a real vocation.—You may sneer, but
a vocation is necessary in this as in all other professions. It is quite
clear that I have none for theology. I must get my bread somehow.”
“Your bread? Franz, listen to me. So fixed is my opinion, that if you
will obey me, from this time forward you shall have the whole of my
earnings. I have already saved enough to satisfy my own humble wants. I
will devote every shilling to furthering and maintaining you in any
profession you choose to select. You shall not say that necessity made
you—as it has made _me_—an actor.”
“I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”
“It is none. I would sacrifice every thing rather than see you on the
stage! Besides, in another year or two you may make a rich marriage. I
have already agreed with our old friend Schmidt, that you should be
united to his daughter Bertha, and her dowry will be very large.”
A deep, deep blush overspread Franz’s face, which was succeeded by a
deathlike paleness, as his father mentioned marriage.
“How can I ever break my marriage to him!” was his mental exclamation.
“Will you promise me?”
“I cannot. Believe me, it distresses me thus to disobey you, but I
cannot quit the stage.”
“I have failed to convince you then? You misapprehend my motives. You
think, perhaps”—and here an affected laugh of irony gave tenfold force
to the words—“that I am jealous of you?”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Franz.
But his father’s words and tone had, as in a flash of light, suddenly
revealed the real feeling in his heart: he _was_ jealous, and his son
perceived it.
Do not, however, suppose that the old man was aware of this feeling; he
would have shuddered at the accusation. Blinding himself with all sorts
of sophistications, he attributed his horror at Franz’s adoption of the
stage to his very sincere disgust to that profession; and because he
really did in his own person feel an actor’s life was disgraceful, even
sinful, he fancied his objection to Franz’s being an actor was wholly
derived from that feeling. But in the depths of his heart he was
horribly jealous. He had learned to hate Franz as a rival, before he
knew him to be his son. Critics had maddened him by their comparisons.
Franz had been pointed out as the actor who was to eclipse him. And now
that he found Franz was his son, instead of rejoicing in his success,
instead of feeling proud that at any rate his rival was his son, and
that the genius which dethroned him was derived from himself—instead of
the consolation which another father would have received, he was
assailed by the bitterest thoughts at the idea of his son being an
actor! He was incensed at such disobedience, at such violation of all
his wishes; and attributed to his anger all he really felt of jealousy.
There is something so painful in the idea of a father being jealous of
his son, that many will be tempted to pronounce it impossible. Rare it
fortunately is, but not impossible. Who has not known women jealous of
their daughters: women preserving their beauty, and followed by homage,
till their girls are old enough to dispute and bear away the palm from
them? If this is not uncommon—and more than one instance must occur
within every reader’s experience—what is to prevent the same principle
applying in a man’s case? You have only to imagine the vanity pampered
by flattery into an unhealthy condition, and then bring in a rival—no
matter whom—and the thing is done. Either the father’s vanity will be
caressed by the reflection of the child’s success, (and this, happily,
is the commoner case,) or it will be irritated at the child’s
interference with its claims.
In Schoenlein’s case must be added the strange but intense dislike with
which he regarded the profession of an actor. Had there been no rivalry
in the case, had Franz been only a tolerable actor, he would still have
been excessively irritated. But for his son to be an actor, and for the
public to prefer him as an actor to his father—this was agonising!
He grew eloquent in his exhortations. Finding it was in vain to make
Franz share his religious opinions, he endeavoured to dissuade him by
painting all the dangers of the profession—its pangs, its weariness, its
disappointments—painted the disagreeable ordeal he himself had been
forced to undergo; and speaking, as he thought, to accomplish his son’s
welfare, he was eloquent.
This much is to be said for fathers who object to their sons following
their own careers: the struggles by which they have won their way, the
sorrows which have been forced upon them, the dangers they have
escaped—these are all so vividly present to their minds, that they
believe them inseparable from the career. Who shall say that another
will escape these perils? All the delight, all the rapture of hope and
of success are forgotten, or else weigh but as a feather in the scale
against these perils. A father says:—
“It is true I escaped; but I was fortunate. Besides, I had genius,—I had
rectitude,—I had strength of will. My poor boy, (and fathers are apt to
look with a sort of compassion on their children: is it because the
children have, from infancy upwards, looked to them for pity and
protection?)—my poor boy will not be able to buffet with the world as I
did! He will be led away by temptations; he will succumb beneath
adversity!”
In proportion to the precariousness of the profession is the reluctance
of the parent. Poets never wish their sons to be poets; certainly not to
trust to poetry for their livelihood. Nor do artists desire their sons
to be artists. Actors almost universally shudder at the idea of their
children becoming actors.
So that Schoenlein’s remonstrances would have been vehement, even had he
not been tormented with jealousy. But, from the moment Franz perceived
the real state of his father’s mind, all compunction vanished. No
arguments could have made him quit the stage; but now he felt his
father’s arguments to be insults.
“I hope you do not misunderstand me,” said the old man. “You must know
me well enough to believe that no one would more rejoice in your
success—that to no one should I be so proud to transmit my laurel crown,
if it were not lined with iron, which brands the forehead with disgrace.
I am growing old, and am soon about to leave the stage for ever: to whom
could I so fitly leave the inheritance of my renown, did I not perceive
that it would entail lasting misery upon him, as it has entailed it upon
me? No, no, you must relinquish this boyish notion,—you shall marry
Bertha Schmidt, and quit the stage for ever.”
“Oh, do not ask it!”
“I do more than ask it—I command!”
“Do not—dear father—do not force me to disobey you.”
“You—you will _not_ leave the stage?”
“I—I cannot! It would be hypocrisy in me to pretend it. I have a passion
for the stage; and whether that passion lead me to happiness or to ruin,
I _must_ gratify it.”
“And think you Bertha will marry an actor?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Are you indifferent to that?”
“Why—the truth is—I cannot marry her.”
“You cannot? You shall!”
“I love another!”
“You love another!” angrily exclaimed his father; and then adding, with
a sneer—
“Some _actress_, I presume!”
Franz coloured.
“It _is_ so,” said his father. “Old Clara Kritisch, I shouldn’t wonder!”
A deeper blush overspread Franz’s face, and a look of anger shot from
his eyes, as his father contemptuously let fall those words.
Franz loved his wife; but he knew the disparity between them. She was
not old to him, for he loved her,—was happy with her; but although to
him she was as young as a bride, he knew what others said of her—what
others thought of her. For himself he felt that
“Age could not wither, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety;”
yet he trembled at his father’s knowing she was his wife.
Schoenlein, who had observed the blush on Franz’s countenance, walked up
to him and, placing one hand upon his shoulder, said—
“Franz, Franz, beware! You are on the edge of an abyss: the worst
temptations of our miserable profession beset you. Beware of that artful
old woman:—do not frown, she is artful,—I have heard of her! She has
ruined more young men than any woman now upon the stage. She has
ensnared you;—do not attempt to deny it,—I see it in your countenance.
She has flattered and cajoled you. She has lured you with languishing
looks and sweet low words. You are already her dupe;—beware lest you
become her victim!”
“I cannot,” said Franz, rising wrathfully, “I must not, I will not, hear
this language of her.”
“You must and shall hear it. Why should I hesitate to utter the contempt
I feel for that _refuse_ of a hundred libertines!”
Franz was purple with suppressed passion, and, with terrible calmness,
said:—
“You are speaking, sir, of MY WIFE!”
Schoenlein’s lower jaw fell; his eyes became glazed, and, slowly sinking
on the sofa, he waved his hand for his son to withdraw.
CHAPTER V.
The following week Schoenlein was again in Berlin, and playing three
nights a-week—a thing quite unprecedented with him. All his repertory
was brought forward. A sort of rage possessed him. He was tormented with
the idea of producing such an effect upon the public as should perfectly
eclipse his rival and son.
With true actor’s ingenuity in such matters, he gave the preference to
his son’s favourite parts. He hoped, by repeatedly performing them ere
Franz arrived, he should weary the public of those plays, and so prevent
large audiences welcoming the new actor. He hoped, also, that by this
means the public would better appreciate the difference between his
finished style and the crude energy of his rival. The consequence of
this procedure he expected to be,—small audiences and unfavourable
criticisms. By these he hoped to disgust his son, and so wean him from
the stage.
Unhappily, he was so goaded by the desire to produce a greater effect
than heretofore, as to act much worse than heretofore. He overdid every
thing. He was too violent; his contrasts were too marked; the
elaboration was painful. People lamented his exaggeration, and began to
whisper that his day was gone.
Franz appeared. Young, handsome, ambitious, full of hope and
energy—around him the charm which always belongs to novelty, and within
him the inappreciable wealth of genius—how could he fail to produce a
deep impression? The calculation of his rival turned out a mistake: so
far from the public keeping away because they had so recently seen the
pieces performed, they flocked to the house because they wished to
compare the two rivals in the same parts. As in the case of all
well-known plays, the attraction was in the actor, not in the piece.
Berlin never witnessed such a debut. Franz was called sixteen times
before the curtain to receive their boisterous homage. The whole town
was in a state of excitement. Every body talked about him; every body
compared him with Schoenlein—to the general disadvantage of the latter;
and the secret of the relationship soon transpired, which led to endless
discussion. The actors mostly stood by Schoenlein: they do not like new
favourites. But the public, undisguisedly, unequivocally preferred
Franz.
Exasperated by what he called the fickleness of the public, Schoenlein
went to Dresden, there to eclipse the remembrance of his son. He played
to crowded houses. But if at Berlin he overacted, at Dresden he “tore
the passion to tatters.” Instead of crushing Franz’s reputation he
nearly ruined his own. One paper had the malice to recommend him to
retire from the stage.
He did retire; but not till after a fearful struggle with himself, and
many a bitter reflection on the world’s ingratitude, and the
worthlessness of his efforts. He was deeply hurt. He secluded himself
from every one. In the practices of devotion, and in brooding solitude,
he endeavoured to forget the world and its frivolities. He tried to find
occupation in study, and solace in religion. But to the one he did not
bring a studious mind; to the other he did not bring a religious heart.
Lacerated with envy and humiliation, his soul found no comfort in books.
He could not forget the past; he could not shut the world from his
heart. The solemn organ strains, which stirred his soul when in church,
recalled to him the stage; still more so did the inflections of the
preacher’s voice recall it to him; he could not refrain from criticising
the preacher’s declamation.
He ceased to go to church, and tried the efficacy of lonely prayer. In
vain! The stage was for ever present before his mind. He tried to
renounce the world, but the world held possession of his heart. His
renunciation was not prompted by weariness, but by rage: the world
weighed not too heavily and sorely upon his spirit, making him weary,
making him yearn “for the wings of the dove, to flee away and be at
rest;” on the contrary, he was only angry at his unjust appreciation.
His retreat was not misanthropy but sulking. He could not forget his
defeat.
Months passed away in this unavailing struggle.
Suddenly he reappeared upon the stage. His reappearance created intense
interest, and the theatre trembled with applause. The public was so glad
to see its old favourite again! Schoenlein’s heart bounded, as of old,
responsive to that thunder of applause; but the joy was transient: his
pride was soon once more to be laid low. That very public, which had
welcomed him so enthusiastically, grew indifferent by the end of the
week. In truth his acting had lost its former grandeur. Flashes of the
old genius there still were, from time to time, but they only served to
make more obvious the indifference of the whole performance. People
shook their heads, and said, “He was certainly grown too old for the
stage.”
He never reappeared.
Meanwhile Franz continued his triumphant career. He played at almost
every town in Germany; and even the old men thought him superior to the
actors of “their day.” The greatest triumph an actor can achieve is to
make the “laudator temporis acti” forget for a moment the illusions of
his youth, and confess that, even seen through the magnifying mist which
envelops and aggrandises the past, this living actor is as great as
those who are no more.
But Franz, amidst his brilliant success, was far from happy. The stage
was the scene of his triumphs, but home was the scene of his despair. He
was in a false, a very false position. Petted and idolised by the
loveliest women in Germany, he had learned to look upon his wife as what
she was—a woman past her prime, faded in beauty, insignificant in mind.
He began to blush for her! This is perhaps the cruellest torture a
husband can know, because it affects his self-love as keenly as his
love. It is a torture which generally results from such ill-assorted
unions. Slowly had the conviction dawned upon him—but it had come. He
struggled against it, but it would not be set aside; it pressed on and
on, till at last it fairly gained admittance into his mind, and made him
wretched.
For observe, it was not her faded beauty which made him blush—it was not
that she was so much older—it was because this faded insignificant woman
was fretful, jealous, ungenerous, and unprincipled. The perception of
these faults of disposition opened his eyes to the perception of her
faults of person; they raised the question in his mind—_who_ is this
whose jealousy irritates, whose fretfulness distresses me? He began to
scrutinise her, and the scales fell from his eyes!
“My dear Clara,” he said to her one day, “what in heaven’s name has
changed you so? You used to be cheerful—now you are unbearably peevish.”
“And what has changed _you_ so, Franz?”
“I am not aware of any change!”
“No!” she said ironically.
“In what, pray?”
“You used to be fond and attentive, and now you are cold and
neglectful.”
“If I am so, whose fault is it?”
“Lieschen Flemming’s. Oh, yes! pretend astonishment; but I see clearly
enough. Your tenderness _on_ the stage with her is so well acted,
because you have so often rehearsed it in private.”
“Clara! Clara! this jealousy is insupportable!”
“Yes, yes—that is the answer I always receive; but it is no answer to my
accusation.”
“Why, Lieschen is betrothed to Fechter!”
“What matters that? Are _you_ not married to me—and does that interfere
with your making love to her?”
“This is perfectly ridiculous! Last week you were jealous of Rosa Behr,
because she played Juliet; now it is Lieschen Flemming, because she
plays Gretchen. I presume every actress whom I have to make love to on
the stage will come under your suspicions?”
“Every one to whom I see you making evident love. I know I am old. I
have lost the charm I once had in your eyes.”
“This is not the way to regain it,” he said, as he put on his hat and
angrily left the room.
He that day confessed to himself that she was old, that she had lost the
charm which once had captivated him! But Franz was a man of honour; and
although he found himself in this false position, he resolved to support
his lot with courage. He was wedded to a woman too old for him, unsuited
to him; but the wedding had been his act and desire. It had been the
crown upon his hopes. He had loved her—been happy with her. He could not
forget that. And although divorces are easily obtained in Germany, he
could not bring himself to abandon her, to separate from her, now she
was past her prime. He had offered her an independence if she wished to
part from him; but she did not wish to part—she still clung to the idea
of regaining his lost affection—and made home miserable as a means of
regaining it!
For five years did Franz drag about with him this load of wretchedness.
To render his situation still more pitiable, he became conscious that he
loved another. Madame Röckel’s youngest daughter—a sweet innocent girl
of eighteen—had conceived a passion for the young tragedian, which her
artless nature had but ill concealed. Franz read it in her eyes, in her
tones, in her confusion; and reading it, he also read in his own heart
that her passion was returned.
He left Berlin in two days after the discovery, with bitter curses on
his youthful error, which had yoked him to a woman he could no longer
love, and which had shut him for ever from the love of another.
Then, indeed, the thought of a divorce rose constantly before him; but
he wrestled with the temptation, and subdued it. He resolved to bear his
fate. His only hope was that death might interpose to set him free!
CHAPTER VI.
If in these brief sentences I have indicated the misery of Franz’s
condition—the depth of the shadows which accompanied the lustre of his
success—if I have truly presented the main outlines of his domestic
history, the reader will imagine Franz’s feelings when a hand as
friendly as that of death did interfere to set him free.
Clara ran away with the low comedian of the troop!
She had worn away in tears and fretfulness all the affection she once
had felt for Franz, and having inspired a sort of passion in the breast
of this comedian, lent a willing ear to his romantic proposal of an
elopement. To a woman of her age an elopement was irresistible!
She fled, and left Franz at liberty.
The very day on which Franz received this intelligence he had to perform
in Kotzebue’s _Menschenhass und Reue_ (our “Stranger.”) He went to the
theatre extremely agitated. Great as was his delight at being released
from his wife, and released by no act of his own—he could not think
without a shudder upon the probable fate which awaited her; and a
remembrance of his former love and happiness with her returned to make
him sad.
It happened that old Schoenlein had that night been seized with a sudden
impulse to see his son act, and had gone privately into the _parterre_.
It was the first time he saw his son acting—for on that Dresden night he
_saw_ nothing—a mist was before his eyes. He was now sufficiently calm
to be critical.
Franz played the wronged husband with such intense feeling, such depth
of passion, such thrilling intonation of voice, that the old man shared
the rapture of the audience, and wept tears of joy and of pride as he
confessed that his son was really a great actor.
The curtain had no sooner descended than Schoenlein, hurrying out of the
house, went round to the stage-door, knocked at his son’s dressing-room,
and in another instant had fallen on his shoulders, sobbing—“My boy! my
dear, dear Franz! you have conquered me!”
“My dear father!” exclaimed Franz, pressing him convulsively to his
heart.
“Franz, I retract all that I have said. I forgive you. You have a real
vocation for the stage!”
This happy reconciliation was soon followed by the betrothal of Franz
Schoenlein to Matilda Röckel; and the old man had not only the delight
of seeing his son wedded to a woman worthy of him, but also to hear him
announce his intention of retiring for ever from the stage. He had
realised an independence, and the stage was connected with too many
disagreeable associations for him not to quit it on this opening of a
new era in his life.
THE MOSCOW RETREAT.
“It is scarcely necessary,” says Mr Rellstab, in the preface to an early
edition of his romance of “1812,” “for the author to confess how largely
he has availed himself of Ségur’s narrative of the Russian campaign. It
will be evident to all readers that he has followed, at times almost
word for word, the descriptions of that skilful historian.” Without
taxing Mr Rellstab with exceeding the romance-writer’s legitimate
privilege in thus largely helping himself from the pages of General
Count Ségur, we may congratulate him on having had as a guide, in the
historical portions of his book, so admirable a work as the _Histoire de
Napoleon et de la Grande Armée_. As interesting as any romance, it at
the same time conveys the conviction that the author has determined to
merit the character of historian, and to avoid that of the retailer of
campaigning gossip and anecdotes. Indeed one often feels disappointed
and almost vexed at the extreme brevity with which the Count refers to
all matters not strictly essential to the history of the grand army and
great chief whose history, during the brief existence of the former and
the first reverses of the latter, he undertakes to portray. He dismisses
in three lines many an incident of strange romance or thrilling horror,
whose details one would gladly see extended over as many pages. Mr
Rellstab has cleverly availed himself of this dignified and military
conciseness, improving upon hints, and filling up blanks. With a few
bold dashes of his graphic pen, Count Ségur furnishes the rough sketch;
this his German follower seizes, adds figures, tints, and names, and
expands it into a picture. The account in “1812” of the retreat from
Moscow to Wilna is, in fact, a poetical paraphrase of that given in
Ségur’s history; and this paraphrase Mr Rellstab, seduced by the
excellence of his text, allows somewhat to impede the progress of his
plot; or rather it protracts the book after the plot has, in all
essential respects, been wound up. Nevertheless, as we have already
said, this paraphrase, which may be considered in some degree
supplementary or parenthetical, is the best part of the work; and Mr
Rellstab displays great power of pen, and artistical skill, in his
handling and adaptation of the materials furnished by his French leader.
The last strictly original chapters of the romance are those composing
the eleventh book, commencing immediately after Ludwig is rescued by
hostile peasants from death at the hands of his own friends. Here for a
while we lose sight of the fugitive army, and abide amongst the
Russians.
The chief ground of apprehension with the Russian nobles, upon
Napoleon’s invasion of their country, was lest he should proclaim the
emancipation of the serfs, and thus enlist in his behalf millions of
oppressed peasants. The plan occurred, and was suggested to the French
Emperor, but various considerations deterred him from attempting its
realisation. He apprehended a frightful amount of license and excess
amongst a barbarous people thus suddenly released from bondage.
Tremendous destruction of property, and frightful massacres of the
higher classes, were the almost certain results. He might succeed in
raising the storm, but he could never hope to guide it. Moreover,
although the child of revolution, his sympathies were not with the
masses. The Russian landholders, however, did not reckon upon his
forbearance, and took every means in their power to counteract any
propagandist projects he might have in view. “In the first place,” says
Ségur, “they worked upon the minds of their unfortunate serfs,
brutalised by every kind of servitude. Their priests, in whom they are
accustomed to confide, misled them by deceitful discourse, persuading
these peasants that we were legions of demons, commanded by
Antichrist,—infernal spirits, whose aspect excited horror, and whose
contact polluted. Our prisoners perceived that when they had used a dish
or vessel, their captors would not touch it again, but kept it for the
most unclean animals. As we advanced into the country, however, it was
natural that the clumsy fables of the priests should lose credit with
their dupes. But, on our approach, the nobles recede with their serfs
into the interior of the land, as from the advance of some mighty
contagion. Riches, habitations, all that could delay them or serve us,
are sacrificed. They place hunger, fire, the desert, between us and
them; for it is as much against their serfs as against Napoleon that
this great resolution is executed. It is not a mere war of kings, but a
war of classes and of parties, a religious war, a national war, every
kind of war united in one.” Stimulated to hatred of the intruding
foreigners by those they most feared and respected—by their owners,
namely, and their priests—the peasant-slaves of Russia perpetrated
frightful cruelties upon those unfortunate Frenchmen who fell into their
hands; cruelties admitted and abundantly illustrated by Mr Rellstab,
although his predilections are upon the whole rather Russian than
French. It is only justice to say, however, that in all the historical
portions of his romance he displays great impartiality, and puts himself
above national antipathies, taking a cosmopolitan view of the causes,
conduct, and progress of the great struggle.
Led away by his captors to a bivouac of armed peasants in the glades of
a vast forest, Ludwig at first almost regrets having escaped the volley
of the French firing-party. A colossal Russian stretches out his hand to
appropriate his prisoner’s foraging-cap, and, upon the imprudent
resistance of the latter, raises a club to dash out his brains. Ludwig
deems himself no better than a dead man, when suddenly a woman’s scream
is heard, and a figure clad in costly furs rescues him from the fierce
savage. A veil is thrown back, and Ludwig beholds Bianca, who possesses
a castle in the neighbourhood, the same which the Polish lancers had
surprised upon her wedding-night. It is not quite clear what has brought
her into the forest among beastly Cossacks and bloodthirsty peasants,
unless it were to meet Ludwig. The sights she there meets are not all of
the most agreeable kind. Whilst the enraptured Ludwig kneels before her,
kissing her hand and weeping, a horseman, whose noble steed and rich
dress bespeaks the man of rank, dashes into the circle, and sternly
inquires the reason of this strange scene between the lady and the
captive dragoon. It is Count Dolgorow, who interrupts Bianca’s
explanation by suddenly springing from his horse, and seizing the
scoundrel Beaucaire, his former secretary, whom his quick eye has
distinguished in the group of prisoners. By a strange fatality, his
betrayer and his rescuer are together delivered into his hands. He
gratifies revenge before showing gratitude, and has the traitor
precipitated into one of the huge bivouac fires that blaze around.
Before this we have met with a French grenadier impaled alive in a wood,
and with a party of Russians setting up their captives as targets. There
is no scarcity of the horrible in Mr Rellstab’s pages, but without it
the retreat from Moscow could not be faithfully described. After
Beaucaire has been roasted, Bianca recovered from her swoon, and Ludwig
presented to the Count—who admits, but with no very good grace, his
claims to gratitude and consideration—the other prisoners are sorted.
The able-bodied are sent to the Count’s hunting-seat, thence to be
forwarded to the mines. To those unfit to work, Russia, says Dolgorow,
can afford no other nourishment than two ounces of lead. One man only is
put aside as too old for labour. This is St Luces, Beaucaire’s employer
and Ludwig’s persecutor.
“St Luces, not having understood the Count’s words, fancied that, from
his appearance and fine linen, and from his clothes (of which, however,
he was by this time pretty well stripped,) his captors had discovered
him to belong to the higher classes. The pallid horror which had spread
over his features since the terrible fate of Beaucaire, was replaced by
a faint gleam of hope. He ventured to address the Count in French.
“‘I trust, sir,’ he said, ‘I shall be treated in conformity with those
laws of war which all civilised nations respect. I am not a military
man, but belong to the civil service; my rank—’
“‘You are a Frenchman,’ sternly interrupted Dolgorow—‘one of those
vampires who have sucked the blood and marrow out of half the nations of
Europe; more contemptible and odious than the soldier, for he, at least,
fights with fair and open weapons.’
“‘They would willingly,’ persisted St Luces, again trembling with
apprehension, ‘exchange me against Russian prisoners!’
“‘Prisoners! what prisoners have you?’ cried Dolgorow with bitter scorn.
‘Thousands, certainly are set down in your bulletins, but where can you
show them? You do wrong to remind me of that. Think you we know not how
your ruthless assassin bands have treated the few who fell into their
hands? Think you we have not found them, lying with shattered skulls
upon the roads in rear of your flying columns? Did we not meet with them
shut up in churches, barns, and stables, dead in the pangs of famine?
Away with ye! We shall find enough to exchange, when exchange we
_will_.’”[9]
Discoveries and surprises now tread rapidly on each other’s heels. A
German in the service of Count Dolgorow recognises Ludwig as the son,
and St Luces as the murderer of his former master; whereupon Ludwig
generously intercedes for the Frenchman’s life, but is sternly repulsed
by the Count, and St Luces is forthwith shot. Then, upon their way to
Bianca’s castle, Ludwig and his mistress stumble upon Bernard, lying
senseless in the road. They pick him up and take him with them, in spite
of danger from wolves and of the anger of Countess Dolgorow, impatient
to proceed. At the castle Bernard and Bianca discover, by the somewhat
hackneyed contrivance of identical rings, that they are brother and
sister, and soon afterwards the Count becomes aware of the good
understanding between them, and that Bianca knows she is not his
daughter. These meetings and recognitions thwarting certain deep-laid
plans, he resolves to forward Ludwig and Bernard to Siberia; but before
he can do so, the two young men, with Bianca and Willhofen the German
servant, make their escape by the aid of some French prisoners, and take
the road to Smolensko, with the intention of joining the French army and
seeking refuge in Germany.
Meanwhile Rasinski, with the shattered remnant of his gallant regiment,
now reduced to a feeble squadron of sixty horses, forms part of the
rear-guard under the hero Ney. We will give a specimen of Mr Rellstab’s
adaptation of Ségur.
“‘Rasinski!’ suddenly exclaimed Jaromir, ‘do you see yonder on the
rising ground?’
“‘Cossacks! And I wager my head they are not alone!’ replied Rasinski.
“Upon the heights appeared three horsemen, seemingly thrown forward to
reconnoitre. They were soon remarked by all; and there occurred in the
French ranks that restless stir and low murmur, betokening the
expectation of an important event.
“‘Jump on your horse, Jaromir,’ said Rasinski, ‘and ride to the corner
of the forest; thence you will see far over the country.’
“Jaromir, now the best mounted in the regiment, sped swiftly across the
snow, in obedience to the order. But he returned even more rapidly, to
announce that the entire heights were covered with Cossacks, and that
infantry columns were debouching from the depths of the forest.
“Just then Colonel Regnard, who by the marshal’s order had also been out
to reconnoitre, rode by. ‘This looks like work, Rasinski,’ he cried in
passing; ‘the ball opens just like the day before yesterday. The wood is
as full of Russians as an anthill of ants.’ The drums beat. The troops
stood to their arms. The disorderly groups of weaponless stragglers and
invalids formed themselves into a dense mass.
“‘For us the fight is a pleasure,’ exclaimed Rasinski; ‘but it is hard
upon Boleslaw and the other wounded. We must do our best to shield them
from harm. But who comes here?’
“A Russian officer was seen descending the hill, waving a white
handkerchief.
“‘Useless trouble, sir,’ said Rasinski proudly to himself, as he
distinguished the Russian’s object. ‘We shall not treat for peace so
long as we can handle our arms.’
“The marshal was busy placing and ordering his troops. He galloped
through the ranks, showing himself every where, directing and
encouraging all. Rasinski sent an orderly to report to him the approach
of a flag of truce. But before the message reached him, the Russian
officer reached the outposts, and, on distinguishing the Polish uniform,
summoned them in their own language to surrender to overpowering forces.
Rasinski sprang forward like an incensed lion. ‘What!’ he shouted, ‘you
would seduce our men, incite them to desert! That is not the duty of a
flag of truce. You are my prisoner!’
“The alarmed officer would have turned his horse, but Rasinski already
held the bridle, and his soldiers surrounded the Russian so quickly that
resistance and flight were alike impossible.
“‘You will surely respect the sacred rights of a flag of truce!’ cried
the Russian.
“‘You should have waited at proper distance, till you knew if it pleased
us to receive you,’ replied Rasinski. ‘It is against all usage of war to
approach an enemy’s army as you have done.’
“‘Take me to your commander,’ said the officer, ‘he will listen to my
well-intended offers. The bravest must yield to impossibility. You have
no alternative but capitulation.’
“‘We shall see that,’ answered Rasinski, well assured beforehand of the
marshal’s decision. ‘Here comes our commander, Marshal Ney. That name
may suffice to convince you that you will waste your words.’
“The marshal came; Rasinski rode to meet him and reported what had
passed.
“‘You have done your duty as an officer and man of honour,’ replied Ney;
‘I should take shame to myself did I hesitate to confirm your words.’
And he rode forward and inquired the Russian’s pleasure.
“‘Marshal Kutusow sends me,’ began the officer. ‘He would not offend so
renowned a warrior and general by asking him to lay down his arms, if
any alternative remained open. Upon the surrounding heights stand eighty
thousand men, and one hundred pieces of cannon. If you doubt my words,
you are at liberty to send an officer, whom I will conduct through our
ranks that he may count our strength.’
“‘I hope to get near enough to your army to count them myself,’ replied
the marshal with flashing eyes. ‘Tell Prince Kutusow that Marshal Ney
has never yet surrendered, and that the world’s history shall never
record his having done so. Yonder is the goal which duty and honour
assign me; I will break a road through your ranks, though your forests
became armies.’
“‘They _will_ do so,’ replied the Russian. The words had scarce left his
lips, when the thunder of artillery echoed from the heights in front and
on the left flank, and an iron hail crashed and rattled upon the icy
surface of the plain.
“‘This is treachery!’ cried the marshal sternly, as he looked up and
beheld the hills crowned on all sides with levelled guns, and dark
masses of troops. ‘There is no parleying under fire! You are my
prisoner!’
“The officer, confounded at being thus sacrificed by the imprudence or
recklessness of his friends, gave up his sword.
“‘Take him to the rear!’ commanded the marshal. ‘General Ricard,
forward! Attack the enemy with the bayonet. You shall have the honour of
opening the road.’
“The general, at the head of fifteen hundred men, pressed resolutely
forward.”
Everybody who has read Ségur, and those who have not had better begin
immediately, knows how these fifteen hundred men were swept away by
Kutusow’s artillery; how Ney in person headed the next charge; and how,
after losing more than half his division, he retreated towards
Smolensko, made a flank movement, again returned southwards, and at last
struck the Dnieper, and crossed it with the remnant of his force,
without a bridge, and on blocks of floating ice, to find, upon the
further bank, Platoff and his Cossacks, with their Scythian tactics and
sledge-mounted artillery, to which he had no cannon to oppose,—the six
guns wherewith he had audaciously returned the fire of Kutusow’s
tremendous batteries having been left, of course, on the north bank of
the river. But, after braving and escaping from the whole Russian army,
Ney was not to be intimidated by a horde of ill-disciplined savages; and
he forced his way, fighting incessantly, to the neighbourhood of Orcha,
where Eugene received him with open arms. There are only five short
days’ marches from Smolensko to Orcha; but in that little section of the
long and terrible retreat, Ney, whilst losing thousands of men daily,
gathered enough laurels to shade the brows of half a dozen heroes. We do
not envy the feelings of those, be they Russians, English, or of what
country they may, who can read, without profound emotion and admiration,
the history of Marshal Ney during the Russian campaign, and especially
during its latter and most disastrous portion. When those who previously
ranked as the bravest gave in—when pride and thirst for glory were
obliterated by extremity of suffering, and by the instinct of
self-preservation—when the soldier’s most powerful incentives,
discipline, honour, and gain, were forgotten and lost sight of, and even
the iron veterans of the Old Guard, no longer sustained by their
Emperor’s presence, renounced the contest and lay down to die—when his
fellow-marshals, with rare exceptions, showed weariness and
discouragement, and even the stern Davoust complained that the limits of
human suffering were exceeded,—where was Ney, what was his aspect, what
his words and actions? In rear of the army, a musket in his hand, a
smile of confidence on his lips, the fire of his great soul and of his
own glory flashing from his eyes, he exposed his life each minute in the
day, as freely as ever he had done when he had but life to lose, before
his valour had given him riches and rank, family and fame. Surely, so
long as valour is appreciated, the name of NEY will be borne in glorious
remembrance. And surely those men who subsequently pronounced his
sentence of death, must since have sometimes felt remorse at their share
in the untimely fate of so great a warrior. “I have saved my eagles!”
joyously exclaimed Napoleon, when he learned, at two leagues from Orcha,
that Ney was safe, although he brought with him but the ghost of his
fine division. “I would have given three hundred millions to avoid the
loss of such a man.” Although Napoleon, in some things the most
magnificent charlatan upon record, dealt largely in speeches of this
sort, we may believe that in this instance the cry came from the heart.
What would the Emperor have said, had he then been told that three years
later, on the 7th December 1815, the anniversary of one of those days
when Ney so bravely breasted the Muscovite torrent, an execution would
take place in an alley of the Luxemburg gardens, and that there, by
sentence of a French chamber and the bullets of French soldiers, a
premature end would be put to the glorious career of him he had surnamed
the Bravest of the Brave!
Previously to the junction of Ney and Eugene, Colonel Rasinski, whilst
reconnoitring in the gray of the morning, falls in with a sledge
containing three persons muffled in furs, whom he at first takes for
Russians, but who prove to be Ludwig and his two companions. Upon the
occasion of so happy a meeting, M. Rellstab is of course profuse in
tears and embraces; Jaromir and Boleslaw are summoned to assist at the
jubilee, and thenceforward the three Poles, the two Germans, Bianca, her
waiting-maid Jeannette, and the faithful Willhofen, keep together as far
as Wilna, save and except those amongst them whom death snatches by the
way. The party is soon increased by an infant, the daughter of Colonel
Regnard, and of a French actress, of which Bianca takes charge. Here
again the author of “1812” has made good and effective use of an
incident thus briefly recorded by Ségur.
“At the gates of the town (Smolensko) an infamous act struck all
witnesses with a horror that still survives. A mother abandoned her son,
a child of five years old; in spite of his cries and tears she repulsed
him from her overloaded sledge, wildly exclaiming that ‘he had not seen
France! he would not regret it! But as to her, she knew France! she must
see her country again!’ Twice did Ney have the poor child replaced in
its mother’s arms, thrice she threw it upon the frozen snow. But amongst
a thousand instances of sublime and tender devotedness, this solitary
crime was not left unpunished. This unnatural parent was herself
abandoned upon the snow, whence her victim was raised and confided to
another mother. At the Beresina, at Wilna, and Kowno, the orphan was
seen, and he finally escaped all the horrors of the retreat.”
In the romance the child is first fostered by a wounded veteran, and a
compassionate canteen woman, but is separated from them when traversing
the Dnieper, and receives the tenderest care from Bianca. On the
northern bank of the Beresina we find the principal personages of the
tale assembled, at the moment when the Russian cannon pour their
murderous contents into the dense mass of fugitives, and these, crowding
to the bridge, fall by hundreds into the water. A round-shot suddenly
shatters the front of the vehicle in which Bianca, her maid, and the
child are seated. The scene that ensues is spiritedly and naturally
told.
“The frightened horses reared furiously, and would have upset the
carriage had not the pole and fore-axle been in splinters. Willhofen
sprang forward to hold them; Ludwig and Bernard hurried to his
assistance. With streaming hair, Jeannette had already leaped from the
cart, and Bianca, unconscious of what she did, followed her example,
still closely clasping the infant.
“‘Is it alive?’ cried a voice, and at the same moment she felt herself
seized from behind. She turned, and Regnard stood before her, his right
arm in a sling: he had just made his way through the crowd of carts.
‘Oh! I have you then at last,’ he tenderly exclaimed, kissing and
caressing his child as she lay in the arms of Bianca, who, stunned with
terror and the recent shock, scarce thought of wondering at his
unexpected appearance.
“‘You here, colonel?’ cried Bernard. ‘How and whence came you?’
“‘From the fight up yonder,’ replied Regnard. ‘’Tis awful work; our
fellows stand like the walls of Troy, but all must soon be overthrown,
for the Russians bury us under their bullets.’
“‘Did you see Rasinski? Is he alive? And Boleslaw and Jaromir?’
“‘They fight like lions, like devils, those Poles; but it’s all in vain,
we cannot hold out another hour. And this defile over the bridge looks
about as tempting as the jaws of hell.’
“‘You are wounded, colonel?’
“‘My right arm shattered. My horse was knocked over by a shell; I
dragged myself as far as Studianka to seek a doctor, and found ashes and
corpses, no longer of use in the fight. I thought I would have a trial
to cross the bridge. I saw these carriages from above; I knew you had
driven up here yesterday. If I could only find you, I thought, and get a
last look at my little daughter! Laugh at me, if you like, but the
thought came like a whisper from heaven. ‘Perhaps it is the last wish
you will see fulfilled,’ said I to myself. And as if some invisible
guide had led me, I made my way to your very carriage, just as the
twelve-pounder played you the trick. Only see now how hearty the child
is; it grows like its mother! Ah! if I only had something for you, poor
darling! Were we but in Paris, that I might give you a pocketful of
bonbons!’
“And in fondling and chattering with the infant, he forgot both his
crushed arm and the destruction that raged so actively around. The storm
of shot had no terrors for him; twenty battles had accustomed him to it.
But the sweet emotions of paternal love were new to him, and a secret
voice seemed to warn him that he would not long enjoy them.
“Ludwig now came up and greeted the colonel. Bianca gave the child to
Jeannette, for Regnard, with only one arm, could not hold it, and she
felt that her strength was giving way amidst this complication of
horrors. She leaned against the wheel of the carriage. Bernard observed
her faltering, and encircling her tenderly with his arm, he kissed her
pale cheek.
“‘See yonder woman,’ he said; ‘take pattern by her; see, dearest sister!
how calm she is amidst the ravages of death.’
About twenty paces off, a tall female figure sat upon a horse, a child
of three years old in her arms, and gazed steadily at the tumult. A
black veil was twined round her head, but left her noble and striking
countenance exposed. She could but just have arrived, otherwise her
appearance was too remarkable not to have attracted attention, even in
that hour of confusion when few thought of any thing but their danger.
“‘Calm?’ said Bianca, after a long look, ‘calm, say you? Petrified, you
_should_ say. See you not the tears that roll over her rigid
countenance, and the despairing gaze she directs to heaven? Alas, poor
woman!’
“‘She is the widow of Colonel Lavagnac,’ said Regnard; ‘her husband fell
three weeks ago at Wiazma; the child in her lap is her daughter.’
“All eyes were fixed in pity on the mourning figure, when a cannon-ball
boomed through the air, and struck her and her horse to the ground. A
cry of horror escaped the bystanders. The unhappy woman had disappeared.
One could not see her for the throng. Bernard, Ludwig, and Regnard
forced a passage through the mob of men and horses, but with all their
efforts their progress was slow. Bianca followed them, led partly by
pity and partly by fear of separation from her protectors.