that had been assigned me at the ‘Black Bear,’ my eye and ear were
suddenly struck by a strange hubbub going on below. A troop of
red-tunic’d Zieten Hussars (‘Duke of Connaught’s’) were watering their
horses in the Vistula, which has here a broad, placid, and majestic
course; and while these thirsty animals were revelling in delicious
draughts of the first water they had tasted since leaving Rathenow
(their garrison townlet, near Bismarck’s native place), their riders
were amusing themselves by roaring and laughing at the frantic efforts
of what seemed to me to be a big Newfoundland dog to extricate himself
from the stream. Presently the poor brute, which to my great
astonishment gradually assumed human shape, struggled, spluttering and
gasping, on to the shelving bank; and then it was that I recognised in
this buffeted and bedraggled creature, Solomon Hirsch, the well-known
correspondent of the _Berliner Tageblatt_, whose shock head of hair, all
touzled and dishevelled, had given him the semblance of canine form and
feature alluded to. It appears that poor Hirsch, fulfilling his
functions with more zeal than discretion, had already made himself an
object of universal execration at the front by communicating to his
paper most minute details as to the massing and position of the German
troops towards the Russian frontier, and that being recognised by these
rollicking and resentful Zieten Hussar fellows, to whom he had, in an
evil moment for himself, appealed for information as to their ultimate
destination, this ‘curse of modern armies’ was at once set upon,
hilariously tossed in a horse-rug, and then contemptuously heaved into
the Vistula. I have made a point of dwelling on this serio-comic
incident, which I myself was quick to take to heart, as it will serve to
explain the absence from my telegrams of all but the most meagre and
general references to the positions and movements of the German troops;
and, indeed, I should be worthy the fate of my hapless colleague did I
abuse the hospitality which has been so graciously extended to me by
revealing unexecuted plans.
Indeed, I have only been promised the use of the field and other
telegraph wires on the strict condition that my messages never exceed a
limited number of words, which will necessarily restrict my reports to
the briefest and barest, yet, I trust, sufficient summaries.
The Emperor (who was accompanied by the King of Saxony and other high
general officers) has just returned from a rapid ride round the circle
of the outer forts, within which the troops are all lying under canvas;
and from the top of the Garrison Church Steeple, the highest point in
this mighty fortressed town, nothing can be seen but endless vistas of
tented bivouacs. Never before has the German soldier been allowed any
other night covering in the field but the canopy of heaven, though,
indeed, in a country like France, which is, in truth, a land flowing
with milk, wine, and honey, and teeming with villages and other
opportunities of cantonment, he had comparatively little need of tents.
But it is quite a different thing in Russia, with its raw and rigid
climate, its vast, uncultivated, and uninhabited spaces; and it was in
view of the probable contingency of a campaign in such a foodless and
roofless wilderness that the General Staff, with that remarkable
foresight and wisdom which has always distinguished it, resolved to
equip all the Army Corps lying nearest the Eastern frontier with the
very best tents procurable—namely, such as were at once waterproof,
windproof, and even fireproof. For otherwise what ruin might not a spark
from a bivouac fire entail upon the tented fields which stretch away in
every direction towards the horizon, both here and at Posen, at Neisse,
and at Königsberg, reminding one of the hosts, countless as the sands on
the sea-shore, of the five kings who encamped over against Gibeon.
But I must not omit to record a curious incident which happened as the
Emperor was riding past the statue of Copernicus, whose birthplace was
Thorn. Just when abreast the monument of that immortal astronomer, His
Majesty remarked to his suite: ‘_Ja, meine Herren_, there you see the
man who first opened the eyes of the world to the true nature of the
solar system; and I think that with God’s help we shall equally be able
to assign Russia her proper place in the system of nations.’
THE AUSTRIAN PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.
DETAILS OF PREPARATION.
(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent, Mr. Charles Lowe._)
THORN, _April 29_.
To-night the Emperor (who continues to display wonderfully good spirits
and energy) gave a banquet in the hastily furbished-up rooms of the
gloomy old Schloss, in honour of Feldzeugmeister Baron Beck, the Chief
of the Austrian Staff, who, pending the progress of his well-thought-out
mobilisation and massing scheme, which he had set a-going by a simple
order from Vienna, had hastily run up here by rail to concert united
action with his German colleague, Count von Schlieffen, the present
occupier of Moltke’s high and responsible office. From a trustworthy
source I gather that this was the substance of Baron von Beck’s
communication:—
It had been discovered, beyond all doubt, that the main objective of the
Russian invasion was Lemberg, in the direction of which Dragomiroff was
concentrating immense masses of troops, drawn from the 4th, 8th, 9th,
10th, 11th, 12th Army Corps, in the rear of whom other forces, furnished
by the remoter 13th, 16th, 17th and other Corps, were pushing up as fast
as the defective railway system of the country would allow them.
Austria, on her part, had resolved to combine her defensive forces into
three armies—one of about 300,000 strong, in East Galicia, on the
Dniester; another, about as half as strong (150,000), on the San, with
its back on Przemysl, that tremendous bulwark of Middle Galicia; and a
third, of about 120,000, near Cracow, that almost equally formidable
_place d’armes_, and key of Western Galicia on the Upper Vistula.
But these numbers do not include a force of eight independent Cavalry
Divisions, each of four Brigades, or four regiments, which are to be
ranked along the Galician frontier at the likeliest points of danger
from the mass-raidings of Russian horsemen.
[Illustration:
THE KNIGHTS OF MALTA AT AMBULANCE WORK.
]
Such were meanwhile the relative dispositions and prospects on either
side of the Austro-Russian border, while, on the other hand, General
Gourko, the hero of the Balkans, was concentrating at Warsaw an army
consisting of the 5th, 6th, 14th, 15th Corps, and other troops, for the
double purpose of holding the Germans in check, and of operating towards
Cracow, on the Austrian left flank. Moreover, the 2nd Russian Corps from
Wilna, and the 3rd from Riga, seemed to be marshalling on the lower
Niemen with the view of looking over into Königsberg; and of these
Muscovite troops in the Baltic Provinces, no less than in Western
Poland, Baron Beck trusted that the Germans would give a good and
satisfactory account.
As a token of his complete satisfaction with the Baron’s lucid and
hopeful exposition of the military situation, the Emperor, at parting,
which was very cordial on His Majesty’s part, conferred on the
distinguished Chief of the Austrian Staff the Red Eagle of the first
class (with swords), and, at the same time, intrusted him with an
autograph missive for his august master at Vienna.
(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent, Mr. Charles Lowe._)
THORN, LATER.
From my correspondent with the Army of the Baltic at Königsberg I learn
that its mobilisation is now complete, and that Count Waldersee (who has
had a bad fall from his horse, but is better again) is burning to make a
dash across the frontier and pluck a leaf from the laurel-wreath of
General Gourko.
The 2nd, or Pomeranian Corps, has meanwhile been appointed to cope with
any descent from the Russian Fleet on the Baltic shore; while the 9th
Corps has been similarly left in Schleswig-Holstein for the double
purpose of frustrating any attempted landing in that quarter, and also
of keeping an eye on Denmark, whose hearts are practically with the
Russians, and who have not yet forgotten the Redoubts of Düppel.
On the other hand, the fortification of Breslau is proceeding at a rapid
rate, Prince Pless and the Duke of Ratibor having lent a little army of
their miners to do the necessary pick and spade work; while the Army of
Silesia (under Prince George of Saxony) is now echeloned along the
railway line, parallel to the Russian border, between Kreuzburg and
Tarnowitz—_in utrumque paratus_—that is to say, ready either for a front
march across the frontier on Czenstochau, on the Warsaw railway, or for
a flanking movement of support in the direction of Cracow, as occasion
may demand.
The Austrians, we know, are well forward with their concentration; but
owing to the fact that the telegraph wires of the Russians have now
ceased to speak to the outer world, and that travellers are neither
allowed into nor out of Russia, we are still very much in the dark with
regard to their massings and their movements. To-morrow, however, we
mean, if possible, to try and penetrate a little the veil of this
mystery.
FIRST COLLISION OF RUSSIAN AND GERMAN TROOPS.
SKIRMISH AT ALEXANDROVO.
(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent, Mr. Charles Lowe._)
THORN, _April 30_.
I have just returned from a reconnoitring ride with two squadrons of the
Zieten Hussars, who pushed across the Russian frontier to within sight
of Alexandrovo, the scene of the meeting (of which I had the good
fortune to be an eye-witness) between the old German Emperor and the
late Czar Alexander II., in September 1879, shortly before the signature
of the Austro-German Treaty of Alliance.
It is a curious coincidence that the first blood in the present campaign
should have been drawn within view of the spot to which the old
Emperor—greatly against the advice of his irate Chancellor,
Bismarck—then hastened to conjure the Czar to desist from his warlike
operations, and assure him, on the other hand, of his own unalterable
determination to keep the peace.
When we had advanced by the road skirting the railway to within about a
mile of Alexandrovo, a gun attached to a body of Cossacks (they were of
the Don, as I could make out through my glass, from their blue tunics
faced with red) opened fire on us; and the shell, bursting right in
front of our leading troop, killed two horses and seriously wounded one
man (a Wachtmeister). So having thus caused the enemy to give tongue, we
turned bridle and trotted back, carrying with us the intelligence—the
rich fruit of our reconnaissance—that Alexandrovo was strongly occupied
by troops of all arms. Four sotnias of Cossacks came pelting after us,
but we were quick to outrun these rampaging gentry, to whom a gun from
one of our horse-batteries sent hurtling over a few shells as a parting
souvenir of our hasty yet successful visit.
WARLIKE EXCITEMENT IN PARIS.
(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent, Mr. D. Christie Murray._)
PARIS, _April 30_.
Paris to-night is in a state of the maddest ferment. For some days past
the public have followed with breathless interest the rapid development
of events on the Russo-German frontier, and the news of the first
skirmish at Alexandrovo, which was printed in _Le Soir_ this evening,
has roused the wildest enthusiasm. Long and anxious consultations of
Ministers have been held daily, and the Press, with hardly an exception,
have been urging on the Government an immediate declaration of war. Many
of the better-class Germans have been hurrying from Paris—a precaution
which, in the issue, has been shown to be judicious. When to-day’s news
became known, every trade and artifice was instantly abandoned, and the
streets since three o’clock till now have been thronged by vast crowds,
pulsating to a more and more impassioned excitement. By four o’clock
there were literally fifty thousand people standing in the street with
newspapers in their hands, and every reader was the centre of an excited
throng. I was standing opposite the Vaudeville when a man, bearing a
prodigious bundle of newspapers wet from the press, came staggering
swiftly towards the kiosque. The mob fell upon him, despoiled him of his
burden, and tore open his parcel. There was such a wild hurry to learn
the news, and everybody was so eager to be first with it, that scores of
the journals were torn to ribbons, and hundreds more were trampled into
the mud of the pavement. The proprietress of the kiosque wrung her hands
and wept over the spectacle, and a gentleman who, by pressure of the
crowd, was forced half-way through one of the windows, vociferously
demanded to know the value of the lost journals. The woman instantly
became business-like, and appraised them roughly at a hundred francs.
The gentleman produced a pocket-book and paid her twice over, shouting
noisily, ‘I present this glorious news to Paris! _Vive la Russie! A bas
la Prusse!_’ That was the first signal I heard, and in one minute the
whole boulevard rang with frenzied roar on roar. Omnibuses, public
carriages, and vehicles of every description were wedged immovably in
the crowd which thronged the horse-road. The drivers rose from their
seats, the passengers and occupants of the carriages stood up in their
places and roared and gesticulated with the rest. Hundreds of people at
once strove to make speeches, and the combined result was such a
_charivari_ as can scarcely have been heard since the great day of the
Confusion of Tongues.
I, myself, had occasion to be thankful for that inconquerable English
accent which has always disfigured my French. A blond beard and
spectacles have always helped me to something of a German look, and
to-day has given the few Germans who happen to be left in Paris such a
scare as the bravest of them is not likely to forget. At one moment I
was surrounded by a wild section of the mob, whose yells of ‘Down with
Prussia!’ were far too obviously intended to be personal to me. There
was nothing for it but to join in the shouting, and I cried ‘_Vive la
France!_’ and ‘_A bas la Prusse!_’ as lustily as any of them. There was
an instantaneous laugh at the English accent, and I was left alone; but
I could not help thinking what would have happened had I chanced to
learn my French mainly in Berlin rather than in London. One unfortunate
German is reported fatally injured by the violence of a mob at the Gare
du Nord. He had booked for London, and is said to have carried with him
only a small handbag, and to have left all the rest of his belongings at
the hotel, in his hurry to catch the train for Calais. The director of
the Opera came near to paying with his life for his artistic allegiance
to Wagner. Happily for him he was able to take refuge in the house of a
friend, and the mob contented itself by keeping up a ceaseless
boo-hooing for an hour or more.
EXTRAORDINARY SCENE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE.
The wildest manifestation of the afternoon was in the Place de la
Concorde, where an immense mob fell to dancing about the statue of
Strasburg. Everybody knows the sullen threat with which that statue has
been placarded for so many years. It runs ‘L. D. P. (the initials
standing for “Ligue de Patriotes”) Qui Vive? La France. 1870–18—.’ When
the prodigious noise created by the mob seemed at its highest, it was
cloven, as it were, by a din still greater, and a solid phalanx of men
forced a way into the already crowded square. In the centre of this
phalanx twenty or thirty men marched, bearing a long ladder, the heads
of many of them being thrust between the rungs. In the middle of the
ladder was seated a working painter in a blue blouse. The man was
literally wild with excitement, and was roaring ‘Quatre vingt douze’ to
a sort of mad, improvised tune, in which the packed marchers about him
joined with the fell stress of their lungs. In one hand the man
flourished aloft a pot of red paint, with the contents of which he
occasionally bedewed his unheeding companions, some of whom had
playfully bedaubed their own and others’ features, so that they looked
as if they had just come fresh from some scene of massacre. In the other
hand the man held aloft a sheaf of brushes, and in an instant the vast
crowd seized the motive of his presence there, and the meaning of the
rhythmic repetition of ‘Quatre vingt douze!’
[Illustration:
EXTRAORDINARY SCENE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE:
THE MOB TEARING THE MOURNING EMBLEMS FROM THE STATUE OF STRASBURG.
]
A way was cleared for the advancing cohort as if by magic. The ladder,
still supporting the painter, was drawn up lengthwise before the statue,
and the workman knelt to his task. At first it was impossible for him to
work, for the bearers of the ladder were jigging to the tune they sang;
but by and by they were persuaded to quiet, and a very striking and
impressive silence fell upon the crowd. The man, with great
deliberation, and with a much firmer hand than he might have been
supposed to own at a time of such excitement, drew the outline of the
figures 9 and 2 in white chalk, at as great a size as the space of the
placard admitted. His movements were watched with an actually breathless
interest, and when, after the completion of his drawing, he rose and
clasped the knees of the statue in his arms with a joyful and
affectionate cry, two or three people in my neighbourhood sobbed aloud.
The man knelt down again and filled in with red paint the outline he had
drawn. One grim personage, with a squint and a pock-marked face, who
held a short, well-blacked clay between his teeth, shouldered me at this
moment, and said, ‘_C’est le sang de la France, ça_.’ He thought so well
of this that he moved away among the crowd repeating it, nudging his
neighbours to call attention to the saying, and pointing a dirty
forefinger at the red paint of the figures to indicate its meaning. I
was waiting for an outburst of enthusiasm when the figures were
completed, but to my amazement the mob accepted the proclamation they
conveyed with a grave silence, as if it had been in some way authentic
and official, and as if for the first time they recognised the terrible
significance of the hour. Their quiet did not endure long, for one of
their number, having contrived to scramble on to the ladder, clambered
up the statue, and amid great cheers tore from it the ragged emblems of
mourning which have so long disfigured it.
Then came an episode, the like of which would be possible nowhere but in
Paris. The whole thing might have been arranged for scenic effect, and
the distinguished artist who made the _coup_ had never, brilliant as his
triumphs have been, arrived on the stage at so opportune a moment, or
encountered so overwhelming a reception. The new-comer was no other than
M. Jean de Reszke, who was on his way to dine with a friend before
appearing as Faust in Gounod’s masterpiece this evening. His coachman
was slowly making way along the crowded road when the great singer was
recognised. He was greeted with a roar of applause, and a dozen members
of the crowd threw open the closed landau he sat in, while a thousand
voices clamoured for the _Marseillaise_. The statue had, at that
instant, been denuded of its last rag of mourning, and M. de Reszke, who
had risen bareheaded in the carriage, was whipped out of it in a trice,
and borne, _nolens volens_, to the figure, and placed aloft on the
pedestal. His companion, a lady attired with much distinction, was at
first evidently alarmed, but soon gathered the peaceful intention of the
crowd, and seizing the meaning of the moment, she stripped from her own
shoulders a handsome scarlet cloak, and threw it towards M. de Reszke.
It was immediately passed on to him, and he, with considerable
difficulty, and at the risk of a tumble on the heads of the people below
him, succeeded in casting the cloak over the shoulders of the statue. At
this, all the previous noises which cleft the air of Paris this
afternoon seemed as nothing. The cheering was simply deafening and
maddening, and lasted for full three minutes. At length perfect silence
was restored, and M. de Reszke began to sing the _Marseillaise_. He was
pale at first, and obviously unstrung at the spectacle of this
prodigious audience, and for the first few notes his voice was broken
and ineffective. He gathered confidence, however, before he had
completed the singing of the first line, and gave the rest of the song
with an inspiring vigour and _élan_.
From the beginning of the whole extraordinary scene people had been
flocking in from every quarter, and I believe that I am well within
bounds when I say that the singer had an audience of a hundred and
twenty thousand. The chorus was one of the most stupendous and moving
things which can ever have been heard by human ears. It rose from the
densely-packed mass of humanity in one amazing roll and roar of sound,
and its echoes came straggling faintly from the Rue de Rivoli and the
Tuileries Gardens, from the Avénue des Champs Elysées, from the Rue
Royale, from the Pont de la Concorde, and the embankment on the further
side of the river. When the whole song was finished it was redemanded,
and was sung through again with undiminished relish both by the soloist
and the chorus. Finally, the singer was permitted to descend from the
pedestal, and was escorted to his carriage. The crowd had taken out the
horses, and M. de Reszke and his companion were drawn away by some
hundreds of volunteers. The great singer’s nationality has made him the
idol of Paris during all the late days of strained expectation. Every
night the Opera-house has been thronged, and every song from his lips
has been received with literal thunders of applause.
THE PRESIDENT SPEAKS—‘A BERLIN!’
LATER.