ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS.
“War is mercy, glory, fame,
Fought in Freedom’s holy cause,
Freedom such as man may claim
Under God’s restraining laws.”
WORDSWORTH.
Between opening month of 1813 and that of the following year a great
change swept over Europe. Men of Teutonic race, true-hearted sons
of their dear Fatherland, look back upon that era with honourable
pride. They talk with enthusiasm of “the war of liberation,” telling
gratefully beside their hearths, or by the vine-clad banks of their
glorious “German Rhine,” how prince and peasant armed for the fight,
and flung from them the intolerable yoke of the foreign oppressor.
Körner’s patriotic lyrics thrilled every heart, and many another
tuneful voice, then and since, has chanted the pæan of Germany’s
deliverance,--
“How the crowned eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain,
So was the triumph won.”
But there are other heroes besides the pre-Homeric of whom it may be
said,--
“They had no bard, and died.”
In that memorable battle fought long ago in the valley of Elah, we are
told how the men of Israel arose with a great shout, and rushing upon
their Philistine oppressors, chased them with tremendous slaughter to
the very gates of their own fastnesses. It was a glorious victory; but
it would scarcely have been won at all if the Hebrew champion had not
first slain Goliath “in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the
armies of Israel.” In like manner the battle of the deliverance of
Europe was really fought and won upon the frozen plains of Russia.
The early days of 1813 found the Russian hosts upon the frontiers
of their own country. Within that country, through the blessing of
God upon their valour and constancy, not an enemy remained except in
captivity. By the first month of 1814 the still victorious armies
of the Czar had reached the boundaries of France. That unhappy land
seemed now about to suffer what she, or her rulers, had once and again
inflicted upon others. “Woe to thee that spoilest, and thou wast not
spoiled; and dealest treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously
with thee! when thou shalt cease to spoil, thou shalt be spoiled; and
when thou shalt make an end to deal treacherously, they shall deal
treacherously with thee.” So has it ever been since the world began:
wrong begets wrong, cruelty engenders cruelty; “they that take the
sword perish with the sword.” It was the hour of retribution. Slavs
and Teutons, whose homes and hearths had been made desolate by French
bayonets, gazed, flushed with triumph, on the fertile plains of France,
and promised themselves and their dead a terrible vengeance. “We will
reward her even as she rewarded us, and the cup which she hath filled
we will fill to her double,” they said in their hearts. It was the
voice of Nature.
But in that hour another voice was heard. “Soldiers,” said Alexander to
the armies of Russia, “your valour and your perseverance have brought
you from the Oka to the Rhine. We are about to enter a country with
which we are waging a sanguinary and obstinate war. The enemy, entering
our empire, brought on us great evils, but suffered for it an awful
punishment. Let us not take example by them; cruelty and ferocity
cannot be pleasing in the eyes of a merciful God. Let us forget their
deeds, and render them, not vengeance and hatred, but friendship, and
a hand stretched out for peace. Such is the lesson taught by our holy
faith. Divine lips have pronounced the command, ‘Love your enemies; do
good to them that hate you.’ Soldiers, I trust that by your moderation
in the enemy’s country you will conquer as much by generosity as by
arms; and, uniting the valour of the soldier against the armed with
the charity of the Christian towards the unarmed, you will crown your
exploits by keeping stainless your well-earned reputation of a brave
and moral people.” This was _not_ the voice of Nature, but of Grace.
But these noble words, did they die upon the ears of those who heard
them, leaving only an echo, faint though musical, to remind them of
the existence of such things as mercy and humanity? or did they really
prove strong enough to restrain the excited passions of a hundred
thousand fighting men? Strange to tell, the voice of Alexander was
obeyed. It was not easy to secure such obedience; it would not have
been even possible, had not he whose lips uttered the command been
passionately loved, as well as feared and honoured. But a touching
proof how well it was secured was given years afterwards. When, through
the length and breadth of Europe, the tidings flashed from lip to lip,
“The Emperor of Russia is dead,” the peasants of the French provinces
through which he marched at the head of a victorious hostile army
crowded unbidden to their churches to offer their humble prayers,
useless indeed but sincere, for the repose of his soul.
Two months of hard fighting brought the Allies from the banks of the
Rhine to those of the Marne, which they crossed on the 28th of March,
and found themselves in the rich and fertile plain that surrounds
Paris. The Chevaliers of the Imperial Guard had borne their full
share in the glories and dangers of the war; for their place was near
the person of a sovereign of whom it was said with truth that “the
only life he ever exposed without reflection was his own.” Their ranks
were sorely thinned: one gallant youth had fallen by a shot from the
same battery as that which killed Moreau, two at Toplitz, others at
Leipzig and elsewhere. But their arms were as bright, their equipages
as splendid, as when they left the banks of the Neva; and their massy
silver cuirasses reflected the sunshine of France from surfaces
as stainless as those which flashed upon the parade-ground of St.
Petersburg.
Ivan Pojarsky was an ensign now--he had won his colours on the banks of
the Elbe--and he wore besides the Order of St. George along with the
Moscow medal on the breast of his crimson tunic. He had escaped without
a wound; but his friend Tolstoi was looking very pale, and had his left
hand in a sling.
As the Chevaliers rode together towards Paris on the evening of the
29th of March, their party was joined by some noble young Prussian
volunteers, their personal friends. One of these, named Schubart,
was vaunting to the Russians the courage and ability of Blucher, and
telling them the story of some of his exploits.
“All that is very well,” said Tolstoi, with a little irritation. “Far
be it from me to deny that Prince Blucher is a brave soldier and a good
general. But where, I ask you, would he be now, but for his Russian
auxiliaries? You know as well as I that his army contains four Russians
for one Prussian. Still,” he pursued, “there is all the difference in
the world between your fine old hero and that Austrian trimmer and
time-server, who, I verily believe, would have us all prisoners in the
camp of Napoleon, if he were left to himself.”
“I am not any more in love with Prince Schwartzenberg than you are,”
said the Prussian; while Ivan whispered to Tolstoi, with a warning
glance, “Take care.”
“Oh yes, I’ll take care,” answered Tolstoi lightly. Then, as a spasm of
pain passed across his face, “What a nuisance this hand is! Lucky it is
not the right one, though.”
“If it had been,” said Ivan, “you would have done as Diebitch did at
Austerlitz--taken the sword in your left, and fought on.”
“I am sorry to see you are wounded,” remarked Schubart. “How was it?”
“Oh, it is nothing,” returned Tolstoi. “I got the hurt three days ago,
in that fight with Pacthod’s corps.”
“A brilliant affair. We have all heard of it,” said the Prussian.
“Ay,” answered Tolstoi; “those Frenchmen fought like demons.”
“Like heroes, you mean,” said Ivan. “Certainly the empire Napoleon
has kept over the hearts of his soldiers is no less than a miracle,
especially when we know how little he would care if all of them were
dead to-morrow, provided he had as good to replace them. It was sixteen
thousand men with guns and cavalry against six thousand without either;
and yet they would not yield to us. Our guns raked their lines. Still
they stood undaunted, resolved to resist to the death. The Czar sent an
aide-de-camp with a flag of truce to them. They shot him dead.”[48]
“Not _very_ chivalrous that,” Schubart interposed.
“No, truly. But how gallantly they fought! They would have kept
their places till they were cut to pieces, man by man. And to that
it must have come, but the Czar would not have it. He called on us
to follow--us of the Chevalier Guard,” said Ivan with a look of
pride--“and dashed headlong into the midst of them, breaking up and
scattering their compact square by the sheer impetus of his charge.
It was a glorious _mêlée_--the grandest I have ever seen. Think of
Pacthod giving his sword into the Czar’s own hand, and not dreaming
until afterwards that the gallant cavalry officer whose courage and
promptitude averted a massacre was the Emperor himself!”[49]
“Ach, wunderschön!” cried Schubart. “Herr Tolstoi, I would take your
wound twice over to have been in the midst of it.”
“Look!” Ivan suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the scene before them.
While absorbed in their eager talk, they had been ascending an
eminence, from the top of which they now caught their first sight
of the magnificent capital of France. The sun had just set, but its
parting beams still lingered upon the gilded dome of the Hôtel des
Invalides and the stately summit of the Pantheon. “Paris! Paris!” was
the exclamation that broke from every lip, and resounded far and wide
in lengthened cries of fierce joy and exultation. “Paris! Paris!” was
shouted again and yet again, as rank after rank of that gallant army
beheld the goal of all their aspirations, the end of all their toils.
After the first involuntary cry Ivan was silent. At length he said
quietly to his friend Tolstoi, “When I think of that terrible
September, the last but one, and of the flames of Moscow, the wonder
and the gladness seem too great, too awful for words.”
“Those flames are burning in many a heart now,” Tolstoi answered.--“I
suppose they will hardly let us in yonder without a struggle,” he added
in an altered tone. “What will to-morrow bring?”