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.dt The Project Gutenberg eBook of “1812” Napoleon I in Russia, by Vassili Verestchagin
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“1812”||NAPOLEON I IN RUSSIA
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ART
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GAINSBOROUGH. By Walter Armstrong, Director
of the National Gallery, Ireland. With 62 Photogravures
and 10 Lithographs in Colour. £5 5s. net.
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LEONARDO DA VINCI. From the French of Eugène
Muntz. In 2 vols., with 20 Photogravures, 26
Coloured Plates, and about 200 Text Illustrations.
£2 2s. net.
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MEISSONIER. By Vallery C. O. Greard. From
the French by Lady Mary Loyd and Florence
Simmonds. With 38 Full-page Plates, and 250
Text Illustrations. £1 16s. net.
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CORREGGIO. By Corrado Ricci. Translated by
Florence Simmonds. With 16 Photogravures,
21 Full-page Plates in Colour, and 160 Illustrations
in Text. £2 2s. net.
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REMBRANDT. By Emile Michel. Edited by
Frederick Wedmore. With 76 Full-page Plates
and 250 Text Illustrations. £2 2s. net.
.hr 10%
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NEW LETTERS OF NAPOLEON I. Omitted from the
Edition published under the auspices of Napoleon
III. Translated from the French by Lady Mary
Loyd. 15s. net.
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NAPOLEON AND THE FAIR SEX. From the French
of Frédéric Masson. With a Portrait. 6s.
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LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.
21 Bedford Street, W.C.
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“1812”
NAPOLEON I IN RUSSIA
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BY
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VASSILI VERESTCHAGIN
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WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
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R. WHITEING
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Illustrated from Sketches and Paintings by the Author
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LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1899
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This Edition enjoys copyright in
all countries signatory to the
Berne Treaty, and is not to be
imported into the United States
of America.
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CONTENTS
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| | Page
| Introduction | #1#
| On Progress in Art | #16#
| Realism | #24#
I | Napoleon | #53#
II | The Burning of Moscow | #180#
III | The Cossacks | #220#
IV | The Grande Armée | #227#
V | The Marshals | #256#
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FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
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Vassili Verestchagin | Frontispiece |
A Dispatch | | #72:i072#
Russian Grenadiers | | #78:i078#
At Borodino | | #92:i092#
Looking towards Moscow | | #108:i108#
Disillusion | | #128:i128#
On the Way Home | | #145:i144#
Bivouac | | #155:i154#
Despair | | #162:i162#
At a Council of War | | #176:i176#
Armed Peasant | | #186:i186#
In a Russian Church | | #197:i196#
Ney and the Staff | | #252:i252#
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“1812”
NAPOLEON I IN RUSSIA
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INTRODUCTION
The following pages are not offered to the reader as a
history of the invasion of Russia by Napoleon. They are
but the statement of the basis of observation on which
M. Verestchagin has founded his great series of pictures
illustrative of the campaign. These pictures are now to be
exhibited in this country, and the painter has naturally
desired to show us from what point of view he has approached
the study of his subject—one of the greatest
subjects in the whole range of history—especially for a
Russian artist. The point of view is—inevitably in his
case—that of the Realist; and this consideration gives
unity to the conception of his whole career and endeavour.
He has ever painted war as it is, and therefore
in its horrors, as one of its effects, though not necessarily as
an effect sought in and for itself. He has tried to be
“true” in all his representations of the battle-field. His
work may thus be said to constitute a powerful plea in
support of the Tsar’s Rescript to the Nations in favour
of peace. My meaning will be best illustrated by a short
sketch of M. Verestchagin and his work, as painter, as
soldier, and as traveller.
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He was born in the province of Novgorod, in 1842, of a
well-to-do family of landowners. The son wished to be
an artist; the father wished to make him an officer of
marines. As the shortest way out of the difficulty, he
became both. He passed his work-hours at the naval
school, and his play-hours at a school of design, working at
each so well that he left the naval school as first scholar,
and eventually won a silver medal at the Academy of Fine
Arts. He entered the service, but only for a short time,
and he was still three years under twenty when he quitted
it to devote himself wholly to art.
He was a hard-working student, though he always
showed a strong disposition to insist on working in his own
way. When Gérôme sent him to the antique, he was half
the time slipping away to nature. He played truant from
the Athenian marbles to flesh and blood. In the meantime
he was true to the instinct—as yet you could hardly
call it a principle—of wandering from the beaten track in
search of subjects. Every vacation was passed, not at
Asnières or Barbizon, but in the far east of Europe, or even
in Persia, among those ragged races not yet set down in
artistic black and white. He had been on the borders of a
quite fresh field of observation in these journeys; and he
was soon to enter it for a full harvest of new impressions. It
was in 1867; Russia was sending an army into Central Asia,
to punish the marauding Turkomans for the fiftieth time, and
General Kauffman, who commanded it, invited the painter
to accompany him as an art volunteer. He was not to
fight, but simply to look on. It was the very thing; Verestchagin
at once took service on these terms with the
expedition, and in faithfully following its fortunes, with
many an artistic reconnaissance on his own account, he saw
Asia to its core.
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He returned from a second Asiatic journey to settle at
Munich for three years; and here he built his first “open-air
studio.” “If you are to paint out-door scenes,” he says,
“your models must sit in the open;” and so he fashioned
a movable room on wheels, running on a circular tramway,
and open to sun and air on the side nearest the centre of
the circle, where the model stood. The artist, in fact,
worked in a huge box with one side out, while the thing he
saw was in the full glare of day; and by means of a simple
mechanical contrivance he made his room follow the
shifting light.
After a long rest at Munich, he was impatient for action
once more, and in 1873 he set off for British India.
Verestchagin filled one entire exhibition with his Indian
studies. They form a definite part of his collection, a
section of his life-work. Amazing studies they are. The
end of his sojourn coincided with the visit of the Prince of
Wales, and he saw India both at its best and at its worst.
In one immense canvas he has represented the royal entry
into Jeypore, the Prince and his native entertainer on a
richly-caparisoned elephant, and a long line of lesser magnates
similarly mounted in the rear. A scene of prayer in
a mosque is noble in feeling, and it exhibits an amazing
mastery of technique. The Temple of Indra, the Caves of
Ellora—all the great show-places—are there, with their
furniture of priests, deities, monsters, and men-at-arms.
He made a prodigious journey, from St. Petersburg by
Constantinople to Egypt, Hindostan, the Himalayas, and
Thibet.
On his return he saw a great national subject at last—the
Russo-Turkish War. He followed the armies and saw
it all, still as a civilian in name, but as a soldier in fact.
He could not keep out of it, both from patriotism and
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from artistic conscientiousness. On one occasion his
desire to study the effect of a gun-boat in the air nearly
cost him his life. When the Russians were preparing to
cross the Danube opposite Rustchuk, their engineers found
it almost impossible to carry on their surveys for a bridge,
owing to the proximity of the Turkish gun-boats. Some
men were accordingly sent out to lay fixed torpedoes
across the river to prevent the approach of the gun-boats.
But they themselves required protection while engaged in
the service, and a few torpedo-launches were accordingly
ordered to patrol the river for that purpose. They were
not to wait to be attacked, but to boldly assume the offensive,
and sink or drive off the big gun-boats. It was a
most dangerous duty, and when Verestchagin asked permission
to serve in one of the launches the officer in command
tried to deter him. “Russia has many hundreds of
officers like me,” he said, “but not two painters like you.”
Verestchagin, however, was allowed to have his way. The
launch he chose was very swift; it went almost at the
speed of a train. It soon came in sight of one of the gun-boats,
to the great terror of the Turkish crew. They could
be seen running about the deck shouting and shaking their
fists at one another. The gun-boat turned tail at once, but
the little torpedo-launch gained on it every moment. By
this time the whole Turkish force had taken the alarm, and
a fire was concentrated on the little launch both from the
gun-boat and the banks of the river, under which it was
evident she could not live. She pushed on, however,
shoved the torpedo under the bows of the Turk, and—it
hung fire. It touched her fairly, but the wire connecting
with the fuse had been cut in half by shot. Having done
this, or rather having failed to do it, the launch was carried
away by the tide, and just as she got clear of the vessel
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the Turks renewed their awful fire from ship and shore.
Verestchagin suddenly felt a sickening sensation, as if he
had been roughly pushed, and putting his hand to the place
found a wound that would admit his three fingers. At this
moment the crew of the Russian launch saw another Turkish
monitor coming towards them, and firing as she came,
so that they stood a good chance of being caught between
these two monsters—as they might fairly be called in relation
to the size of the launch. However, the launch turned
and ran, closely pursued by the nearest gun-boat, which she
had amiably tried to destroy. The pursuer was fast gaining
on them in their crippled condition, when, at a turn in
the river, they saw a little creek. They made for it and
were saved. The gun-boat could not follow for fear of
going aground.
This incident nearly finished Verestchagin’s artistic
career. He lay between life and death for weeks, but a
devoted Russian nurse brought him round. Of course he
went back to work again as soon as he could move, and in
one way or other saw and painted nearly all of the campaign,
especially Shipka, and the final rush on Constantinople.
De Lonlay gives us a characteristic picture of Verestchagin
at this time.
“On November 24, 1877,” he says, “we were in Bulgaria,
at the foot of the great Balkans. Our little expeditionary
corps, commanded by the brave General Daudeville, had
just taken possession of a city after an obstinate fight, and
was still trembling with the excitement of the struggle.
We ran through the deserted streets of the Turkish quarter,
which had been abandoned by its inhabitants. Everywhere
we saw the same lamentable signs of devastation—doors
broken open, windows smashed; and within the
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houses, furniture in fragments, heaps of wearing apparel in
rags, and a quantity of the stuffing of the ottomans strewed
all about, the Bulgarian pillagers having cared only for the
ornamental coverings. Amid all this confusion lay the
bodies of three Redifs and an Arnaut. The marauders had
already stripped them of their uniforms, leaving them
nothing but a little underclothing. A little further on, a
Redif, still dressed in his blue tunic, lay on the ground.
Suddenly, there came clattering by a troop of Cossacks
who had just been hunting the Turkish runaways. They
were rough-looking fellows, these soldiers in their white linen,
all in rags, and with their fur caps browned by the bivouac
fires and half bare with the wear and tear of the campaign;
but among them I remarked an elegant horseman who
contrasted strongly with the rest of the troop. He was
dressed half like a soldier and half like a tourist. He wore
a high Circassian cap in Astrakan fur trimmed with silver.
From his breast hung the officer’s cross of the military order
of St. George,[#] a high distinction justly envied in Russia.
The handle and the scabbard of his poignard and sabre were
in chiselled silver. I followed him a long time with my
eyes, admiring his bearing. A little later on in the same
day I found my unknown once more. He was sitting on
a low camp-stool in a corner of the grand mosque, and
making a study of the minaret. His aristocratic face, of a
long oval, was ornamented with a beard of a chestnut colour,
and it contrasted strangely with the olive complexion and
high cheek-bones of the Mussulman-Cossacks who surrounded
him and peeped curiously at the work he was
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doing. It reminded me of Salvator Rosa working in the
midst of the bandits of the Abruzzi. At this point a
common friend of both of us came on the scene and
presented us to one another. I had before me the great
Russian painter Basil Verestchagin, who had but just
recovered from the serious wound received in the previous
June. We talked for a long time of Paris and of the war.
Verestchagin complained bitterly of not having been able to
take part in the passage of the Danube, and see the winter
campaign as he had seen the summer one. ‘What good
luck you had,’ he said, ‘to follow Gourko in his expedition
beyond the great Balkans! What things you must have
seen, the massacre at Shipka, and the burning of Eski
Zara. If you only knew how it enraged me to be tied
down to my bed in the ambulance while the army was
going on!’ Then he paid me a few compliments on the
modest drawings which I was sending to the Monde
Illustré, compliments which touched me very much as they
were offered by such an eminent artist.
“A few days after, the branch of the Cossacks of the
Don to which I was attached, and the regiment of the
Grenadiers of the Guard, entered the pass of the Balkans
by the route which leads to Statitza. At nightfall we
halted on a plateau covered with snow, and where the
temperature was below zero. We were therefore not at
all disinclined to take refuge in an old Turkish block-house
and to light up a good fire. There I found Verestchagin
again, with Prince Tzerteleff, the former secretary
of Ignatieff, and Prince Tchakowski, who were all
following our columns as amateurs. Enveloped in our
bourkas, we talked away for hours round this bivouac
fire, Verestchagin telling us of his perilous expedition in
Turkestan. I can still hear him talking in his soft and
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quiet voice of all those scenes of massacre and carnage
which he had seen with his own eyes.
“A fortnight after, I was at Plevna, which had just
fallen into the hands of the Russian army, and there
I saw Verestchagin again. He was staying with General
Skobeleff, governor of the city. The great artist was
fresh from the terrible battles, and from the scenes of
misery which he had seen in the camps of the Turkish
prisoners, and he was projecting another series of pictures.
He was therefore, with his usual passion for accuracy,
taking pains to collect arms and uniforms of the enemy
as models. He showed great joy when one of the
officers present offered to conduct him to the place in
which the spoils of the garrison of Osman Pacha were
stored. By the light of a torch carried by a grenadier he
rummaged a long time in this heap of Peabody-Martini
rifles, covered with mud and dust, torn uniforms stained
with blood, blue vests with red lacings of the Nizams, brass-buttoned
tunics and red waistbands of the Redifs, etc. Next
morning we separated. Verestchagin followed the column
of Skobeleff in its march to Shipka; and I went to Orkanie
to rejoin the corps of General Gourko.”
As a war-painter Verestchagin is a great moralist, and he
is a great moralist because he is quite sincere. He paints
exactly what he sees on the battle-field, and he is far in advance
of the French, who are the fathers of this species of
composition, in his rendering of the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, about this bloody sport of kings.
There was a whole wide world of difference in spirit between
his little military gallery and the big one at Versailles.
The earlier Frenchmen give us pretty uniforms, a monarch
prancing on his steed in the moment of victory, an elegantly
wounded warrior or two in the foreground, obviously in the
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act of crying, “Vive la France!” a host in picturesque
flight, a host in picturesque pursuit, waving banners, and a
great curtain of smoke to hide the general scene of butchery,
with supplementary puffs for every disgusting detail.
Verestchagin’s manner, on the contrary, passing like a
breeze of wholesome truthfulness, lifts this theatrical vapour,
and shows us what is below—men writhing out their lives
in every species of agony by shot and bayonet wounds, by
the dry rot of fever, by the wet rot of cold and damp; and
finding their last glance to heaven intercepted by the crows
or the vultures, waiting for a meal. All this is very shocking,
but looked at in the right way it is supremely moral.
His work is his biography. He has lived every one of
his pictures, and he has often had to study at almost the
cost of his life. All that he represents he has seen; all that
he relates with his pencil he has lived. These pictures are
just so many chapters detached from his history. They
are the work of an artist of an exceptional nature; and
are worthy of a book written on the critical method of
Sainte-Beuve, a book wherein the man would occupy a
place at least as considerable as the work itself; for
the one and the other are inseparable. He is the first
Russian painter who has given his countrymen a true
impression of war—something besides those official pictures
where victory is displayed and never defeat. Even when
he paints victory he never separates it from its sadness, its
ruin, its misery, its mourning beyond relief. I seem to have
always before my eyes, as in a dream, that pyramid of
piled-up skulls which he met with somewhere in his wanderings,
and of which he has made one of his most striking
pictures. He wrote underneath it, “Dedicated to the
conquerors.”
Verestchagin had done nothing but draw; painting
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had frightened him. Gérôme and Bida in vain tried to
persuade him to begin. When he returned from his
second journey to the frontiers of Persia, among those
nomadic tribes with changeless manners, who must have
descended from Abraham, he showed his album and note-books
to the two painters, and they pressed him all the
more. Bida said, “No one draws like you,” and he accepted
a few sketches, one of which is to be found in his famous
Bible.
After his Asiatic campaign he had three years’ work at
Munich, an enormous and improbable labour, so much so
that his enemies insinuated that such a number and variety
of pictures could not be the work of a single man, and that
Verestchagin had been helped by German painters. The
calumny reached St. Petersburg, where he was exhibiting
at the time. At his request the Art Society of Munich
opened a thorough inquiry into the matter. Models,
porters, everybody that knew anything about it, testified on
oath that no painter but Verestchagin had so much as
entered the atelier. The report, covered all over with the
best signatures of Munich, and with a postscript of the most
flattering kind, was sent on to the Russian capital. When
they gave Verestchagin the surname of the Horace Vernet
of Russia, no doubt they thought they were saying something
in his praise; but he certainly had a right to feel
calumniated, for the general impression left by his work is
not admiration for princes nor glorification of war. In
telling the truth feelingly about the sufferings of the soldier,
without distinction of nationality, with as much pity for the
vanquished as for the victors, Verestchagin has shown himself
essentially human. His pictures, with their poignant
reality and elevated philosophy, are at the same time a
terrible satire on ambitious despots. Verestchagin is a
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courtier of nothing but misfortune. A pupil of Gérome, he
seems to have travelled very much in search of himself.
Sometimes he has drawn near to Meissonier, then there is
something in him of Géricault and of Courbet, and again he
is a true Impressionist in the best acceptation of the term.
As a traveller he saw Samarcand when the sight was
almost as rare and strange as that from the famous “peak
in Darien.” “Samarcand,” he says, “was occupied by
the Russians. Our armies had taken it without assault,
after having routed the troops of the Emir. On reaching
the summit of the hill I stopped there, dazzled, and,
so to speak, awed by astonishment and admiration.
Samarcand was there under my eyes, bathed in verdure.
Above its gardens and its houses were reared ancient
and gigantic mosques, and I who had come from so far
was going to enter the city, once so splendid, which
was the capital of Tamerlane.”
On that day, as Vambéry has told us, a new era opened for
Central Asia. “The countries and cities once absolutely
closed to the Western man are now opened before him.
There where a European could not make a single step without
danger of death, he now comes and goes as freely as he
pleases, for a Christian army holds the land. At Tashkend,
Khojend, and at Samarcand there are clubs, cafés, and
churches. Tashkend has its Russian newspaper, and with the
plaintive chant of the Muezzin is mingled the tinkling bell
of the Greek Church, more terrible to the ear of the true believer
than the thunder of cannonades. In the streets of
Bokhara, where, but a few years ago, the author of these
lines heard only Mussulman hymns, the Russian priest, the
Russian soldier, and the Russian merchant are now walking
together with the pride of the conqueror. A hospital
and a storehouse occupy the once splendid palace where
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Tamerlane used to command; the palace to which all the
princes of the East came to do homage, to which the
monarchs of Spain and the Indies sent an embassy to beg
for the friendship of the great conqueror, and where the
Turanians, humble and devout, knelt, to strike with their
foreheads the green stone which forms the sacred pedestal
of the throne of Timour. By the victory of the Russian
eagles in Central Asia, Islam has received a most terrible
wound. For the whole thousand years and more during
which it has struggled with Christianity it has never been
hit so full in the breast. In our time Western civilization
acts vigorously on Mussulman Asia from Byzantium to
India, and even Mecca and Medina have not escaped its
influence. Central Asia alone had remained the sanctuary
of Mahomedanism. The evil there had not been changed,
and it was not Mecca but Bokhara which passed for the
intellectual centre of Islam. The ascetic, the member of a
religious order, the theologian, sighed for this sacred city,
and the most zealous Mussulmans of the Ottoman Empire,
of Egypt, of Fez, and of Morocco, came to cherish their
fanaticism in its schools and in its mosques. Samarcand is
incontestably the Maracanda of the Greeks, the capital of the
ancient Sogdiana. It was the queen city of the basin of the
Oxus. It lost its preponderance for a time, but recovered
it, and under Tamerlane reached the height of its splendour.
The Mahomedans had a thousand poetic expressions in
praise of its wealth, its abundance of water, its innumerable
canals fed from mountain torrents, and running in all
directions through the plain.”
When on the Himalayas Verestchagin ascended the
highest mountain but one on the face of the globe—Kanchinga.
Kanchinga is twenty-eight thousand odd feet
above the level of the sea, and only Mount Everest in
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Nepaul takes the palm of it with 29,000 feet. But
Mount Everest is a peak, and no one can get up there;
while Kanchinga is a huge mass of mountain that invites
the climber. But Verestchagin was at Kanchinga
in January, when the mountain was covered with ice
and snow, so he could not get higher than 15,000 feet, and
he was considered a madman for trying to do that. Some
English officers in the neighbourhood, when first they
heard of his project, did all they could to dissuade him
from it. With his characteristic obstinacy he simply
thanked them for their advice and went on with his preparations
for the ascent. “At least,” they said, “you will never
take the lady?” Madame Verestchagin was with him,
and had insisted on accompanying him. “That will
depend upon her,” said Verestchagin, and his wife went
with him all the same. It was a frightful ascent. The
coolies abandoned them when they had gone a very little
way—these dark-skinned races cannot stand the cold—and
at last they had only one man, who carried the colour-box
and drawing-tools, the use of which was Verestchagin’s
main object in the journey. The painter wanted to go up
there to study effects of snow and cloud. By and by
even this man’s courage failed him, it became so intensely
cold. They were wading in snow up to the knees in some
places and in others up to the waist. The ponies had
been left below. There was no house or shelter of any
kind. They called a halt, and the courier went back to
get help, leaving Verestchagin and his wife on the mountain
in the midst of the snow, with only a small wood fire
between them and all but certain death, and with nothing
but snow for meat and drink. They cowered over the fire
till the falling snow put it out, and then for all that day
and night till far into the next day they struggled as best
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they could for life. As a final and desperate effort, Verestchagin,
taking leave of his wife, whom he never expected
to see again, roused himself and dragged his almost frozen
limbs down the mountain to look for help. When he had
gone a long way he met the coolie who had last left them,
coming back with food and aid, only just in time to save
both the travellers’ lives. Verestchagin was so exhausted
that he had to be carried back to where his wife lay. As
soon as he had recovered, he took out his colour-box and
made some capital sketches of Himalayan effects.
In 1881, a memorable exhibition of Verestchagin’s
pictures was held in Vienna. Its success was probably
without a parallel in the history of art exhibitions by a
single painter. For a whole month the public poured into
the rooms at an average rate of certainly not less than
eight thousand a day (on the last day twenty thousand
passed or tried to pass through the rooms), until, from the
Emperor to his humblest subjects, the peasantry included,
there was no class, and it may be added no nationality,
within the Empire, which had not sent its representatives
to the Künstlerhaus. An attempt, by some political
papers, to make the enthusiasm of the Slavs for Verestchagin
a means of exciting the hereditary jealousy between
them and other races of the Empire was happily frustrated.
It is literally true that the broad thoroughfare
leading to the exhibition was often blocked by the
immense crowd, and that the announcement, “The gallery
is full to overflowing,” had to be hung out to excuse the
temporary closing of the building two or three times a
day. The artist did not conceal from his friends that he
was proud of the popular and even of the numerical element
in his success, because it showed that his work had touched
those it was above all meant to reach. He had painted for
.pn +1 // 025.png
the people in the highest sense, and their response showed
that he had not laboured in vain. Du reste, this and this
only was his reward, for, beyond the payment of his bare
expenses, he had no pecuniary interest in the exhibition.
I may now leave the painter to speak for himself in
regard to his own guiding principles in art. The theory
of them will be found in what he has written on Progress
in Art, and on Realism. The practice, in so far as it
relates to right methods of historic study for the painter, is,
in all that follows relating to the Campaign of Moscow, his
latest and his greatest series of works.
.ll -2
.rj
Richard Whiteing.
.ll +2
.fm
.fn #
The cross of St. George, the highest military distinction in Russia,
is not given in the usual way on a mere order of the sovereign, but
only after a special inquiry into the circumstances of each case by the
Council of the Order.
.fn-
.pb
.pn +1 // 026.png
.sp 4
.h2
ON PROGRESS IN ART
We artists always learn too little, and if we have
recourse to books it is only cursorily, and without a
system, as though we held a solid education to be quite
unnecessary for the development of our talents. It must be
allowed that herein lies one of the principal, if not the chief,
reasons why art in its fuller and more complete development
is checked, and has not yet succeeded in throwing off its
hitherto thankless part of serving only as the pliable and
pleasing companion to society, and in taking the lead, not
merely in the æsthetic, but essentially also in the more
important psychological development of mankind. While
in all other regions of intellectual life it is admitted that
new ideas arise, and with these the means of realizing and
perfecting them, yet, in art, especially in sculpture and
painting, and to a degree also in music, the old phrase still
asserts itself—“The great masters have done thus, and
therefore must we also do the same.” In the handling of
every subject, an advance in thought may be remarked.
Our view of the world is far from being what it was a few
centuries ago; our handiwork itself, in its execution, has
changed and improved. Under such circumstances one
would think that in the region of art—for instance in
painting—either a new idea or a more truthful and natural
style might be possible. But no! One is always met by the
same assertion—that, “Not only in the perfect construction
.pn +1 // 027.png
of their pictures, but also in the sublimity of conception,
the old masters stand on an unapproachable height, and
we can only strive after them.”
The culture of the individual, as well as of society
itself, has far overstepped its former level. On the one
hand science and literature, on the other improved means
of communication, have disclosed a new horizon, have
presented new problems to artists. These ought also to
have stimulated to some new efforts. But, again the same
assertion blocks the way—“The old masters have done
thus, and therefore....”
.tb
In the art of painting, this excessive veneration and
imitation show themselves to a certain degree in representations
of the nude and in portraits, for both these
branches of art reached a high stage of development
among the old masters. But, even here, we are struck by
the one-sidedness in the execution—the effect is always
one and the same: a very bright light on a very dark and
sometimes black ground—an effect often startling, but
artificially produced, unnatural, and untrue.
Painters’ studios were formerly, it is true, small and,
owing to the costliness of gas, dimly lighted. But close to
these studios there were courtyards, gardens, and fields,
with a beautiful background, and an abundance and
variety of light, which would have been as effective, and
would have made the black tones clearer and less
monotonous.
We know that the darkness of the ground in old
portraits is only partly attributable to the influence of
age, and that in most cases it is intentional. On studying
a series of old portraits one can only regret that so much
technical ability in representing the body, face, clothes,
.pn +1 // 028.png
lace, jewels, etc., should have been harmonized, not with
the light, airy shadows of a summer’s day as we all
sufficiently know and see it, but with a thick artificial
black. Undoubtedly the new school of painters will
render a service to art by taking men out of the darkness
of attics and cellars into the clear light of gardens. It
is indisputable that the monotonous early style, which
showed everything in the same light of the studio, spares
the artist many difficulties and embarrassments; but in
art there ought to be even less hesitation than in anything
else in the face of technical difficulties.
.tb
Turning to historical pictures, we are struck by the
more thoroughly intellectual and characteristic handling of
the subject at the present time. History is certainly still
illustrated more or less by amusing anecdotes, and artists
content themselves by depicting that which science has
established, instead of contributing the results of their
own researches; but even now there is a very marked advance
on the usual adulation and the uncritical traditions,
legends, and assertions of the old school.
If painters were to study history, not in a fragmentary
way from this to that page, if they would understand that
the imitation of dramatic exaggeration on canvas has
become obsolete, they would begin to arouse the interest
of society in the past quite in a different way from that
which is possible by means of anecdote, picturesque
costumes, and types that are for the most part fables of
history. It is a fact, that hitherto the treatment of memorable
events by artists has been of a nature to draw a smile
from the educated. But by changing the sunny holiday of
the historical picture into a more acceptable workday,
truth and simplicity would certainly be the gainers.
.pn +1 // 029.png
It seems superfluous to mention the extraordinary advance
made at the present day in landscape painting, an
advance due to very many causes, but chiefly, of course, to
the development of natural science. It is not too much
to say that the landscapes of the old masters are mere
childish essays, as compared with the works of the leading
living artists in this field. And it is really difficult to
understand how and in what direction landscape painting
can be brought to greater perfection.
.tb
In the so-called religious painting, imitation of the old
masters is nearly as great as in portraits. But this is fully
explained by the gradual disappearance of religious perception,
and the consequent preference for an old ideal,
rather than the creation of a new one without the strong
faith of olden times.
Nevertheless, the new school finds it not only possible,
but even necessary, to reject inherited ideas, though
hallowed by time and custom, when they evidently contradict
the artistic eye and feeling of our time. First:
the manner of placing God and the Saints on clouds, as
though these were chairs and stools, and not substances
whose physical condition is well known to us. Second:
the custom of representing Christ and the holy men and
women as a Roman patrician surrounded by his slaves.
Third: the representation of God in the style of our
kings, in robes of state, seated on a throne of gold, silver,
and precious stones, with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand, all suspended in clouds. Fourth: the
representation of the Virgin Mary in the costly robe of a
lady of high rank covered with jewels. Possibly religious
painting will not now rise to a second renaissance, but it
may nevertheless be assumed that the advance in technical
.pn +1 // 030.png
knowledge may even be useful in Church paintings, if the
painter, in his representation of the Deity and the Saints
in their manifestations in heaven or upon earth, would
replace the dim, poor, and monotonous light of the studio
by a brilliant, clear, sunny atmosphere, and delicate, transparent,
airy shadows.
.tb
In order to explain our meaning, we will cite some of
the famous religious works of the old masters as examples:
for instance, the well-known pictures by Titian in Venice,
and Rubens in Antwerp, representing the Assumption of
the Virgin Mary. We are not going to speak of the great
excellence of those two pictures, recognized all the world
over, and by no means valued too highly. If it be also
beyond doubt that these pictures have in course of time
become darker, it must nevertheless be understood that
they were executed within four walls, and produced by the
traditional contrast of very strong light and very deep
shadow. Now, we ask, whence could these black shadows
have come? If the Assumption of the Virgin Mary
had perchance taken place in a grotto, or in some dark,
artificially-illumined space, these shadows would be intelligible,
but in such case the strong lights would be
inexplicable. Now it was accomplished in free air, and we
may be allowed to suppose that a beautiful sunny day was
chosen by God for so sublime and solemn an event. So
much the brighter should the pictures have been painted,
both on account of the direct and reflected sunlight.
Whence then, we may ask, came these black tones? Well,
they were simply due to the fact that the lights as well as
the shadows were not derived from observation, but invented,
as artists say, “by the head,” and were therefore
from beginning to end false. But, can it be supposed that
.pn +1 // 031.png
great painters like Titian and Rubens should not themselves
have recognized such defects? Of course this can be as
little understood as that the great Leonardo da Vinci
should not have remarked the false light in his celebrated
picture of beauty, La Joconde, when he painted her in
free air, with hard, metallic tones on the face, and an impossible
landscape in the background. Had he, then, no
presentiment of the wonderfully tender lights and half
lights, shadows and half shadows, wafted over the face of
a lovely woman by the air?—how everything out of doors
has quite another appearance about it than within four
walls?
We will not digress too far with our investigations, and
only venture to ask whether it occurred to no one at that
time to demand so much from the artist? No; they were
not asked. But these niceties, are they not required in
these days from the artist? Yes, they are.... Then the
advance is evident.
In like manner, we cannot suppose that another shortcoming
in the artistic conception of such masters could have
escaped their acuteness. For instance, in the representations
of the Apostles, whose personalities are so clear and
convincing in the Gospels, we recognize in their forms,
faces, and attitudes—particularly in Titian’s pictures—not
modest, humble fishermen, but fine Italian models of
athletic appearance. This error was evidently acknowledged
even then by the artists themselves, with their usual
tact and good sense; and Rembrandt went so far as to
introduce into his religious subjects Dutch market-figures.
But there is still a long stride from this to the true rendering
of the types and costumes recognized at the present
day as indispensable. Is this not an advance? Certainly
.pn +1 // 032.png
it is. We deny that study has ever yet created talent;
but, on the other hand, we do not for a moment doubt that
it stimulates it.
As regards time and place, the worshippers of the earlier
style of painting go to such lengths in their imitation, that
they not only work with the same colours and in the same
manner as their adored masters, but also aim at lending to
their pictures that peculiar tint which time has produced
on the canvas. They cover their pictures with some dark
shiny colour, in order to give an appearance of age, as if
they were painted one, two, or three centuries ago. This
tendency is even taught in many modern schools, and
individual artists have gained great reputation as colourists
merely because they can impart to their productions a
resemblance to those of Rubens, Van Dyck, Rembrandt, or
Velasquez. Let us hope that the new school will go to
work with greater deliberation, not only as regards the
conception of their subject, but also in colouring; for it is
impossible to treat this aright by imitating, with a quantity
of varnish, a canvas which has become yellowish or reddish
through time. The young school will make it a strict rule
to bring every event into harmony with the time, place,
and light selected, in order to benefit by all the modern
acquisitions of science, in relation to the characteristics,
costumes, and every psychological and ethnographical
detail.
A scene which takes place in heaven or on earth should
positively not be painted within four walls, but in the true
light of morning or mid-day, evening or night. The illusion
and effect produced by the picture cannot but gain by this,
and the language of painting will become more expressive
and intelligible.
.pn +1 // 033.png
Perhaps the same might be said, with little variation,
of sculpture, and even of music. All the arts are now,
more than ever, brothers and sisters, and long ago
should have been united in one temple of taste, intellect,
and talent.
.pb
.pn +1 // 034.png
.sp 4
.h2
REALISM||I
.il fn=i_024.jpg w=40% ew=40% align=l alt='Picture of an old Russian'
.ca An old Russian.
“Realism—realism!” How
very often do we hear this term,
and yet how seldom does it appear
to be applied understandingly.
“What do you take realism
to be?” I asked a well-educated
lady in Berlin, who had been
talking a great deal about realism
and the realists in art. The lady
did not seem to be ready with
an answer, for she could only
reply that “A realist is he who
represents subjects in a realistic
manner.”
I hold, though, that the art of representing subjects in a
realistic manner does not entitle a person to the name of
realist. And, in order to illustrate my meaning, I may
present the following example—
When the war of the British with the Zulus came to an
end, there could be found no man among the prominent
English artists who would take upon himself the task of
committing to canvas that epopee enacted between the
.pn +1 // 035.png
whites and blacks, and so the English had to have recourse
to a very talented French artist. They gave him money,
and explained to him that such and such were the uniforms
and the arms of the English soldiers, and such and such
were the clothes, or what represents clothes, among the
Zulus. Then, eye-witnesses to the military encounters
told the Frenchman of what the background consisted
in each case, probably supplementing their accounts with
photographic views. Armed with this information the
artist set to work, without having the least personal knowledge
of the country he was going to reproduce, nor of
the types, the peculiarities, nor the customs of Zululand.
With much assurance the artist went on with his task, and
turned out several lively pictures in which there are a
great many men attacking an enemy—defending itself; a
great number of dead and wounded; much blood; much
gunpowder-smoke, and all that kind of thing; yet, with all
this, there is total lack of the principal thing: there are no
British nor Zulus to be found in the pictures. Instead of
the former we behold Frenchmen dressed up in British
uniforms, and instead of Zulus, the ordinary Parisian
negro-models, reproduced in various more or less warlike
attitudes.
Well, is that realism? No.
Most artists, besides, do not take sufficient pains to
reproduce the true light under which the events they treat
have really taken place. Thus, such scenes as are taken
up in the just-mentioned pictures—scenes of battles under
the intolerably torrid sun of Africa, are being painted by
the greyish light of European studios. Of course the sunlight,
and the numerous peculiar effects dependent on it,
cannot prove successful in such a case, and the effect is
lost.
.pn +1 // 036.png
Is that realism, then? Certainly not.
.tb
I go further, and assert that in cases where there exists
but a bare representation of a fact or of an event without
idea, without generalization, there can possibly be found
some qualities of realistic execution, but of realism there
would be none: of that intelligent realism, I mean, which
is built on observation and on facts—in opposition to
idealism, which is founded on impressions and affirmations,
established à priori.
Now, can any one bring the reproach against me
that there is no idea, no generalization in my works?
Hardly.
Can any one say that I am careless about the types,
about the costumes, about the landscape of the scenes
represented by me? That I do not study out beforehand
the personages, the surroundings figuring in my works?
Hardly so.
Can any one say that, with me, any scene, taking place
in reality in the broad sunlight, has been painted by studio
light—that a scene, taking place under the frosty skies of
the North, is reproduced in the warm enclosure of four
walls? Hardly so.
Consequently, I can claim to be a representative of
realism—such realism as requires the most severe manipulating
of all the details of creation, and which not only does
not exclude an idea, but implies it.
That I am not alone in such an estimate of my work, is
proved by the following lines, from a correspondent to an
American paper,[#] sent from Paris at the time of the last
exhibition of my paintings in that city—
“The respect shown to certain pictured ideals—the ideals
.pn +1 // 037.png
of a painter so foreign to Parisian conventions as Verestchagin—is
noted as a pleasing indication of departure from
the gross realism that was beginning to obtain in French
art. Mr. Dargenty, of the Courrier de l’Art, does not consider
Verestchagin as a ‘seducing’ painter, but concedes to
him knowledge and talent, and declares that for his part he
prefers the refinement of an idea to the ‘brutal expression
of vulgar realism.’ He hopes for a reaction and believes
that the crowd that ‘precipitated’ itself in the exposition
of Mr. Verestchagin ‘heralded’ a running victory for the
idea.”
Still more notable was the judgment of the London
Christian of December 2, 1887—a view having all the
more interest to me because of the special character of the
paper that published it—
“These paintings are the work of a Russian, Verestchagin,
a painter equal to any of his contemporaries in artistic ability,
and beyond any painter who ever lived in the grandeur of his
moral aims and the application of his lessons to the
consciences of all who take the least pains to understand
him....
“I will only say that he who misses seeing these paintings
will miss the best opportunity he may ever have of understanding
the age in which he lives; for if ever the nineteenth
century has had a prophet, it is the Russian painter,
Verestchagin.”
I repeat it: I cite this last passage expressed in
consideration of its character, as an opinion emitted by a
specially religious organ, an opinion made all the more
significant in view of the attacks to which I had been
submitted by people striving to prove themselves greater
papists than the Pope.
.tb
.pn +1 // 038.png
Realism is not antagonistic to anything that is held dear
by the contemporary man—it does not clash with common
sense, with science, nor with religion. Can any one have
anything but the deepest reverence for the teachings of
Christ concerning the Father and Creator of all that exists—for
the golden rule of Christian charity?
It is true that we are enemies of bigotry, of all ostentatious,
assumed piety; but who is it that can blame us for
this since Christ Himself has said—
“But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the
heathen do; for they think they shall be heard for their
much speaking.”[#]
As can be easily conceived, we have a different estimation
of many things that were explained in another way some
hundreds of years ago. The infancy of science and, consequently,
of the entire conception of the universe can
interest us now, but it can no more direct us. At the
threshold of the twentieth century, we can no longer admit
that the skies above are peopled by saints and by angels;
that the interior of the earth is occupied by devils engaged
in their task of roasting the sinners of the world. We refuse
even to accept, in its literal sense, the ancient idea of
rewards for good deeds, and that of torments in slow fires
as punishment for evil deeds.
In our capacity of artists we do not deny the ideals of the
past ages and of the ancient masters. On the contrary, we
give them an honourable place in the history of art; but
we refuse to imitate them, for the very simple reason that
everything is good in its own time, and that the realism of
one century already bears in itself the germs of the idealism
of the next.
The very masters who are held to be great idealists
.pn +1 // 039.png
in art—have not they been great realists in their own
time?
Who would risk the assertion that Raphael was not a
realist in the age in which he lived: that his works did not
scandalize many of his contemporaries, whose tastes were
formed on the work of primitive masters?
And Rubens, who transgressed all limits of contemporary
decency, and that, not only in his capacity of painter, but
even as a thinker? I hope no one would be ready to
question the fact that his powerful but one-sided genius has
intermingled the types of the personalities of the Christian
religion with those of the heathenish mythology; that his
God the Father is the same as his Jupiter of Olympus;
that they are portraits of the very same red-cheeked studio
model; that his Virgin and his Hebe—one may even say
his Venus—are all personalities of the same type, all alike
red-cheeked, handsome, and self-satisfied! Who would
deny that Rubens, having peopled the Christian heavens
with heavy, buxom, healthy, and very immodest ladies and
gentlemen, had reversed all traditions and thus had shown
himself to be a talented, powerful realist in his time?
Doubtlessly, he bewildered and scandalized a good many
of his pious contemporaries.
And Rembrandt? and the rest of them, all of whom are
now held to be idealists, more or less: was not each one of
them a representative of realism in his time—realism that
has been considerably smoothed down in our days by the
hand of time on one side and the onward march of our
self-consciousness on the other?
Who would think now-a-days of reproaching those painters
for all that boldness, which certainly proved astounding
to their contemporaries? And yet how many were the
disputes concerning those painters, how many lances have
.pn +1 // 040.png
been broken in their behalf! As we look back now all
that seems strange to us. But is it not a sign of what
awaits the noted works of our own time? These also were
received inimically, were proclaimed to be too far-reaching,
too bold, too realistic, yet will not they also in their turn
acquire lasting strength under the influence of onward
marching thought and technique? Will not the day come
when they will also find themselves, unawares, in the
archives of old ideals?
.tb
But we have to count with our irascible and exacting
contemporaries. It is generally held to be unpardonable
boldness—quite a scandalous proceeding in fact—to recede
from formulas, recognized by successive generations, through
centuries. Novelists, painters, sculptors, musicians, are all
alike invited to make compromises with triviality and
absurdity which invariably retard the development of the
idea and of the technique.
Even such persons as grudgingly admit that we also are
“men of thoughts,” that we also are “men of well-developed
technique,” even they express their regrets that we should
prove false to the traditions of the old masters; that we
should not follow the tenets consecrated by great names.
Yes, it is true: we differ in many ways. We think
differently, we are bolder in our generalization of the facts
of the past, the present, and the future; we even work
differently and transfer our impressions in a different
manner.
Can we take it now in its literal sense—the generally-accepted
conception of God, who had once assumed the
form of man, and is now sitting on the right hand of the
Father Almighty, with all the hosts of saints and angels
gathered around Him? Can we admit as facts the idea of
.pn +1 // 041.png
all those thrones that surpass in richness the celebrated
thrones of the Great Moguls of India? Can we admit now
the idea of all those splendid vestments, adorned with
embroidery, with pearls and precious stones—and all that
in the clouds? Can we sincerely and artlessly represent
to ourselves the saints that are supposed to sit on those
same clouds as on arm-chairs and sofas, likewise in the
richest attire—saints who would thus be found amidst the
luxurious surroundings that were so distasteful to them in
their life on earth?
All those splendid garments, all those gilded surroundings,
held out as everlasting rewards for virtue practised on
earth—do they not appear to us quite childish now, not to
say wholly inconsistent with good taste?
.tb
A good deal has been written about my works: many
were the reproaches brought against my paintings, those
treating of religious subjects as well as of military. And yet
they were, all of them, painted without any preconceived
idea,—were painted only because their subjects interested
me. The moral in each case appeared afterwards, coming
up of its own account, from the very truthfulness of
impressions.
Now, for instance, I have seen the Emperor Alexander
II. on five consecutive days, as he sat on a little knoll—the
battle-field spreading out before him—watching, with field-glass
in hand, first the bombardment, and then the storming
of the enemy’s positions. This surely was also the way
in which the old German Emperor attended battles,—as
well as his son, that admirable man, the late Frederick of
Germany. Of this I have even been assured by eye-witnesses.
Certainly, it would be ridiculous to suppose
that an Emperor assisting at battles would canter about
.pn +1 // 042.png
brandishing his sword as a young ensign, and yet the desire
has been attributed to me to undermine by my picture the
prestige of the sovereign in the eyes of the masses, who are
prone to imagine their Emperor prancing on a fiery steed,
in times of danger, in the very thick of the fight.
I have represented the bandaging and the transporting
of the wounded exactly as I have seen it done, and have
felt it in my own person when wounded, bandaged, and
transported in the most primitive manner. And yet, that
again has been declared to be a gross exaggeration, a
calumny.
I observed during several days how prisoners were slowly
freezing to death on a road extending over thirty miles. I
called the attention of the American artist, Frank D. Millet,
who was on the spot, to that scene; and when he afterwards
saw my painting he declared it to be strikingly
correct; yet for that painting I have been treated to such
abuse as would not admit of repetition in print.
I have seen a priest performing the last religious rites on
a battle-field over a mass of killed, plundered, mutilated
soldiers, who had just given up their life in the defence of
their country; and that scene again—a picture which I
had painted, literally, with tears in my eyes—has been also
proclaimed in high quarters to be the product of my
imagination, a downright falsehood.
My lofty accusers did not deign to pay any attention to
the fact that the lie was given them by that same priest
who, disgusted with the accusations against me, declared—and
that in the presence of the public standing before the
picture—that it was he who had been performing those
last rites over the massed bodies of the killed soldiers—had
done it in the very surroundings reproduced in my
picture. Yet, notwithstanding all this, my picture barely
.pn +1 // 043.png
escaped being ejected from the exhibition, and when
afterwards it was intended to publish all those pictures
in coloured prints, the officials put their veto on the
scheme, for fear lest they should find their way among the
masses.
It should not be imagined, however, that that indignation
prevailed exclusively in Russian high spheres. It was a
very well known Prussian general who advised the Emperor
Alexander II. to have all my military paintings burned
as objects of a most pernicious kind.
.tb
There were still more inimical commentaries on those of
my pictures which treat of religious subjects. Yet have I
attacked the Christian morals? No—I hold these very
highly. Have I attacked the idea of Christianity or its
founder? No—I have the highest respect for them. Have
I tried to detract from the significance of the Cross? No—this
would be a sheer impossibility.
I have travelled all over the Holy Land with the book
of the Gospels in my hand; I have visited all the places
sanctified, centuries ago, by the presence of our Saviour in
them. Consequently, I must have, and do have, my own
ideas and conceptions as to the representation of many
events and facts recorded in the Gospels. My ideas
necessarily differ from the conceptions of artists who have
never seen the scenery of the Holy Land, have not personally
observed its population and their customs.
.tb
Here is my idea, for instance, of the fact of the Adoration
of the Magi; a painting contemplated, but not yet
executed:—
A clear, starry night; travellers are approaching Bethlehem—these
are the Magi, men versed in science, having a
.pn +1 // 044.png
knowledge of astrology. Proceeding on their way toward
the city, the wise men notice a star standing over it—a star
which they had never yet observed. Since, at that time,
the idea was prevalent that every man had his own star,
and, vice versâ, every star corresponded to some man on
earth, so the Magi naturally conclude that this new star
indicates the birth of a child somewhere in the neighbourhood,
and that—the star being exceptionally brilliant—the
new-born child must develop into a most prominent
man.
Arriving at Bethlehem, the Magi put up at an inn. Soon
after, the servant, who had been attending to the travellers’
mules, comes in and tells the Magi that a poor woman had
sought refuge in the place where their animals were
kept, and there had given birth to a most beautiful child.
Hearing this, the Magi exchange significant glances—the
coming up of the star has been rightly interpreted by
them.
“Let us go and see; it must be an extraordinary child,”
they say, and thereupon proceed to the grotto of the inn,
where the horses, the cows, and the donkeys were kept,
being followed by a few other travellers, who are likewise
curious to see the new-born child.
In a corner of the grotto they observe a beautiful, pale
young woman, sitting on a pile of straw and nursing her
baby, whilst her husband, an elderly man, is seen in the
distance, outside the grotto, preparing something for his
family.
“What a beautiful child!” exclaimed the Magi, and,
turning to the Virgin, say: “Remember our words, He will
be a great man; we have seen His star.”
Then, their pity being stirred by the poverty of the
surroundings, one of the wise men would offer a gold coin
.pn +1 // 045.png
as a gift to the child, while another would, perhaps, pour
out a little of the precious myrrh from his travelling-flask.
As the wise men get ready to leave the grotto, they turn
once more to Mary and repeat their prediction concerning
the great future of the child, and “Mary kept these things,
and pondered them in her heart.”
I firmly believe that such a realistic representation of the
poverty and simplicity attending the nativity of Christ is
incomparably loftier than the idealization of richness and
other exaggerations to which the old masters had recourse.
But such a treatment of the subject is new; therefore it
appears strange, and very likely will excite comment. And
only our descendants in a century or two will be able to
decide which of these two opposing views was the correct
one.
.tb
Among the paintings on exhibition will be noticed one
portraying a not infrequent event in Palestine in the olden
time—an event highly dramatic, yet retaining all its simplicity.
I mean “A Crucifixion under the Romans.”
The sky is overcast by heavy black clouds. Just outside
the walls of Jerusalem, on a small rock, are erected three
crosses, all of the same size, shape, and appearance. The
figures of the crucified on the two sides are of a vulgar type
and of coarse build, while the central figure is of a more
refined form. His face is not seen; it is hidden by long
auburn hair that hangs over it; long hair indicates that
the crucified was a man who dedicated himself to God.
The wounds on the hands and feet of the three crucified
men bleed profusely (it being a well-known fact that physicians
find it difficult to stop the flow of blood out of outstretched
palms and feet). In front of the crosses stand
two priests of high rank, and they seemingly argue about
.pn +1 // 046.png
some matter, as if trying to prove something to a Roman
in military attire; possibly they refer to the guilt of the
man crucified on the middle cross, a guilt about which
the military man seems to retain some doubts. Around
the rock soldiers are forming a chain to restrain the
crowd.
In the foreground of the painting are seen people of
every description; some on foot, some on horseback; others
mounted on camels or on donkeys. Those are country
folks or nomads, who, returning home from market, stopped
on their way for a moment in order to witness the event
of the day—the execution of a man, the renown of whose
deeds had reached even their huts and tents—a man
whose arrest caused almost an insurrection in the city.
Among others in the crowd can be noticed a few Hebrew
merchants with their characteristic head-gear (which was
discarded at a comparatively late date), and Pharisees with
the letters of the Law written on the coverings of their
heads. One of the Pharisees is discussing something with
his neighbour concerning a woman who is seen weeping
bitterly, in the corner of the picture, presumably the mother
of one of the crucified men. Her face cannot be seen, but
her sorrow must be great indeed, and none of the women
surrounding her seem likely to be able to console her.
Many a time, probably, had she tried to divert her son
from his chosen course, but all in vain, and now his time
has come.
By the side of the heart-broken mother stands a handsome
young woman plunged into deep consternation at
the sight of the executed man; the tears run down her
cheek, but she is not conscious of it, so thoroughly absorbed
is she by her terrible, unspeakable grief.
As soon as the authorities should retire and the crowd
.pn +1 // 047.png
thin out, there would be a chance for the mother, and
those that surround her, to approach the crosses; then they
would find it possible to say their last farewell....
.tb
Further on, we have a representation of a contemporary
execution, among other people and surroundings. Here
we see a cold winter day in the North. A mass of people
is crowding into one of the squares of St. Petersburg, pressing
toward the gallows and being held back by mounted
gendarmes. Close to the gallows only a select few are
admitted, mostly the military, all representatives of the
gilded youth of the city, who are in hopes of getting a piece
of the cord used by the hangman: the superstition being
very common that a piece of the cord on which a man
is hanged is sure to bring luck at cards to its fortunate
possessor.
The criminal, enveloped in a white shroud, with the cap
drawn over his head, has just been hanged and is still
whirling round on the cord, while the people stand in mute
bewilderment before the instructive sight. There is but
a single hoarse voice raised from among the crowd:
“There now—serves him right, too!” But these words
are immediately hushed by several women’s voices crying
out, “What are you saying? It is beyond us to condemn
him now. Let God Almighty pass judgment on
him!”
Meantime the snow continues to fall, the smoke is rising
from the factories, work is going on as usual....
.tb
It is worthy of notice that this last painting, while it did
not please the Russians, pleased the English people very
much indeed; on the other side the “Blowing from guns
in India” is not at all liked by Englishmen, and yet the
.pn +1 // 048.png
Russians fancied it very much. Men who had seen much
service in India assured me that I was mistaken in presenting
such an execution as a typical, characteristic way of
capital punishment in that country; they insisted that this
mode of execution had been adopted but once—in the
course of the last insurrection of the Sepoys—and even at
that time it had been used only in a very few instances.
But I maintain that this mode of execution—a comparatively
humane one too—not only has been in constant use during
the revolt referred to, when the Sepoys were blown from
guns by the thousand, but that it was used by the British
authorities in India for many years before and after the
Sepoy revolt of 1858. More than that, I am quite positive
that that particular mode of execution will have to be used
in future times. The Hindoo does not fear any other kind
of capital punishment received at the hands of the “heathenish,
unclean Europeans.” They hold that any one shot
down or hanged by the European goes to swell the ranks of
the martyrs who are entitled to a high reward in the future
life. But an execution by means of a gun carries positive
terror into the heart of a native, for such a shot tears the
criminal’s body in many parts, and thus prevents him from
presenting himself in decent form in heaven. This bugbear
was used by the British, and will be used by them as long
as they fear to lose their Indian possessions.
In order to hold a population of 250,000,000 in political
and economical submission by means of 60,000 bayonets,
it is not enough to be brave and to be possessed of political
tact—punishment and bloody reprisals cannot be avoided.
.tb
All this is so self-evident, that it seems really wonderful
that, while we artists are required to observe and discriminate,
people are still inclined to be astonished and
.pn +1 // 049.png
indignant whenever we put those faculties of ours to use
and transfer our impressions to canvas or paper.
The artists are on all hands pressed to give the public
something new, something original, something that is not
hackneyed by fashion and triviality; yet, when we make
an effort to present something of the sort, we are accused
of insolence.
And what are the results of such a state of things?
People get tired of books and gorge themselves on crude
facts from real life as recorded in daily newspapers; people
get tired of picture galleries and exhibitions, being certain
to find in most of them the very same kind of pictures—all
treating of the very same subjects, painted in an identical
manner; people find it a dull task to go to the theatres
where in nine plays out of ten they will find the very
same conventional plot, invariably terminating in a
wedding.
Well, what is now generally speaking the part of art?
Why, art is brought down to the level of a toy for such
as can be and like to be amused by it; it is expected, as it
were, to stimulate the public’s digestive powers. Paintings,
for instance, are considered simply as furniture: if there
happens to remain an empty space on the wall between
the door and the corner taken up, let us say, by a what-not
surmounted by a vase—why then, that empty space
is forthwith covered by a picture of light contents and of
pleasant execution; such a one as would not distract too
much attention from the other furniture and bric-à-brac,
would not interfere with the dolce far niente of visitors.
And yet the influence and the resources of art are
enormous. The majority of old-time painters were handicapped
by their allegiance to power and riches; they were
men who were not weighed down by any sense of serious
.pn +1 // 050.png
civil responsibility, and yet, notwithstanding this, how
powerful was the influence of art during whole centuries!
It was felt in all the corners and hidden recesses of the life
of nations!
What, then, is not to be expected from art in our time,
when artists are inspired with their duties as citizens of
their country—when they cease to dance attendance on
the rich and powerful, who love to be called patrons of
art—when artists have acquired independence, and have
begun to realize that the first condition of a fruitful activity
is to be a gentleman, not in the narrow meaning of caste,
but in the wide acceptance of the term pertaining to the
time we live in?
.tb
Armed with the confidence of the public, art will adhere
more closely to society, will constitute itself its ally in the
face of the serious danger that threatens society now-a-days—that
kind of society which we all know, which we are all
more or less prompted to love and to respect.
There is no gainsaying the fact that all the other
questions of our time are paling before the question of
socialism that advances on us, threateningly, like a tremendous
thunder-cloud.
The masses that have been for centuries leading a life of
expectancy while hanging on the very borders of starvation,
are willing to wait no more. Their former hopes in
the future are discarded; their appetites are whetted, and
they are clamouring for arrears, which means now the
division of all the riches, and so as to make the division
more lasting, they are claiming that talents and capacities
should be levelled down to one standard, all workers of
progress and comfort alike drawing the same pay. They
are striving to reconstruct society on new foundations, and
.pn +1 // 051.png
in case of opposition to their aims, they threaten to apply
the torch to all the monuments pertaining to an order that,
according to them, has already outlived its usefulness;
they threaten to blow up the public buildings, the churches,
the art galleries, libraries and museums—a downright
religion of despair!
.tb
.fm
.fn #
Sunday Express, Albany, July 22, 1888.
.fn-
.fn #
St. Matthew vi. 7.
.fn-
.pb
.pn +1 // 052.png
.sp 4
.h2
II
.il fn=i_042.jpg w=40% ew=40% align=l alt='Picture of a Russian woman'
.ca A Russian Woman.
My friend, the late General
Skobeleff, once asked me, “How
do you understand the movement
of the Socialists and the
Anarchists?” He owned that he
himself did not understand at all
what they aimed at. “What do
they want? What are they striving
to attain?”
“First of all,” I answered,
“those people object to wars between
nations; again, their appreciation
of art is very limited,
the art of painting not excluded.
Thus, if they ever come into power, you, with your strategic
combinations, and I, with my pictures, will both be shelved
immediately. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, I understand this,” rejoined Skobeleff, “and from
this time forth I am determined to fight them.”
There is no mistaking the fact that, as I have said before,
society is seriously threatened at the hands of a large mass
of people counting hundreds of millions. Those are the
people, who, for generations, during entire centuries, have
been on the brink of starvation, poorly clad, living in filthy
.pn +1 // 053.png
and unhealthy quarters; paupers, and such people as have
scarcely any property, or no property at all. Well, who is
to blame for their poverty—are not they themselves to be
blamed for it?
No, it would be unjust to lay all the blame at their door;
it is more likely that society at large is more to blame for
their condition than they are themselves.
Is there any way out of the situation?
Certainly there is. Christ, our Great Teacher, has long
ago pointed out the way in which the rich and the powerful
could remedy the situation without bringing things to a
revolutionary pass, without any upheaval of the existing
social order, if they would only seriously take care of the
miserable; that certainly would have ensured them the
undisturbed enjoyment of the bulk of their fortune. But
there is little hope of a peaceful solution of the question
now; it is certain that the well-to-do classes will still prefer
to remain Christians in name only; they will still hope that
palliative measures will be sufficient to remedy the situation;
or else, believing the danger to be distant, they will
not be disposed to give up much; while the paupers—though
formerly they were ready for a compromise—may
be soon found unwilling to take the pittance offered them.
What do they want, then?
Nothing less than the equalization of riches in the society
to come. They claim the material as well as moral equalization
of all rights, trades, all capacities and talents; as we
have already said, they strive to undermine all the foundations
of the existing state of society, and, in inaugurating
a new order of things, they claim to be able to open a real
era of liberty, equality, and fraternity, instead of the shadows
of those lofty things, as existing now.
.tb
.pn +1 // 054.png
I do not mean to go into the discussion of the matter;
I would not pretend to point out how much justice or
injustice, how much soundness or unsoundness, there is in
these claims; I state only the fact that there is a deep
gulf between the former cries for bread and the sharply
formulated claims of the present. It is evident that the
appetite of the masses has grown within the past centuries,
and the bill which they intend to present for payment will
not be a small one.
Who will be required to pay this bill?
Society, most certainly.
Will it be done willingly?
Evidently not.
Consequently there will be complications, quarrels, civil
wars.
Certainly there will be serious complications; they are
already casting their shadows before them in the shape of
disturbances of a socialistic character that are originating
here and there. In America, most likely, those disturbances
are lesser and less pointed; but in Europe, in France
and Belgium, for instance, such disorders assume a very
threatening aspect.
Who is likely to be victorious in this struggle?
Unless Napoleon I. was wrong in his assertion that
victory will always remain with the gros bataillons, the
“regulators” will win. Their numbers will be very great;
whoever knows human nature will understand that all such
as have not much to lose will, at the decisive moment, join
the claims of those who have nothing to lose.
.tb
It is generally supposed that the danger is not so imminent
yet; but, as far as I was able to judge, the imminence
of the danger varies in different countries. France, for
.pn +1 // 055.png
instance—that long-suffering country which is for ever
experimenting on herself, whether it be in social or scientific
questions, or in politics—is the nearest to a crisis; then
follow Belgium and other countries.
It is very possible that even the present generation will
witness a serious upheaval. As to the coming generations,
there is no doubt that they will assist at a thorough
reconstruction of the social structure in all countries.
The claims of socialists, and, particularly, the anarchists,
as well as the disorders incited by them, generally produce
a great sensation in society. But no sooner are the
disorders suppressed, than society relapses again into its
usual unconcern, and no one gives a thought to the fact
that the frequency of these painful symptoms, recurring
with so much persistency, is in itself a sign of disease.
Far-seeing people begin to realize that palliative measures
are no longer of use; that a change of governments
and of rulers will no longer avail; and that nothing is
left but to await developments contingent on the attitude
of the opposed parties—the energetic determination of the
well-to-do classes, not to yield, and that of the proletariat,
to keep their courage and persevere.
.tb
The only consolation remaining to the rich consists in
the fact that the “regulators” have not had time as yet to
organize their forces for a successful struggle with society.
This is true to a certain extent. But, though they do it
slowly, the “regulators” are steadily perfecting their
organization; on the other hand, can we say that society
is well enough organized not to stand in dread of
attacks?
Who are the recognized and official defenders of
society?
.pn +1 // 056.png
The Army and the Church.
A soldier, there is no doubt, is a good support, he
represents a solid defence; the only trouble about him is
that the soldier himself begins to get weary of his ungrateful
part. It is likely that for many years to come the
soldier will shoot with a light heart at such as are called
his “enemies”; but the time is not far distant when he
will refuse to shoot at his own people.
Who is a good soldier? Only one to whom you can
point out his father, his mother, or his brother in the crowd,
saying, “Those are enemies of society, kill them”—and who
will obey.
I may remark here, in passing, that it occurred to me to
refer to this idea in a conversation I had with the well-known
French writer and thinker, Alexandre Dumas, fils,
and with what success? Conceding the justice of the
apprehension, he had no other comforting suggestion to
offer than to say, “Oh, yes, the soldier will shoot
yet!”
The other defender of society, the priest, has been less
ill-used than the soldier, and consequently he is not so
tired of his task; but, on the hand, people begin to tire of
him, less heed is paid to his words, and there arises a doubt
as to the truth of all that he preaches.
There was a time when it was possible to tell the people
that there is but one sun in the heavens, as there is but one
God-appointed king in the country. As stars of the first,
second, third, and fourth magnitude are grouping themselves
around the sun, so the powerful, the rich, the poor,
and the miserable, surround the king on earth. And, as
it all appeared plausible, people used to believe that
such arrangements were as they ought to be. All was
accepted, all went on smoothly: none of such things can
.pn +1 // 057.png
be advanced now-a-days, however; no one will be ready
to believe in them.
.tb
Clearly, things assume a serious aspect. Suppose the
day comes when the priests entirely lose their hold on
the people, when the soldiers turn their guns’ muzzles
down—where will society look for bulwarks then? Is it
possible that it has no more reliable defence?
Certainly, it has such a defence, and it is nothing else
than talent, and its representatives, in science, literature,
and art in all its ramifications.
Art must and will defend society. Its influence is less
apparent and palpable, but it is very great; it might even
be said that its influence over the minds, the hearts, and
the actions of people is enormous, unsurpassed, unrivalled.
Art must and will defend society with all the more care
and earnestness, because its devotees know that the
“regulators” are not disposed to give them the honourable,
respectable position they occupy now—for, according to
them, a good pair of boots is more useful than a good
picture, a novel, or a statue. Those people declare that
talent is luxury, that talent is aristocratic, and that,
consequently, talent has to be brought down from its
pedestal to the common level—a principle to which we
shall never submit.
Let us not deceive ourselves; there will arise new
talents, which will gradually adapt themselves to new
conditions, if such will prevail, and their works may
perhaps gain from it; but we shall not agree to the principle
of general demolition and reconstruction, when this
has no other foundation but the well-known thesis—“Let
us destroy everything and clear the ground; as to the
reconstruction—about that we shall see later on.” We
.pn +1 // 058.png
shall defend and advocate the improvement of the existing
order by means of peaceful and gradual measures.
.tb
It goes without saying that we demand that society,
on its side, should help us to fulfil our task; that it should
trust us, give us all the freedom necessary for the development
and exertion of talent.
There is the rub!
Well-fed, self-satisfied society quails at every change,
at all blame, derision, and comment; it distrusts the foremost,
daring representatives of science, literature, and art.
Society strives jealously to retain the right not only to
point out the road for talent, but even to regulate the
measure, the degree of its development, and its manifestation.
In this society of ours anything that is common and
conventional is shielded by all kinds of rights and privileges,
while anything that is new and original is bound to
awaken animosity and censure, has to go through a severe
struggle under the pressure of wide-spread cant and
hypocrisy.
Try to create anything ingenious in any of the regions
of science and literature, try to present in graphic or plastic
form the most original, striking conception, but only
forget or refuse to surround it with the conventional layer
of triviality and vulgarity so dear to the heart of society,
you will be “done for,” you will not even obtain a hearing,
you will be called a charlatan, if nothing worse than that.
Why is that so? Was it society that has shown the
way to all great discoveries? No; it has always delayed
them, has always put brakes on them.
Has society, in its collective form, ever evoked any of
the great manifestations of art or literature? No; society
.pn +1 // 059.png
was always eager to worry, to persecute men of talent,
though it erects monuments to them after their death.
How did society come to display such arrogance and
presumption? It was tempted that way only by the unchristian
conviction that “the aim justifies the means.”
.tb
Can there be anything more exasperating than the conversation
we hear sometimes—
“Have you been to the Salon?”
“No; we did not happen to go there this year, but last
year we were there more than once.”
There is irony here as well as truth, for in the majority
of cases, you will find in the Salon the same number of
pictures nearly of the same quality, treating on nearly
the same subjects, and, most assuredly, painted nearly in
the same style.
“Have you seen the new play of Sardou?”
“Just imagine, could not possibly get to see it yet, had
to go to the country; but then to-morrow we go to the
Comédie Française to see that new thing of Dumas’. They
say both plays are very much alike in conception, as
well as in plot.” And this is perfectly true; they are
doubtlessly more or less alike.
Whose fault is this, then, if not the authors’?
Ask the playwrights, whether they would dare to
represent the action in such a way as it has been
suggested to them by real life, with its logical conclusion,
made unavoidable by the march of events, omitting,
for once, the long-established, hackneyed, conventional
termination?
“No,” the authors would tell you, “such a thing is not
to be thought of,” and they will be in the right. Society,
weighed down by cant, will not go to see such a play,
.pn +1 // 060.png
however interesting it may be; so the author has to humour
the public if he does not want to bring ruin on his manager
and on himself.
The same is the case with artists, sculptors, even composers.
How many favourites of the Muses have been
driven into early graves by the animosity of the public
against all new construction of poetical as well as musical
ideas?
On one side we hear complaints of the dulness, the
monotony, even the triviality, prevailing in art; people
clamour for something inspired, something original; on
the other hand, the same public arbitrarily chastises you
for all that fails to come within the range of established,
conventional ideas!
It is high time, it seems to me, to understand the necessity
of treating art with tolerance and confidence, if we
want it to fraternize with society, to become as one with
it, to serve it faithfully and well in the present troubled
times when the poet and the artist are soldiers at their
posts.
.tb
“But, you representative of art,” I might be asked,
“what are the tidings that you are so eager to announce to
us—what are your discoveries that would be so entirely
new to society?”
Well, what we should say would, perhaps, not be news,
yet certainly the idea of it has not yet penetrated the
consciousness of the people. Armed with the rich, varied
resources of art we should tell people some truths.
“Give up,” we shall say to them, “give up enjoying
yourselves amidst the illusions of the idealism which lulls
your senses, of the idealism of high-sounding words and
phrases. Look around you through the eye of sensible
.pn +1 // 061.png
realism, and you will acquire the certitude of your mistake.
You are not the Christians you assume yourselves to be.
You are not representatives of Christian societies, of
Christian countries.”
Those who kill their kind by the hundred thousand are
not Christians.
Those who are always moved, in private as well as in
public life, by the principle of “eye for eye, and tooth for
tooth,” are not Christians.
Those who spend many hours of their lives in churches,
yet who give nothing, or next to nothing, to the poor, are
not Christians.
What have you done with the decree of the Saviour
concerning Christian humility, and to help such as are in
real need?
What is the stand taken now, let us ask, by those two
great branches of the administration of Christ’s Church,
that call themselves the Roman Catholic and the Orthodox
Churches, which have separated, thanks to their inability
to agree as to whether the Holy Ghost proceeded from
the Father and the Son or from the Father alone? Is
it possible that they have not come yet to an understanding,
and, blinded by mutual hatred, are neglecting the
loftiness of their mission on earth?
What is the stand taken by those new Churches originated
of late, comparatively speaking, on the plea of a more
realistic understanding of the connection of life with its
Originator? Is it possible that, having concluded the
fight with their great adversary, those Churches have also
drifted into a sweet nap over the existing order of things,
and have also renounced taking a hand in any further
reforms?
Well, if it be so, let men of talent shake the strong and
.pn +1 // 062.png
the powerful out of the somnolence into which they have
fallen; a difficult task it will be, but a noble one. And if
we are refused a hearing, or attempts are made to muzzle
us, why, it will be the worse for society. Rouse itself it
must; but it will be too late—the “Vandals will have
burned Rome” once again. We may be assured that no
churches, no bankers’ offices will then be spared.
“If any man have ears to hear, let him hear.”
.pb
.pn +1 // 063.png
.sp 4
.h2
I||NAPOLEON
.il fn=i_053.jpg w=40% ew=40% align=l alt='Picture of Napoleon'
.ca Napoleon.
It is, no doubt, from the Dresden
Conference that we must date Napoleon’s open hostility towards
Russia. After his unsuccessful endeavour to secure the hand of
the Tsar’s sister, it was rumoured in well-informed French Court
circles that Napoleon had made up his mind once and for all to
humble the pride of Russia. It was not, however, until the Dresden
Conference that Napoleon threw
off the mask. He then adopted a distinctly threatening
attitude in the face of Alexander’s refusal to reconsider his
decision and humble himself in the eyes of Europe.
The Russian Emperor firmly refused to submit, and his
defiant attitude was the more offensive to Napoleon
inasmuch as it was open and undisguised. There was no
question of concealing it or of receding from the position
already adopted. “The bottle is opened—the wine must
be drunk,” was Napoleon’s own expression.
It was, moreover, at the Dresden Conference that
Napoleon attained the zenith of his power. At Dresden
.pn +1 // 064.png
he was indeed a king of kings. The Emperor of Austria
respectfully and repeatedly assured his august cousin that
he might “fully rely upon Austria for the triumph of the
common cause;” while the King of Prussia reassured him
of his “unswerving fidelity.”
The splendour and magnificence of the French Court
at the time of the Dresden Conference, says an eye-witness,
gave Napoleon the air of some legendary Grand
Mogul. As at Tilsit, he showered magnificent presents
on all sides. At his levées reigning princes danced attendance
for hours in the hope of being honoured with an
audience. This new order of would-be courtiers was so
numerous that the Emperor’s chamberlains and officials
had constantly to give one another warning lest they
should jostle a Royal Highness unawares.
Every country sent its contingent. There were no eyes
but for Napoleon. The populace gathered in crowds outside
the palace, following his every movement, and dogging
his progress through the streets, in hourly expectation of
some great event.
Never, probably, were such elaborate arrangements
made as for this campaign. Besides the usual preparations
for a war, engagements were made with tradesmen of all
kinds—tin-workers, masons, watchmakers, and other skilled
artisans. There was no word of explanation as to the
place in which their services would be required, so that
until the opening of the campaign the general public had
no inkling of the object of all these preparations. It was
even rumoured that Napoleon was about to aid Russia
against the Turks.
The abrupt departure of the Russian military agent
Tczernicheff from Paris, and the court-martial on certain
persons who had treasonably supplied him with various
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documents, at last revealed the Emperor’s plans, and it
was then positively stated in the salons that the preparations
were directed against Russia. The authorities,
however, refused to confirm these reports, and went so far
as to issue an order to the army, forbidding the officers and
men to discuss the rumoured campaign.
The French army was at that moment in the most
flourishing condition. It consisted of twelve infantry corps
of 20,000 men each, three cavalry corps of the same strength,
and with 40,000 men of the Guard, Artillery, Engineers,
and Sappers, amounted to 400,000 men, including 300,000
Frenchmen. This enormous force possessed 1200 guns
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and more than 100,000 ammunition-wagons and caissons.
Such a body of troops, accustomed to victory,
proud of its traditions, full of confidence in its officers,
and led by a commander with the prestige of twenty
years’ brilliant success, might well be deemed invincible.
Every subaltern regarded a campaign in Russia as
a pleasant six months’ outing. The whole army, fully
assured of speedy success, looked forward to the war as a
means of rapid promotion. All were eager to start. “We
are off to Moscow,” they cried to their friends, “à
bientôt!”
It was said that Prussia would receive from the expected
conquests full compensation for her former losses. Napoleon
himself suggested this in his proclamation—“At the
beginning of July we shall be in St. Petersburg; I shall be
avenged on the Emperor Alexander, and the King of
Prussia will be Emperor of the North.”
There were prophets who declared that “if the Russians
do not make their peace in time, Napoleon will divide
their European territories into two parts—the Dukedom of
Smolensk, and the Dukedom of St. Petersburg. The
.pn +1 // 066.png
Emperor Alexander, if Napoleon thinks it worth while to
leave him his throne, will reign only in Asia.”
The Comte de Narbonne, Napoleon’s envoy to Vilna,
was obliged to admit that the Emperor Alexander conducted
himself with irreproachable dignity. He displayed
neither fear nor arrogance. The answer with which
Narbonne returned to his Imperial master at Dresden
proved that the Russian Emperor was firmly resolved to
offer no other terms than those which his Ambassador at
Paris had already communicated. He had nothing to
subtract from them, and nothing to add. An eye-witness
describes the impression produced in Dresden, where
everybody was eagerly waiting to learn the result of his
mission, by the arrival of Comte Narbonne’s travel-stained
carriage, when he returned with the news that “the
Emperor Alexander refused to alter his decision.”
“Although,” Alexander said, “no one tells me so to my
face, I am well aware, and I am not ashamed to own it,
that I am not so great a soldier as Napoleon, and that I
have no generals who are a match for his. This assurance
on my part should, I think, serve as the clearest proof of
my sincere desire for the maintenance of peace.”
Alexander was extremely indignant at Napoleon’s subsequent
high-handed proceeding in crossing the frontier
without declaring war, for although the Russians were expecting
hostilities, there were some, including Rumyantsef
and other notables, who regarded it to the last as unlikely,
firmly believing that the matter would end in a few threats
and a compromise.
Nine years later, when Napoleon was at St. Helena, the
Emperor Alexander caused him to be asked why he had
refused the terms brought by Narbonne from Vilna.
“Because by the terms of the offer,” replied Napoleon,
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“a month was required before any definitive treaty could
be arrived at, and such a delay might have involved the
loss of the campaign, of all our stupendous preparations,
and of the alliances that had been entered into, and which
there was little prospect of renewing.”
Napoleon loudly proclaimed that “Fate was leading
Russia to her doom,” and took upon himself the duty of
executing the decree of destiny, by which the Russians, as
enemies of European civilization, were to be driven into the
wilds of Asia.
Napoleon’s own baggage-train consisted of seventy
wagons, each drawn by eight horses; twenty carriages, open
and closed; forty pack-mules; and two hundred riding-horses.
During his drives from place to place the Emperor
was never idle. When darkness fell, a lamp fixed inside
the carriage enabled him to work as comfortably as if he
were sitting at home in his own room. Aides-de-camp
and orderlies were always within call at the door of his
carriage, and a number of riding-horses followed with the
body-guard.
In this way Napoleon reached the Niemen on June
11/23, and mounted his horse at two o’clock at night. It is
said that as he approached the bank of the river, his horse
stumbled and threw him, and that some one cried out,
“That’s a bad omen; a Roman would have turned back;”
but no one could distinguish whether it was the Emperor
or one of his suite who uttered the words.
I extract from M. Bertin’s book a characteristic account
given by Count Soltyk, general of the Polish artillery.
“On the arrival of the Emperor, several officers, together
with myself and Suchorzewski, the major of the regiment,
ran up. Napoleon quickly approached the major and
asked for the colonel of the regiment. Suchorzewski,
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in no wise disconcerted at the absence of the colonel, who
was still asleep, answered that he was filling his place,
and was ready to receive any orders. Napoleon then asked
him which was the road to the Niemen, and made inquiries
regarding the outposts and the position of the Russians.
Whilst asking these questions, he ordered a change of
uniform, as it had been agreed, or rather ordered, that no
French soldier should be seen by the Russians. He took
off his coat, and the rest of us—the Prince of Neufchâtel,
Suchorzewski, Colonel Pagowski, who had hurried to the
spot, General Bruyères, and myself—followed his example.
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There were therefore five or six of us in our shirts in the
middle of the bivouac surrounding the Emperor, each
with his uniform in his hand. The Poles offered
theirs to the French. Altogether the scene was most
amusing. Of all our uniforms, Colonel Pagowski’s
coat and forage cap best fitted the Emperor. He had
been offered a Lancer’s head-dress, but refused it as
being too heavy. All this took place in a few minutes.
Berthier also put on a Polish uniform. The colonel’s
horses were at once led up. Napoleon mounted one of
them; Berthier took the other, and Lieutenant Zrelski,
whose company was on outpost duty, was ordered to
accompany the Emperor as guide.
“They went as far as Alexota, a village about three miles
distant, opposite Kovno, and within range of its guns. The
Emperor alighted in the courtyard of a house belonging to
a doctor, whose windows overlooked the Niemen, and from
which one might easily survey the surrounding country.
I had myself three days previously made a plan of Kovno
from this very spot. From there Napoleon thoroughly
reconnoitred the district without himself being seen. His
horses were carefully concealed in the courtyard. After
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completing his survey he returned to the bivouac, and
called for details as to the position of the enemy. The
colonel having told him that I knew the neighbourhood
thoroughly, he put several questions to me as to the fords
that might be passable, the conformation and irregularities of
the ground, and the position of the enemy. The Emperor
questioned me searchingly as to where the Russians were
massed, whether on the right or left bank of the Vilia. He
evidently wished to ascertain whether the road along the
Vilia was free, intending to march in that direction in
heavy columns, so as to seize this centre of operations, and
cut off the enemy’s corps, which were spread along the
whole length of the Niemen.
“When Napoleon returned we noticed a marked
change of expression. He looked happy, even merry,
being evidently satisfied with the idea of the surprise
which he was preparing for the Russians on the following
morning, and of which he had calculated the results beforehand.
Some refreshments were brought to him, which he
ate in our midst on the high-road. He seemed amused at
his masquerade, and asked us twice if the Polish uniform
suited him. After having breakfasted, he said laughing,
‘Now we must return what does not belong to us.’ He
then took off the garments which he had borrowed, put on
his uniform of Chasseur of the Guard, entered his carriage
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accompanied by Berthier, and rapidly drove away.
That very day he inspected several other points on the
Niemen, and chose Poniémon as the place of crossing.
General Haxo accompanied him on this tour.”
“This reconnaissance being finished,” adds Ségur,
“he issued an order that on the following evening
three bridges should be thrown across the river....
Then he returned to his quarters, where he passed the
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day partly in his tent and partly in a Polish house, vainly
seeking rest in the sultry heat that prevailed.”
When the army began the passage next day, Napoleon
took up a position near the bridge, and encouraged the
soldiers by his presence, while they greeted him with the
customary cries. But his impatience would not allow him
to remain long on this spot. He crossed the bridge and
galloped through the forest that stretches along the bank
of the stream, careering along at full speed on his Arab, as
though in pursuit of some invisible foe.
“What is to be said of an Emperor,” remarks an eye-witness,
“who dresses up in an outlandish disguise, rides off
to his outposts, orders some one to bring him some water
from the Niemen in a helmet, and tastes it with the air of a
seer waiting for inspiration? It would have been better to
keep these absurd tricks for the banks of the Nile, among
the superstitious nations for whose behoof they were invented,
rather than bring them over to Europe.”
“Napoleon,” says Boutourline, “was preparing to crush
the First Army of the West with his Guards, Davout’s,
Oudinot’s, and Ney’s Army Corps, and Nansouty’s, Montbrun’s,
and Grouchy’s cavalry—250,000 men in all—by a
sudden attack on the centre before the Second Army could
come to its support. The King of Westphalia, with the
corps of Junot, Poniatowski, and Renier, and Latour-Maubourg’s
cavalry, making a force of 80,000, was to
execute the same manœuvre against the Second Army.
The Viceroy of Italy, with an army of about the same
strength, consisting of his own corps and that of St. Cyr,
was to throw himself between the two Russian armies, and
cut off all communication between them. On the left,
Major Macdonald’s division, some 30,000 strong, was to
enter Courland and threaten St. Petersburg and the
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Russian right. On the right, Schwarzenberg and the
Austrians, also about 30,000 strong, were to hold Tormasof
in check.”
It was a well-conceived plan, and the movements of the
French on Vilna were so swift and decisive that General
Dokhturof’s corps and Dorokhof’s division were almost
cut off.
This brilliant beginning was, however, followed by a
number of mistakes. The execution of the plan was marred
by the slowness of the King of Westphalia (who soon afterwards
threw up his command and returned home), and by
the Emperor’s own irresolution. Napoleon appears to have
lost sight of the fact that he should have taken the direct
road from Vilna to Smolensk as his principal line of
operations. If he had concentrated the whole weight of his
army on this line he would have successfully outflanked
Barclay on the left and Bagration on the right, and might
then have fallen on either of them with the whole strength
of his army, or, indeed, on both simultaneously. It was
with the object of taking the Russians by surprise that
Napoleon crossed the frontier without declaring war, and
appeared at Vilna the day after the Emperor Alexander
had left.
Mme. de Choiseul-Gouffier, in her reminiscences of
Napoleon’s stay in Vilna, describes among other events
his visit to the church. “A herald shouted, ‘L’Empereur!’
and I saw a short, stout little man in a green uniform with
coat unbuttoned, and displaying a white waistcoat, surrounded
by a crowd of marshals. He flew by like a bullet,
and took up his place behind a prie-dieu. When mass was
over he departed at the same lightning speed.” She
describes Napoleon’s arrival at a ball—“At the first signal
of his approach the dukes and marshals rushed off to meet
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him as quickly as they could hurry; and to tell the truth,
their faces were a most amusing sight. We were hustled
down the stairs almost on all fours. Napoleon’s carriage
drove up, with the Master of the Horse, M. Caulaincourt,
galloping behind. They put down a footstool for the
Emperor to alight on, as if the earth were unworthy of the
honour of being trodden by his Imperial foot. He went
up-stairs amid shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ When he
entered the salon he cried, as if giving an order, ‘Ladies,
be seated!’”
“Napoleon’s face,” says Madame de Choiseul-Gouffier
later on, “appeared to me as severe as an antique bust, and
of the colour of yellow marble.” And further—“Napoleon’s
expression when lighted up by his beautiful smile was
pleasant, and even when seen closer his pallor was not
remarkable. What is most noteworthy is that his countenance
expresses more good-nature than genius.... He
knew every bit of gossip.”
The distance between the head-quarters of the two
armies led Napoleon to express the belief that “in all
probability, they are afraid of Alexander and myself meeting
and coming to terms.” However, when the opportunity
of making terms did present itself, Napoleon let it pass.
Balachef, the Russian general, presented himself at the
French outposts demanding a parley. When they conducted
him into Napoleon’s presence at Vilna, he declared,
in Alexander’s name—“If there is war between Russia and
France, it will be a long and bloody war, and before entering
upon it the Russian Emperor solemnly proclaims that
it is not he who is responsible for it. Though the Russian
Ambassador has left Paris, war has not yet been declared;
there is still time to come to terms; it is not yet too late.”
Having been told that the messenger who had been
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selected for the embassy was the Minister of Police, the
French suspected that the sole object of his coming was to
observe the position of the army and to gain time. They
regarded his visit, therefore, as a sign of weakness in the
Russian Government, and received his overtures with
coldness. Besides, it would have cost Napoleon a great
struggle, after refusing to listen to any explanations at
Paris, to adopt a conciliatory tone in Vilna. What would
Europe think of him? What possible explanation could
there be of the enormous preparations, the vast movements
of troops and expenditure of money? It would have been
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tantamount to a confession of defeat. Besides, he had
gone so far in his utterances before the allies as to
render retreat almost impossible. But this was not all.
Napoleon lost control over himself, and broke out, as
usual, into complaints and reproaches. He used insulting
language in speaking of the Emperor Alexander
to the Russian general. “Why did he ever come to
Vilna? What does he want? Does he mean to match his
strength with me? He, this carpet knight? Napoleon’s
only counsellor is himself; who will advise the Tsar?
Whom does he mean to look to? Kutuzof is a Russian,
he, therefore, will not be selected; six years ago Benigsen
was old and useless—he is in his dotage now; Barclay, no
doubt, is a man of courage and capacity—but he only
displays it by retreating.” Napoleon added spitefully—“You
all imagine that you understand the art of war
because you have read your Jomini, but if Jomini’s book
were enough to teach you generalship, do you think I
should have allowed it to be printed?”
It is difficult to understand how, after sending such an
insolent answer to his “friend and brother,” Napoleon
could bring himself to assure him later on of his unswerving
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devotion. On the other hand, it is easy to appreciate why
his “friend and brother” after this message received all
the French Emperor’s subsequent blandishments in stony
silence.
Napoleon began to be alarmed at the proclamations and
manifestoes issued by the St. Petersburg Cabinet. He
displayed a naïve astonishment at the expressions of hatred
and anger which were levelled at his own person. What
had happened to the Emperor Alexander, who had up to
that time been so suave and gentle? It is said that
Napoleon endeavoured to keep these vigorous proclamations
from the knowledge of his army, and commanded
that the Russians should be represented as disheartened
and on the point of disbanding; the Russian Emperor as
having actually left his troops and fled to St. Petersburg
in order to implore assistance and mollify the wrath of the
Senate, which was demanding an explanation of what had
happened; the Russian generals as having lost their heads;
and the people at large as ready to fling themselves in
despair at Napoleon’s feet.
Ségur has preserved to us the order of march of the
French troops. The army advanced in column ready for
instant battle, the Emperor on horseback in the centre.
Rivers were crossed by fords which soon, however, became
impassable, and the regiments in the rear crossed elsewhere,
wherever they could; no one troubled his head about
them. The staff neglected these details. No one remained
behind to point out the dangers, if there were any, or the
route, where several roads met. Each corps d’armée was
left to shift for itself.
Duverger is yet more categorical—“The retreat has
often been described, but the long and difficult march
which preceded our misfortunes has never been sufficiently
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mentioned. Worn out by the rays of a tropical sun, we
were reduced to drink foul stagnant water, to eat biscuits
served out with a sparing hand. Famine and dysentery
destroyed as many soldiers as did the war.”
Labaume, another eye-witness, completes this picture—“This
immense gathering of men on one spot increased
the confusion and disorder that reigned on the high-roads.
Stray soldiers sought their regiments in vain; orderlies
with urgent despatches were unable to deliver them; while
on the bridges and in the ravines a frightful tumult arose.
Our soldiers, deprived of their rations, had to provide for
themselves by pillage, and the result was the utmost disorder
and paralysis of discipline, the usual forerunners of
the approaching decay of an army.”
The disorganization of the French army was thrown
into stronger relief by the excellent order in which Barclay-de-Tolly
drew off his men from position to position. There
were no deserted wagons, no dead horses, not a single
straggler or deserter.
The French troops moved, of course, not only along the
high-road, but also by by-roads, and often by hardly perceptible
footpaths, destroying everything they came across
on their way, and feeding their horses on the standing
corn. They camped at night in the midst of the crops,
trampling and destroying them without scruple in the hope
of getting some shelter, however slight, from the heat and
rain. The soldiers, according to the account of French
eye-witnesses, roamed the neighbourhood searching for
food, ill-treated the inhabitants, and turned them out of
their homes, looted the houses, carried off all the live stock,
and indulged in excesses strangely at variance with their
vaunted mission of civilization.
“The army at last approached Vitebsk,” says de la
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Fluse, who accompanied the expedition. “A number of
cavalry and infantry regiments were extended in line, supported
by strong bodies of artillery. Four strong columns
of Foot Guards formed a square, in the centre of which were
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three tents—one for the Emperor, the other two for
his suite. A squad of twenty Grenadiers, with an
officer and a drummer, formed a guard outside the
tents. The camp-fires were lighted, and the various
regiments sent fatigue parties to fetch their rations.
These were served out in a neighbouring field, where all
the meat and corn had been collected.
“Around the Emperor’s tent there was a great deal of
bustle. Generals and aides-de-camps were constantly
coming and going at full speed—for it was known that the
enemy were not far off, and a decisive battle was expected.
“The Emperor left his camp two or three times with a
telescope in his hand. Resting it on the shoulder of one
of the officers or men, he inspected Vitebsk and the neighbouring
hills. Beyond the town a broad plain was visible,
on which Russian cavalry and infantry were performing
some evolutions.
“Napoleon looked at them—‘To-morrow they will be
ours,’ he said. Then he gave orders to prepare for battle.
A proclamation was read before each regiment—‘Soldiers,
the day we have longed for has come at last. To-morrow
we shall fight the battle for which we have waited so long.
We must end the campaign with a single thunder-clap.
Remember your victories at Austerlitz and Friedland; the
enemy shall see to-morrow that we have not degenerated.’
“The proclamation was enthusiastically received; the
troops were confident of victory; all hoped that this
battle would end a war of which they had already had
more than enough. Brandy was distributed, and after
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supper and the various preparations for the morrow they
turned in, many thinking, no doubt, that this would be
their last night.
“Next morning they were up by dawn, dressed in their
smartest, as if for some festival. Every eye was turned
to the quarter in which the enemy had been manœuvring
on the previous day; but the plain was empty—as
the sun rose it became clear that the Russian army had
disappeared.
“The drum began to beat outside the Emperor’s tent,”
continues the same writer. “This meant that the
Grenadiers on guard were being relieved. I hurried up
with my companions in order to ask the officer of the
relief if he had heard any news, for, placed as he was
close to the Emperor’s tent, he might have heard something.
He told us that Napoleon flew into a passion
when he heard of the enemy’s retreat. When Prince
Poniatowski—who had instructions to cross the Dvina
with the cavalry, sweep behind the Russians and cut off
their retreat—entered the tent, the officers of the Guard
heard what passed. The Prince came to report that it
was absolutely impossible to cross the Dvina, as he could
find no ford, and the water had risen in consequence of
the recent storm. His horses, moreover, had had no
fodder. Thereupon high words passed between the Emperor
and Poniatowski, the former rating the Prince
roundly for not carrying out his instructions, Poniatowski
for his part being at no loss for a reply.
“‘So you urge want of fodder as an excuse, Prince?’
said Napoleon. ‘I may tell you, sir, that when I was
in Egypt it was not once nor twice that I had to make
expeditions without fodder.’
“‘Of course, your Majesty,’ replied Poniatowski,
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unabashed, ‘I do not know what you fed your horses on out
there, but I do know this, that my horses cannot dispense
with their hay, especially when there is no grazing, which
is often the salvation of cavalry. Lacking fodder as I
did, I ran the risk of finding myself in the position your
Majesty was in at St. Jean d’Acre; for want of horses,
if you recollect, you were unable to bring up your guns,
and were obliged to raise the siege.’
“Then they both raised their voices and spoke at once.
Some of the generals who were present joined in, and the
din was so great that I could not make out a word of
what they were saying. ‘They are still at it,’ he added;
‘go close up to the tent, you will probably be able to hear
something.’
“I and my companion approached the tent, as if we
were just strolling by. We could indeed hear the voices
of Napoleon and Poniatowski, but could gather nothing
distinctly except the latter saying—‘No, your Majesty.
I know this country better than you do, and I assure
you that that is out of the question here, quite out of the
question!’ The two sentries shouldered arms, which meant
that the Emperor was just coming out; so we made off.
“On parade the Emperor turned to the group of officers
and said—‘Gentlemen, you are not maintaining proper
discipline in your corps; there are too many stragglers.
Officers seem to stop on the march whenever they please,
in order to spend their time in country-houses. They are
tired of camping out; but true courage does not fear
rainy weather, nor will mud stain a soldier’s honour. The
men have no regard for discipline; under the pretext of
foraging for provisions they desert from their regiments
and wander about in disorder. Complaints reach me from
every side of their lawless behaviour. This condition of
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things must be put a stop to, gentlemen; and those who
absent themselves without leave shall be severely punished.
In the event of an engagement with the enemy, our
regiments would be greatly below their strength. The
efficient force of our army is such as it might naturally
have been after a battle, whereas we have not yet even
seen the enemy. Marshals Oudinot and Macdonald have
secured victories because they had their full complement
of troops when they came to the banks of the Dvina and
Drissa.’
“Then the Emperor called for Baron Larrey, but as he
was not to be found, Dr. Paulet, the head of the Ambulance
Corps, presented himself instead. Napoleon asked him—
“‘For how many wounded have you bandages ready?’
“‘Ten thousand,’ replied the doctor.
“‘And about how many days does it take to heal a
wound?’
“‘About thirty,’ answered the doctor.
“‘If that is so,’ replied the Emperor, ‘you cannot even
give assistance to four hundred men! We shall want many
more than that!’
“There was a low murmur in the crowd, and some one
remarked, ‘I wonder how many he thinks there will be
killed?’
“Napoleon must have heard the remark, but he paid no
attention. He continued his cross-examination of the
doctor, and asked him, ‘Where are the ambulance and
medical stores?’
“‘They were left at Vilna for want of means of
transport.’
“‘So the army is entirely unprovided with medicine,’
cried Napoleon, ‘and if I wanted physic I should have to
go without it?’
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“‘Your Majesty has your own private medical stores,’
replied the doctor.
“This made the Emperor very angry. ‘I am the first
soldier in the army,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘and I have
a right to be attended to in the army hospital.’ Then
he asked where the chief dispenser was. He was told
at Vilna.
“‘What!’ cried Napoleon. ‘One of the chief medical
officers absent from the army! Let him be sent back to
Paris to peddle his drugs to the women of the Rue St.
Honoré! Appoint some one else in his place, and let the
whole medical service rejoin the army.’”
The army did not meet with the same enthusiastic
reception at Vitebsk as at Vilna. The inhabitants treated
the French not as liberators, but as conquerors. Evidently
Lithuania was not particularly well pleased at the prospect
of re-union with its native Poland, for the disposition of the
inhabitants was by no means friendly.
Napoleon made great efforts to impress the Lithuanians.
In a single audience he would discourse upon religion and
the drama, war and the arts. He rode about at all hours
of the day or night, giving orders to build a bridge here,
and a bastion there, and on the eve of an engagement he
would appear at a ball or a concert. He evidently did his
best to astonish the natives by his versatility.
As the Russians had left Vilna and it was impossible to
overtake them, Napoleon returned to this town on July 28.
According to Ségur, when he entered his head-quarters
he took off his sword, threw it on the table, which was
covered with maps and plans, and said in a loud voice,
“Here I am, and here I shall stay! I shall look about me,
complete my army, give it a rest, and organize Poland.
The campaign of 1812 is at an end; that of 1813 will do
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the rest!” Orders were given to provision the army for
thirty-six days, and extensive plans were announced.
Napoleon did not neglect amusements; actors were to be
brought from Paris to Vitebsk for a winter season, and as
the town was empty the audience was to be drawn from
Warsaw and Vilna.
“Murat,” said the French Emperor, turning to the King
of Naples, “the first Russian campaign is over. We will
plant our standards here. Two broad rivers outline our
position; we will build block-houses along this natural
entrenchment, commanded by artillery in every direction.
We will form a square with guns at the angles and on each
front, and within this square we will build our barracks and
magazines. The year 1813 will see us in Moscow; 1814
in St. Petersburg—the war with Russia shall be a three
years’ war!”
On the same day he turned to one of the principal civil
officials attached to the army and said, “As for you, my
dear sir, you must see that we are properly provisioned,
for we must not repeat the mistake of Charles XII.”
It was at this very time that Napoleon received news
that peace had been concluded between Russia and the
Porte. “The Turks,” he said, “will pay dearly for their
mistake. It is such a foolish one that I did not even
foresee it.”
Recognizing that the advance of the Russian army of
Moldavia on his rear had now become both possible and
probable, he began to think that perhaps it would be as
well to destroy the two Russian armies in front of him, and
that the sooner this was effected the better. These and
other circumstances caused him to alter his views. He
was no longer convinced that his wisest course was to stay
at Vitebsk, and he became at once anxious and irresolute.
.pn +1 // 082.png
For a solution of his doubts he would appeal in broken
phrases to intimates whom he met as he went about. “Eh,
bien, what are we to do? eh? Shall we stay where we are,
or go on? Is it right to stop half-way?” Then without
waiting for an answer, he would go on as if looking for
somebody or something that would settle the question for
him. Brooding over these questions, not daring to make
up his mind, he would fling himself on his bed in
nothing but his shirt, overpowered by the heat and his
anxiety.
In this way he passed the greater part of his time at
Vitebsk. Meanwhile the advantages of a forward movement
appealed to him more and more strongly.
“If we stay in Vitebsk,” he argued, “we must make up
our minds to die a lingering death of ennui during the seven
long winter months! I, who have always been the first to
attack, obliged to stand on the defensive! Shame and
dishonour await me. All Europe will say, ‘He stayed at
Vitebsk because he dared not advance!’ Am I to give
Russia time to arm? And how long am I to put up with
this uncertainty, which is undermining my reputation for
invincibility, already shaken by the resistance of Spain?
What will the world think when it learns that, what with
the sick and those who have fallen behind or disappeared,
I have lost a third of my army? I must dazzle the eyes
of the nations with the glamour of a brilliant success—the
laurels of victory will cover a multitude of losses.”
Napoleon began to find at last that Vitebsk promised
nothing but misfortune and loss, with all the discomforts
and anxieties of standing on the defensive; while Moscow
on the other hand offered the most signal advantages—provisions,
money contributions, glory, and, last but not
least, peace!
.il id=i072 fn=i_072.jpg w=600px ew=100% alt='Drawing of Napoleon with a letter'
.ca A Dispatch.
.pn +1// 083.png
// 084.png
// 085.png
But the more resolutely the Emperor wished to act, the
more obtrusive were the prevailing signs of discouragement
and discontent. After two weeks of rest the soldiers began
to complain that they had gone too far already, and that
the prospects of war were gloomy. They abused everything
that tended to prolong the campaign, and approved
of everything that might possibly shorten it.
The Emperor, who wished at any cost to secure general
approval of his plans, even from those who did not as a
rule give expression to their views, called a council of the
principal officers of the army, and his colleagues were
invited—perhaps for the first time in their
lives—to speak their minds freely.
.if h
.il fn=i_073.jpg w=30% ew=30% align=r alt=''
.if-
“The more vigour the enemy displays,”
he said to the marshals and generals who
surrounded him, “the less ought we to
slacken in our attack. We must not give
these Oriental fanatics time to gather together
against us from their remotest wilds.
How can we go into winter quarters in
July? And what sense is there,” he asked, “in breaking
up a campaign like this into several parts?” forgetful
of his own recent advocacy of the opposite view. “Be
assured, gentlemen, that I have pondered deeply over
the question. Our troops are always ready to advance, an
offensive war is a war after their own hearts, whereas a long
stay in one place is not acceptable to the French temperament.
To shelter ourselves behind frozen rivers, sit in
mud huts and endure privation and ennui for eight months,
with daily manœuvres and never a step in advance—is that
the style of warfare we are accustomed to? The winter
has other terrors than its frosts. It may bring with it endless
diplomatic intrigues. Is it safe, think you, to give all
.pn +1 // 086.png
these allies—whom we have successfully won over to our
side, but who feel strangely out of place, I doubt not, in
our ranks—to give them time, I say, to realize how unnatural
is their position?
“Why should we remain inactive for eight months when
we can attain our end in twenty days? Let us forestall
the winter! We run the risk of losing all if we do not
strike a swift and decisive blow. If we are not in Moscow
in twenty days, it is possible we shall never get there at
all. If peace be signed at Moscow, I shall have won the
best and most glorious of all my victories!”
It was, however, already too late in the year, and the
marshals were of opinion that further advance was out of
the question. Berthier, Prince of Neufchâtel, was so bold
as to urge this fact upon the Emperor, and to explain his
reasons. The Emperor gave him a very warm reception.
“Begone!” he said. “I have no need of you, you are
only a ——. Go back home! I will keep no one with me
against his will.”
Berthier, however, endeavoured to dissuade Napoleon
from the decision he had arrived at, not by argument but
by an appealing glance; there seemed almost to be tears
in his eyes. Lobau and Caulaincourt tried to influence
him by more open opposition, which took the form of
bluntness with the former and persistence with the latter.
The Emperor angrily swept all their opinions and advice
on one side, and replied with the remark, aimed more
particularly at Caulaincourt and Berthier, that he had
made his generals too rich. “They can think of nothing
but hunting and driving about Paris in expensive carriages—they
are sick of the very name of war.”
To Duroc, who also opposed him, the Emperor replied
that he was perfectly well aware that the Russians were
.pn +1 // 087.png
trying to lure him on, but he must get to Smolensk at any
cost. There he would go into winter quarters, and in the
spring of 1813, if Russia did not end the war, he would
end Russia. “Smolensk,” he said, “was the key to two
roads, the road to St. Petersburg and the road to Moscow;
and they must seize it because they would then be able
to attack both capitals at once—to destroy the one and
preserve the other.” Caulaincourt remarked that peace
would be no nearer at Smolensk or Moscow than it was at
Vitebsk, and that to advance so far, relying upon the
fidelity of the Prussians, was the height of rashness. When
the Emperor asked Count Daru for his opinion, he replied
that it was not a popular war, and that neither the importation
of English goods nor the restoration of Poland
was a sufficient justification for so distant a campaign.
“Neither we nor our troops can see the necessity or object
of it, and everything points to the advisability of stopping
where we are.”
“Great heavens!” cried the Emperor; “do they think
that I am out of my mind? Do they imagine that this
war gives me any pleasure? I have always said that the
Spanish and Russian wars are the two sores that are
sucking away the life of France, and that they are more
than she can bear at once. I wish for peace, but in order
to enter upon preliminaries there must be two sides,
whereas there is but one at present—for Alexander has
not vouchsafed two words as yet. What good can we
expect from staying at Vitebsk? True, the position is
bounded by two rivers, but in winter there are no rivers in
this country; they will be merely imaginary lines. Here
we shall want for everything, and shall have to buy whatever
we need; whereas in Moscow there is plenty to be
had for nothing. I might of course retire to Vilna, but
.pn +1 // 088.png
even if provisions could more easily be obtained at Vilna,
defence is more difficult, and for real safety we should
have to retreat beyond the Niemen, which means the
abandonment of Lithuania. On the other hand, if I
advance to Smolensk I shall either secure a decisive
victory or a strong position on the Dnieper.
“If we were always to wait for the most favourable
combination of circumstances no enterprise would ever be
undertaken. There can be no end without a beginning—there
never was an enterprise in which everything fitted in
perfectly, for chance plays a leading part in all the affairs
of men. Obedience to rule does not ensure success, but
success on the other hand furnishes a canon of conduct,
and if this campaign be successful, these new triumphs
will doubtless give new guidance for the future.
“No blood has as yet been spilled, but Russia is too great
to yield without a struggle. Alexander could not come to
terms, even if he would, except after a serious defeat. I
will inflict that defeat, cost what it may, and if need be,
I will follow it up by advancing to their sacred city. I am
confident that peace awaits me at the gates of Moscow.
Even if Alexander remains obdurate, I will win over the
nobles and the inhabitants of the city to my side. They
will know their own individual interest best, they will
recognize the value of liberty.” “Moscow,” he added,
“hates St. Petersburg, and I intend to avail myself of
their rivalry—the consequences of their mutual jealousy
may prove incalculable.”
Such, according to Ségur, and others, was the line of
reasoning adopted by Napoleon, who inclined more and
more strongly to an immediate advance on Moscow.
Sebastiani’s disaster at Incova at last furnished him with
a definite excuse for advancing. The Russian cavalry
.pn +1 // 089.png
utterly routed the opposing French horse, and the dash
and daring of the attack compelled the Emperor to seek
some opportunity of retrieving the disaster by a decisive
victory.
Napoleon’s want of decision at this moment was, however,
reflected in the movements of the French army, and
the well-conceived plan of separating the two Russian
armies and destroying each of them in detail was never
carried out.
The great efforts of the Russians to effect a speedy
junction helped to upset the invader’s plans. Every man
in Russia, from the Emperor to the last recruit, believed
that if the armies were once united, not only would they
cease their retrograde movement, but they would be able
to fall upon the enemy, who had already over-reached himself
by penetrating too far into the country. As a matter
of fact the Russian Commander-in-chief had no intention
of assuming the offensive against such overwhelming
forces.
The account given by Dumas, General-Intendant of the
French army, throws valuable light upon this point. He
says that one of the officers spent three months in Memel
on terms of intimacy with Barclay-de-Tolly, who was
brought there after receiving a terrible wound at Eylau.
The officer in question clearly recollected the details of the
plan of “successive retreats” “by which the Russian general
hoped to lure the formidable French army into the very
heart of Russia, if possible beyond the Moskva; to wear
it out, separate it as far as possible from its base of operations,
and tempt it to waste its ammunition and provisions.
At the same time he proposed carefully to nurse the
Russian forces until the frosts came to their aid and the
time was ripe for commencing offensive operations, and
.pn +1 // 090.png
subjecting Napoleon to a second Pultava on the banks of
the Volga. This grim programme was but too faithfully
executed.”
Napoleon was aware that he was being “lured on,” as
he called it; but, as we have already seen, he could not
refrain from advancing, if not to Moscow, at any rate to
Smolensk. He moved on, therefore, to the latter town,
still adding to the list of so-called “victories” chronicled
in his bulletins.
These bulletins were the more credible, inasmuch as the
Russian plan of retreat lent them a sort of colour. The
French were always advancing and the Russians always
retreating; the inference was of course that the former
were gaining a series of victories. Even Neverofsky’s exploit
is described in Bulletin XVII. as an “engagement in which
the advantage rested with the French.” The “engagement”
really amounted to this—Neverofsky’s division, while
hurriedly withdrawing towards Smolensk, was overtaken
by Murat and surrounded by thirty regiments of cavalry,
together with Nansouty’s and Grouchy’s army corps and
the Light Brigade. Finding himself in this dangerous
position, the Russian general formed square, and continued
his retreat in that order. The French cavalry, though they
fell upon the little detachment on every side, found it
impossible to break through, even after forty attacks.
The French surrounded the Russians so closely that
they were able to exchange words with them, and Murat
more than once called upon Neverofsky to surrender. He
only managed, however, to capture seven Russian guns,
and Napoleon greeted him with the remark, not unmerited,
that he should have brought back “not only those wretched
guns, but a whole Russian division as well.”
.il id=i078 fn=i_078.jpg w=530px ew=85% alt='Drawing of Russian Grenadiers'
.ca Russian Grenadiers.
At Smolensk Napoleon spent an evening in personally
.pn +1// 091.png
// 092.png
// 093.png
questioning prisoners, and in congratulating himself on the
fact that he had at last come up with the Russian army.
He attacked it, however, in front, instead of outflanking it
and falling on its rear. He might have made a demonstration
before the city with a strong detachment, and meanwhile
sent the main body of the army to the right over the
Dnieper to attack the left flank of the Russians defending
the town, for Napoleon’s army was so numerous that he
could well afford to divide his forces. It is said that he
did in fact intend to cut off Prince Bagration, but could
not find the ford over the river.
The French censure Marshal Davout for the fearful
losses sustained at Smolensk, holding that these sacrifices
were due to his want of foresight. They blame Napoleon,
moreover, almost unanimously, for failing to surround the
Russians. “In storming the fortifications of Smolensk,”
says the author of the Letters on the Russian Campaign of
1812, “when he might have contented himself with surrounding
the city and cannonading it, he committed a
mistake. In allowing the Polish infantry to be cut to
pieces so near their own country, he made a second mistake.
In advancing into a huge and resourceless country at the
beginning of winter, he fell into a third and far more serious
error.”
After the battle of Smolensk Napoleon was seen riding
over the field and rubbing his hands with an air of glee.
“Five Russians,” he said, “for every Frenchman!” This,
however, was not the fact, for the French lost not 8000 as
they said, but nearer 20,000. Bourgeois admits a loss,
besides 6000 killed, of 10,000 wounded, though according
to the usual ratio the number of wounded would be still
greater. He puts the Russian loss at the same number,
not more. This is not surprising, in view of the fact that
.pn +1 // 094.png
the Russians were fighting under cover, while the French
were attacking in the open, and were several times repulsed.
Russian authorities, on the other hand, admit that our
losses at Smolensk filled many of our countrymen with
dismay, although they had hitherto looked upon the invasion
with the utmost indifference. The scenes of terror
and desolation presented by the interior of the town were
fearful in the extreme. Some of the streets were literally
burned to cinders, and the roadway filled with dead and
dying, many of whom were half-consumed by the flames.
When Napoleon, from the old tower on the city walls,
surveyed the position that had been occupied by the
Russian army on the previous day, he perceived that
Barclay-de-Tolly was no longer there—he had again
escaped! Napoleon had failed in his endeavour to annihilate
the Russian army, and the capture of a city in ashes
did not represent the final paralyzing blow which could
justify his losses in the eyes of Europe.
The French Emperor already appreciated the necessity
of lowering his haughty Dresden tone, and took every opportunity
of throwing oil on the troubled waters that threatened
to engulf him. The letter sent by Marshal Berthier to
Barclay-de-Tolly under the specious pretext of offering his
sympathy and condolence, but serving as a matter of fact
to cloak an attempt to open indirect overtures, contained
the following passage—“The Emperor, to whom I have
communicated the contents of this letter, desires me,
Monsieur le Baron, to beg you to convey the assurance of
his respect to the Emperor Alexander if he is still with
the army. Pray tell him that the sentiment of esteem
and friendship which the Emperor Napoleon entertains
towards him will be impaired neither by the vicissitudes
of warfare nor by any other circumstances.”
.pn +1 // 095.png
These tentative approaches did not elicit any reply.
Napoleon then availed himself of the first convenient
opportunity that occurred to mention his peaceful inclinations
and intentions to his prisoner, General Tutshkof, begging
him to communicate them to his brother, another general
in the Russian army. “It was not I that began the war,” he
said. “Why do the Russians retreat? Why have they
abandoned Smolensk to me? There is nothing I desire so
heartily as peace.” He also begged Tutshkof to mention
that the Commander-in-Chief was wrong in carrying all the
civic functionaries away with him. He invited Tutshkof
to constitute a sort of tribunal of arbitration to decide
which of the contending parties had more chance of victory,
and if that question was decided in favour of the Russians,
to appoint a rendezvous for a battle; if for the French,
then why shed blood in vain, and why not discuss terms
and conclude peace? It was also through Berthier that
he called upon the Emperor Alexander to instruct the
governors not to leave their posts.
Such overtures could not of course be expected to have
any result; their only justification is to be sought in the
pitiable frame of mind to which Napoleon was then reduced.
He began to realize how gigantic was the enterprise he had
undertaken—an enterprise that grew in magnitude the
further he advanced. He was now dealing with a nation
in arms—with a second Spain, but more powerful, more
remote, vaster in extent, and more unproductive....
The name of Charles XII., we are told, was at this time
always on his lips.
Murat was once heard to say to Napoleon, “If the
Russians refuse to give battle it is not worth while to
pursue them; it is time to stop.” The Emperor answered
him with some warmth; though what he said is not known.
.pn +1 // 096.png
It was, however, subsequently understood from the King of
Naples’ own lips that he went on his knees to his brother-in-law,
and implored him to stop. Napoleon, however,
would hear of no halt short of Moscow, which held everything
that was dear to him—honour, glory, and repose.
“Every one remarked,” says Ségur, “that when Murat left
Napoleon after his interview his face wore an expression of
deep affliction, and his gestures were excited and abrupt—he
repeatedly uttered the words, ‘Oh, ce Moscou!’”
So soon as he made up his mind to advance, Napoleon
again acquired complete command over himself. He
became cheerful and tranquil, as was usual when he had
definitely settled upon any project. After the battle of
Zabolotye—or Valutina, as the French called it—he said:
“We have come too far to retire; if I thought of glory
alone I should return to Smolensk, plant my standard there,
and treat the town as my own. The campaign would be
ended, although not the war. Peace lies before us—we are
only eight days’ march from it. Shall we hesitate now
that we are so near our goal? En avant! to Moscow!”
The best answer to this resolve was given in one of the
Emperor Alexander’s proclamations—“He threatens to
march on Moscow—let him do so. Even if he is victorious
he will still share the fate of Charles XII.”
Napoleon himself was far from feeling the confidence
which he endeavoured to inspire into others. For instance,
in writing to Marshal Victor from Smolensk he said—“It
may be that I shall not find peace where I seek it; in that
case I shall be able to retire under cover of your reserves
steadily and without precipitation.”
If one compare the words of Napoleon at the beginning
of the campaign, when his intention was to remain at
Vitebsk, or even at Smolensk, with what he said when his
.pn +1 // 097.png
decision to march on Moscow was irrevocable, one is struck
with wonderment at the total change of ideas, and at the
irresistible impulse of which he was the victim.
We have already mentioned the plan sketched out by
Barclay-de-Tolly as to the best method of carrying on the
war in Russia. Barclay was not the only person to recognize
the weak spot in Napoleon’s genius.
When the storm first began to gather, Tczernicheff, the
military agent, pointed out with remarkable penetration
both the French Emperor’s probable course of procedure
and the best way of replying to his intended moves.
“The preparations for the war are complete,” he wrote to
the Minister of War at St. Petersburg in 1811. “The Emperor
Napoleon’s animosity against us increases day by day, and
if this autumn does not see us at war it will only be because
the season is late, and Napoleon, taking a lesson from the
Pultusk campaign, will perhaps be afraid of the marshes of
Poland. They would of course hinder him in his plans,
which are no doubt to end the campaign in one lightning
stroke, as he has done in all preceding wars.
“Accepting the conclusion that hostilities are unavoidable,
we must make every preparation, not only for withstanding
the first shock, but for prolonging the war as much
as possible. Experience tells us that this is the only method
by which we can hope for success against Napoleon; and
it also tells us that he has always been embarrassed and
led into mistakes of strategy when he has met with prolonged
resistance. This is the course which our Government
should adopt, in this difficult and critical situation.
It is the only course that offers any hope of final triumph
over the world’s oppressor.
“The proper way to conduct this war, in my opinion, is
to avoid a general engagement and to conform as far as
.pn +1 // 098.png
possible to the guerilla tactics adopted against the French
troops in Spain, so as to gradually demoralize them, and
reduce by starvation the enormous forces they will bring
against us.”
The advice given by Marshal Bernadotte, who was at
that time King of Sweden, is also interesting:—“In the
position in which Russia stands towards France, it is to her
advantage to prolong the war, because it is in her power to
do so, but not in Napoleon’s. One ought to depend as
little as possible upon chance. It is therefore essential to
avoid big battles and endeavour to reduce the war to a
series of petty skirmishes. You must have plenty of Cossacks.
You must capture Napoleon’s baggage and cut off
his supplies. Even if you have to retire behind the Dvina,
nay, behind the Neva, so long as you continue to offer a
stubborn resistance everything will turn out well, and
Napoleon will meet at the hands of Alexander with the
fate meted out to Charles XII. by Peter the Great.
“Napoleon neglects nothing that can conduce to success;
but his means are already exhausted, and he cannot
stand a two years’ war. He lacks men, money, and
horses for such an undertaking; and the further he
advances the worse he will fare. But of course it would be
best if such extremities could be avoided, for the provinces
will suffer severely, and the reverses that may be expected
in the early part of the campaign will produce a bad
impression.”
In spite of these prudent counsels, we were all but hoist
with our own petard at Drissa. Nevertheless, looking back,
we may now say that it was a good thing for Russia that
we were obliged to retire behind the Dvina, inasmuch as
we should otherwise have had great difficulty in coping
with our opponents.
.pn +1 // 099.png
Napoleon marched straight on Moscow. In passing
through Viazma he came upon signs of want of discipline
that made him furious. He rode into a crowd of soldiers;
struck some of them, knocked others down with his horse,
and ordered a canteen-keeper to be arrested, tried, and
shot. But they allowed the poor wretch to kneel in the
road, surrounded by a fictitious family group consisting of
a woman and a few borrowed children, when the Emperor
was passing by, and this stratagem saved his life. Fezensac
mentions it—“In passing through the little town of Viazma,
Napoleon came upon some soldiers who had looted a wine-cellar.
He flew into an ungovernable passion, charged
down upon them, and began abusing them and hitting
right and left with his riding-whip. The impossibility of
catching up the Russian army, and the devastations they
had made on our line of march, angered him so much that
he fell foul of everybody he came across.”[#]
.tb
Prince Kutuzof had been appointed Commander-in-Chief
of the Russian army, and Napoleon hastened to gather all
possible information as to his new opponent. He was described
to him as “an old man who had originally attracted
notice by virtue of a most interesting and unusual wound.”
From that time he had made the most of his opportunities.
Even the defeat which he had suffered at Austerlitz, and
which he had foretold, served only to raise his reputation.
But it was exalted still higher by the last campaign against
the Turks. There was no doubt that he was a man of
.pn +1 // 100.png
parts, but he was accused of attending too closely to his
own interest, and having an eye to some personal end in all
his actions. He was, further, a man of phlegmatic and
unforgiving character, and above all of great cunning—in
fact a thorough Tartar—rather a courtier than a general,
but redoubtable on account of his reputation. To the
Russians his person, his conversation, his dress, and, last
but not least, his superstitions and even his age, recalled
Suvoroff and the Russia of the days of Catharine the Great—a
fact that endeared him to his fellow-countrymen. In
Moscow the popular enthusiasm aroused by his appointment
was so great that the people exchanged congratulatory
embraces in the streets. All were confident that the
new Commander-in-Chief would, by hook or by crook,
prove more than a match for Napoleon.
The arrival of Kutuzof at head-quarters created an excellent
impression on the army, especially as the constant
succession of retreats had undermined, not to say
destroyed, confidence in their commanders. The person
chiefly blamed for what was considered the cowardice of
our strategy was of course the Commander-in-Chief, a man
of great talent and intelligence, who, when once a plan of
operations had been definitely adopted, was accustomed to
carry it out to the bitter end. He was completely misunderstood
by his contemporaries, including the Emperor
Alexander, who, yielding to the pressure of his entourage,
expressed signs of impatience, and demanded offensive
tactics and immediate victories. The impulsive Prince
Bagration, who was an especially strong advocate of the
offensive, so far forgot himself as to make complaints to
the Emperor against the Commander-in-Chief. He, however,
had not the terrible responsibilities that devolved
upon Barclay, and he practically admitted in private that a
.pn +1 // 101.png
decisive battle might be disastrous to Russia. The Emperor
Alexander’s Council of War might decide upon an
attack, but the Commander-in-Chief would inevitably
defeat their intentions, although he would at first pretend
to share their enthusiasm. This course of action rendered
him extremely unpopular.
Kutuzof, the new Commander-in-Chief, was unwilling to
endanger his enormous popularity, and decided to accept
battle, although, as a prudent man, he was almost as
strongly opposed to such a course as was his predecessor.
It cannot be denied that the selection of the plain of
Borodino for the great defensive battle was creditable both
to Kutuzof and to Colonel Tol, the head of his staff.
“On two lines,” says G. de Pimodan, “it is an extremely
strong position, and still worthy of a visit from officers of
the general staff, who may profitably study the scheme of
the defences that were hastily constructed. Their only
weakness was on the left flank.”
The French army, which at the passage of the Niemen
numbered 400,000 men, after comparatively insignificant
losses in battle mustered no more than 160,000 when
it reached the plain of Borodino. The question naturally
arises: what had become of the 240,000 men who,
even on the admission of Bulletin XVII., were missing?
Moreover, where did all the Russian troops come from
after being incessantly slaughtered by the French, tens of
thousands at a time according to Napoleon’s bulletins, for
the space of ten weeks, and after the wholesale desertions
which he chronicled?
On the day before the battle of Borodino, Napoleon,
according to the evidence of his valet, was in a perfectly
tranquil state of mind. He spoke of Russia as if it were
a smiling province of France. From his conversation it
.pn +1 // 102.png
might have been supposed that the neighbourhood was a
vast granary ready-stored for the army, and offering all
facilities for the establishment of winter quarters. The
first step of the new administration which he was about to
establish at Gjatsk would be the encouragement of agriculture.
He was evidently enchanted by the vistas that
opened up before him. Seldom had the Emperor appeared
so much at ease or displayed such calmness in his conversation
and demeanour.
It should be mentioned that the entrenchments at
Borodino were very slight, partly on account of the haste
in which they were constructed, and partly owing to the
fact that the Second Army, which constituted the left
flank, had no entrenching tools. Bayefsky’s battery, therefore,
and the entrenchments on the Semyonof heights,
were far from formidable. Scarcely anything was done to
Tutshkof’s position at Utitsa owing to want of appliances.[#]
Napoleon regarded the left flank as the weakest part of
the Russian position, and after a careful survey of the
heights of Borodino he decided to concentrate all his
efforts on this point, i.e. on an attack with his own right.
Marshal Davout then requested the assistance of Poniatowski,
whose forces were too weak for independent action,
to help in outflanking the enemy. He proposed to move
before daybreak with Poniatowski’s troops and his own
five divisions, numbering 35,000 men, under cover of the
woods on which the Russians were resting, get behind
them, along the old Smolensk road, and fall suddenly on
the rear of the left flank. He pointed out that while the
Emperor was leading the attack from the front, he would
move rapidly from redoubt to redoubt and from reserve to
.pn +1 // 103.png
reserve, disperse any force he found on the Mozjaisk road,
annihilate the Russian army, and finish the war at a single
blow.
This proposal furnished one more proof that Davout
was the best tactician of all the marshals trained in the
school of Napoleon. If his daring project had been carried
out, it would most probably have thrown the Russian
army into utter confusion. But Napoleon, after listening
attentively to what the Marshal had to say, replied after
a few minutes of silent deliberation—“No, it is too unheard-of
a manœuvre; it will lead me away from my main
object, and make me lose a great deal of time.”
The Duke of Eckmühl, confident in the correctness of
his views, still persisted. According to Ségur, he undertook
to execute the whole manœuvre by six o’clock in the
morning. He would answer, he said, for the utter rout of
the Russians. But Napoleon, evidently displeased at the
Marshal’s persistence, interrupted him with—“Oh, you are
always urging these flanking movements; it is too
hazardous!” So Marshal Davout said no more, and,
fortunately for the Russian army, left without gaining his
point.
Kutuzof was not slow to divine the enemy’s intentions.
When the battle began, in the face of the enemy’s fire he
moved Boggavut’s corps across from the right flank, against
which Prince Eugène was making an ineffectual demonstration,
to the support of the Second Army, and in his
turn alarmed the French by a movement round their left
flank with Uvarof’s cavalry and the Cossacks.
Both sides appreciated the fact that the Semyonof
heights were the real key to the position.
We must not omit to mention that throughout the night
preceding the battle Napoleon was apprehensive lest the
.pn +1 // 104.png
Russian army should again retreat. The fear of this
.if h
.il fn=i_090.jpg w=30% ew=30% align=l alt=''
.if-
prevented him from sleeping; he kept
calling to his attendants, asking what the
time was, and whether any sound could
be heard from the Russian camp, and
sending to see whether the enemy was
still in the same place. When he was
reassured on this score, he began to express
anxiety for his hungry and exhausted
troops—how would they bear the
shock of battle? He sent for Bessières, the
Marshal in whom, apparently, he had the
greatest confidence, and inquired whether
the Guards had everything they needed. He more than
once, in fact, made inquiries on this point.
At last, still unsatisfied, he rose and asked the sentinels
outside his tent whether they had had their rations served
out to them. Receiving an affirmative answer, he lay down
again and fell into a troubled sleep.
But he soon called out again. The aide-de-camp who
entered found him with his head resting on his hand. He
appeared to be musing on the vanity of human glory.
Napoleon reviewed the critical situation in which he was
placed, and added—“The eventful day draws near. It will
be a terrible struggle!” Then he asked Rapp if he was
confident of victory. “Certainly,” the latter replied, “but
we shall not get it without much bloodshed.”
Once more Napoleon became restless and uneasy.
Again he sent to inquire whether the Russians were in
the same position, or whether they had slipped away.
Receiving a reassuring report, he endeavoured to calm
his agitation; but the exhausting journeys he had lately
performed and his sleepless nights, together with his many
.pn +1 // 105.png
cares and anxieties, had so told upon him that as the
temperature fell during the night he grew feverish, and
was seized with a dry cough and nervous irritation.
During the latter part of the night he suffered from intense
thirst. And to add to all this he was troubled by his old
complaint, for on the previous day he had had an attack
of dysuria, a disease from which he had long suffered.
Five o’clock struck at last. An officer came from Ney
to report that the Russians were in front, and requesting
leave to begin the attack. Napoleon brightened up, rose
from his bed, summoned his attendants, and issued from
his tent with the words—“They are in our hands at last!
Forward! The gates of Moscow are before us!” Such
is Ségur’s account.
The battle of Borodino, famous in the annals of war,
had begun. The roar of the guns, borne upon the wind,
was heard eighty miles away from the battle-field. The
Emperor was seen throughout the whole day sitting or
slowly walking up and down near the landslip on the left
front of the captured Shevardino redoubt; but he could
scarcely view the battle from that place after it had been
for some time in progress. He rose now and again, walked
a few paces and seated himself once more. Those who
attended him regarded him with astonishment. They
were accustomed under such circumstances to see him
managing affairs with a confident and tranquil air; but
instead of this they now saw nothing but feebleness,
lethargy, and inertia. Some ascribed his want of energy
to fatigue; others thought that he was tired of everything,
even of fighting, while some suspected internal sufferings.
The last supposition was probably the correct one.
Napoleon’s attendant, Constant, positively asserts that
during the whole of the battle of Borodino he was suffering
.pn +1 // 106.png
from an attack of his chronic malady. He had contracted,
moreover, some time previously a severe cold which he
had neglected, and it was rendered still worse by the
anxieties of the day. So seriously, in fact, did it affect
him that he almost lost his voice.
“Napoleon never once mounted his horse,” says de la
Fluse, “during the whole of the battle. He walked about
with his officers, pacing up and down upon the same spot.
It was said that his indisposition prevented him from
riding.
“His aide-de-camp was kept busy in receiving and delivering
his orders. Behind Napoleon were the Guards and
a few corps in reserve. A regimental band was playing a
succession of military airs, recalling the battle-fields of the
first Revolution, such as ‘Allons enfants de la patrie!’
But at Borodino these strains had no effect on the soldiers,
and some of the older officers laughed at the contrast of the
two periods. The panorama of a bloody battle was spread
before our eyes, but we could see nothing, owing to the
smoke of a thousand guns thundering without a pause. I
got as close as I could to the Emperor, who kept looking
through his glass at the field of battle. He was dressed in
his grey overcoat, and spoke but little. When a cannon-ball
rolled towards his feet, as sometimes happened, he
stepped on one side just like the rest of us.”
By three o’clock in the afternoon the French had captured
the redoubt on the Semyonof heights, but the
Russian army, far from taking to flight, had no intention even
of retiring. Napoleon, aghast at the unprecedented losses
of men, officers, and generals, put a stop to any further
attack, and, in spite of all representations, refused to allow
the reserves to be used for a final decisive assault.
.il id=i092 fn=i_092.jpg w=800px ew=100% alt='The troops at Borodino'
.ca At Borodino.
The marshals sent General Belliard for assistance. The
.pn +1 // 107.png
// 108.png
// 109.png
general declared that from the position they occupied they
could see the whole of the Mozjaisk road, covered with men
and wagons in full retreat, that nothing was needed but
one vigorous onset to finally crush the Russian army. The
Emperor wavered and hesitated; then he bade the general
return and report again.
Belliard rode off in some surprise, and soon returned
with the news that the enemy was apparently rallying, that
the opportunity for the decisive blow was passing, and that
if they did not strike at once a second battle would be
needed to decide the first. Bessières, however, returned at
this moment from the hills to which he had been sent by
Napoleon to inspect the Russian position. He insisted
that the Russians, far from retreating in disorder, had only
retired to their second position, and were actually preparing
to attack. Then the Emperor informed Belliar that it
was not yet clear what had happened; that before making
up his mind to allow his last reserves to be brought into
action he wished to be more certain regarding the position
of the pieces on his chess-board. He repeated this phrase
several times.
Belliard returned completely dumfoundered to Murat
and the other Marshals, who were impatiently awaiting reinforcements,
and informed them that they were not forthcoming.
“He had found the Emperor still at the same
spot, evidently in pain, and in a state of despondency; his
features were downcast, his eyes dull and heavy, and he
gave his orders in a listless way.
“Every one was surprised. Ney, in an access of ungovernable
temper, said bluntly, ‘What is the meaning of
this? Have we come out here for the pleasure of taking
the plain? What is the Emperor doing in the rear? There
he can only see the reverses and not the successes. If he
.pn +1 // 110.png
does not mean to lead the army himself, if he has ceased to
be a general and is playing at Emperor, let him return to the
Tuileries, and leave the command in our hands!’”
Daru, in his turn, was instigated by Dumas and Berthier
to whisper to the Emperor that the universal cry was,
“Now is the time for the Guards to attack!” But Napoleon
answered, “And if I have to fight a second battle
to-morrow, what troops shall I have to fight it with?”
Napoleon’s sufferings were evidently increasing; it was
as much as he could do to mount his horse and ride at a
foot pace to the Semyonof hills. He saw that he was far
from being master of the field of battle; that it was still
disputed by the cannon-balls, and even the rifle-bullets, of
the enemy.
Murat declared that he saw none of the genius of Napoleon
displayed on this momentous day, and Prince Eugène,
the Viceroy, admitted that he could not understand his
adopted father’s indecision. When Ney was appealed to
for his opinion he was so angry that he recommended
retreat.
The whole of the French army was disappointed with the
result of the battle, and with the want of energy displayed
by Napoleon. Bessières was especially blamed; for, at the
critical moment, when the Emperor was on the point of
making up his mind to let the reserves be brought into
action, the Marshal approached him and whispered in his
ear—“Sire, do not forget that you are eight hundred leagues
from your capital.”
There are, however, some who take the opposite view.
Chambrey, for instance, assures us that “the whole of the
French army was astonished at the stubbornness with
which this terrible battle was fought,” and Gourgot, in defending
Napoleon, goes so far as to say, “If the ranks of the
.pn +1 // 111.png
Guards had been thinned at the battle of Borodino, the
remains of the French army, of which it was the pillar
and pride during the retreat, would hardly have managed
to reach the Niemen.”
Of the Russian authorities, some find fault with Napoleon,
and others are of opinion that he adopted the only possible
course. “Nothing,” says Buturlin, “can justify Napoleon’s
course in stopping the fight at three o’clock when a little
further effort might have ensured a victory. The last
Russian reserves had already gone into action, while
on the side of the French neither the Old Guard nor
the Young, nor any of their cavalry, amounting to over
20,000 men, had taken any part in the battle. There is
no doubt that if Napoleon had made use of the twenty-three
battalions and twenty-seven squadrons of which this
select force consisted, he would have utterly routed the
Russians, and compelled them to spend the remaining four
hours of the day in continual retreat instead of preparing
for attack.”
Danilevsky asserts that the French, after occupying the
redoubt on the Semyonof hills, so far from pressing the
Russians, who had fallen back on another position in the
immediate neighbourhood, withdrew all along the line for
the night; and reminds his readers of the fact, that until
eleven o’clock on the following day the French made no
attempt to renew the assault, but awaited an attack on the
part of the Russians, and only advanced at last when their
opponents began to retire.[#] He expresses an opinion that
for Napoleon’s refusal to use the Young Guard to support
the cavalry in breaking through our left flank, our
army was indebted to the movement made on the left by
.pn +1 // 112.png
Uvarof’s cavalry,—that is to say, to a movement ordered by
Kutuzof himself. We may add that neither Uvarof nor
the Cossacks did all that might have been expected from
them. Had the latter attacked the French more boldly in
the rear, plundered their baggage, and generally caused confusion
in that quarter, as they had every opportunity of
doing, Napoleon would in all likelihood have had to send
his reserves not to the front but to the rear; and the result
would probably have been to demoralize, and perhaps to
spread panic throughout the whole of the French army.
Many incline to Marshal Davout’s opinion, which we
have already mentioned, that Napoleon could have made
much more certain of victory if, instead of attacking the
Russian left, he had made a strong demonstration there,
and sent a large force on to the old Smolensk road to support
Poniatowski against Tutshkof. He would certainly
have been enabled to fall on the rear of the Russian army,
which, being thus cut off from Mozjaisk and cornered
between the rivers Kolotsha and Moskva, would have been
in a very critical position.
It was at first Prince Kutuzof’s intention to accept
battle on the following day in the position which the
Russian army then occupied. But the reports sent in at
night by the commanders of the various army corps as to
the disordered condition of the different divisions, and
above all as to the scantiness of ammunition, caused him
to change his plans. Grabbe was sent that night to the
First Army with orders to retire. Deep silence, he says,
reigned at the village of Gorki. When he had found the
cottage in which Barclay-de-Tolly was quartered, he
obtained a candle with much difficulty and entered the
parlour where the general was asleep on the floor, side by
side with his aides-de-camps and orderlies. He gently
.pn +1 // 113.png
awakened him, gave him the note which he had brought
with him, and explained his mission. The general leaped
to his feet, and, probably for the first time in his life, there
burst from his lips, generally so mild and gentle, a torrent
of bitter invective against Benigsen, whom, for some reason
or other, he took to be the principal author of the
decision to retreat.
The Russian army began once more to retreat, and the
French to advance. The French had therefore nominally
won the battle.
“Monsieur L’Evêque,” writes Napoleon to the Bishop of
Metz, “the passage of the Niemen, of the Dvina and the
Dnieper, and the battles of Mohilef, Drissa, Polotsk,
Smolensk, and lastly of Moskva [Borodino], call for thanksgiving
to the God of Might. We desire that on receipt of
this letter you will make the necessary arrangements.
Summon my people to the churches and sing praises unto
the Almighty according to the forms laid down by the
Church for such occasions.
“In sending you this letter, I pray the Lord that, etc.
“Given in our Imperial Quarters in Mozjaisk, 10th September,
1812.
.ll -2
.rj
Napoleon.”
.ll +2
In accordance with these instructions, the Bishop of Metz
issued the following proclamation:—
.fs 90%
.sp
.in +1
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“Claudius Ignatius Laurent, by the Grace of God,
Bishop of Metz, General Administrator of the District, and
Baron of the Empire, to the clergy and to all true sons of
the District of Metz, greeting.
.sp
“Beloved Brethren,
.ti +4
“The whole universe now gazes in profound wonder
upon new exploits and new triumphs yet more glorious
than those that have hitherto filled us with astonishment.
Napoleon has once more shown himself a veritable Titan,
.pn +1 // 114.png
capable of the most gigantic achievements. His victorious
phalanxes have swept like eagles from the mouth of the
Guadalquivir to the sources of the Volga. No longer shall
the Northern barbarians trample on the blessed valleys of
the South; the glorious warrior of the West is driving the
common foe before him to the ice-bound regions of the
Pole.
“For more than a century have the presumptuous
dwellers of the hyperborean shores, relying on a reputation
they have ill deserved, menaced and intimidated the
humble and confiding monarchs of civilized Europe. Long
time, too long indeed, have they lent the hireling aid of
their would-be invincible legions, to nations whom it was
their aim thereafter to subdue, and whom they have set in
arms one against another, only to break faith with their
kings and lead them astray into difficulties from which there
was no escape. He whom the Creator, the God of War,
hath chosen to root out all manner of crafty cunning, to
break the spells of witchcraft, to humble the proud, to cast
down earthly idols, to triumph over the kings of the nations
and subdue their chief cities, he has seen, beloved brethren,
that the time has come to humble their intolerable pride
and arrogance, and to show to all men that these savage
warriors are no more invincible in their native steppes than
in the valleys of Helvetia, or the plains of Poland and
Moldavia.
“What the mind hath conceived, that the hand hath
performed. Though few be the months that have passed,
the rapidity of our successes and the splendour of our
victories fill the whole world with astonishment.
“The immortal instrument by whom these wonders have
been worked, he himself marvels, it would seem, at his own
successes. He humbly acknowledges that it is the right
hand of God, and not his own, that triumphs over the enemy
who has summoned him to the fight.
“On the field of battle, in the midst of his victories, he
is the first to raise the hymn of thanksgiving, and, from the
ends of the earth, where he is now contending with the foe,
he calls upon the pastors of his realm to summon the
.pn +1 // 115.png
people to the churches, and join him in singing praises
unto the Lord, in gratitude for His victories. Who is so
proud that he will not bow down before the Most High
when the victor, who casteth down the thrones of kings,
himself falls at the throne of the Lord who giveth as He
will, victory or defeat, life or death, peace or war?
“Never, my brethren, has Napoleon the Great missed
any occasion of proclaiming these eternal truths whenever
he has achieved one of his wondrous victories. The
joyful epistle which his Imperial and Royal Majesty has
graciously vouchsafed to us is a convincing testimony of
the depth of his religious faith.
“Let us give thanks to the Fountain of these great
mercies even as our most gracious Emperor lays his
triumphs at the feet of the Almighty, the Lord of heaven
and earth.
“And to this end that the praiseworthy intentions of
our most august Emperor and King may be worthily
fulfilled, we, having duly considered the matter, do hereby
order and command....”
.ll +1
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It is admitted on all hands that the French losses at
Borodino were quite as great as the Russian, namely, about
50,000. Ségur puts them at 40,000. Dumas says that
“the losses were beyond calculation.” At about nine
o’clock in the evening Napoleon summoned Daru and
Dumas. His camp was in the middle of a square formed
by the Guards. “He had only just supped,” says Dumas,
“and was sitting all alone. He made one of us sit on his
right, and the other on his left. After questioning us as
to the arrangements made for giving assistance to the
wounded, he began to talk of the result of the battle.
Then, after dozing in his chair for about five minutes, he
gave himself a shake, and began talking again. ‘People
are surprised, I dare say,’ he said, ‘that I did not let my
reserves be used in order to secure a more decisive result;
.pn +1 // 116.png
but you see I was obliged to save them for the final blow
which we must deal before we can enter Moscow. The
success of the day was certain; I had to think of the issue
of the campaign—that is why I kept the Guards out of
action.’”
Napoleon attempted the same night to resume his routine
work which had been interrupted for five days. But his
voice failed him, and he could neither converse nor dictate.
He was obliged to have recourse to the assistance of the
pen, writing his orders on scraps of paper. His secretaries
and all the members of his staff who could be of any
assistance copied them out as fast as they could. Count
Daru and the Prince of Neufchâtel set to work with the
others; but the Emperor’s handwriting was extremely
difficult to decipher, for he was writing at the rate of an
order a minute. He would frequently rap on the table as a
sign to remove the papers which were accumulating in great
piles.
Twelve long hours were spent in this work. Not a sound
was to be heard but the scratching of Napoleon’s pen and
the rapping of his hammer.
.tb
The French army at last approached Moscow. Napoleon,
who had been previously seated in a carriage, mounted
his horse when half-way through the last march.
In the distance, through a cloud of dust, could be seen
the long columns of Russian cavalry retiring in good order
before the French troops. At last a number of towers
came into view, with golden domes glittering in the sun—a
vast city lay before the advancing host, and the van of the
army, in a transport of enthusiasm, cried, “Moscow! Moscow
at last!” The cry was taken up by the whole army;
officers and men clambered on to the heights in order to
.pn +1 // 117.png
gaze at the famous city, destined perhaps to be the new
boundary of the French Empire.
Napoleon feasted his eyes upon the spectacle from the
Pilgrim’s Hill—Poklonnaya Gorà. Behind him was a group
of delighted marshals.
To the left and right they could see Prince Eugène and
Poniatowski approaching the city. In front, on the high-road,
Murat and his scouts had almost reached the suburbs;
but still no deputation of the inhabitants came out to meet
them. It was afternoon, but Moscow gave no sign of
life; it was like a city of the dead. Those officers who had
already been in the city reported that Moscow was deserted!
But for a long time no one dared to communicate these
tidings to Napoleon; all feared an outburst of the Emperor’s
fury. When Napoleon was at last informed of the condition
of the city he flatly refused to believe the report. Then
he mounted his horse and rode up to the Dorogomilof gate.
He gave orders that the strictest discipline should be
observed, clinging to the hope that the rumour would prove
to be untrue. Perhaps these people did not know the
proper mode of surrendering. The whole situation was new
to them; the French and their ways must be as strange to
the Russians as they and their ways were to the French.
But every fresh report confirmed the alarming news; doubt
was no longer possible.
Napoleon summoned Daru—“Moscow is deserted!
The thing is preposterous! Ride into the place and find
the boyards.”
Daru, however, was unsuccessful in his mission, for there
was not a boyard in the city. There was no smoke from
the chimneys—not a sign of habitation; unbroken silence
brooded over the vast city.
But Napoleon insisted; he still waited and hoped. At
.pn +1 // 118.png
last one of the officers, evidently willing to oblige at any
cost, rode in, seized a few vagrants in the streets and drove
them out before him—as a deputation.
Rostopchin says that the deputation consisted of some
twelve men clad in the worst of garments; the civic authorities,
nobility, clergy, and principal merchants were represented
on this solemn occasion by a simple type-setter.
Napoleon saw the humorous side of the situation, and
turned away. Convinced at last that Moscow was really
deserted, he abandoned his hopes and projects, shrugged his
shoulders, and said with a contemptuous air—“The Russians
do not understand the impression that will be produced by
the occupation of their capital.”
One can well understand Napoleon’s impatience to receive
the keys of the city; for this would have meant the realization
of a long-cherished ambition. An hour before reaching
Moscow he summoned Count Durosnel, who was in charge
of the Imperial head-quarters, and said—“Go into the city,
get everything in order, and select a deputation to bring me
the keys.” There is no doubt that he had thought out all
the details of his entry into Moscow; his speech to the
nobility, in which he would have availed himself of the
jealousy between the old capital and St. Petersburg, and the
shortcomings of the constitution of the empire, to win these
brave but barbarous people over to his side; his arrangements
for a contribution to be paid in gold, and the issue of
the false 100 rouble notes which he had had printed expressly
in Paris, and with which he hoped to make good
the expenses of the war. He had, of course, already decided
whom he would punish, or reward, to whom he would
extend his Imperial clemency; what changes he would
make in the administration; and, last but not least, how he
would conduct the negotiations for peace—whether slowly
.pn +1 // 119.png
or quickly, haughtily and sternly, or graciously. He who
had so long been accustomed to apply his genius to every
detail of the subjugation, pacification, and organization of
newly-conquered countries, must of course, now that he had
reached the goal of his ambition, consider and decide everything
beforehand. And, after all,—how aggravating to find
that there was nothing, positively nothing, with which to
satisfy the curiosity of the Moniteur and of Europe,
which had been expecting this climax open-mouthed.
A Frenchman, who was an eye-witness of the scene, tells
us that he came upon the Emperor in one of the suburbs,
awaiting envoys from the Russians, and examining their
cavalry, which was retiring on the left, through a field-glass.
A few peasants and shopkeepers were marched up. They
presented a pitiable spectacle, and were quaking with terror,
under the impression, apparently, that their last hour had
come.
Napoleon dismounted. He was evidently cold; he
coughed as he gave his orders, and he seemed to be undecided
as to what course to adopt. Apparently considering
that it would be wisest not to run the risk of entering the
city at that moment, he stationed himself in one of the
neighbouring wooden houses.
This was in the suburb of Dorogomilof. Marshal Mortier
was appointed Military Governor of the town. Napoleon
said emphatically—“See to it that there is no plundering!
You will be answerable with your own head—save me my
Moscow from everybody and everything!”
At the Dorogomilof Bridge, Riess, the bookseller, was
brought to Napoleon. Riess afterwards related that he had
been compelled to remain at his shop, but hearing the drums
and trumpets in the street he went out, was taken prisoner
and brought before the Emperor.
.pn +1 // 120.png
.if h
.il fn=i_104.jpg w=15% ew=15% align=l alt=''
.if-
“Who are you?” asked Napoleon.
“A French bookseller.”
“Ah! then you are one of my subjects.”
“Yes; but I have lived for a long time in Moscow.”
“Where is Rostopchin?”
“He has gone.”
“Where are the magistrates—municipal council——?”
“Gone also.”
“Who is left in Moscow?”
“None of the Russians.”
“C’est impossible!”
Riess apparently swore that what he said was true.
Napoleon frowned and remained for some time buried in
thought; then, as if he had made up his mind to some
daring project, he gave the word, “Forward—march!”
One of the Russians says—“They went searching for
the keys and for a deputation in the Government offices,
the town-hall, the head-quarters of the police, the Governor-General’s
house, and, in fact, every place in which there
was the least chance of finding an official. After a long
but ineffectual search, the zealous Polish general who had
undertaken the task returned to Napoleon and reported
that there was not a single functionary left in Moscow, and
that the town was deserted by all except a few foreigners
who had stayed behind. The Emperor accordingly postponed
his entry; he thought perhaps that by next day
some of the inhabitants would have returned, and that a
deputation would arrive after all, or that at any rate his
French, Italian, and German subjects would come to the
rescue and present themselves to pay him their respects.”
He was again disappointed. He spent the night before
the gates in an innkeeper’s house, apparently unable to
sleep. “There was such a horrible smell in the house,”
.pn +1 // 121.png
says his valet, “that his Majesty kept calling every minute,
‘Are you awake, Constant?’
“‘I am, your Majesty,’
“‘Pray burn some vinegar, mon cher; I cannot stand this
awful smell—it is simply torture to me!’
“The house was in such a filthy condition that they
found next day specimens of those disgusting insects
which are so plentiful in Russia, in the Emperor’s bed,
nay, in his clothes as well.” The writer refers to our bugs,
which, as is well known, attack new-comers with peculiar
virulence.
It was said that Napoleon, “although he intended to
establish himself in the Palace of the Kremlin, considered
it best to wait a little before entering into possession, owing
to a rumour that the ancient dwelling of the Tsars was
mined with explosives.”
The two armies moved simultaneously upon Moscow.
The King of Naples and Marshal Ney crossed the bridge.
The men and officers of the Russian rear-guard and of the
French advance-guard met on the bridge, and the King
found himself completely surrounded by Russians of
General Dorogomilovsky’s detachment. According to Ségur,
Murat called out, “Is there any one here who can speak
French?”
“There is, your Majesty,” answered a young officer not
far off.
“Who is in command of the rear-guard?” The young
man pointed to a veteran in Cossack uniform who looked
as if he had seen service.
“Please ask him if he knows me?”
“He says that he knows your Majesty well. He has
always seen you in the thick of the fight.”
The King hinted in the course of conversation that it was
.pn +1 // 122.png
time to make peace—that the war had already lasted too
long. He also remarked incidentally that the fur coat
which the worthy veteran was wearing must be most useful
in camping out. The Cossack general at once pulled it
off and offered it to Murat as a memento of the interview.
Murat in return gave him a valuable watch which he took
from one of the officers of his staff. This unfortunate
officer was Napoleon’s aide-de-camp, Gourgot, who afterwards
bitterly lamented the loss of his watch, which he
valued for its associations.
The narrative of Kerbeletzky, a Russian chinovnik, who
was captured on the way to Moscow and brought before
Napoleon, is interesting in its naïveté and simplicity—“The
Duc d’Istry, Napoleon’s State Secretary de Laurent,
and his Polish aide-de-camp Lieutenant-Colonel Welsowicz,
questioned me on the morning of September 1, in great
detail, not only as to the number and disposition of all our
armies, and the movements and performances of each of
them, but also as to the intentions entertained by our
Government with regard to peace.
“All the officials whom I have named above, according
to their own account, which they said was based on the
most trustworthy information received by Napoleon, were
thoroughly acquainted with the condition of Moscow.
They knew that there were no Russian troops in the town,
and supposed not only that the Russian army would not
give battle before the gates of the city, but more than that,
that the Russian Government would certainly sue for
peace. Welsowicz further affirmed that on the morrow,
namely on September 2, Napoleon, their Emperor, would
dine in Moscow; that whatever resistance might be offered
by the Russian army which had taken part in the battle
of Mozjaisk, he would take the city by force if need be;
.pn +1 // 123.png
would raise a good round sum by way of contribution;
would restore Poland to her former dignity, and would join
White Russia and Smolensk to her territories. He would
further provide his troops with clothes and boots, and after
spending a while in this capital of Russia would return to
Paris. If the Russian Government remained obdurate and
refused his terms, he would make over Moscow to Poland,
while he himself marched to St. Petersburg and beyond,
and subdued the whole of Russia.
“On the 1st, at ten o’clock in the morning, he proceeded
towards Moscow with his huge army, which had passed
the night camped round the country-house he had occupied.
In the evening he halted at Viazum, a village some twenty-two
miles from Moscow, belonging to Prince Galitzyn, and
spent the night in the manor-house. That day Napoleon
drove the first eight miles in his carriage, with the Prince
of Neufchâtel (Berthier). Then, as he could no longer use
the carriage, for the bridge on the high-road was burned,
and the road that led round by the ravine was impassable,
he mounted a horse and rode the rest of the way. On
September 2 Napoleon left Viazum at daybreak, and
at ten o’clock in the morning he reached a manor-house
which lies on the right of the high-road to Smolensk, eight
miles from Moscow. There he was met by the King of
Naples. He did not enter the house with him, but turned
to the left into a close near the church, and there they
walked alone for more than an hour, discussing the steps
that must be taken for the capture of Moscow.
“Murat then, without taking his dinner, proceeded towards
Moscow, and the whole of the French army with its
numerous artillery followed him without a halt. Napoleon
made a hasty dinner in the house, and with his attendant
generals—who took their dinner outside—and a special
.pn +1 // 124.png
body-guard, consisting of a squadron of Chasseurs and
another of Polish Uhlans, under the guidance of the
Russian prisoners, set off post-haste after Murat.
“Napoleon arrived at two o’clock in the afternoon at the
Pilgrim’s Hill—Poklonnaya Gorà—distant some two miles
from Moscow. He found the vanguard already drawn up
in battle array at the foot of the hill by order of the King
of Naples. The Emperor, holding in his hand a plan
which was given to him, dismounted, and some of the
generals who accompanied him did the same. The army
was preparing for battle.
“After waiting half-an-hour without any challenge from
Moscow, Napoleon gave orders to fire a gun as a signal;
then, when five more minutes had elapsed, he and his staff
mounted their horses and galloped at full speed towards
the city. At the same moment the vanguard and the
division which was posted in the rear of the centre advanced
with indescribable impetuosity; the cavalry and artillery
galloped at full speed, keeping step together, and the
infantry charged along as fast as they could double. The
thud of horses’ hoofs, the creaking of wheels, and the
rattling of guns, added to the noise of running men, made
a remarkable uproar. The daylight was dimmed by the
dense cloud of dust which they raised! Within twelve
minutes they had reached the Dorogomilof gate.
.il id=i108 fn=i_108.jpg w=600px ew=100% alt='Napoleon looking towards Moscow'
.ca Looking Towards Moscow.
“The unexpected news that Moscow was deserted both
by the Russian army and by the inhabitants seemed
to astound Napoleon. He was seized with the profoundest
amazement, which for the moment wrought in
him a kind of ecstasy or self-forgetfulness. His tranquil
and measured step at once became quick and feverish.
He looked all round and about him, recovered himself,
stopped in his walk, shivered, fell into a stupor, scratched
.pn +1 // 125.png
// 126.png
// 127.png
his nose, pulled off his glove, and pulled it on again; drew
out his handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it between
his hands and put it in another pocket as though by mistake,
then took it out again and put it back; then he pulled
off his glove once more and pulled it on again, repeating
this action many times. He continued thus for a whole
hour, and during that time the generals surrounding him
stood motionless, like lifeless images of men, not one of
them daring to stir. Then Napoleon recovered himself a
little, mounted his horse and rode into Moscow, followed
by the cavalry, which had hitherto stood without the gates.
When he had passed through Dorogomilof Post-boy Ward
and come to the edge of the river Moskva, he stopped on
the right side of the street on the slope of the bank, dismounted,
and began once more to pace up and down;
but this time he was more tranquil.
“Napoleon and his escort lay that night in the Dorogomilof
suburb in private dwellings. Of the inhabitants of
Moscow none were to be seen except four stable-boys.”
The night which Napoleon passed in the suburb was a
sad and dreary one. To say nothing of the bugs—and
perhaps also other parasites by no means rare in Russia—he
was kept awake by the gloomy reports that were continually
brought in, warning him, among other things, that
the city was about to be burnt. “The Emperor was uneasy
and could not lie still; he kept calling his attendants
and making them repeat the rumours. Apparently he
could not quite bring himself to believe them, but about
two o’clock in the morning he received word that the fires
had begun.
“He entered Moscow on Tuesday, September 3, at half-past
ten in the morning. The Arbat Ward was absolutely
empty. He mounted his little Arab, dressed in his grey
.pn +1 // 128.png
overcoat and an ordinary cocked hat, without any sign of
distinction. He was surrounded by a very large suite of
marshals and other officials. The various colours and the
richness of their uniforms, and the many-tinted ribbons of
the orders which they wore, made a most brilliant picture,
and gave a certain distinction to the simplicity of Napoleon’s
attire. The conqueror of Moscow rode as far as the
Borovitzky gate without seeing a single inhabitant. His
wrath was visible in every line of his face. He was not,
indeed, at any pains to conceal what was passing in his
mind.”
It was at this time that new fires broke out in many
parts of the Arbat Ward, and after Napoleon had entered
the Palace of the Kremlin, the Bazaar and the so-called
Carriage Mart, together with a number of dwelling-houses
round the Kremlin, burst into flames. Napoleon hurried
to the scene, issuing orders interspersed with curses and
threats against the troops and Marshal Mortier.
“The sight of the Kremlin, however,” says Ségur, “the
majestic dwelling of the line of Rurik and the Romanofs,
the throne still standing in its accustomed place, the Cross
of Ivan the Great, and the beautiful part of the city commanded
by the Palace, restored, in some degree, his peace
of mind. His hopes revived; the conquest was at least
flattering to his pride, and he said with some complacency,
“Me voilà, enfin! Here am I at last in Moscow, in the
ancient palace of the Tsars! in the Kremlin itself!” He
examined everything with mingled pride, curiosity, and
pleasure; made inquiries as to the resources of the town,
and began to consider the possibility of making peace.”
The enthusiasm in Paris on receipt of the news that
Napoleon had entered Moscow was indescribable. The
only anxiety was lest he should rest satisfied with his
.pn +1 // 129.png
laurels and not march triumphantly into India! Innumerable
sonnets, epistles, odes, and eulogistic rhymes of all
kinds were published in honour of the occasion.
Here are a few specimens in the original, for they would
suffer by translation; we have merely left out a few
descriptive passages of a purely imaginary character—
.sp
.fs 80%
.ce
ODE À SA MAJESTÉ L’EMPEREUR ET ROI, SUR LA PRISE DE MOSCOU, PAR M. QUAYNAT.
.nf b
“Elevons nos chants d’allégresse!
Vantons nos triomphes heureux!
Jadis l’Italie et la Grèce
Eurent des soutiens valeureux;
Jusqu’à nos jours, Athène et Rome
Doutaient de voir paraître un homme
Qui pût égaler leurs succès.
Maintenant, elles sont moins fières,
En trouvant les preuves contraires
Dans le monarque des Français.
*\ \ \ \ \ \ \ *\ \ \ \ \ \ \ *\ \ \ \ \ \ \ *\ \ \ \ \ \ \ *\ \ \ \ \ \ \ *
Ton vainqueur, témoin de ces crimes,
Moscou, déplore tes malheurs,
Et par des secours magnanimes
S’efforce d’essuyer tes pleurs;
Mais tes maux sont trop innombrables,
Sur ces pertes irréparables,
Moscou, tu gémiras longtemps.
Pleure, vingt siècles sans orages
N’effaceraient pas les ravages
Des brandons de monstres sanglans.”
.nf-
.fs 100%
Another lyric poet, Paul Chanin, anathematizes Russia
in a ‘Poem on the Campaign of Russia by the United
Armies of France and Germany.’
.sp
.fs 80%
.nf b
“Une nation factieuse
S’oppose au bien que nous voulons;
Son influence désastreuse
Corrompt l’air que nous respirons.
.pn +1 // 130.png
Une île de nous se sépare!
C’est du Scythe, c’est du Tartare
Qu’elle ose appeler le secours!
Le crime de ce pacte impie,
Aux yeux de l’Europe trahie,
La déshonore pour toujours.”
.nf-
.fs 100%
And now M. A. J. B. Barjaud rises to the epic strain, in
a poem entitled ‘Conquest of Moscow.’
.sp
.fs 80%
.nf b
“Le Russe espère, en vain, par un excès d’audace,
Se soustraire au péril dont ton bras le menace;