THE MOSCOW RETREAT.
“It is scarcely necessary,” says Mr Rellstab, in the preface to an early edition of his romance of “1812,” “for the author to confess how largely he has availed himself of Ségur’s narrative of the Russian campaign. It will be evident to all readers that he has followed, at times almost word for word, the descriptions of that skilful historian.” Without taxing Mr Rellstab with exceeding the romance-writer’s legitimate privilege in thus largely helping himself from the pages of General Count Ségur, we may congratulate him on having had as a guide, in the historical portions of his book, so admirable a work as theHistoire de Napoleon et de la Grande Armée. As interesting as any romance, it at the same time conveys the conviction that the author has determined to merit the character of historian, and to avoid that of the retailer of campaigning gossip and anecdotes. Indeed one often feels disappointed and almost vexed at the extreme brevity with which the Count refers to all matters not strictly essential to the history of the grand army and great chief whose history, during the brief existence of the former and the first reverses of the latter, he undertakes to portray. He dismisses in three lines many an incident of strange romance or thrilling horror, whose details one would gladly see extended over as many pages. Mr Rellstab has cleverly availed himself of this dignified and military conciseness, improving upon hints, and filling up blanks. With a few bold dashes of his graphic pen, Count Ségur furnishes the rough sketch; this his German follower seizes, adds figures, tints, and names, and expands it into a picture. The account in “1812” of the retreat from Moscow to Wilna is, in fact, a poetical paraphrase of that given in Ségur’s history; and this paraphrase Mr Rellstab, seduced by the excellence of his text, allows somewhat to impede the progress of his plot; or rather it protracts the book after the plot has, in all essential respects, been wound up. Nevertheless, as we have already said, this paraphrase, which may be considered in some degree supplementary or parenthetical, is the best part of the work; and Mr Rellstab displays great power of pen, and artistical skill, in his handling and adaptation of the materials furnished by his French leader. The last strictly original chapters of the romance are those composing the eleventh book, commencing immediately after Ludwig is rescued by hostile peasants from death at the hands of his own friends. Here for a while we lose sight of the fugitive army, and abide amongst the Russians.
The chief ground of apprehension with the Russian nobles, upon Napoleon’s invasion of their country, was lest he should proclaim the emancipation of the serfs, and thus enlist in his behalf millions of oppressed peasants. The plan occurred, and was suggested to the French Emperor, but various considerations deterred him from attempting its realisation. He apprehended a frightful amount of license and excess amongst a barbarous people thus suddenly released from bondage. Tremendous destruction of property, and frightful massacres of the higher classes, were the almost certain results. He might succeed in raising the storm, but he could never hope to guide it. Moreover, although the child of revolution, his sympathies were not with the masses. The Russian landholders, however, did not reckon upon his forbearance, and took every means in their power to counteract any propagandist projects he might have in view. “In the first place,” says Ségur, “they worked upon the minds of their unfortunate serfs, brutalised by every kind of servitude. Their priests, in whom they are accustomed to confide, misled them by deceitful discourse, persuading these peasants that we were legions of demons, commanded by Antichrist,—infernal spirits, whose aspect excited horror, and whose contact polluted. Our prisoners perceived that when they had used a dish or vessel, their captors would not touch it again, but kept it for the most unclean animals. As we advanced into the country, however, it was natural that the clumsy fables of the priests should lose credit with their dupes. But, on our approach, the nobles recede with their serfs into the interior of the land, as from the advance of some mighty contagion. Riches, habitations, all that could delay them or serve us, are sacrificed. They place hunger, fire, the desert, between us and them; for it is as much against their serfs as against Napoleon that this great resolution is executed. It is not a mere war of kings, but a war of classes and of parties, a religious war, a national war, every kind of war united in one.” Stimulated to hatred of the intruding foreigners by those they most feared and respected—by their owners, namely, and their priests—the peasant-slaves of Russia perpetrated frightful cruelties upon those unfortunate Frenchmen who fell into their hands; cruelties admitted and abundantly illustrated by Mr Rellstab, although his predilections are upon the whole rather Russian than French. It is only justice to say, however, that in all the historical portions of his romance he displays great impartiality, and puts himself above national antipathies, taking a cosmopolitan view of the causes, conduct, and progress of the great struggle.
Led away by his captors to a bivouac of armed peasants in the glades of a vast forest, Ludwig at first almost regrets having escaped the volley of the French firing-party. A colossal Russian stretches out his hand to appropriate his prisoner’s foraging-cap, and, upon the imprudent resistance of the latter, raises a club to dash out his brains. Ludwig deems himself no better than a dead man, when suddenly a woman’s scream is heard, and a figure clad in costly furs rescues him from the fierce savage. A veil is thrown back, and Ludwig beholds Bianca, who possesses a castle in the neighbourhood, the same which the Polish lancers had surprised upon her wedding-night. It is not quite clear what has brought her into the forest among beastly Cossacks and bloodthirsty peasants, unless it were to meet Ludwig. The sights she there meets are not all of the most agreeable kind. Whilst the enraptured Ludwig kneels before her, kissing her hand and weeping, a horseman, whose noble steed and rich dress bespeaks the man of rank, dashes into the circle, and sternly inquires the reason of this strange scene between the lady and the captive dragoon. It is Count Dolgorow, who interrupts Bianca’s explanation by suddenly springing from his horse, and seizing the scoundrel Beaucaire, his former secretary, whom his quick eye has distinguished in the group of prisoners. By a strange fatality, his betrayer and his rescuer are together delivered into his hands. He gratifies revenge before showing gratitude, and has the traitor precipitated into one of the huge bivouac fires that blaze around. Before this we have met with a French grenadier impaled alive in a wood, and with a party of Russians setting up their captives as targets. There is no scarcity of the horrible in Mr Rellstab’s pages, but without it the retreat from Moscow could not be faithfully described. After Beaucaire has been roasted, Bianca recovered from her swoon, and Ludwig presented to the Count—who admits, but with no very good grace, his claims to gratitude and consideration—the other prisoners are sorted. The able-bodied are sent to the Count’s hunting-seat, thence to be forwarded to the mines. To those unfit to work, Russia, says Dolgorow, can afford no other nourishment than two ounces of lead. One man only is put aside as too old for labour. This is St Luces, Beaucaire’s employer and Ludwig’s persecutor.
“St Luces, not having understood the Count’s words, fancied that, from his appearance and fine linen, and from his clothes (of which, however, he was by this time pretty well stripped,) his captors had discovered him to belong to the higher classes. The pallid horror which had spread over his features since the terrible fate of Beaucaire, was replaced by a faint gleam of hope. He ventured to address the Count in French.
“‘I trust, sir,’ he said, ‘I shall be treated in conformity with those laws of war which all civilised nations respect. I am not a military man, but belong to the civil service; my rank—’
“‘You are a Frenchman,’ sternly interrupted Dolgorow—‘one of those vampires who have sucked the blood and marrow out of half the nations of Europe; more contemptible and odious than the soldier, for he, at least, fights with fair and open weapons.’
“‘They would willingly,’ persisted St Luces, again trembling with apprehension, ‘exchange me against Russian prisoners!’
“‘Prisoners! what prisoners have you?’ cried Dolgorow with bitter scorn. ‘Thousands, certainly are set down in your bulletins, but where can you show them? You do wrong to remind me of that. Think you we know not how your ruthless assassin bands have treated the few who fell into their hands? Think you we have not found them, lying with shattered skulls upon the roads in rear of your flying columns? Did we not meet with them shut up in churches, barns, and stables, dead in the pangs of famine? Away with ye! We shall find enough to exchange, when exchange wewill.’”[9]
Discoveries and surprises now tread rapidly on each other’s heels. A German in the service of Count Dolgorow recognises Ludwig as the son, and St Luces as the murderer of his former master; whereupon Ludwig generously intercedes for the Frenchman’s life, but is sternly repulsed by the Count, and St Luces is forthwith shot. Then, upon their way to Bianca’s castle, Ludwig and his mistress stumble upon Bernard, lying senseless in the road. They pick him up and take him with them, in spite of danger from wolves and of the anger of Countess Dolgorow, impatient to proceed. At the castle Bernard and Bianca discover, by the somewhat hackneyed contrivance of identical rings, that they are brother and sister, and soon afterwards the Count becomes aware of the good understanding between them, and that Bianca knows she is not his daughter. These meetings and recognitions thwarting certain deep-laid plans, he resolves to forward Ludwig and Bernard to Siberia; but before he can do so, the two young men, with Bianca and Willhofen the German servant, make their escape by the aid of some French prisoners, and take the road to Smolensko, with the intention of joining the French army and seeking refuge in Germany.
Meanwhile Rasinski, with the shattered remnant of his gallant regiment, now reduced to a feeble squadron of sixty horses, forms part of the rear-guard under the hero Ney. We will give a specimen of Mr Rellstab’s adaptation of Ségur.
“‘Rasinski!’ suddenly exclaimed Jaromir, ‘do you see yonder on the rising ground?’
“‘Cossacks! And I wager my head they are not alone!’ replied Rasinski.
“Upon the heights appeared three horsemen, seemingly thrown forward to reconnoitre. They were soon remarked by all; and there occurred in the French ranks that restless stir and low murmur, betokening the expectation of an important event.
“‘Jump on your horse, Jaromir,’ said Rasinski, ‘and ride to the corner of the forest; thence you will see far over the country.’
“Jaromir, now the best mounted in the regiment, sped swiftly across the snow, in obedience to the order. But he returned even more rapidly, to announce that the entire heights were covered with Cossacks, and that infantry columns were debouching from the depths of the forest.
“Just then Colonel Regnard, who by the marshal’s order had also been out to reconnoitre, rode by. ‘This looks like work, Rasinski,’ he cried in passing; ‘the ball opens just like the day before yesterday. The wood is as full of Russians as an anthill of ants.’ The drums beat. The troops stood to their arms. The disorderly groups of weaponless stragglers and invalids formed themselves into a dense mass.
“‘For us the fight is a pleasure,’ exclaimed Rasinski; ‘but it is hard upon Boleslaw and the other wounded. We must do our best to shield them from harm. But who comes here?’
“A Russian officer was seen descending the hill, waving a white handkerchief.
“‘Useless trouble, sir,’ said Rasinski proudly to himself, as he distinguished the Russian’s object. ‘We shall not treat for peace so long as we can handle our arms.’
“The marshal was busy placing and ordering his troops. He galloped through the ranks, showing himself every where, directing and encouraging all. Rasinski sent an orderly to report to him the approach of a flag of truce. But before the message reached him, the Russian officer reached the outposts, and, on distinguishing the Polish uniform, summoned them in their own language to surrender to overpowering forces. Rasinski sprang forward like an incensed lion. ‘What!’ he shouted, ‘you would seduce our men, incite them to desert! That is not the duty of a flag of truce. You are my prisoner!’
“The alarmed officer would have turned his horse, but Rasinski already held the bridle, and his soldiers surrounded the Russian so quickly that resistance and flight were alike impossible.
“‘You will surely respect the sacred rights of a flag of truce!’ cried the Russian.
“‘You should have waited at proper distance, till you knew if it pleased us to receive you,’ replied Rasinski. ‘It is against all usage of war to approach an enemy’s army as you have done.’
“‘Take me to your commander,’ said the officer, ‘he will listen to my well-intended offers. The bravest must yield to impossibility. You have no alternative but capitulation.’
“‘We shall see that,’ answered Rasinski, well assured beforehand of the marshal’s decision. ‘Here comes our commander, Marshal Ney. That name may suffice to convince you that you will waste your words.’
“The marshal came; Rasinski rode to meet him and reported what had passed.
“‘You have done your duty as an officer and man of honour,’ replied Ney; ‘I should take shame to myself did I hesitate to confirm your words.’ And he rode forward and inquired the Russian’s pleasure.
“‘Marshal Kutusow sends me,’ began the officer. ‘He would not offend so renowned a warrior and general by asking him to lay down his arms, if any alternative remained open. Upon the surrounding heights stand eighty thousand men, and one hundred pieces of cannon. If you doubt my words, you are at liberty to send an officer, whom I will conduct through our ranks that he may count our strength.’
“‘I hope to get near enough to your army to count them myself,’ replied the marshal with flashing eyes. ‘Tell Prince Kutusow that Marshal Ney has never yet surrendered, and that the world’s history shall never record his having done so. Yonder is the goal which duty and honour assign me; I will break a road through your ranks, though your forests became armies.’
“‘Theywilldo so,’ replied the Russian. The words had scarce left his lips, when the thunder of artillery echoed from the heights in front and on the left flank, and an iron hail crashed and rattled upon the icy surface of the plain.
“‘This is treachery!’ cried the marshal sternly, as he looked up and beheld the hills crowned on all sides with levelled guns, and dark masses of troops. ‘There is no parleying under fire! You are my prisoner!’
“The officer, confounded at being thus sacrificed by the imprudence or recklessness of his friends, gave up his sword.
“‘Take him to the rear!’ commanded the marshal. ‘General Ricard, forward! Attack the enemy with the bayonet. You shall have the honour of opening the road.’
“The general, at the head of fifteen hundred men, pressed resolutely forward.”
Everybody who has read Ségur, and those who have not had better begin immediately, knows how these fifteen hundred men were swept away by Kutusow’s artillery; how Ney in person headed the next charge; and how, after losing more than half his division, he retreated towards Smolensko, made a flank movement, again returned southwards, and at last struck the Dnieper, and crossed it with the remnant of his force, without a bridge, and on blocks of floating ice, to find, upon the further bank, Platoff and his Cossacks, with their Scythian tactics and sledge-mounted artillery, to which he had no cannon to oppose,—the six guns wherewith he had audaciously returned the fire of Kutusow’s tremendous batteries having been left, of course, on the north bank of the river. But, after braving and escaping from the whole Russian army, Ney was not to be intimidated by a horde of ill-disciplined savages; and he forced his way, fighting incessantly, to the neighbourhood of Orcha, where Eugene received him with open arms. There are only five short days’ marches from Smolensko to Orcha; but in that little section of the long and terrible retreat, Ney, whilst losing thousands of men daily, gathered enough laurels to shade the brows of half a dozen heroes. We do not envy the feelings of those, be they Russians, English, or of what country they may, who can read, without profound emotion and admiration, the history of Marshal Ney during the Russian campaign, and especially during its latter and most disastrous portion. When those who previously ranked as the bravest gave in—when pride and thirst for glory were obliterated by extremity of suffering, and by the instinct of self-preservation—when the soldier’s most powerful incentives, discipline, honour, and gain, were forgotten and lost sight of, and even the iron veterans of the Old Guard, no longer sustained by their Emperor’s presence, renounced the contest and lay down to die—when his fellow-marshals, with rare exceptions, showed weariness and discouragement, and even the stern Davoust complained that the limits of human suffering were exceeded,—where was Ney, what was his aspect, what his words and actions? In rear of the army, a musket in his hand, a smile of confidence on his lips, the fire of his great soul and of his own glory flashing from his eyes, he exposed his life each minute in the day, as freely as ever he had done when he had but life to lose, before his valour had given him riches and rank, family and fame. Surely, so long as valour is appreciated, the name ofNeywill be borne in glorious remembrance. And surely those men who subsequently pronounced his sentence of death, must since have sometimes felt remorse at their share in the untimely fate of so great a warrior. “I have saved my eagles!” joyously exclaimed Napoleon, when he learned, at two leagues from Orcha, that Ney was safe, although he brought with him but the ghost of his fine division. “I would have given three hundred millions to avoid the loss of such a man.” Although Napoleon, in some things the most magnificent charlatan upon record, dealt largely in speeches of this sort, we may believe that in this instance the cry came from the heart. What would the Emperor have said, had he then been told that three years later, on the 7th December 1815, the anniversary of one of those days when Ney so bravely breasted the Muscovite torrent, an execution would take place in an alley of the Luxemburg gardens, and that there, by sentence of a French chamber and the bullets of French soldiers, a premature end would be put to the glorious career of him he had surnamed the Bravest of the Brave!
Previously to the junction of Ney and Eugene, Colonel Rasinski, whilst reconnoitring in the gray of the morning, falls in with a sledge containing three persons muffled in furs, whom he at first takes for Russians, but who prove to be Ludwig and his two companions. Upon the occasion of so happy a meeting, M. Rellstab is of course profuse in tears and embraces; Jaromir and Boleslaw are summoned to assist at the jubilee, and thenceforward the three Poles, the two Germans, Bianca, her waiting-maid Jeannette, and the faithful Willhofen, keep together as far as Wilna, save and except those amongst them whom death snatches by the way. The party is soon increased by an infant, the daughter of Colonel Regnard, and of a French actress, of which Bianca takes charge. Here again the author of “1812” has made good and effective use of an incident thus briefly recorded by Ségur.
“At the gates of the town (Smolensko) an infamous act struck all witnesses with a horror that still survives. A mother abandoned her son, a child of five years old; in spite of his cries and tears she repulsed him from her overloaded sledge, wildly exclaiming that ‘he had not seen France! he would not regret it! But as to her, she knew France! she must see her country again!’ Twice did Ney have the poor child replaced in its mother’s arms, thrice she threw it upon the frozen snow. But amongst a thousand instances of sublime and tender devotedness, this solitary crime was not left unpunished. This unnatural parent was herself abandoned upon the snow, whence her victim was raised and confided to another mother. At the Beresina, at Wilna, and Kowno, the orphan was seen, and he finally escaped all the horrors of the retreat.”
In the romance the child is first fostered by a wounded veteran, and a compassionate canteen woman, but is separated from them when traversing the Dnieper, and receives the tenderest care from Bianca. On the northern bank of the Beresina we find the principal personages of the tale assembled, at the moment when the Russian cannon pour their murderous contents into the dense mass of fugitives, and these, crowding to the bridge, fall by hundreds into the water. A round-shot suddenly shatters the front of the vehicle in which Bianca, her maid, and the child are seated. The scene that ensues is spiritedly and naturally told.
“The frightened horses reared furiously, and would have upset the carriage had not the pole and fore-axle been in splinters. Willhofen sprang forward to hold them; Ludwig and Bernard hurried to his assistance. With streaming hair, Jeannette had already leaped from the cart, and Bianca, unconscious of what she did, followed her example, still closely clasping the infant.
“‘Is it alive?’ cried a voice, and at the same moment she felt herself seized from behind. She turned, and Regnard stood before her, his right arm in a sling: he had just made his way through the crowd of carts. ‘Oh! I have you then at last,’ he tenderly exclaimed, kissing and caressing his child as she lay in the arms of Bianca, who, stunned with terror and the recent shock, scarce thought of wondering at his unexpected appearance.
“‘You here, colonel?’ cried Bernard. ‘How and whence came you?’
“‘From the fight up yonder,’ replied Regnard. ‘’Tis awful work; our fellows stand like the walls of Troy, but all must soon be overthrown, for the Russians bury us under their bullets.’
“‘Did you see Rasinski? Is he alive? And Boleslaw and Jaromir?’
“‘They fight like lions, like devils, those Poles; but it’s all in vain, we cannot hold out another hour. And this defile over the bridge looks about as tempting as the jaws of hell.’
“‘You are wounded, colonel?’
“‘My right arm shattered. My horse was knocked over by a shell; I dragged myself as far as Studianka to seek a doctor, and found ashes and corpses, no longer of use in the fight. I thought I would have a trial to cross the bridge. I saw these carriages from above; I knew you had driven up here yesterday. If I could only find you, I thought, and get a last look at my little daughter! Laugh at me, if you like, but the thought came like a whisper from heaven. ‘Perhaps it is the last wish you will see fulfilled,’ said I to myself. And as if some invisible guide had led me, I made my way to your very carriage, just as the twelve-pounder played you the trick. Only see now how hearty the child is; it grows like its mother! Ah! if I only had something for you, poor darling! Were we but in Paris, that I might give you a pocketful of bonbons!’
“And in fondling and chattering with the infant, he forgot both his crushed arm and the destruction that raged so actively around. The storm of shot had no terrors for him; twenty battles had accustomed him to it. But the sweet emotions of paternal love were new to him, and a secret voice seemed to warn him that he would not long enjoy them.
“Ludwig now came up and greeted the colonel. Bianca gave the child to Jeannette, for Regnard, with only one arm, could not hold it, and she felt that her strength was giving way amidst this complication of horrors. She leaned against the wheel of the carriage. Bernard observed her faltering, and encircling her tenderly with his arm, he kissed her pale cheek.
“‘See yonder woman,’ he said; ‘take pattern by her; see, dearest sister! how calm she is amidst the ravages of death.’
About twenty paces off, a tall female figure sat upon a horse, a child of three years old in her arms, and gazed steadily at the tumult. A black veil was twined round her head, but left her noble and striking countenance exposed. She could but just have arrived, otherwise her appearance was too remarkable not to have attracted attention, even in that hour of confusion when few thought of any thing but their danger.
“‘Calm?’ said Bianca, after a long look, ‘calm, say you? Petrified, youshouldsay. See you not the tears that roll over her rigid countenance, and the despairing gaze she directs to heaven? Alas, poor woman!’
“‘She is the widow of Colonel Lavagnac,’ said Regnard; ‘her husband fell three weeks ago at Wiazma; the child in her lap is her daughter.’
“All eyes were fixed in pity on the mourning figure, when a cannon-ball boomed through the air, and struck her and her horse to the ground. A cry of horror escaped the bystanders. The unhappy woman had disappeared. One could not see her for the throng. Bernard, Ludwig, and Regnard forced a passage through the mob of men and horses, but with all their efforts their progress was slow. Bianca followed them, led partly by pity and partly by fear of separation from her protectors.
“Silent and uncomplaining, the lady sat upon the ensanguined snow, her tall, dignified form supported against an overturned cart, her child clasped in her arms. The shot had shattered both her feet, but her infant appeared unhurt, and anxiously clasped its mother’s neck with its little hands. None thought of succouring the poor creatures; all were too engrossed with their own selfish misery, and few vouchsafed her more than a passing glance as they struggled onwards. She would hardly have escaped being trampled under foot, had not her wounded horse, lashing out convulsively in the agonies of death, cleared a space around her. Whilst Bernard supported his trembling sister, Ludwig and Regnard attempted to climb over the cart which intervened between them and the wounded lady. But at that moment the noble sufferer took a strong hair-chain from her neck, twisted it, before any could stay her hand, around her infant’s throat, and with a sudden exertion of strength drew it tight. The little creature drooped its head and fell strangled on its mother’s knees. In a last frantic convulsion, the unhappy parent clasped her child to her bosom, gave an agonised sigh, a glance to heaven, and fell back, dead. At that moment Ludwig and Regnard reached her, but it was too late. Bianca hid her face in her brother’s bosom.”
A fragment of a shell knocks over the faithful Willhofen. The fire from the Russian batteries becomes more terrible than ever, the crowd more agitated and frantic.
“‘Let us keep together!’ cried Regnard—‘once separated, we shall never meet again.’ And he stretched out his hand to grasp that of Ludwig, when a ball passed between them, overthrowing the colonel.
“‘Regnard!’ cried Ludwig, springing to his assistance, ‘are you badly hit?’
“Bernard raised the wounded man by the shoulders, and bent over him.
“‘I have got my allowance,’ said Regnard, faintly. ‘Where is my little daughter?’
“Shuddering, but with resolute step, Bianca came forward, the child in her arms. She kneeled beside the dying soldier and held it out to him. Regnard looked mournfully at the little creature so soon to be an orphan.
“‘Farewell!’ he said, kissing it for the last time. ‘You have no longer a father—but a mother—has she not?’ added he, imploringly to Bianca. ‘Greetings to Rasinski, if he still lives to receive them. Long live the Emperor!’
“Upon this last exclamation, uttered in a hoarse soldier-like tone, the final breath of the dying man was expended. The next instant his soul had fled.”
From the heights of Studianka the beaten French now pour down, and Bianca loses her female attendant, who perishes miserably, crushed by a gun-carriage. It will be seen that there is a considerable accumulation of horrors at this part of the romance; but tender-hearted persons, whom narratives of human suffering too painfully affect, will naturally avoid a book founded on such a campaign as that of 1812. The passage of the Beresina has been too often described to be worth dwelling upon here; and the more so as Mr Rellstab very judiciously has not attempted to alter or improve upon the reality, of itself sufficiently extraordinary and harrowing. He makes Rasinski execute the famous feat of Jacqueminot, Oudinot’s aide-de-camp, who, after swimming the Beresina in spite of the piercing cold and of the floating blocks of ice that bruised and cut his horse’s chest and flanks, galloped after the stragglers from Tchaplitz’s retreating column, caught one, disarmed him, put him before him on his horse and swam back with him to Napoleon, who had expressed a wish for a prisoner from whom to get information.
Hopeless of crossing the crowded bridge, where a fearful struggle for precedence now goes on amongst the mob of desperate fugitives, Bianca and her two companions take their course up stream, still bearing with them Regnard’s orphan daughter, and hoping to find rest and shelter by passing themselves off as Russians. At last, seeing no signs of house or village, they sit down in despair upon the snow and await their fate; when, in accordance with Mr Rellstab’s practice of bringing about opportune meetings, Rasinski and his handful of lancers ride up to them, and after the due amount of kisses and tears, a Lithuanian peasant guides them to a ford, and they get through the river in safety. At Zembin they procure a small sledge, and Bernard and Ludwig urge Bianca to hurry forward to Wilna. Neither of them offer to accompany her, which they might with great propriety have done, seeing that they are dismounted and useless, but propose confiding her to a wounded dragoon, a proposal which she naturally enough declines, and declares she will stick to the ship—in other words to the regiment—and rough it with the rest. After which plucky decision there is no more talk of parting company till they reach Wilna. Before getting there, however, there is much to be gone through. For winter sets in, and the tortures of cutting cold are added to those previously endured, slaying the sick and wounded by hundreds of a night. Overpowered by the fatigues of the day, they lie down to sleep beside their watchfires, and in the morning are stiff and cold. The north-west wind suddenly surrounds the harassed Frenchmen with the terrible atmosphere of the north pole, the air is filled with an icy dust, lips and cheeks crack and blister, the eyes are inflamed by the glittering whiteness of the snow. The horses die from extreme cold, and it is just as well for their riders, who would otherwise be frozen in their saddles. Thus Rasinski and his comrades find themselves dismounted, and Bianca’s sledge becomes useless. They pursue their way on foot, amidst scenes of inconceivable suffering and woe. Few of those around them show fortitude in this extremity of misery. In some instances despair and madness lead to violence and shameful excesses. Bianca, whose courage rises with the necessity for exertion, is walking supported by Ludwig’s arm, and Bernard follows at a short distance, carrying the infant, who, unconscious of the danger, smiles cheerily in his face, when the following incident occurs.
“At this moment a hoarse firm voice was heard in rear of Bernard.
“‘Stop, dog!’ it exclaimed. ‘Your cloak, or I shoot you dead!’
“Bernard stopped and looked round. A soldier, scantily attired in wretched rags, his features distorted, his beard long and tangled, his face black with earth and smoke, his eyes, frightfully inflamed, rolling wildly in their orbits, stood before him and covered him with his musket.
“‘What would you, wretched man?’ cried Bernard, horror-struck and stepping backwards. The child screamed with terror, clasped its arms around him, and hid its little head in his breast.
“‘Your warm cloak, or I shoot you down!’ shouted the frantic soldier. ‘No more comrades here; I’ve as good a right to save myself as you.’
“Bernard saw himself almost alone with the assassin; although thousands were within hail, the bullet would be quicker than their aid, supposing even that one amongst them had sufficient pity for another’s peril to turn aside for a moment, and thus lengthen his journey and sufferings by a few painful paces. There was nothing for it but to yield to the menace and give up his warm wrapper, although he well knew that with it he gave up his life.
“‘You would murder a comrade to prolong your own life?’ said Bernard, in a tone of dignified determination; ‘be it so, but you will profit little by the deed. Your hour will overtake you the sooner.’
“‘Quick, death gripes me already!’ cried the madman, his musket still levelled and his bloodshot eyes wildly rolling.
“Bernard stooped to put down the child, which impeded him in pulling off his coat; as he did so, he heard a loud cry, and turning, he beheld Bianca, who threw herself weeping at the feet of the furious soldier.
“‘Take this gold, these jewels!’ she exclaimed; ‘this warm cloak is yours, but let my brother live!’ And, with the quickness of thought, she tore the rich chain from her neck and the furs from her shoulders, leaving her arms and delicate frame exposed with slight covering to the rigour of that horrible climate. The soldier gazed at her for a moment with fixed and straining eyes, then his arms slowly sank; letting the musket fall to the ground, he pressed both hands to his face, and broke out in loud weeping and whimpering. By this time Ludwig came up, and he and Bernard lifted up Bianca, who was still kneeling on the frozen ground, and extending her arms with the proffered gifts.
“‘Wild beast that I am!’ suddenly exclaimed the stranger; ‘no, I cannot survive this shame. Forgive me; you knew me once a better man, before suffering drove me mad! But no matter; I know my duty.’
“He stooped to pick up his musket. Bernard kept his eyes fixed upon him, and racked his memory for the features, which, wild and distorted though they now were, still seemed familiar to him.
“‘Where have I known you?’ he asked, as the man resumed his erect position.
“‘I don’t wonder you’ve forgotten me,’ was the gloomy reply; ‘I have forgotten myself. Alive, I am no longer worthy of the Order!’ cried he wildly, tearing from his rags the ribbon of the Legion of Honour and throwing it upon the snow. ‘I will try to earn it again, that you may lay it upon my body. I am my own judge, and I show no favour.’
“Setting the butt of his musket firmly on the earth, he pressed his breast against the muzzle and touched the trigger with his foot. The piece went off, and its unfortunate owner fell heavily to the ground.
“‘Gracious God!’ exclaimed Bianca, sinking senseless into Ludwig’s arms.
“Bernard was at the side of the fallen man, supporting his head. A last spark of life still remained. ‘If you get to France,’ gasped the suicide, ‘a word to my wife and children—Sergeant Ferrand—of Laon,’ and the spirit departed. As he closed his eyes, Bernard remembered him. It was the same Sergeant Ferrand whose humanity saved him and Ludwig from perishing during their imprisonment at Smolensko. Military honour was the condition of the veteran’s existence; he thought himself degraded beyond redemption by the murderous aggression to which misery, pain, and despair, had driven him; a woman had surpassed him in courage, and that was more than he could bear. A rigorous judge, he had pronounced his own doom, and executed it with his own hand.
“Deeply moved, Bernard knelt beside the body; he gathered up the scrap of tarnished ribbon which the departed soldier had prized above all earthly goods, and laid it upon the breast of the corpse.
“‘Who shall deprive you of it?’ he said. ‘May it adorn you beyond the grave, amidst the throng of the valiant who have preceded you!’
“And they continued their journey, for the times admitted not of delay.”
That night they have to fight for their quarters in the village of Malodeczno, and use their artillery for the last time, being compelled to abandon it for the want of horses. Boleslaw is killed in the action. Soon afterwards, the Emperor leaves the army, and his departure dispirits even those who admit its propriety. Things get worse and worse. Often, after a fatiguing day’s march, no shelter is obtainable, and Bianca and her tender charge are fain to brave the inclemency of the bivouac, whilst the men watch by turns to keep off wolves and marauders. One night, when performing this duty, Jaromir is startled by a loud laugh, sounding strangely horrible in that scene of misery and desolation.
“From out of the surrounding darkness a grim figure stalked into the circle of fire-light. It was a gigantic cuirassier, wrapped in a tattered cloak, a bloody cloth bound round his head beneath his helmet. In his hand he carried a young fir tree, as a staff to support his steps.
“‘Good evening,’ he said, in a hollow voice to Jaromir. ‘Good evening, comrade. You seem merry here.’
“‘What seek you?’ demanded Jaromir, amazed at this hideous apparition! ‘There is no place for you here. Begone!’
“The cuirassier stared at him with his hollow eyes, twisted his mouth into a frightful grin, and gnashed his teeth like some infuriated beast.
“‘Ha, ha, ha!’ he laughed, or rather yelled; ‘Sleep you then so sound, ye idlers?’ And as he spoke he stamped with his foot on a frozen corpse upon which he stood. ‘Awake, awake!’ he cried, ‘and come with me!’
“For a moment he stood as if listening to some distant sound, then tottered painfully forward to the fire.
“‘Back!’ cried Jaromir, ‘Back, or I shoot you on the spot!’ And he drew a pistol; but his hand, trembling with fever, had not strength to level it.
“The lunatic stared at him with stupified indifference, his sunken features varying in their expression from a ghastly smile to the deepest misery. Jaromir gazed at him in silent horror. The huge figure stretched its lean arms out from under the cloak, and made strange and unintelligible gestures.
“‘Ho! I am frozen!’ howled the human spectre at last, and shook himself. Then he clutched at the flames with his fingers, like an infant, and staggered nearer and nearer till he stood close to the circle of sleepers, far within which he extended his arms. For the first time he now seemed to feel the warmth of the fire. A low whining noise escaped him, then he suddenly exclaimed, in tones between laughing and crying, ‘To bed! to my warm bed!’ tossed his fir-tree staff far from him, stumbled forwards over the sleeping soldiers, and threw himself, in his raging madness, into the centre of the glowing pile.
“‘Help, help!’ cried Jaromir, his hair erect with horror, and seizing Rasinski, he shook him with all his remaining strength.
“‘What is it?’ cried Rasinski, raising himself.
“‘There, there!’ stammered his friend, pointing to the flames, in which the unhappy cuirassier lay writhing and bellowing with agony. Rather conjecturing than comprehending what had occurred, Rasinski started up to rescue the sufferer. But it was too late. The heat had already stifled him; he lay motionless, the flame licking greedily round his limbs, and a thick nauseous smoke ascending in clouds from his funeral faggots. Rasinski stepped shudderingly backward, and turned away his face to conceal his emotion; then he observed that all around him lay buried in a deathlike sleep. Not one had been aroused by the terrible catastrophe that had occurred in the midst of so many living men.”
After those long days of hunger and fatigue, the bonds of slumber were of iron strength, and difficult to loosen. And it was even more dangerous than difficult to rob the survivors of the Grand Army of that brief repose, often their sole solace and refreshment during the twenty-four hours. In his turn overtaken by delirium, Jaromir’s cries and complaints at last awoke the whole party round the fire. A low murmur arose amongst the soldiers, and rapidly increased. Soon they cast ominous and threatening glances at the young Pole, and at last their discontent found a voice.
“‘Who is the madman, and what ails him?’ savagely exclaimed a bearded grenadier. ‘He robs us of our precious sleep! Thrust him from the fire—let him freeze if he cannot be still!’
“‘Ay, thrust him out!’ was the universal cry; and several sprang to accomplish the barbarous deed. Bianca uttered a cry of terror; Ludwig caught her in his right arm, and with his left kept off the assailants. Rasinski, who at once saw the greatness of the peril, left Jaromir in Bernard’s care, and leaped with flashing eyes into the midst of the circle. Ever prompt and decided, he snatched a half consumed branch from the fire, waved it above his head, and shouted with that lion’s voice so often heard above the thunder of the battle, ‘Back, knaves! The first step forward costs one of you his life.’
“The angry soldiers hesitated and hung back, yielding to Rasinski’s moral ascendency as much as to his threat of punishment. But then the grenadier drew his sabre and furiously exclaimed:—
“‘What, dastards, are ye all afraid of one man? Forward! Down with the Polish dogs!’
“‘Down thyself, inhuman ruffian!’ thundered Rasinski, and sprang to meet his foe. Adroitly seizing the soldier by the wrist of his uplifted arm, so that he could not use his weapon, he struck him over the head with the burning branch so violently, that the charred wood shivered, and a cloud of sparks flew out. But the blow, heavy as it was, was deadened by the thick bearskin cap, and served only to convert the angry determination of the grenadier into foaming fury. Of herculean build, and at least half the head taller than his opponent, he let his sabre fall, and grappled Rasinski with the intention of throwing him into the flames. The struggle lasted but for a moment before Rasinski tottered and fell upon his knees. To all appearance his doom was sealed, the hero succumbed before the overpowering strength of the brute, when Ludwig flew to his assistance, dragged the soldier backwards, and fell with him to the ground. Rasinski picked up the sabre, with his left hand dashed the bearskin from the head of the fallen grenadier, and with the right dealt him a blow that clove his skull in twain. Then, erecting his princely form, he advanced, with the calm dignity that characterised him, into the midst of the astounded bystanders. ‘Throw the corpse into the snow,’ commanded he: ‘lie down again and sleep. It matters no more than if I knocked a wolf upon the head.’
“As if he had no longer occasion for it, he threw the sabre contemptuously from him. None dared to murmur, but two soldiers obediently raised the bloody corpse of the fallen man, carried it a few paces, and threw it upon the snow-covered ground.”
The following evening the little band of friends reached Wilna, but without Jaromir, who had expired on the road. Wilna, the first inhabited town the French army had seen since their entrance into Russia, had been looked forward to by the fugitives who escaped from the terrible passage of the Beresina, as a refuge and a resting-place. There they fondly expected shelter from the cold, food for the famishing, bandages and medicine for the wounded and the sick. But their arrival took the Lithuanian capital by surprise. The inhabitants were still without any certain accounts of the disasters of the French, when suddenly they beheld their streets invaded by forty thousand ragged wretches, in whom it was impossible to recognise the remains of those magnificent troops which had passed through with Napoleon in the previous month of July. The very impatience of the men to get into the comfortable quarters they had promised themselves (but which few of them found, for the inhabitants shut their doors, and the commissaries, although their stores were crammed with bread and meat, refused to serve out those much needed provisions without a host of formalities rendered impossible by the general disorganisation) was the destruction of thousands. They all rushed in at one entrance,—the narrow suburb became blocked up with men, horses, and vehicles, and numbers perished of cold and of suffocation. When the survivors got through, their despair was terrible on finding themselves every where repulsed, from hospital and barracks, from the provision-store and the private dwelling. The hospitals and barracks, where there were neither beds or straw, were converted into charnel-houses, heaped with human bodies. “At last,” says Ségur, “the exertions of certain chiefs, such as Eugene and Davoust, the pity of the Lithuanians and the avarice of the Jews, opened places of refuge. Then it was strange to behold the astonishment of these unfortunates on finding themselves at last in inhabited houses. What delicious food a loaf of bread appeared, what inexpressible pleasure did they find in eating it seated, and with what admiration were they struck by the sight of a single weak battalion, still armed and uniformly clothed. They seemed to return from the extremity of the world, so completely had the violence and duration of their sufferings detached them from all their former habits.”
Bianca, her brother and friends, skirt the town to avoid the throng, and get in by an unencumbered entrance. In the streets, however, Rasinski is separated from his three companions, who find shelter in the house of a former servant of Bianca, and there meet with Ludwig’s sister Marie, and the Countess Micielska, a widowed sister of Rasinski, whom we have not had occasion previously to mention, although she is a fine enthusiastic character, and plays no unimportant part in the earlier scenes of the book. On learning, by letters from their brothers, the burning of Moscow and probability of retreat, the two ladies braved the severity of a Lithuanian winter, and left Warsaw for Wilna, where their arrival coincides with that of Napoleon’s disordered cohorts. Their joy at meeting Ludwig and Bernard is greatly overcast by the loss of Jaromir and Boleslaw, and by the absence of Rasinski, whom the two young Germans vainly seek in the crowded town, until at last, overcome with weariness, they retire to rest, dissembling, for his sister’s sake, their uneasiness touching his fate. Scarcely in bed, however, they are aroused by Paul, their host, who calls their attention to groans and lamentations in the street without. Arming themselves, they hurry forth to investigate the cause.
“Paul, bearing a lantern, preceded them to the spot whence the piteous sounds proceeded. It was a narrow lane, running parallel to the city wall, and inhabited entirely by Jews. Just as they turned into it they were challenged by a manly and well-known voice in their rear. ‘Who goes there? What is this disturbance?’
“‘Rasinski!’ exclaimed Ludwig. Paul turned, and, as the light fell upon the face of the new comer, the features of the noble Pole were revealed to his friends.
“‘Rasinski! you here, and alive!’ cried Ludwig, throwing himself into the Count’s arms.”
Here follows, of course,more Rellstab, half a page of tender embraces and gratulations. Then, the groans and lamentations continuing, the friends again move forward.
“The lane was narrow and crooked, so that they could not see far before them. On passing an abrupt bend, they distinguished several figures, which fled noiselessly before them, like night-birds frightened by the sudden light, keeping close in the shadow of the wall.
“‘Who goes there?’ cried Rasinski in Russian. ‘Stand, or I fire!’
“But the shadows flew onwards, grazing the wall, and gliding over the snow. Rasinski rushed after them, stumbled over an object in his path, fell, and, in his fall, his pistol went off. Ludwig and Bernard, close at his heels, would have stopped to help him up—
“‘Forward, forward!’ he cried: ‘follow and catch them.’
“They hurried on, but only one figure was now visible. They called to him to stop; he heeded them not. A shot fired by Bernard missed its mark, but the whistle of the bullet discomposed the fugitive, who, in stooping his head, slipped and fell. Ludwig was upon him in an instant, inquiring who he was, and why he fled. The stranger, who wore a sort of long black caftan, replied in piteous and terrified tones.
“‘God of my fathers!’ he cried: ‘have compassion, gracious sir! Why persecute the poor Jew, who does harm to no one?’
“‘Paul, a light!’ cried Bernard, who just then came up. ‘Let us see who it is that is in such haste to crave mercy. His conscience seems none of the best.’
“Paul lifted the lantern, casting the light full on the Jew’s visage.
“‘The devil!’ cried Bernard. ‘I should know that face. Where have I seen the accursed mask? To be sure, those red-bearded Lithuanians are all as like each other as bullets. But I greatly err, Jew, or you are the spy with whom we have an account to settle, that has stood over for the last five months.’
“A shout from Rasinski interrupted the speaker.
“‘Hither, friends!’ he cried; ‘your help here!’ The three hastily obeyed the summons, dragging the Jew with them in spite of his struggles and cries.
“‘Here has been the most villanous crime the world ever witnessed!’ exclaimed Rasinski, pale with horror and indignation, as his friends joined him. ‘Behold our comrades, driven out naked in this deadly cold, plundered, strangled, hurled from the windows! Inhuman monster!’ he cried in a terrible voice to the trembling Jew, ‘if you have shared in this work, I will have you torn by dogs. See! here they lie. Horrible, horrible!’
“In a nook formed by the recession of a house from the line of street, lay eight human bodies, half naked, some with only a shirt or a few miserable rags to cover them. Over one of these unfortunates, who was still alive, Rasinski had thrown his furred cloak, to protect him from the piercing cold. Ludwig and Bernard shuddered at this lamentable spectacle.
“‘God of Abraham!’ cried the Jew, ‘to thee I lift up my right hand, and swear that I am innocent of this deed. May I be accursed with my children and my grandchildren if I know aught of it! May the ravens pick out my eyes, and the flesh of my hand wither, if I speak not the truth.’
“‘He was amongst the murderers,’ the wounded man faintly gasped out: ‘he was about to cut my throat, when the fall from the window did not kill me, and because I called for help. Only your arrival saved me.’
“‘Fiend, inhuman fiend! the unspeakable misery that might draw tears from a demon could not touch you.’ Thus spoke Rasinski between his set teeth, and raised his sabre to split the skull of the Jew. In convulsions of terror the miserable wretch embraced his knees, and prayed for pity.
“‘God—Jehovah—mercy, noble Count, mercy!’
“Ludwig held back Rasinski’s arm. ‘Sully not your good blade with the monster’s blood,’ he said, earnestly and solemnly. ‘Leave him to the justice of an omnipotent Avenger.’
“‘You are right,’ replied Rasinski, quickly resuming his habitual composure. ‘Think you I have forgotten?’ said he, with an expression of the deepest loathing, to the Jew, who still clasped his feet in agony of fear. ‘I know you well for the base and double traitor who once already escaped well-merited death. Nothing could save you now, were it not that even a villain like yourself may be made useful. Begone, and warn your fellow-assassins, that if to-morrow I find a single dead body, a single mark of violence in one of their houses, I lay the whole quarter in ashes,—men, women, and habitations; and I myself will be the first to hurl the sucking-babe into the devouring flames! Away, dog! Yet will I mark thee, that thou mayest not escape.’
“And raising his foot, he stamped thrice upon the face of the prostrate Jew, who bellowed like a wild beast, whilst his blood reddened the snow. Nevertheless, the murderer managed to scramble to his feet, and reach an adjacent house door, where he stood knocking and calling upon his fellow Israelites for help and compassion.”
Count Ségur tells us, that the Jews enticed the unfortunate wounded into their houses to despoil them, and afterwards, in sight of the Russians, threw them, naked and dying, out of the doors and windows, leaving them to perish of cold.
We approach the final chapters of Mr Rellstab’s romance. Bianca, whose quality of a Russian noble suffices to protect her and her attendants, remains with Ludwig, Marie, and her brother at Wilna, after the French leave it. They then post to Germany without further adventure. Their last sight of Rasinski is when, mounted on a Cossack horse, by the side of Marshal Ney, he heads a scanty but determined band, covering the retreat of the French. He subsequently falls at Leipzig, fighting with his wonted gallantry under the orders of his countryman Poniatowski.
From the glimpses of the plot and numerous extracts we have given, the reader will have small difficulty in forming his own estimate of the faults and merits of “1812.” We have already commented upon both: upon the spirit and power often conspicuous in the dialogue and description, as well as upon the excess of forced coincidences, and upon the occasional long-windedness and super-sentimentality. However the interest may here and there, by reason of prolixity, be found to flag, the book, when once begun, is not likely to be laid aside unfinished. This alone is saying much for a historical romance in four very long volumes. There are not many German writers, in that style, of whose works we would venture the like prediction. And just at present Mr Rellstab need not apprehend fresh rivals. The year 1848 is unfavourable to German literature. The country is far too busy revolutionising to care about belles-lettres. Fictions are ousted by realities, novels by newspapers, trim octavos by uncouth twopenny pamphlets, polemical and satirical, attacking and defending, supporting and tearing to pieces, the numerous schemes afoot for the regeneration of Fatherland. In due time it will be seen whether the literature of the country is to share the general improvement so sanguinely anticipated from the recent changes in a system, under which Germany undeniably has long enjoyed a very large share of tranquillity and happiness.