CHAPTER X.
A FINAL PICTURE.
One afternoon I stood by the tomb of Napoleon in the Invalides in Paris, and I can never forget the strange, weird, indescribable feeling which came over me as I looked down amid the surrounding silence on the mass of brown-red marble which enclosed his remains. What brings so strong a sense of the emptiness and transitoriness of life as standing face to face with the unbreakable stillness of death especially when the ashes, laid low and still, created such wild and cyclonic tumult in their living day as those of Napoleon? In the cold and majestic isolation of his tomb far from the side of Josephine, who lies in quiet and gentle rest; far from that other consort who never really loved him far from the Countess Walewska-one of the most pathetic and touching figures in his strange and fierce life; far from the poor boy over whose cradle he more than once was seen to be in mournful forecast of his joyless destiny; above all, far from those wild shouts and hurrahs of mighty armies which found in his word and eye that inspiration to meet and defeat numbers, dangers, and death alone he lies in death as he lived in life. The whole scene struck me as significant, eloquent, almost a revelation, and an appeal by dead Napoleon to that recognition from history which history has been so ready to give him.
I.
WATERLOO.
Next to this scene, the most impressive picture I have ever been enabled to form in my mind of Napoleon's personality, was from a story of Kielland, the great Norwegian writer. In his "Tales of Two Countries,"[1] there is a description of Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo. I omit nearly all the setting, for it is irrelevant to my purpose. Suffice it to say that a young man named Cousin Hans desires to become acquainted with a pretty young woman, and that the only way he can contrive to do so is to make himself the victim of the man he supposes to be her father, a retired captain, who has bored more than one generation by his accounts of the battle of Waterloo. Cousin Hans places himself in the way of the captain, and to attract the old soldier's interest, makes believe that he is studying military manoeuvres by drawing strokes and angles in the sands. This is what follows:
"The whole esplanade was quiet and deserted. Cousin Hans could hear the captain's firm steps approaching; they came right up to him and stopped. Hans did not look up; the captain advanced two more paces and coughed. Hans drew a long and profoundly significant stroke with his stick, and then the old fellow could contain himself no longer. 'Aha, young gentleman,' he said, in a friendly tone, taking off his hat, 'are you making a plan of our fortifications?' Cousin Hans assumed the look of one who is awakened from deep contemplation, and bowing politely, he answered with some embarrassment: 'No, it's only a sort of habit I have of trying to take my bearings wherever I may be.' 'An excellent habit, a most excellent habit,' the captain exclaimed with warmth. 'It strengthens the memory,' Cousin Hans remarked modestly. 'Certainly, certainly, sir,' answered the captain, who was beginning to be much pleased by this modest young man. 'Especially in situations of any complexity,' continued the modest young man, rubbing out his strokes with his foot. 'Just what I was going to say!' exclaimed the captain, delighted. 'And, as you may well believe, drawings and plans are especially indispensable in military science. Look at a battle-field, for example.' 'Ah, battles are altogether too intricate for me,' Cousin Hans interrupted, with a smile of humility. 'Don't say that, sir!' answered the kindly old man. 'When once you have a bird's-eye view of the ground and of the positions of the armies, even a tolerably complicated battle can be made quite comprehensible. This sand, now, that we have before us here, could very well be made to give us an idea in miniature of, for example, the battle of Waterloo. . . . Be so good as to take a seat on the bench here,' continued the captain, whose heart was rejoiced at the thought of so intelligent a hearer,' and I shall try to give you in short outline a picture of that momentous and remarkable if it interests you?' 'Many thanks, sir,' answered Cousin Hans; 'nothing could interest me more.'"
II.
THE BATTLE.
Waterloo is an old story; but I must give it, as our poor good-natured captain did, in order to bring out the great passage to which I have alluded:
"The captain took up a position in a corner of the ramparts, a few paces from the bench, whence he could point all around him with a stick. Cousin Hans followed what he said closely, and took all possible trouble to ingratiate himself with his future father-in-law. 'We will suppose, then, that I am standing here, at the farm of Belle-Alliance, where the Emperor has his headquarters; and to the north fourteen miles from Waterloo-we have Brussels, that is to say, just about at the corner of the gymnastic school. The road there along the rampart is the highway leading to Brussels, and here' (the captain rushed over the plain of Waterloo), 'here in the grass we have the Forest of Soignies. On the highway to Brussels, and in front of the forest, the English are stationed—you must imagine the northern part of the battle-field somewhat higher than it is here. On Wellington's left wing, that is to say, to the eastward—here in the grass—we have the Chateau of Hougoumont; that must be marked,' said the captain, looking about him. The serviceable Cousin Hans at once found a stick, which was fixed in the ground at this important point. 'Excellent!' cried the captain, who saw that he had found an interested and imaginative listener. 'You see it's from this side that we have to expect the Prussians.' Cousin Hans noticed that the captain picked up a stone and placed it in the grass with an air of mystery. 'Here, at Hougoumont,' the old man continued, 'the battle began. It was Jerome who made the first attack. He took the wood; but the chateau held out, garrisoned by Wellington's best troops. In the meantime Napoleon, here at Belle-Alliance, was on the point of giving Marshal Ney orders to commence the main attack upon Wellington's centre, when he observed a column of troops approaching from the east, behind the bench, over there by the tree.' Cousin Hans looked round, and began to feel uneasy: could Blucher be here already? 'Blu— Blu' he murmured tentatively. 'It was Bulow,' the captain fortunately went on, 'who approached with thirty thousand Prussians. Napoleon made his arrangements hastily to meet this new enemy, never doubting that Grouchy, at any rate, was following close on the Prussians' heels. You see, the Emperor had on the previous day detached Marshal Grouchy with the whole right wing of the army, about fifty thousand men, to hold Blucher and Bulow in check. But Grouchy—but of course all this is familiar to you,' the captain broke off. Cousin Hans nodded reassuringly. 'Ney accordingly began the attack with his usual intrepidity. But the English cavalry hurled themselves upon the Frenchmen, broke their ranks, and forced them back with the loss of two eagles and several cannons. Milhaud rushes to the rescue with his cuirassiers, and the Emperor himself, seeing the danger, puts spurs into his horse and gallops down the incline of Belle-Alliance.' Away rushed the captain, prancing like a horse in his eagerness to show how the Emperor rode through thick and thin, rallied Ney's troops, and sent them forward to a fresh attack."
III.
NAPOLEON.
And now comes the great passage of the sketch:
"Whether it was that there lurked a bit of the poet in Cousin Hans, or that the captain's representation was really very vivid, or that—and this is probably the true explanation—he was in love with the captain's daughter, certain it is that Cousin Hans was quite carried away by the situation. He no longer saw a queer old captain prancing sideways; he saw, through the cloud of smoke, the Emperor himself, on his white horse with the black eyes, as we knew it from the engravings. He tore away over hedge and ditch, over meadow and garden, his staff with difficulty keeping up with him. Cool and calm, he sat firmly in his saddle, with his half-buttoned greatcoat, his white breeches, and his little hat crosswise on his head. His face expressed neither weariness nor anxiety; smooth and pale as marble, it gave to the whole figure in the simple uniform on the white horse, an exalted, almost a spectral aspect. Thus he swept on his course, this sanguinary little monster, who in three days had fought three battles. All hastened to clear the way for him, flying peasants, troops in reserve or advancing—ay, even the wounded and dying dragged themselves aside, and looked up at him with a mixture of terror and admiration as he tore past them like a cold thunderbolt. Scarcely had he shown himself among the soldiers before they all fell into order as though by magic, and a moment afterwards the undaunted Ney could once more vault into the saddle to renew the attack. And this time he bore down the English, and established himself in the farmhouse of La Haye-Sainte. Napoleon is once more at Belle-Alliance. 'And now here comes Bulow from the east—under the bench here, you see—and the Emperor sends General Mouton to meet him. At half-past four—the battle had begun at one o'clock—Wellington attempts to drive Ney out of La Haye-Sainte. And Ney, who now saw that everything depended on obtaining possession of the ground in front of the wood—the sand here by the border of the grass,' the captain threw his glove over to the spot indicated—'Ney, you see, calls up the reserve brigade of Milhaud's cuirassiers, and hurls himself at the enemy. Presently his men were seen upon the heights, and already the people around the Emperor were shouting 'Victoire!' 'It is an hour too late,' answered Napoleon. As he now saw that the Marshal in his new position was suffering much from the enemy's fire, he determined to go to his assistance, and, at the same time, to try to crush Wellington at one blow. He chose, for the execution of this plan, Kellermann's famous dragoons and the heavy cavalry of the guard. Now comes one of the crucial moments of the fight. You must come out here upon the battlefield!' Cousin Hans at once arose from the bench, and took the position the captain pointed out to him. 'Now you are Wellington!' Cousin Hans drew himself up. 'You are standing there on the plain with the greater part of the English infantry. Here comes the whole of the French cavalry rushing down upon you. Milhaud has joined Kellermann; they form an illimitable multitude of horses, breastplates, plumes, and shining weapons. Surround yourself with a square!' Cousin Hans stood for a moment bewildered; but presently he understood the captain's meaning. He hastily drew a square of deep strokes around him on the sand. 'Right!' cried the captain, beaming. 'Now the Frenchmen cut into the square; the ranks break, but join again; the cavalry wheels away and gathers for a fresh attack. Wellington has every moment to surround himself with a new square. The French cavalry fight like lions; the proud memories of the Emperor's campaigns fill them with that confidence of victory which made his armies invincible. They fight for victory, for glory, for the French eagles, and for the little cold man who, they know, stands on the height behind them, whose eye follows every single man, who sees all and forgets nothing; but today they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. They stand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced to step backwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have no eagles and no Emperor, and when they fight they think neither of military glory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of never seeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy an Englishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse—that of coming home dishonoured. And when they think that the proud fleet, which they know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny them the honour of a salute, and that Old England would not recognise her sons, then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds and their flowing blood; silent and grim, they clench their teeth, and hold their post and die like men.' Twenty times were the squares broken and reformed, and twelve thousand brave Englishmen fell. Cousin Hans could understand how Wellington wept when he said, 'Night or Blucher!'"
IV.
NAPOLEON IN RETREAT.
And quite as vivid is the remainder of the picture—the picture of Napoleon in retreat:
"The captain had in the meantime left Belle-Alliance, and was spying around in the grass behind the bench, while he continued his exposition, which grew more and more vivid: 'Wellington was now in reality beaten, and a total defeat was inevitable,' cried the captain in a sombre voice, 'when this fellow appeared on the scene!' And as he said this, he kicked the stone which Cousin Hans had seen him concealing, so that it rolled in upon the field of battle. 'Now or never,' thought Cousin Hans. 'Blucher!' he cried. 'Exactly!' answered the captain, 'it's the old werewolf Blucher, who comes marching upon the field with his Prussians.' So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole right wing, and facing 150,000 men. But with never-failing coolness he gives his orders for a great change of front. But it was too late, and the odds were too vast. Wellington, who by Blucher's arrival was enabled to bring his reserve into play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once more the Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led by Ney—the lion of the day. 'Do you see him there?' cried the captain, his eyes flashing. And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of the Moskowa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He saw him rush onward at the head of his battalions—five horses had been shot under him—with his sword in his hand, his uniform torn to shreds, hatless, and with the blood streaming down his face. And the battalions rallied and swept ahead; they followed their Prince of the Moskowa, their Saviour at the Beresina, into the hopeless struggle for the Emperor and for France. Little did they dream that, six months later, the King of France would have their dear Prince shot as a traitor to his country in the gardens of the Luxembourg. There he rushed around, rallying and directing his troops, until there was nothing more for the general to do; then he plied his sword like a common soldier until all was over, and he was carried away in the rout. For the French army fled. The Emperor threw himself into the throng; but the terrible hubbub drowned his voice, and in the twilight no one knew the little man on the white horse. Then he took his stand in a little square of his Old Guard, which still held out upon the plain; he would fain have ended his life on his last battle-field. But his generals flocked around him, and the old grenadiers shouted, 'Withdraw, sire! Death will not have you.' They did not know that it was because the Emperor had forfeited his right to die as a French soldier. They led him half-resisting from the field; and, unknown in his own army, he rode away into the darkness of the night, having lost everything. 'So ended the battle of Waterloo,' said the captain, as he seated himself on the bench and arranged his neckcloth."
I shall be in despair, and forfeit all my poor claims to being a judge of literature, if my readers do not read this splendid narrative with the same breathless interest as I did; and if that awful figure of "the little man on the white horse" does not haunt their imaginations, as it did mine, for many an hour after they have read it. I thought the description of Waterloo in Stendhal's "Chartreuse de Parme" was the last and greatest word that literature had to speak on that historic day; but really Kielland is finer, to my mind, than even Stendhal. At all events, I have never read anything which brought home to my imagination with the same vividness the terrible central figure of that day; and all the godlike genius and demoniac power, all the horror and glory and despair which were embodied in his person in the battle-field.
THE END.
F. M. EVANS AND CO., LIMITED, PRINTERS, CRYSTAL PALACE, S.E.
- ↑ " Tales of Two Countries." From the Norwegian of Alexander L. Kielland. Translated by William Archer. (London: Osgood, Mcllvaine.)