THE ZENITH OF HUMAN MISERY.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 160, 8 July 1899, Page 7 (Supplement)

THE ZENITH OF HUMAN MISERY.

!AN ASTOUNDING NARRATIVE OP ' NAPOLEON'S RETREAT FROM j MOSCOW.

Reviewedby'Max Pemberton.

It is very possible in these day* of , miscellaneous criticism to make hap- j hazard statements about any book; I but I think it would be difficult to find any measured term which might convey adequately a just appreciation 0 f the merits of these astonishing memoirs and yet leave the critic free of the charge o |Thyper-laudation, or even of the biased vfew % To me they ha ve been of unique interest, and they seem to surpass any other memoirs that I can at the moment recall, both in their simplicity and in the finish of the picture that they paint. Outstanding in the history of the world will lever be certain bloody pages which, judge it as you will, the mind must linger over. Alva in the Netherlands, the September massacres, the sack of Bajados, the debacle at Sedan—but greater /than all, Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, whan five hundred thousand men perished of hunger, and of cold, and a swarm of beggars, filthy, emaciated, covered with vermin, stood for the' once great army that, three months before, had set out to the conquest of Europe, and even, as the dreamer 'may have believed, to the whole subjugation of the Eastern world—these are pages which even the schoolboy must remember. It has been said recently that the romancers make the wars. If such be the case, I am curious to know how- the morality of such a book as this old sergeant has written is to he 'judged. Imagination in its finest flights. surely must lag far behind this bewildering chronicle of all the lusts and all the horrors and of all that makes the most glorious banquet for the children of war. Here is a man writing the truth (for in the main the truth of the memoirs, is not to be disputed) and distancing Zola-without an effort. Nothing in all the story of the debacle can for a moment be named with sx_eh an accOunt as. the sergeant gives us of the church at Smolensk. His record of the'crossing of the Berezina attains such altitudes of horror that one is tempted to lay dpwn the book and to have done with if. ".Yet Sergeant Bourgogne was not romancing. He was telling *a story as simply as a child might have told it. T felt that I must write clown the things I did and, saw that I might rest,' he says. His oAvn part and lot in the holocaust is never unduly emj-hasizecl- He does no paramount deeds of daring.^ He simply suffers, suffers, suffers —'Suffers until he can scarce drag himself across the snow; suffers until his toes fall from his feet and his fingers from his hands. Yet never once does he lose faith in the sublimity of the man who protested that a million lives were nothing to such as he. -Revenge—the Emperor would ;.lead them back to that, back oveßf. tne frozen roads where the snovl. covered the countless dead, where'the zenith of human misery had been passed! But for our purposes Sergeant B otl-gogne's %iojy !; ihegins ;-,_fith that day when Napo'tecm triumphant first beheld the spires £_aid domes of Moscow, and saw in his imagination the glorious East at his feet. CHAPT.ER I. \ THE .GOAL A% LAST ! At one o'clock in the forenoon of September 14,. after passing through a great forest, we savr a hill some way w, and half a»|ho#r Afterwards part of the army. highest point, signalling^'to'ul''' who were behind, ahd Shouting, 'Moscow, Moscow.' It was indeed the great city ; there we t_i6uld rest after all our labours, for we of the imperial Guard had march- . ed,more than twelve hundred leagues without fasting; ' It was a beautiful summer's day; ,the sun Was reflected on all the domes, spires, and glided palaces. Many capitals. I have Been —such as Paris, Ber-

lin, -Warsaw, Vierina, Madrid—had produced ah ordinary impression on me. But this was quite different ; the ef- • feet was to me—in fact, to everyone— magical. ,At that sight troubles, dangers., fatigues, privations Were all forgotten and the pleasure of entering Moscow absorbed all otir minds. To take up good quarters for the winter, and to make conquests of another nature— BUi-h ia the French soldier's character —from war to love, and from love to war! While we were gazing at the -city, the order was given appear in full uniform. On that day I Was in the advanceguard with fifteen men, and 1 had -nder my charge several officers taken prisoner in the great battle of the Moskowa, some of whom spoke "French. Among them was a pope (a priest of the Greek Church), probably chaplain of a regiment. He, too, spoke French very well, but he seeincd much sadder and more preoccupied thai his companions in misfortune. | noticed that, when they arrived at the hill where we were stationed, all the prisoners bowed and crossed themselves several times. ' I went to the priest and asked him the reason. - 'Monsieur.',/he said, 'this hill is called the Mont dv Salut, and every good Muscovite on seeing the holy city Ttnust bow and cross himself.' ' Soon afterwards -we descended the Mont'du Salut, and after a quarter of an hour's march we found ourselves at the gate of the town. The Emperor was there already jvilh his staff. We halted, and I noticed to our left an immense cemevl^' -After waiting a moment, Marshal Duroc came out of the town, which he had just entered, and, adoresing the Emperor, presented to win several of the inhabitants who could speak French. The Emperor questioned them ; then the Marshal joid his Majesty that in the Kremlin there were a great number of persons j Under arms, the greater part of whom | "Were criminals released from the pri-i sons ; they had been firing at Murat's ! cavalry, who formed the advance-! Sjuard, In spite of several orders! persisted in keeping their doors (■ -closed. ■■ ■ ■-' •■' ' ■ "-; "T"' 'These wretches,' said the Marshal, : are all drunk, and cannot listen to I reason,.- ■. i nv^^S. the doors cannon,' re-1 pued the Emperor, 'and drive out all you find behind them.' . CHAPTER H. FIGHTING WITH FIRE. :. *his is not the placebo discuss , W reasons which kept Napoleon in

Moscow for five months when he should not have been there, for five days. That he was advised to winter at Wilna all the histories teach us ; but it is untrue to say that Moscow was so wholly destroyed that his army was unable th find shelter therein, or even that it was utterly untenable as winter quarters. When the fires first broke out in the city (and they began on the very day following the French occupation) it was not known even to the Russian generals that this was the weapon with which the French were to be driven from the country. The gallantry of Colonel Rostopehin, who released the convicts and sent them out with torches in their hands, seems to have been kept as a thing for later historians to discover. For • the French, the fact avus that, day by day, houses and palaces were engulfed in the flames, and that their utmost vigilance could not cope with the incendaries. Nevertheless, martial law prevailed, and here is a lesson in it.

About ten o'clock I saw a general on horseback riding up, looking like General Pernetty. He was leading a young man dressed in a sheepskin cape, fastened by a red woollen belt. The general asked me if I was in charge of the guard, and on my saying 'Yes* he continued :— . "*

'Very good. You will see that this man is put to death with the bayonet. I have just caught him with a torch setting fire to the palace where I am staying.'

I told off four men, therefore, to carry out the general's orders. But French soldiers are not made for this kind of work—in cold blood. Our blows did not pierce through his sheepskin, and we should have spared his life on account of his youth (moreover, he had not the appearance of a criminal), but that the general remained looking on till he saw the poor wretch fall from a shot in the side. We left him lying where he was. 'Memoirs of Serjeant BourKogne, 1812----1813.' (London : William Helnemann.) CHAPTER 111. IN THE HAND OP DEATH. But these fires do not seem to have troubled Sergeant Bourgogne as an individual, and it is curious to see how he utterly failed at the time to realise the import of them. He goes about his daily work, he feasts and jests, he makes love, he believes in the Emperor always. He fancies even that they are goig into Asia to the conquest of the uttermost East. When the order, the fatal order, to retreat from the city at length is given, there is hardly a man in that army of six hundred thousand who perceives that it is defeat, and that defeat will soon become almost annihilation. The Sergeant himself has a knapsack full of booty, and he gloats over the items as he numbers them.

'We resumed opr march at dawn, but before we had gone a league we again met a large part of the fatal convoy, which had passed us while we were asleep. Most of the carts were already shattered, and others could not move, the Wheels sinking deep in the sandy road. We could hear screams in French, oaths in German, entreaties to the Almighty in Italian, and to the Holy Virgin in Spanish and Portugese. 'After getting past this babel we were forced to wait for the left of the column. I spent the time in making an examination of my knapsack, which seemed too heavy. I found several pounds of sugar, some . rice, some biscuits, half a bottle of liqueur, a woman's Chinese silk dress embroidered in gold and silver, several gold- and silver ornaments, amongst them a little bit of the cross of Ivan the Great—at least, a piece of the outer covering of silver gilt, given me by a man in the company who had helped in taking it down. Besides these, I had my tmiform, a woman's large riding cloak (hazel colour, lined with green velvet; as I could not guess how it was worn, I imagined its late owner to be more than six feet high): then two silv.r ipictures in relief, a foot long ahd eight inches high;' one of them represented the Judgment of Paris on Mount Ida, the other showed Neptune on a chariot formed by a shell and drawn by sea-horses, all in the finent workmanship. I had, besides, several lockets, and a Russian prince's Spittoon set with drilliants. These things were intended for pre* sents, and had been found in cellars where the houses were burnt down." CHAPTER IV. HUNGER TURNS TO. MADNESS. For some days we have the usual picture of an army marching* -Crowded roads, broken baggage wagons, food at haphazard, yet order and discipline still maintained. The change comes as swiftly as the dramatist could desire. One night frost sets in. The men suffer. It begins to dawn upon them that food is not so abundant as it should be. There / are those who lag, Ahd even fall. The Russian winter, gloating over its prey, passes from grim jest to iron reality. The north wind begins to blow; blinding snow covers the road. Where one fell and died yesterday a hundred fall and die to-day. The booty is now an ironical burden. Men cast it in the Snow. They begin to fight for food as wolves in winter. Those who have the strength ! and the will totter into Smolensk, only to tell themselves that this is the beginning, and to ask what the morrow has in store. The Sergeant himself wanders about Smolensk, : stumbling over dead men, unable to find a lodging, driven by hunger to the verge of madness. There is no more striking picture in the annals '. ot history than the« story of this night as the Sergeant tells it. Here he is searching for a lodging, men dying all about him,>-in a strange town, separated from his regiment, .i with little hope that he will not be '. as those upon whose bodies he' treads : incessantly. At last he hears phantom music, and believes that he is,, s mad indeed: — '•'. > . . 'While the fearful deathrattle was going on near us, the ; aerial music began again, but this : time much nearer. I called Beloque's attention to it, and told him of the strange things which had happened to me when I heard the ; sounds before. And then he said that at intervals he had heard the [ music too, and could not make it out. Sometimes it made an infernal ; racket and, if men were amusing ; . themselves in' that way they •must -.. have the devil inside them. Then, ; coming closer to me, he said in a . low voice: 3, "My friend, these sounds are very like death-music. Death is all ; round us and I have a presentiment that in a few days I shall be dead;■ too." Then he added, "May God's ; will be done! But the suffering seems too great. Look ,a£ those poor. ; wretches!"—pointing to two men ly-, • ing in the snow. I

'I said nothing, for I thought just as he did.

He s topped speaking, and we listened attentively in a silence only broken by the heavy breathing of a dying man. Suddenly my'companion said:

'To my mind, the sounds seems to come from above.'

I had not been alOne a minute when the cursed music started again. I stopped, and, raising my head to listen better, I saw a light in front of me. As I walked on towards the light, the road descended rapidly and the light disappeared. In spite of this I continued, but was stopped almost directly by a wall in front of me, and was forced to retrace my steps. I turned first to the right, then to the left, and found myself in a street of ruined houses. I strode on quickly, still guided by the music. At the end of the street there was a building lighted up, from which the sounds evidently came. There I was stopped by a wall surrounding the building, which I now saw was a church. . .

I came to myself in a bit, in spite Of the diabolical noise, and walked on with one hand against the wall, at length finding an open door through which came a thick smoke. I went in, and saw a great number of people, who in the dense smoke looked like shadows. Some of them were singing, and others playing on the organ. All at once a great flame burst forth and the smoke disappeared. I looked round to see where I was; one of the singers came up to me and cried out: ' It's our sergeant!' He had recognised my bearskin, and I saw, to my immense surprise, all the men of my company! I was on Hie point of questioning them, when one of them offered me a silver cup full of brandy. They were all fearfully drunk! One, rather less drunk than the others, said that they had been on extra duty when first they came, and that they had seen two men with a lantern coming out of a cellar; that they had banded together to go there after the distribution of rations, to see if they could find something to eat, and then spend the night in this church. In the cellar they had found a small cask of brandy, a bag of rice, and a little biscuit, besides ten capes trimmed with fur, and some Rabbi's fur caps.

Wifh the men of the company were several musicians of the regiment, who had started playing the organbeing half seas over, as they say. This explained the harmony which had puzzled me so much. This scene is grim enough, but the Berezina was yet to be crossed, and other scenes more terible to be known Witness the following as an instance of hunger, when hunger has become a madness: —

A little past Korouitnia we came upon a deep ravine; here we had to wait while the artillery crossed it.' I went in search of Grangier, and proposed that we should cross first, as we were getting frozen while standing still. When we were at the other side, I saw three men round a dead borse; two of them staggered about as" if they were drunk. The third, a German, lay On the horse; the poor wretch was dying of hunger, and, not being able to cut the flesh, was trying to bite it. He soon afterward:, died where he was of cold and hunger. The two others, Hussars, were covered with blood about the hands and mouth. We spoke to them but they did not answer; they looked at us, laughing in a horrible way, ana then sat down close to the dead man, where they no doubt fell into the last fatal sleep. CHAPTER V. THB PATHOS OF WAR. Or, as a testamur to the pure pathos of war, how can we surpass such a story as this ? "A little further off was an old soldier with two chivrons—fifteen years service, that is. His wife was cantiniere. They had lost everything— carts, horses, baggage, besides two children, who had died in the snow; all this poor woman had left to hei* was despair and a dying husband. The poor creature, still a young woman, was Sitting on the snow, holdiris* her dying husband's head on her knees. She did not weep; her grief seemed beyond that. Behind her, leaning on her Shoulder, was a beautiful young girl of thirteen or fourteen years, the only child,remaining to her. This poor child Was sobbing bitterly, her tears falling and freezing on her father's cold face. She wore a soldier's cape over her poor dress, and a sheepskin on her shoulders to keep out the cold. None of their comrades were there to comfort them. Their regiment was utterly destroyed. We .did all that we possibly could for them, but I was not able to find out if these unhappy people were saved. Whichever way one turned, these terrible scenes were taking place. Old carts and waggons furnished us with wood enough to warm ourselves, and we made the most of this opportunity. My friends wanted to hear how I had spent my three days of absence. They told me on their fiide that on the 23rd, when they were marching across the forest, they caught sight of the 9th Corps drawn up by the roadside, shouting 'Vive l'Empereur! They had not set eyes on this corps for five months. These men, who had scarcely suffered at all, and had never wanted food, were distressed at seeing their comrades' destitution. They could hardly believe that this was the Moscow army, then so splendid, now so miserable, and so sadly' reduced in numbers." Vive l'Empereur! It is, indeed, the ■only moral which this appalling story has to teach us. All that is worst in man was to be learnt upon the bridge that crossed the Berezina. Thereafter the record is unchanged. Death, everywhere ; blinding snow ; iron frost; men falling, but no hand outstretched to raise them; hunger surpassing imagination; the dead unnumbered, unnoticed. But our good sergeant with indomitable will is there at last to stagger into Elbing, and to wonder that he lives. Almost the last picture that he gives of. himself is one passing from the sublime to the ridiculous, a picture . which seems in itself to be a new witness to the truth of his story. He is in the hath at the' house of a hospitable Frenchwoman, and the housemaid there is scrubbing his back wi.h the hardest of brushes. Such a narrative needs little recommendation. Wherever the history of the retreat from Moscow is to be told, this book must be consulted. And English readers should be grateful for one of the best translations of any French work that has ever been published in this country. MAX PEMBERTON.