Franz played the wronged husband with such intense feeling, such depth of passion, such thrilling intonation of voice, that the old man shared the rapture of the audience, and wept tears of joy and of pride as he confessed that his son was really a great actor.
The curtain had no sooner descended than Schoenlein, hurrying out of the house, went round to the stage-door, knocked at his son’s dressing-room, and in another instant had fallen on his shoulders, sobbing—“My boy! my dear, dear Franz! you have conquered me!”
“My dear father!” exclaimed Franz, pressing him convulsively to his heart.
“Franz, I retract all that I have said. I forgive you. You have a real vocation for the stage!”
This happy reconciliation was soon followed by the betrothal of Franz Schoenlein to Matilda Röckel; and the old man had not only the delight of seeing his son wedded to a woman worthy of him, but also to hear him announce his intention of retiring for ever from the stage. He had realised an independence, and the stage was connected with too many disagreeable associations for him not to quit it on this opening of a new era in his life.
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 the Histoire 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.