Star clock of mankind. Stefan Zweig - The Star Clock of Humanity (short stories) Stefan Zweig

Zweig Stefan

Star clock of mankind

One Night Genius

1792. For two or three months now the National Assembly has not been able to decide the question: peace or war against the Austrian emperor and the Prussian king. Louis XVI himself is indecisive: he understands the danger that the victory of the revolutionary forces brings to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties. The Girondins, wishing to keep power in their hands, are eager for war; the Jacobins with Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension grows every day: the newspapers scream, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors swarm more and more furiously, and more and more inflamed thanks to them. public opinion. And therefore, when the King of France finally declares war on April 20, everyone involuntarily feels relieved, as happens when any difficult issue is resolved. All these endless long weeks a stormy atmosphere oppressing the soul has weighed over Paris, but even more tense, even more painful is the excitement that reigns in the border cities. Troops have already been drawn up to all bivouacs, in every village, in every city, volunteer squads and detachments of the National Guard are being equipped; fortifications are being erected everywhere, and above all in Alsace, where they know that, as always in the battles between France and Germany, the first, decisive battle will fall on the lot of this small patch of French land. Here, on the banks of the Rhine, the enemy, the adversary, is not an abstract, vague concept, not a rhetorical figure, as in Paris, but tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the tower of the cathedral - you can distinguish with the naked eye the approaching Prussian regiments. At night, over the river coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other side the signals of the enemy horn, the rattling of weapons, the rumble of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will spew thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle of Germany against France will resume, this time in the name of new freedom, on the one hand; and in the name of preserving the old order, on the other.

And that is why the day of April 25, 1792, is so significant, when a military relay race delivered a message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. At once from all the houses and lanes streams of excited people poured out; solemnly, regiment after regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for the last review of the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is already waiting for him with a three-colored sash over his shoulder and a three-colored cockade on his hat, which he waves, welcoming the defiling troops. Fanfares and drum rolls call for silence, and Dietrich reads aloud a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all the squares. And they are barely silent last words, the regimental band plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnolu. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a fervent, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a marching march. The crowd again spreads through the houses and lanes, spreading the enthusiasm that has seized it everywhere; in cafes, in clubs, incendiary speeches are made and proclamations are handed out. "To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bend you!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar appeals, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, through the mouths of all citizens, these militant, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds pick them up again and again.

When war is declared, the crowd always rejoices in the squares and streets; but in these hours of general rejoicing, other, cautious voices are heard; a declaration of war awakens fear and concern, which, however, lurk in timid silence or whisper barely audibly in dark corners. There are always and everywhere mothers; But will the foreign soldiers kill my son? - they think; everywhere there are peasants who value their houses, land, property, livestock, crops; so will not their dwellings be plundered, and the fields trampled by brutalized hordes? Will not their arable land be saturated with blood? But the mayor of the city of Strasbourg, Baron Friedrich Dietrich, although he is an aristocrat, like the best representatives of the French aristocracy, is wholeheartedly devoted to the cause of the new freedom; he wants to hear only the loud, sure-sounding voices of hope, and so he turns the day of the declaration of war into folk holiday. With a tricolor sling over his shoulder, he hurries from meeting to meeting, inspiring the people. He orders wine and additional rations to be distributed to the marching soldiers, and in the evening he arranges a farewell party for generals, officers and senior administrative officials in his spacious mansion on the Place de Broglie, and the enthusiasm reigning on it turns it into a celebration of victory in advance. Generals, like all generals in the world, are firmly convinced that they will win; they play the role of honorary chairmen at this evening, and the young officers, who see the whole meaning of their lives in the war, freely share their opinions and provoke each other. They brandish their swords, embrace, proclaim toasts, and, warmed by good wine, speak more and more passionately. And in these speeches, the incendiary slogans of newspapers and proclamations are repeated again: “To arms, citizens! Forward, shoulder to shoulder! Let the crowned tyrants tremble, let us carry our banners over Europe! Sacred to the motherland is love! The whole people, the whole country, united by faith in victory, by a common desire to fight for freedom, longs to merge into one at such moments.

And now, in the midst of speeches and toasts, Baron Dietrich turns to a young captain of the engineering troops, named Rouge, who is sitting next to him. He remembered that this glorious - not exactly handsome, but very attractive officer - six months ago, in honor of the proclamation of the constitution, wrote a good hymn to freedom, then arranged for the orchestra by the regimental musician Pleyel. The thing turned out to be melodic, military choir chapel learned it, and it was successfully performed accompanied by an orchestra in the main square of the city. Shouldn't we organize a similar celebration on the occasion of the declaration of war and the march of the troops? Baron Dietrich, in a casual tone, as usual asking good friends for some trifling favor, asks Captain Rouget (by the way, this captain, without any reason, appropriated the title of nobility and bears the name Rouget de Lisle), whether he will take advantage of the patriotic upsurge to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving tomorrow to fight the enemy.

Rouge is a small, modest man: he never fancied himself a great artist - no one publishes his poems, and all theaters reject operas, but he knows that he succeeds in poetry just in case. Wanting to please a high official and friend, he agrees. Okay, he'll try. Bravo, Rouge! - The general sitting opposite drinks to his health and orders, as soon as the song is ready, immediately send it to the battlefield - let it be something like an inspiring step of a patriotic march. The Army of the Rhine really needs such a song. Meanwhile, someone is already making a new speech. More toasts, clink of glasses, noise. A mighty wave of general enthusiasm swallowed up a random brief conversation. All the more enthusiastic and louder voices sound, the feast becomes more and more stormy, and only far after midnight do the guests leave the mayor's house.

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Zweig Stefan Star Clock of Humanity

One Night Genius

1792. For two or three months now the National Assembly has not been able to decide the question: peace or war against the Austrian emperor and the Prussian king. Louis XVI himself is indecisive: he understands the danger that the victory of the revolutionary forces brings to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties. The Girondins, wishing to keep power in their hands, are eager for war; the Jacobins with Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is growing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more furiously, and public opinion is more and more inflamed thanks to them. And therefore, when the King of France finally declares war on April 20, everyone involuntarily feels relieved, as happens when any difficult issue is resolved. All these endless long weeks a stormy atmosphere oppressing the soul has weighed over Paris, but even more tense, even more painful is the excitement that reigns in the border cities. Troops have already been drawn up to all bivouacs, in every village, in every city, volunteer squads and detachments of the National Guard are being equipped; fortifications are being erected everywhere, and above all in Alsace, where they know that, as always in the battles between France and Germany, the first, decisive battle will fall on the lot of this small patch of French soil. Here, on the banks of the Rhine, the enemy, the adversary, is not an abstract, vague concept, not a rhetorical figure, as in Paris, but tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the tower of the cathedral - you can distinguish with the naked eye the approaching Prussian regiments. At night, over the river coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other side the signals of the enemy horn, the rattling of weapons, the rumble of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will spew thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle of Germany against France will resume, this time in the name of new freedom, on the one hand; and in the name of preserving the old order, on the other.

And that is why the day of April 25, 1792, is so significant, when a military relay race delivered a message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. At once from all the houses and lanes streams of excited people poured out; solemnly, regiment after regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for the last review of the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is already waiting for him with a three-colored sash over his shoulder and a three-colored cockade on his hat, which he waves, welcoming the defiling troops. Fanfares and drum rolls call for silence, and Dietrich reads aloud a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all the squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental band plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnolu. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a fervent, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a marching march. The crowd again spreads through the houses and lanes, spreading the enthusiasm that has seized it everywhere; in cafes, in clubs, incendiary speeches are made and proclamations are handed out. "To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bend you!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar appeals, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, through the mouths of all citizens, these militant, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds pick them up again and again.

When war is declared, the crowd always rejoices in the squares and streets; but in these hours of general rejoicing, other, cautious voices are heard; a declaration of war awakens fear and concern, which, however, lurk in timid silence or whisper barely audibly in dark corners. There are always and everywhere mothers; But will the foreign soldiers kill my son? - they think; everywhere there are peasants who value their houses, land, property, livestock, crops; so will not their dwellings be plundered, and the fields trampled by brutalized hordes? Will not their arable land be saturated with blood? But the mayor of the city of Strasbourg, Baron Friedrich Dietrich, although he is an aristocrat, like the best representatives of the French aristocracy, is wholeheartedly devoted to the cause of the new freedom; he wants to hear only loud, sure-sounding voices of hope, and therefore he turns the day of the declaration of war into a national holiday. With a tricolor sling over his shoulder, he hurries from meeting to meeting, inspiring the people. He orders wine and additional rations to be distributed to the marching soldiers, and in the evening he arranges a farewell party for generals, officers and senior administrative officials in his spacious mansion on the Place de Broglie, and the enthusiasm reigning on it turns it into a celebration of victory in advance. Generals, like all generals in the world, are firmly convinced that they will win; they play the role of honorary chairmen at this evening, and the young officers, who see the whole meaning of their lives in the war, freely share their opinions and provoke each other. They brandish their swords, embrace, proclaim toasts, and, warmed by good wine, speak more and more passionately. And in these speeches, the incendiary slogans of newspapers and proclamations are repeated again: “To arms, citizens! Forward, shoulder to shoulder! Let the crowned tyrants tremble, let us carry our banners over Europe! Sacred to the motherland is love! The whole people, the whole country, united by faith in victory, by a common desire to fight for freedom, longs to merge into one at such moments.

And now, in the midst of speeches and toasts, Baron Dietrich turns to a young captain of the engineering troops, named Rouge, who is sitting next to him. He remembered that this glorious - not exactly handsome, but very attractive officer - six months ago, in honor of the proclamation of the constitution, wrote a good hymn to freedom, then arranged for the orchestra by the regimental musician Pleyel. The thing turned out to be melodic, the military choir learned it, and it was successfully performed, accompanied by an orchestra, in the main square of the city. Shouldn't we organize a similar celebration on the occasion of the declaration of war and the march of the troops? Baron Dietrich, in a casual tone, as usual asking good friends for some trifling favor, asks Captain Rouget (by the way, this captain, without any reason, appropriated the title of nobility and bears the name Rouget de Lisle), whether he will take advantage of the patriotic upsurge to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving tomorrow to fight the enemy.

Rouge is a small, modest man: he never fancied himself a great artist - no one publishes his poems, and all theaters reject operas, but he knows that he succeeds in poetry just in case. Wanting to please a high official and friend, he agrees. Okay, he'll try. Bravo, Rouge! - The general sitting opposite drinks to his health and orders, as soon as the song is ready, immediately send it to the battlefield - let it be something like an inspiring step of a patriotic march. The Army of the Rhine really needs such a song. Meanwhile, someone is already making a new speech. More toasts, clink of glasses, noise. A mighty wave of general enthusiasm swallowed up a casual brief conversation. All the more enthusiastic and louder voices sound, the feast becomes more and more stormy, and only far after midnight do the guests leave the mayor's house.

Deep night. The day so significant for Strasbourg ended on April 25, the day of the declaration of war - or rather, April 26 has already come. All houses are shrouded in darkness, but darkness is deceptive - there is no night rest in it, the city is excited. The soldiers in the barracks are preparing for the march, and in many of the shuttered houses, the more cautious of the citizens may already be packing their belongings in preparation for their flight. Squads of foot soldiers march through the streets; either a horse messenger would gallop, clattering with its hooves, or the guns would rumble along the bridge, and all the time the monotonous roll-call of the sentries was heard. The enemy is too close: the soul of the city is too excited and alarmed to sleep at such decisive moments.

Rouget was also unusually excited, having finally reached his modest little room at 126 Grand Rue up the spiral staircase. He did not forget the promise to quickly compose a marching march for the Army of the Rhine. He paces restlessly from corner to corner in the cramped room. How to start? How to start? A chaotic mixture of fiery appeals, speeches, toasts still sounds in his ears. "To arms, citizens!.. Forward, sons of freedom!.. Let's crush the black power of tyranny!.." will be trampled upon by enemy hordes and watered with blood. He takes up his pen and almost unconsciously writes down the first two lines; it is only an echo, an echo, a repetition of the appeals he heard:

Forward, sons of the dear homeland! The moment of glory is coming!

He re-reads and himself is surprised: just what is needed. There is a beginning. Now to pick up a suitable rhythm, a melody. Rouget takes a violin out of the cabinet and runs his bow across the strings. And - about a miracle! - from the very first bars he manages to find a motive. He again grabs the pen and writes, carried away further and further by some unknown force that suddenly took possession of him. And suddenly everything comes into harmony: all the feelings generated by this day, all the words heard on the street and at the banquet, hatred for tyrants, anxiety for the homeland, faith in victory, love for freedom. He does not even have to compose, invent, he only rhymes, puts into rhythm the melodies that passed today, on this significant day, from mouth to mouth, and he expressed, sang, told in his song everything that the whole French people felt that day . He doesn't need to compose a melody either, through the closed shutters the rhythm of the street penetrates into the room, the rhythm of this disturbing night, angry and defiant; he is beaten off by the steps of marching soldiers, the roar of cannon carriages. Perhaps it is not he himself, Rouge, who hears it with his sensitive hearing, but the spirit of the times, which for only one night has settled in the mortal shell of a person, catches this rhythm. More and more submissively, the melody obeys the jubilant and beaten time like a hammer, which beats the heart of the entire French people. As if under someone's dictation, more hastily and more hastily, Rouge writes down the words and notes - he is seized by a stormy impulse, which his petty philistine soul did not know until now. All exaltation, all inspiration, not inherent in him, no, but only miraculously taking possession of his soul, concentrated at a single point and with a mighty explosion lifted the miserable amateur to a colossal height above his modest talent, like a bright, sparkling rocket was thrown to the very stars. For one night only, Captain Rouge de Lisle is destined to become a brother of the immortals; The first two lines of the song, made up of ready-made phrases, from slogans gleaned from the street and in newspapers, give impetus to creative thought, and then a stanza appears, the words of which are as eternal and enduring as the melody:

Forward, shoulder to shoulder! Sacred to the motherland is love. Forward, dear freedom, Inspire us again and again.

A few more lines - and the immortal song, born of a single impulse of inspiration, perfectly combining words and melody, is finished before dawn. Rouget puts out the candle and throws himself on the bed. Some kind of force, he himself does not know what, lifted him to heights of spiritual insight unknown to him, and now the same force has plunged him into dull exhaustion. He sleeps in a deep sleep, similar to death. Yes, it is so: the creator, the poet, the genius again died in him. But on the other hand, on the table, completely separated from the sleeping one, who created this miracle in a fit of truly holy inspiration, lies the completed work. There has hardly been another case in the entire long history of mankind when words and sounds so quickly and simultaneously became a song.

But the bells of the ancient cathedral herald, as always, the onset of morning. From time to time the wind carries the sounds of volleys from the other side of the Rhine - the first skirmish has begun. Rouge wakes up, struggling to get out of the depths of a dead sleep. He vaguely feels: something happened, happened to him, leaving behind only a faint memory. And suddenly he notices a written sheet on the table. Poetry? But when did I write them? Music? Notes sketched by my hand? But when did I write this? Oh yes! A marching song promised yesterday to friend Dietrich for the Army of the Rhine! Rouge runs through the verses with his eyes, mumbles a motive to himself. But, like any author of a newly created work, he feels only complete uncertainty. His comrade in the regiment lives next to him. Rouge hurries to show him and sing his song to him. Tom likes it, he offers only a few small amendments. This first praise instills confidence in Rouge. Burning with the impatience of the author and proud that he had fulfilled his promise so quickly, he rushes to the mayor and finds Dietrich on a morning walk; walking in the garden, he composes a new speech. How! Ready? Well, let's listen. Both go into the living room; Dietrich sits down at the harpsichord, Rouge sings. Attracted by unusual music at such an early hour, the mayor's wife comes. She promises to rewrite the song, to reproduce it, and, like a true musician, she volunteers to write an accompaniment so that this new song can be performed tonight, along with many others, in front of friends at home. The mayor, who prides himself on his rather agreeable tenor, undertakes to learn it by heart; and on April 26, that is, on the evening of the same day at the dawn of which the words and music of the song were written, it is first performed in the living room of the mayor of the city of Strasbourg in front of random listeners.

Probably, the listeners applauded the author in a friendly way and did not skimp on kind compliments. But, of course, none of the guests of the mansion on the main square of Strasbourg had even the slightest premonition that an immortal melody fluttered into their mortal world on invisible wings. It seldom happens that the contemporaries of great men and great works immediately comprehend their full significance; an example is the letter from the mayor's wife to her brother, where this accomplished miracle of genius is reduced to the level of a banal episode from secular life: “You know, we often receive guests, and therefore, in order to add variety to our evenings, we always have to come up with something. So my husband came up with the idea to order a song on the occasion of the declaration of war. A certain Rouget de Lisle, captain of the engineering corps, a nice young man, poet and composer, very quickly composed the words and music of a marching song. Mulet, who has a pleasant tenor voice, immediately sang it, the song is very sweet, there is something peculiar in it. This is a Glitch, only much better and livelier. My talent also came in handy: I ​​did the orchestration and wrote the score for the clavier and other instruments, so a lot of work fell to my lot. In the evening, the song was performed in our living room, to the great delight of all present.”

“To the great pleasure of all those present” - how cold these words breathe for us! But after all, at the first performance of the Marseillaise, she could not arouse other feelings than friendly sympathy and approval, for she could not yet appear in all her strength. Marseillaise is not chamber work for a pleasant tenor and is by no means intended to be performed in a provincial drawing room by a single singer between some Italian aria and a romance. A song whose exciting, resilient and percussive rhythm was born of the call:

"To arms, citizens!" - an appeal to the people, to the crowd, and the only accompaniment worthy of it is the ringing of weapons, the sounds of fanfare and the tread of marching regiments. This song was created not for indifferent, conveniently located guests, but for like-minded people, for comrades in the struggle. And it should not be sung by a single voice, tenor or soprano, but by thousands of human voices, for this is a marching march, a victory anthem, a funeral march, a song of the fatherland, the national anthem of an entire people. All this diverse, inspiring power will be ignited in the song of Rouget de Lisle by an inspiration similar to that which gave birth to it. In the meantime, her words and melody, in their magical consonance, have not yet penetrated into the soul of the nation; the army has not yet recognized in it its marching march, the song of victory, and the revolution - the immortal peon, the anthem of its glory.

And Rouget de Lisle himself, with whom this miracle happened, understands no more than others the significance of what he created in a lunatic state under the spell of some changeable spirit. This handsome dilettante is heartily delighted with applause and gracious praise. With petty vanity little man he strives to use his little success in a small provincial circle to the end. He sings a new song to his friends in coffee houses, orders handwritten copies of it and sends them to the generals of the Army of the Rhine. In the meantime, on the orders of the mayor and the recommendations of the military authorities, the Strasbourg regimental band of the National Guard is learning the "Marching Song of the Army of the Rhine", and four days later, when the troops perform, they perform it on the main square of the city. A patriotic publisher volunteers to print it, and it comes out with a respectful dedication to Rouger de Lisle to his boss, General Luckner. None of the generals, however, even thinks of introducing a new march during their campaign: it is obvious that this song by Rouger de Lisle, like all the works that preceded it, is destined to be limited to the salon success of one evening, to remain an episode of provincial life, doomed to imminent oblivion.

But the living force invested in the creation of the master will never let him hide himself under lock and key for a long time. Creation can be forgotten for a while, it can be forbidden, even buried, and yet the elemental force that lives in it will triumph over the transient. For a month, two months, there was not a single word about the Marching Song of the Army of the Rhine. Printed and handwritten copies of it are lying around somewhere or go through the hands of indifferent people. But it is enough if inspirational work inspires at least one the only person for genuine inspiration is always fruitful. On June 22, at the opposite end of France, in Marseilles, the Friends of the Constitution club holds a banquet in honor of the volunteers on the march. Sitting at long tables are five hundred ardent youths in brand new uniforms of the National Guard. The same feverish animation reigns here as at the banquet in Strasbourg on April 25, but even more passionate and stormy due to the southern temperament of the Marseilles and at the same time not so loudly victorious as then, in the first hours after the declaration of war. For, contrary to the boastful assurances of the generals that the French revolutionary troops would easily cross the Rhine and be welcomed everywhere with open arms, this by no means happened. On the contrary, the enemy has penetrated deeply into the borders of France, he threatens her independence, her freedom is in danger.

In the midst of the banquet, one of the young men - his name is Mirer, he is a medical student at the University of Montpellier - taps on his glass and stands up. Everyone falls silent and looks at him, expecting a speech, a toast. But instead, the young man, raising his hand, sings a song, some completely new, unfamiliar to them and it is not known how it fell into his hands, a song that begins with the words: “Forward, sons of the dear homeland!” And suddenly, as if a spark fell into a barrel of gunpowder, a flame flared up: feeling came into contact with feeling, the eternal poles of human will. All these young men who will march tomorrow are eager to fight for the cause of freedom, ready to die for the fatherland; in the words of the song they heard the expression of their most cherished desires, their most secret thoughts; its rhythm irresistibly captures them with a single enthusiastic burst of enthusiasm. Each stanza is accompanied by jubilant exclamations, the song is performed again, everyone has already remembered its motive and, jumping up from their seats, with raised glasses in thunderous voices, they echo the chorus: “To arms, citizens! Level the military system! Curious people gathered on the street under the windows, wanting to hear what they sing here with such enthusiasm, and now they also pick up the chorus, and the next day tens of thousands of people sing the song. It is printed in a new edition, and when five hundred volunteers leave Marseille on July 2, the song comes out with them. From now on, whenever people get tired of walking on big roads and their strength will begin to fail, it is worth someone to tighten the new hymn, and its invigorating, whipping rhythm gives new energy to the walkers. When they pass through the village and the peasants come running from everywhere to stare at the soldiers, the Marseille volunteers sing it in a friendly chorus. This is their song: not knowing who and when it was written, not knowing that it was intended for the Army of the Rhine, they made it the anthem of their battalion. She is their battle banner, the banner of their life and death, in their unstoppable striving forward, they yearn to carry her over the world.

Paris is the first victory of the Marseillaise, for that will soon be the name of the hymn composed by Rouget de Lisle. On July 30, a battalion of Marseille volunteers marches along the outskirts of the city with their banner and song. Thousands and thousands of Parisians crowd the streets, wishing to give the soldiers an honorable welcome; and when five hundred people, marching through the city, unanimously, with one voice, sing a song to the beat of their steps, the crowd is on their guard. What song is this? What a wonderful, inspiring melody! What a solemn, like the sound of a fanfare, the refrain: "To arms, citizens!" These words, accompanied by a rolling drum roll, penetrate all hearts! In two or three hours they are already being sung in all parts of Paris. Forgotten is Carmagnola, forgotten are all the worn couplets and old marches. The revolution found its voice in the Marseillaise, and the revolution adopted it as its anthem.

The victorious march of the Marseillaise is unstoppable, it is like an avalanche. It is sung at banquets, in clubs, in theaters, and even in churches, after the Te Deum, and soon instead of this psalm. In just two or three months, the Marseillaise becomes the anthem of an entire nation, the marching song of an entire army. Servan, the first Minister of War of the French Republic, was able to feel the tremendous inspiring power of this unique national marching song. He issues an order to urgently send one hundred thousand copies of the Marseillaise to all musical teams, and two or three days later the song of the unknown author is more widely known than all the works of Racine, Moliere and Voltaire. No celebration ends without the Marseillaise, no battle begins before the regimental band has lost this freedom march. In the battles of Jemappes and Nerwinden, French troops line up to attack to the sound of it, and the enemy generals, cheering their soldiers on the old recipe with a double portion of vodka, see with horror that they have nothing to oppose the all-destroying power of this "terrible" song, which, when it is in chorus thousands of voices sing, a violent and booming wave hits the ranks of their soldiers. Wherever France fights, the Marseillaise hovers like winged Nike, the goddess of victory, drawing countless people into mortal combat.

Meanwhile, in the small garrison of Huning, no one in the world sits famous captain engineer troops Rouget de Lisle, diligently drawing plans for trenches and fortifications. Perhaps he had already managed to forget the Marching Song of the Army of the Rhine, which he created on that long-gone night of April 26, 1792; at least when he reads in the newspapers about a new anthem, about a new marching song that has conquered Paris, it does not even occur to him that this victorious "Song of the Marseillais", its every bar, every word of it, is the very miracle that happened in him, happened to him on a distant April night.

An evil mockery of fate: this melody, resonant to the heavens, uplifting to the stars, does not raise on its wings a single person - exactly the one who created it. No one in the whole of France even thinks about the captain of the engineer troops Rouge de Lisle, and all the huge, unprecedented glory for the song goes to the song itself: even its faint shadow does not fall on the author. His name is not printed on the texts of the Marseillaise, and the powerful of this world, it is true, would not have remembered him if he had not aroused their hostile attention to himself. For - and this is a brilliant paradox that only history can invent - the author of the anthem of the revolution is not a revolutionary at all; moreover, he, who, like no one else, contributed to the cause of the revolution with his immortal song, is ready to give all his strength to restrain it. And when the Marseillais and crowds of Parisians, with his song on their lips, smash the Tuileries and overthrow the king, Rouget de Lisle turns away from the revolution. He refuses to swear allegiance to the Republic and prefers to retire than serve the Jacobins. He does not want to put a new meaning into the words of his song "freedom dear"; for him, the leaders of the Convention are the same as crowned tyrants on the other side of the border. When, by order of the Committee of Public Safety, his friend and godfather Marseillaise, the mayor of Dietrich, General Luckner, to whom it is dedicated, and all the noble officers who were her first listeners, are led to the guillotine, Rouge gives vent to his bitterness; and here is the irony of fate! - the singer of the revolution is thrown into prison as a counter-revolutionary, he is tried for treason. And only 9 Thermidor, when the doors of the dungeons opened with the fall of Robespierre, saved French Revolution from absurdity - to send under the "national razor" the creator of his immortal song.

And yet it would have been a heroic death, and not a vegetating in complete obscurity, to which he is doomed from now on. For more than forty years, for thousands and thousands of long days, the ill-fated Rouge is destined to survive his only truly creative hour. They took away his uniform, deprived him of his pension; poems, operas, plays that he writes, no one publishes them, they are not staged anywhere. Fate does not forgive the amateur for his intrusion into the ranks of the immortals; a petty person has to support his petty existence with all sorts of petty and not always clean deeds. Carnot and later Bonaparte try out of compassion to help him. However, since that ill-fated night, something hopelessly broke in his soul; she is poisoned by the monstrous cruelty of the case, which allowed him to be a genius, a god for three hours, and then with contempt threw him back to his former insignificance. Rouger quarrels with all the authorities: Bonaparte, who wanted to help him, he writes impudent pathetic letters and publicly boasts that he voted against him. Entangled in business, Rouge embarks on suspicious speculation, even ends up in the debtor's prison of Saint-Pelagie for non-payment of a bill. Annoyed by everyone, besieged by creditors, hunted down by the police, he eventually climbs somewhere into the provincial wilderness and from there, as if from a grave, abandoned and forgotten by everyone, watches the fate of his immortal song. He also had a chance to witness how the Marseillaise, together with the victorious troops of Napoleon, rushed through all the countries of Europe, after which Napoleon, as soon as he became emperor, crossed out this song, as too revolutionary, from the programs of all official celebrations, and after the Restoration, the Bourbons were completely banned. her. And when, after a whole human century, in the July Revolution of 1830, the words and melody of the song sounded again with all their former strength on the barricades of Paris and the bourgeois king Louis-Philippe granted its author a tiny pension, the embittered old man no longer feels anything but surprise. To a man abandoned in his loneliness, it seems a miracle that someone suddenly remembered him; but this memory is short-lived, and when in 1836 the seventy-six-year-old elder died in Choisy-le-Roi, no one remembered his name.

And only during the World War, when the Marseillaise, which had long since become the national anthem, again belligerently thundered on all the fronts of France, was the order to transfer the ashes of the little captain Rouget de Lisle to Les Invalides and bury him next to the ashes of the little corporal Bonaparte, finally unknown the world the creator of the immortal song could rest in the tomb of the glory of his homeland from the bitter disappointment that he had only a single night to be a poet.

An irretrievable moment

Fate is attracted to the powerful and powerful. For years, she slavishly submits to her chosen one - Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, because she loves natural natures, like herself - an incomprehensible element.

But sometimes - although only occasionally in all ages - she suddenly, by a strange whim, throws herself into the arms of mediocrity. Sometimes - and these are the most amazing moments in the history of the world - the thread of fate for a single quivering minute falls into the hands of nonentities. And these people usually experience not joy, but fear of responsibility, involving them in the heroism of the world game, and almost always they let go of the fate they accidentally got from trembling hands. Few of them are given to seize a happy chance and exalt themselves with it. For only for a moment the great descends to nothingness, and whoever misses this moment, for that he is irretrievably lost.

PEARS

In the midst of the balls, love affairs, intrigues and bickering of the Congress of Vienna, like a cannon shot, the news broke out that Napoleon - a captive lion - had escaped from his cage on the Elbe; and relay after relay is already flying: he occupied Lyon, expelled the king, regiments with unfurled banners go over to his side, he is in Paris, in the Tuileries - the victory at Leipzig was in vain, twenty years of bloody war were in vain. As if seized by someone's clawed paw, the ministers who had just quarreled and quarreled huddled together; English, Prussian, Austrian, Russian troops are hastily assembled in order to crush the usurper a second time and finally; never was the Europe of hereditary kings and emperors so unanimous as in this hour of mortal fright. Wellington moved from the north to France, the Prussian army under the leadership of Blucher is coming to his aid, Schwarzenberg is preparing for the offensive on the Rhine, and Russian regiments are slowly and heavily marching through Germany as a reserve.

Napoleon embraces the danger that threatens him with a single glance. He knows that it is impossible to wait until the whole pack is gathered. He must separate them, must attack each one individually - the Prussians, the British, the Austrians - before they become a European army and destroy his empire. He must hasten before a murmur arises within the country; must achieve victory before the republicans get stronger and unite with the royalists, before the duplicitous elusive Fouche, in alliance with Talleyrand - his opponent and double - plunges a knife into his back. He must, taking advantage of the enthusiasm that has seized his army, to defeat the enemies with one swift onslaught. Every lost day means damage, every hour aggravates the danger. And he immediately casts the lot of war on the bloodiest battlefield in Europe - in Belgium. June 15 at three o'clock in the morning the vanguard of the great and now the only Napoleonic army crosses the border. On the 16th, at Ligny, she pushes back the Prussian army. This is the first blow of the lion's paw that has escaped to freedom - crushing, but not fatal. The defeated, but not destroyed, Prussian army retreats to Brussels.

Napoleon prepares a second strike, this time against Wellington. He cannot afford a moment of respite either for himself or for his enemies, for their forces are growing day by day, and the country behind him, the bloodless, murmuring French people, must be deafened by the dope of victorious reports. Already on the 17th, he approaches with his entire army to Quatre Bras, where a cold, prudent enemy, Wellington, has strengthened. Napoleon's orders have never been more prudent, his military orders clearer than on that day: he not only prepares for an attack, he also foresees its danger: Blucher's army, defeated by him, but not destroyed, can unite with Wellington's army. To prevent this, he separates part of his army - she must pursue on the heels of the Prussian troops and prevent them from linking up with the British.

He entrusts the command of this part of the army to Marshal Grusha. Pears are an ordinary person, but brave, diligent, honest, reliable, a battle-tested cavalry commander, but no more than a cavalry commander. This is not a brave, hot leader of the cavalry, like Murat, not a strategist, like Saint-Cyr and Berthier, not a hero, like Ney. His chest is not covered by a cuirass, his name is not surrounded by a legend, there is not a single distinguishing feature which would bring him fame and rightful place in the heroic myth of the Napoleonic era; he became famous only for his misfortune, his failure. For twenty years he fought in all battles, from Spain to Russia, from the Netherlands to Italy, slowly rising from rank to rank, until he reached the rank of marshal, not without merit, but without deeds. The bullets of the Austrians, the sun of Egypt, the daggers of the Arabs, the frosts of Russia removed his predecessors from his path: Desaix at Marengo, Kléber in Cairo, Lann at Wagram; he did not pave the way to the highest rank for himself - it was cleared for him by twenty years of war.

That Pears is not a hero or a strategist, but only a reliable, devoted, brave and sensible commander, Napoleon is well aware. But half of his marshals are in the grave, the rest do not want to leave their estates, fed up with the war, and he is forced to entrust a decisive, responsible matter to a mediocre commander.

June 17 at eleven o'clock in the morning - the day after the victory at Ligny, on the eve of Waterloo - Napoleon for the first time entrusts Marshal Grouchy with independent command. For one moment, for one day, the humble Pears leave his place in the military hierarchy to enter world history. Only for a moment, but what a moment! Napoleon's order is clear. While he himself would lead the attack on the British, Grouchy, with one-third of the army, was to pursue the Prussians. At first glance, a very simple task, clear and direct, but at the same time extensible and double-edged, like a sword. For Pears are charged with the duty during the operation to strictly keep in touch with the main forces of the army.

Marshal hesitantly accepts the order. He wasn't used to acting on his own; a cautious man, without initiative, he gains confidence only in those cases when the brilliant vigilance of the emperor shows him the goal. In addition, he feels the dissatisfaction of his generals behind his back and - who knows? - perhaps the ominous sound of the wings of impending fate. Only the proximity of the main apartment somewhat calms him: only three hours of forced march separate his army from the army of the emperor.

In the pouring rain Pears perform. His soldiers slowly walk along the viscous, clay road after the Prussians, or - at least - in the direction where they expect to find Blucher's troops.

NIGHT IN CAIO

Northern rain pours continuously. Like a wet herd, Napoleon's soldiers come up in the dark, dragging two pounds of mud on their soles; there is no shelter anywhere - no home, no shelter. The straw is so damp that you can't lie on it, so the soldiers sleep sitting, pressing their backs against each other, ten to fifteen people in a pouring rain. There is no rest for the emperor. Feverish excitement drives him from place to place; reconnaissance is hindered by impenetrable bad weather, scouts bring only confusing messages. He doesn't yet know if Wellington will take the fight; there is also no news of the Prussian army from Pear. And at one o'clock in the morning, ignoring the lashing downpour, he himself walks along the outposts, approaching the distance of a cannon shot to the English bivouacs, where here and there dim smoky lights glow in the fog, and draws up a battle plan. Only at dawn does he return to Caillou, to his wretched headquarters, where he finds the first dispatches of Pear: vague information about the retreating Prussians, but at the same time a reassuring promise to continue the pursuit. Gradually the rain subsides. The emperor impatiently paces from corner to corner, looking out the window at the yellowing distances - whether the horizon has finally cleared up, whether the time has come to make a decision.

At five o'clock in the morning - the rain has already stopped - all doubts are dispelled. He gives the order: by nine o'clock the whole army should line up and be ready to attack. Orderlies jump in all directions. The drums are already beating. And only after that Napoleon throws himself on a camp bed for a two-hour sleep.

MORNING IN WATERLOO

Nine o'clock in the morning. But not all the shelves are complete yet. The ground, softened from a three-day downpour, makes movement difficult and delays suitable artillery. A sharp wind is blowing, the sun is only gradually peeping through; but this is not the sun of Austerlitz, bright, radiant, promising happiness, but only a dull flickering northern reflection. Finally, the regiments are built, and before the start of the battle, Napoleon once again rides around the front on his white mare. The eagles on the banners bow as if under a violent wind, the cavalrymen belligerently wave their sabers, the infantry raises their bear caps on their bayonets in salutation. The drums rumble furiously, the trumpet commander is greeted furiously, but all this fireworks of sounds is covered by the resounding, friendly, jubilant cry of the seventy-thousandth army: “Vive l" Empereur!

Not a single parade in all twenty years of Napoleon's reign was more majestic and solemn than this - the last - review. As soon as the cries subsided, at eleven o'clock - two hours late, a fatal delay - the gunners were ordered to beat with grapeshot on the red uniforms at the foot of the hill. And so Ney, “the bravest of the brave,” moved the infantry forward. The decisive hour had come for Napoleon. This battle has been described countless times, and yet you do not get tired of following its ups and downs, re-reading Walter Scott's story about it or Stendhal's description of individual episodes. It is equally significant and diverse, no matter where you look at it - from afar or close, from a general's mound or a cuirassier saddle. This battle is a masterpiece of dramatic pressure with a continuous change of fears and hopes, with a denouement in which everything is resolved by the final catastrophe, a sample of true tragedy, for here the fate of the hero predetermined the fate of Europe, and the fantastic fireworks of the Napoleonic epic, before fading forever, falling from a height, once again soared like a rocket to the heavens.

From eleven to one, the French regiments storm the heights, occupy villages and positions, retreat again and attack again. Already ten thousand bodies cover the clayey wet ground of the rolling countryside, but nothing has yet been achieved but exhaustion by either side. Both armies are tired, both commanders in chief are alarmed. Both know that the one who first receives reinforcements will win - Wellington from Blucher, Napoleon from Pear. Napoleon now and then grabs a spyglass, sends orderlies; if his marshal arrives in time, the sun of Austerlitz will shine again over France

PEAR BUG

Pears, the unwitting arbiter of Napoleon's fate, on his orders the night before, set out in the indicated direction. Rain stopped. Carefree, as if in a peaceful country, the companies marched, yesterday for the first time sniffing gunpowder; still no enemy is visible, there is no trace of the defeated Prussian army.

Suddenly, while the marshal is having a quick breakfast at the farmhouse, the ground shakes slightly under his feet. Everyone is listening. Again and again, muffled and already fading, the roar rolls in: these are cannons, distant gunfire, however, not so distant, at most - at a distance of a three-hour march. Several officers, as is the custom of the Indians, put their ears to the ground in order to catch the direction. A dull, distant rumble is heard continuously. This is the cannonade at Mont Saint-Jean, the beginning of Waterloo. Grushi convenes a council. Fervently, fervently, Gerard, his assistant, demands: “Il faut marcher au canon” - forward to the place of fire! Another officer supports him: go there, go there! Everyone understands that the emperor is facing the British and a fierce battle is in full swing. Pears oscillate. Accustomed to obedience, he timidly adheres to the plans, the order of the emperor - to pursue the retreating Prussians. Gerard loses his temper, seeing the indecision of the marshal: "Marchez au canon!" - a command, not a request, this demand of a subordinate sounds in the presence of twenty people - military and civilians. Pears are dissatisfied. He repeats more sharply and sternly that he is obliged to fulfill his duty exactly until the emperor himself changes the order. The officers are disappointed, and the cannons rumble amid the angry silence.

Gerard makes a last desperate attempt: he begs to be allowed to move to the battlefield with at least one division and a handful of cavalry and undertakes to be in place in time. Pear thinks. He only thinks for a second.

KEY MOMENT IN WORLD HISTORY

Pears thinks for one second, and this second decides his fate, the fate of Napoleon and the whole world. It predetermines, this single second on the farm in Walheim, the whole course of the nineteenth century; and now - the guarantee of immortality - she hesitates on the lips of a very honest and equally ordinary person, visibly and clearly trembles in his hands, nervously crumpling the ill-fated order of the emperor. If Pear had had the courage, if he had dared to disobey the order, if he had believed in himself and in a clear, urgent need, France would have been saved. But a subordinate person always follows the instructions and does not obey the call of fate.

Pears vigorously rejects the offer. No, it is still unacceptable to split up such a small army. His task is to persecute the Prussians, and nothing more. He refuses to act contrary to the order he has received. Disgruntled officers are silent. Silence reigns around the Pear. And in this silence, something that neither words nor deeds can return is irretrievably gone - the decisive moment is leaving. The victory remained with Wellington.

And the shelves move on. Gerard, Vandamme clench their fists angrily. Pear is alarmed and from time to time loses confidence, because - strangely - the Prussians are still not visible, it is clear that they have turned off the Brussels road. Soon, the scouts bring suspicious news: apparently, the Prussian retreat has turned into a flank march towards the battlefield. There is still time to come to the aid of the emperor, and Grushi is waiting more and more impatiently for the order to return. But there is no order. Only the distant cannonade rumbles more and more muffledly above the trembling earth - the iron lot of Waterloo.

AFTERNOON

Meanwhile, it's already one o'clock. Four attacks are driven back, but they have visibly weakened Wellington's centre; Napoleon prepares for a decisive assault. He orders the artillery to be reinforced at Belle Alliance, and before the smoke of the guns stretches a curtain between the hills, Napoleon takes one last look at the battlefield.

And in the northeast, he notices some kind of shadow that seems to be crawling out of the forest: fresh troops! Instantly all spyglasses turn in that direction: Is it Pears, who boldly violated the order, miraculously arrived in time at the decisive moment? No, the prisoner reports that this is the vanguard of General Blucher, the Prussian regiments. For the first time, the emperor has a hunch that the defeated Prussian army has escaped persecution and is going to join the British, and a third of his own army is moving uselessly in empty space. He immediately wrote a note to Grusha, ordering him to keep in touch at all costs and prevent the Prussians from entering the battle.

At the same time, Marshal Ney receives the order to attack. Wellington must be overthrown before the Prussians approach: now, when the chances have so suddenly and sharply diminished, everything must be staked without hesitation. And now, for several hours, furious attacks follow one after another, more and more infantry units enter the battle. They occupy the ruined villages, retreat, and again the rampart of men violently rushes at the already battered squares of the enemy. But Wellington is still holding out, and there is still no news from Pear. "Where is Pears? Where is Pears stuck? - the emperor whispers in alarm, looking at the approaching vanguard of the Prussians. And his generals are starting to lose patience. Deciding to wrest the outcome of the battle by force, Marshal Ney, acting as boldly and courageously as Pears acted uncertainly (three horses have already been killed under him), immediately throws the entire French cavalry into the fire. Ten thousand cuirassiers and dragoons are galloping towards death, crashing into squares, crushing ranks, mow down gun servants. True, they are thrown back, but the strength of the English army is drying up, the fist, clenching the fortified hills, is beginning to unclench. And when the depleted French cavalry retreats before the cannonballs, Napoleon's last reserve - the old guard - marches with firm and slow steps to storm the heights, the possession of which marks the fate of Europe.

DENOUNCING

All day long, four hundred cannons thunder from one side and the other. On the battlefield, the clatter of horses merges with volleys of guns, drums beat deafeningly, the earth shakes from the roar and rumble. But on a rise, on both hills, both commanders are wary of listening to quieter sounds through the noise of battle.

Chronometers are barely audible, like a bird's heart, ticking in the hand of the emperor and in the hand of Wellington; both now and then pull out their watches and count the minutes and seconds, waiting for the last, decisive help. Wellington knows that Blucher is coming, Napoleon hopes for Pears. Both of them have exhausted their reserves, and whoever receives reinforcements first will win. Both look through a telescope at the edge of the forest, where, like a light cloud, the Prussian avant-garde looms. Forward patrols or the army itself, which escaped the pursuit of Pear? The resistance of the British is already weakening, but the French troops are tired. Breathing heavily, like two wrestlers, the opponents stand against each other, gathering their strength for the last fight, which will decide the outcome of the fight.

And finally, from the side of the forest, firing is heard - guns, guns fire: “Enfin Grouchy!” - finally, Pears! Napoleon breathes a sigh of relief. Confident that nothing threatens his flank now, he draws up the remnants of the army and again attacks the center of Wellington in order to knock down the British bolt that locks Brussels, break open the gates to Europe.

But the skirmish turned out to be a mistake: the Prussians, misled by non-English uniforms, opened fire on the Hanoverians; the shooting stops, and the Prussian troops emerge from the forest unhindered in a wide and powerful stream. No, this is not Pears with his regiments, this is Blucher approaching and with him - an inevitable denouement. The news quickly spreads among the imperial regiments, they begin to retreat - so far in tolerable order. But Wellington feels that the critical moment has come. He rides to the very edge of the hill so fiercely defended, takes off his hat and waves it over his head, indicating the retreating enemy. His troops immediately understand the meaning of this triumphant gesture. The remnants of the English regiments rise together and rush at the French. At the same time, the Prussian cavalry swoops in from the flank on the tired, thinned army. There is a cry, a murderous "Save yourself, who can!". A few more minutes - and the great army turns into an unstoppable stream driven by fear, which drags everyone and everything, even Napoleon, with it. As if into pliable water, without meeting resistance, the enemy cavalry rushes into this rapidly rolling back and widely spilled stream; out of the foam of panicky cries they fish out Napoleon's carriage, the army treasury and all the artillery; only the onset of darkness saves the emperor's life and freedom. But the one who at midnight, splashed with mud, exhausted, falls on a chair in a wretched village tavern, is no longer an emperor. The end of the empire, his dynasty, his fate; the indecision of a small, limited man destroyed what the bravest, most perspicacious of men had created in twenty heroic years.

RETURN TO EVERYDAY

Before the English attack had time to defeat Napoleon's army, someone, hitherto almost nameless, was already rushing in an emergency mail coach along the Brussels road, from Brussels to the sea, where a ship was waiting for him. He arrives in London before government couriers and, taking advantage of the fact that the news has not yet reached the capital, literally blows up the stock exchange; With this stroke of genius, Rothschild founds a new empire, a new dynasty.

The next day all England will know about the victory, and in Paris, the faithful traitor Fouche - about the defeat; victory bells ring out over Brussels and Germany.

Only one person the next morning still knows nothing about Waterloo, despite the fact that only four hours separate him from the scene of the tragedy: the ill-fated Grouchy, who is steadily following the order to pursue the Prussians. But surprisingly, the Prussians are nowhere to be found, and this worries him. And the cannons rumble louder and louder, as if crying out for help. Everyone feels the ground tremble beneath them, and every shot reverberates through their hearts. Everyone knows: this is not a simple firefight, a gigantic, decisive battle flared up. Grushi rides in sullen silence, surrounded by his officers. They no longer argue with him: after all, he did not heed their advice.

Finally, at Wavre, they stumble upon the only Prussian detachment - Blucher's rearguard, and this seems to them a deliverance. Like possessed, they rush to the enemy trenches - ahead of all Gerard; perhaps, tormented by gloomy forebodings, he seeks death. The bullet overtakes him, he falls, wounded: the one who raised the voice of protest fell silent. By evening, they occupy the village, but everyone guesses that this small victory is already useless, because there, on the side where the battlefield is, everything suddenly calmed down. There was a formidable, mute to horror, peaceful deathly silence. And everyone is convinced that the roar of guns was still better than this painful uncertainty. The battle seems to be over, the battle of Waterloo, about which Pears finally (alas, too late!) Gets the news, along with Napoleon's demand to go for reinforcements. It's over, a gigantic battle, but who's left to win?

They wait all night. In vain! There is no news, as if the great army had forgotten about them, and they, useless to anyone, stand senselessly here in impenetrable darkness. In the morning they leave the bivouac and again walk along the roads, mortally tired and already knowing for sure that all their movements have lost all meaning. Finally, at ten o'clock in the morning, an officer from the main headquarters gallops towards. They help him get off the saddle, bombard him with questions. The officer's face is contorted with despair, his sweat-soaked hair is stuck to his temples, he is shaking from mortal fatigue, and he is barely able to mutter a few slurred words, but no one understands these words, cannot, does not want to understand. They take him for a madman, for a drunkard, because he says that there is no more emperor, no more imperial army, France has perished. But little by little, detailed information is sought from him, and everyone will learn the crushing, murderous truth. Pears, pale, trembling, stands leaning on his saber; he knows that the life of a martyr has begun for him. But he firmly bears the brunt of the blame. An indecisive and timid subordinate, who in those momentous moments did not know how to unravel great destinies, now, face to face with imminent danger, becomes a courageous commander, almost a hero. He immediately gathers all the officers and, with tears of anger and sadness in his eyes, in a short address justifies his hesitation and at the same time bitterly regrets them.

Silently listen to him those who yesterday were still angry with him. Everyone could blame him, boasting that he offered a different, better solution. But no one dares, no one wants to do it. They are silent and silent. Immeasurable grief blocked their mouths.

And at this hour, having missed the decisive second, Grushi belatedly shows his remarkable talent as a military leader. All his virtues - prudence, diligence, endurance, diligence - are revealed from the moment he again trusts himself, and not the letter of the order. Surrounded by five times superior enemy forces, he withdraws his regiments through the thick of enemy troops with a brilliant tactical maneuver, without losing a single gun or a single soldier, and saves for France, for the empire, the remnants of her army. But there is no emperor to thank him, no enemy to throw his regiments against them. He was late, forever late. And although in later life he rises high, receives the title of commander-in-chief and peer of France, and in any position deserves universal respect for firmness and control, nothing can compensate him for that second that made him the arbiter of fate and which he was unable to keep.

So terribly avenges itself a great, unique moment, which only occasionally falls to the lot of a mortal, if the one who was called by mistake retreats from it. All petty-bourgeois virtues are a reliable shield against the demands of peaceful everyday life: prudence, zeal, sanity - they all helplessly melt in the flame of a single decisive second, which is revealed only to genius and seeks its embodiment in it. With contempt she repels the cowardly; only the brave she raises with her fiery right hand to heaven and ranks among the host of heroes.

Opening Eldorado

A MAN WHO IS BORED WITH EUROPE

1834. An American steamship is on its way from Le Havre to New York. On board among hundreds of adventurers Johann August Suter; he is thirty-one years old, a native of Rünenberg, near Basel, and is looking forward to the moment when an ocean will lie between him and the European guardians of the law. A bankrupt, a thief, a swindler, he, without thinking twice, left his wife and three children to the mercy of fate, obtained some money in Paris using a forged document, and now he is already on his way to a new life. On July 7, he landed in New York and for two years in a row did what he had to do here: he was a packer, a pharmacist, a dentist, a dealer in all kinds of drugs, and a tavern owner. Finally, somewhat settled down, he opened a hotel, but soon sold it and, following the imperious call of the times, went to Missouri. There he became a farmer, amassed a short time a small fortune and, it seemed, could already heal quietly. But past his house in an endless line, hurrying somewhere, people pass - fur traders, hunters, soldiers, adventurers - they go from the west and go to the west, and this word "west" gradually acquires for him some kind of magical power. At first - everyone knows - there are prairies, prairies where huge herds of bison graze, prairies along which you can ride for days and weeks without meeting a soul, only occasionally red-skinned horsemen rush; then mountains begin, high, impregnable, and, finally, that unknown country, California, no one knows anything about it for sure, but miracles tell about its fabulous riches; there are rivers of milk and honey at your service, if you wish - but it is far, very far away, and you can get there only by risking your life.

But the blood of an adventurer flowed in the veins of Johann August Suter. Live in peace and cultivate your land! No, it didn't appeal to him. In 1837, he sold all his possessions, equipped an expedition - got wagons, horses, oxen, and, leaving Fort Independence, set off into the Unknown.

GO TO CALIFORNIA

1838. In an ox-drawn wagon, two officers, five missionaries, and three women ride along the endless desert plain, across the endless steppes, and finally over the mountains towards the Pacific Ocean. Three months later, at the end of October, they arrive at Fort Vancouver. The officers left Zoeter even earlier, the missionaries do not go further, the women died on the way from deprivation.

Zuter was left alone. In vain did they try to keep him here in Vancouver, in vain did they offer him service; he did not succumb to persuasion, he was irresistibly attracted by the magic word "California". On an old, wrecked sailboat, he crosses the ocean, goes first to the Sandwich Islands, and then, with great difficulty, passing Alaska, lands on the coast, on a godforsaken piece of land called San Francisco. But this is not the same San Francisco - a city of a million people, which has grown unprecedentedly after an earthquake, as we know it today. No, it was a miserable fishing village, so called by the Franciscan missionaries, not even the capital of that unfamiliar Mexican province - California, forgotten and abandoned in one of the richest parts of the new continent. The mismanagement of the Spanish colonialists was reflected in everything here: there was no firm power, uprisings broke out every now and then, there were not enough workers, livestock, energetic, enterprising people. Zooter hires a horse and descends into the fertile Sacramento Valley; a day was enough for him to make sure that there was room not only for a farm or a large ranch, but for a whole kingdom. The next day, he appears in Monterey, in the wretched capital, introduces himself to the governor of Alverado and outlines to him a plan for the development of the region: several Polynesians from the islands came with him, and in the future, as needed, he will bring them here, he is ready to arrange a settlement here, establish a colony, which he will call New Helvetia.

Why "New Helvetia"? the governor asked.

I am Swiss and a Republican,” Zoeter replied.

All right, do what you want, I'm giving you a ten-year concession.

You see how quickly things were done there. A thousand miles from any civilization, the energy of an individual person mattered much more than in the Old World.

NEW HELVETIA

1839 A caravan moves slowly up the bank of the Sacramento River. In front, Johann August Suter with a gun over his shoulder, followed by two or three Europeans, then one hundred and fifty Polynesians in short shirts, thirty ox-drawn wagons with food, seeds, weapons, fifty horses, one hundred and fifty mules, cows, sheep, and finally , a small rearguard - that's the whole army, which has to conquer New Helvetia. A gigantic fire shaft clears the way for them. Forests are burned - it's more convenient than cutting them down. And as soon as the greedy flame swept over the earth, they set to work among the still smoking trees. They built warehouses, dug wells, sowed fields that did not require plowing, made pens for countless herds. From neighboring places, from the colonies abandoned by the missionaries, replenishment gradually arrives.

The success was gigantic. The first harvest was taken by itself-pole. The barns were bursting with grain, the herds already numbered in the thousands, and although it was difficult at times - campaigns against the natives, who invaded the colony again and again, took a lot of strength - New Helvetia turned into a flourishing corner of the earth. Canals being dug, mills built, trading posts opened, ships moving up and down the rivers, Zooter supplies not only Vancouver and the Sandwich Islands, but all ships that anchor off the coast of California. He grows wonderful California fruits, which are now famous all over the world. He subscribes vines from France and from the Rhine, they are well received here, and in a few years vast expanses of this distant land were covered with vineyards. He built a house and well-maintained farms for himself, his Pleyel grand piano made the long journey of one hundred and eighty days from Paris, sixty oxen carried a steam engine from New York across the continent. He has open accounts in the largest banks in England and France, and now, at forty-five years old, at the height of his fame, he recalls that fourteen years ago he left his wife and three sons somewhere. He writes to them, calls them to himself, to his kingdom, now he feels the power in his hands - he is the owner of New Helvetia, one of the richest people on earth - and so be it. And finally, the United States takes this neglected province from Mexico. Now everything is safe and sound. A few more years - and Zuter will become the richest man in the world.

FATAL PUNCH

1848, January. Unexpectedly, James Marshall, his carpenter, appears to Zooter. Beside himself with excitement, he bursts into the house - he has to tell Zouter something very important. Zoeter is surprised: just yesterday he sent Marshall to his farm in Coloma, where a new sawmill is being built, and here he is back without permission, standing in front of the owner, unable to stop shaking, pushing him into the room, locking the door and pulling a handful of sand from his pocket - yellow grains glisten in it. Yesterday, while digging, he saw these strange pieces of metal and thought they were gold, but everyone else laughed at him. Zooter immediately becomes alert, takes the sand, washes it; yes, it's gold, and he'll go with Marshall to the farm tomorrow. And the carpenter - the first victim of a fever that will soon cover the whole world - did not wait for the morning and at night, in the rain, moved back.

The next day, Colonel Zuter is already in Coloma. The channel was blocked, and the sand began to be explored. It is enough to fill the roar, shake it slightly, and shiny grains of gold remain on the black grid. Zuter calls the few Europeans who were with him, takes their word to be silent until the sawmill is built. Deep in thought, he returns to his farm. Grandiose plans are born in his mind. Never before had gold been given so easily, lying so openly, hardly hiding in the ground - and this is his land, Zutera! It seemed that a decade flashed by in one night - and now he is the richest man in the world.

GOLDEN FEVER

The most rich? No, the poorest, most destitute beggar in the world. A week later, the secret became known. One woman is always a woman! - told her to some passerby and gave him a few golden grains. And then the unheard of happened - the people of Zuter immediately quit their work: the blacksmiths fled from their anvils, the shepherds from their herds, the vinedressers from their vines, the soldiers abandoned their guns - everyone, as if possessed, hastily grabbed the screens, basins, rushed there, to the sawmill, to extract gold. In one night, the region became deserted. Cows that have no one to milk die, bulls break pens, trample fields where crops rot on the vine, cheese dairies stop, barns collapse. The whole complex mechanism of the huge economy was measured. Telegraph wires carried the alluring news of gold across the seas and lands. And people are already arriving from cities and harbors, sailors are leaving ships, officials are leaving service; gold-diggers are drawn in endless columns from the west and from the east, on foot, on horseback and in wagons - a swarm of human locusts, seized by a gold rush. An unbridled, rude horde, recognizing no other right than the right of the strong, no other power than the power of a revolver, overwhelmed the flourishing colony. Everything was their property, no one dared to argue with these robbers. They slaughtered Zoeter's cows, broke down his barns and built houses for themselves, trampled down his arable land, stole his cars. In one night Zooter became a beggar; he, like King Midas, choked on his own gold.

And this unparalleled pursuit of gold is becoming ever more indomitable. The news has already spread all over the world; one hundred ships arrived from New York alone, from Germany, England, France, Spain in 1848, 1849, 1850, 1851 countless hordes of adventurers poured in. Some go around Cape Horn, but this way seems too long to the impatient, and they choose a more dangerous road - by land, through the Isthmus of Panama. An enterprising company hastily builds a railroad there. Thousands of workers die of fever in order to shorten the path to gold for three or four weeks. Huge streams of people of all tribes and dialects stretch across the continent, and they all rummage in the land of Zooter as if in their own. In the territory of San Francisco, which belonged to Zuter under an act sealed by the government seal, grows with fabulous speed new town; the aliens are selling each other the land of Zuter, and the very name of his kingdom "New Helvetia" soon gives way to a magical name: Eldorado - the golden land.

Zooter, bankrupt again, stared in a daze at those giant dragon shoots. At first, he, with his servants and companions, also tried to mine gold in order to regain wealth, but everyone abandoned him. Then he left the gold-bearing region closer to the mountains, to his secluded farm "Hermitage", away from the damned river and the ill-fated sand. There, his wife found him with three adult sons, but she soon died, the hardships of the exhausting path affected. Yet now he has three sons with him, he no longer has one pair of hands, but four, and Zuter set to work again; again, but already together with his sons, step by step, he began to break out into people, taking advantage of the fabulous fertility of this soil and secretly hatching a new grandiose plan.

PROCESS

1850 California became part of the United States of America. Following wealth, order was finally established in this gold-rushed land. Anarchy is curbed, the law has regained force.

And here Johann August Suter comes forward with his claims. He declares that all the land on which the city of San Francisco stands is rightfully his. The government of the state is bound to make good the loss which is done to him by the plunderers of his property; from all the gold mined on his land, he demands his share. A process began on a scale that humanity has not yet known about. Zuter sued 17,221 farmers who had settled on his plantations and demanded that they vacate illegally seized plots. From the authorities of the State of California, for the roads, bridges, canals, dams, and mills they appropriated, he demanded twenty-five million dollars in damages; he is demanding twenty-five million dollars from the federal government and, in addition, his share of the gold mined. He sent his eldest son, Emil, to Washington to study law, so that he would run the business: the huge profits that new farms bring in are entirely spent on a ruinous process. For four years, the case has been wandering from instance to instance. On March 15, 1855, the verdict was finally pronounced. The incorruptible Judge Thompson, California's top official, held Zoeter's rights to the land to be fully justified and undeniable. On that day, Johann August Suter reached his goal. He is the richest man in the world.

END

The most rich? No and no. The poorest, most miserable, most restless beggar in the world. Fate again dealt him a murderous blow, which knocked him down. As soon as the verdict became known, a storm broke out in San Francisco and throughout the state. Tens of thousands of people gathered in crowds - landowners who were in danger, street mob, rabble, always ready to plunder. They stormed and burned the courthouse, they were looking for a judge to lynch him; an angry mob conceived to destroy all the property of Zooter. His eldest son shot himself, surrounded by bandits, the second was brutally killed, the third fled and drowned on the way. A wave of flame swept over New Helvetia: Zuter's farms were set on fire, vineyards were trampled, collections, money were plundered, all his vast possessions were reduced to dust and ashes with merciless fury. Zooter himself barely escaped. He never recovered from this blow. His fortune was destroyed, his wife and children died, his mind was clouded. Only one thought still flickers in his mind: law, justice, process.

And for a long twenty years, a weak-minded, ragged old man wanders around the courthouse in Washington. There, in all the offices, they already know the “general” in a greasy frock coat and worn-out shoes, demanding his billions. And there are still lawyers, rogues, swindlers, people without honor and conscience, who are pulling out the last pennies from him - his miserable pension and inciting him to continue the lawsuit. He himself does not need money, he hated gold, which made him a beggar, ruined his children, ruined his whole life. He only wants to prove his rights and achieves this with the fierce stubbornness of a maniac.

He files a complaint with the Senate, he brings his grievances to the Congress, he trusts various charlatans who reopen the case with great noise. Having dressed Zoeter in the jester's uniform of a general, they drag the unfortunate man like a scarecrow from institution to institution, from one member of Congress to another. So twenty years pass, from 1860 to 1880, twenty bitter, miserable years. Day after day Zuter - the laughingstock of all officials, the fun of all street boys - besieges the Capitol, he, the owner of the richest land in the world, the land on which the second capital of a huge state stands and grows by leaps and bounds.

But the importunate petitioner is made to wait. And there, at the entrance to the Congress building, in the afternoon, he finally overtakes a salutary rupture of the heart, the ministers hastily remove the corpse of some beggar, a beggar, in whose pocket there is a document confirming, according to all earthly laws, the rights of him and his heirs him to the largest fortune in the history of mankind.

So far, no one has demanded their share in the Zuter inheritance, not a single great-grandchild has declared his claims.

To this day, San Francisco, the whole vast region, is located on a foreign land, the law is still violated here, and only the pen of Blaise Cendrars granted the forgotten Johann August Suter the only right of people great fate- the right to the memory of descendants.

Fight for the South Pole

FIGHT FOR EARTH

The twentieth century looks at a world devoid of secrets. All countries have been explored, ships ply the most distant seas. Regions that a generation ago slumbered in blissful obscurity, enjoying freedom, are now slavishly serving the needs of Europe; to the very sources of the Nile, which have been searched for so long, steamboats rush; Victoria Falls, first opened to the eyes of a European half a century ago, obediently generates electrical energy; the last wilds - the forests of the Amazon - are cut down, and the belt of the only virgin country - Tibet is untied.

On old maps and globes, the words "Terra incognita" disappeared under the inscriptions of knowledgeable people, a man of the twentieth century knows his planet. An inquisitive thought in search of new ways is already forced to descend to the bizarre creatures of the deep sea or ascend into the boundless expanses of the sky. Only the airways remained untrodden, but steel birds are already soaring into the skies, overtaking each other, striving for new heights, new distances, for all mysteries have been solved and the soil of earthly curiosity has been exhausted.

But the earth shyly hid one secret from the human eye until our century - it saved two tiny places of its tormented, mutilated body from the greed of its own creatures. The north and south poles, two almost non-existent, almost insubstantial points, the two ends of the axis around which it rotates for millennia, it has kept untouched, unstained. She covered this last secret with ice bulks, put eternal winter on her guard in protection from human greed. Frost and whirlwinds imperiously block the entrance, horror and mortal danger drive away the daredevils. Only the sun is allowed to cast a cursory glance over this stronghold, but man is not allowed.

For decades, one expedition replaces another. Not a single one reaches the goal. Somewhere, in a recently opened ice crystal coffin, for thirty-three years the body of the Swedish engineer Andre, the bravest of the brave, the one who wanted to rise above the Pole in a balloon and did not return, rests. All attempts are broken on the sparkling ice walls. For millennia, up to our days, the earth hides its face here, victoriously repelling the furious onslaught of mortals for the last time. In virgin purity, she keeps her secret from the curious world.

But the young twentieth century stretches out its arms in impatience. He forged new weapons in laboratories, invented new armor; obstacles only fuel his passion. He wants to know the whole truth, and for the first decade he wants to win what millennia could not win. The rivalry of nations joins the courage of individual daredevils. They fight not only for the pole, but also for the honor of the flag, which is destined to be the first to fly over the newly discovered land; the crusade of all tribes and peoples for the mastery of the places consecrated by fiery desire begins. Expeditions are equipped on all continents. Humanity waits impatiently, for it already knows: the battle is for the last secret of living space. Cook and Peary are heading from America to the North Pole; two ships are going south: one is led by the Norwegian Amundsen, the other by the Englishman, Captain Scott.

SCOTT

Scott is a captain in the English fleet, one of many; his biography matches track record: conscientiously performed his duties, which won the approval of his superiors, participated in the Shackleton expedition. No exploits, no special heroism was noted. His face, judging by the photographs, is no different from a thousand, from tens of thousands of English faces: cold, strong-willed, calm, as if sculpted by hidden energy. Gray eyes, tight lips. Not a single romantic trait, not a glimmer of humor in this face, only an iron will and practical common sense. Handwriting - ordinary English handwriting without shades and without curls, fast, confident. His style is clear and precise, expressive in describing the facts, and all of it dry and businesslike, like the language of a report. Scott writes in English like Tacitus in Latin, in unhewn blocks. In everything one sees a man without imagination, a fanatic of practical work, and therefore a true Englishman, in whom, like most of his compatriots, even genius fits into the rigid framework of the performance of duty. English history knows hundreds of such Scotts: it was he who conquered India and the nameless islands of the Archipelago, he colonized Africa and fought all over the world with the same unchanging iron energy, with the same consciousness of common tasks and with the same cold, closed face.

But his will is firm as steel; this is revealed even before the accomplishment of a feat. Scott is determined to finish what Shackleton started. He equips an expedition, but he lacks funds. It doesn't stop him. Confident of success, he sacrifices his fortune and goes into debt. His wife gives him a son, but he, like Hector, leaves his Andromache without hesitation. Friends and comrades are soon found, and nothing earthly can shake his will. "Terra Nova" is the name of a strange ship that should deliver him to the edge of the Arctic Ocean - strange because, like Noah's Ark, it is full of all living creatures, and at the same time it is a laboratory equipped with books and a thousand of the most precise instruments. For in this desert, uninhabited world, you need to take with you everything that a person needs for the needs of the body and the needs of the spirit, and on board primitive items - furs, skins, live cattle - are surprisingly combined with the most complex equipment that meets the latest science. And the same striking duality as the ship distinguishes the enterprise itself: an adventure - but deliberate and balanced, like a commercial transaction, courage - but combined with the most skillful precautions, an accurate foresight of all details in the face of unforeseen accidents.

June 1, 1910 the expedition leaves England. In this summer season, the Anglo-Saxon island shines with beauty. Meadows are covered with lush greenery, the sun pours out warmth and light on a clear, fog-free world. Sailors look with sadness at the shore hiding from their eyes, because they know that for years, perhaps forever, they say goodbye to warmth and sun. But at the top of the mast flutters the English flag, and they console themselves with the thought that this emblem of their world is sailing with them to the only patch of conquered Earth that has not yet been conquered.

ANTARCTIC UNIVERSITY

In the meantime, they venture on small forays. They test snowmobiles, learn to ski, train dogs. They are preparing supplies for the big trip, but the pages of the calendar are slowly, slowly breaking off, and it is still a long time before the summer (until December), when the ship will make its way to them through the pack ice with letters from home. But even now, at the height of winter, they are making short marches in small detachments for hardening, testing tents, checking experiments. They do not succeed in everything, but obstacles only inflame their ardor. When they return to the camp, tired and cold, they are greeted with joyful cries and the warmth of the hearth, and this cozy hut at seventy-seven degrees of latitude, after several days of deprivation, seems to them the best dwelling in the world.

But then one of the expeditions returned from the west, and from the news it brought, a gloomy silence settled in the house. In their wanderings, the travelers stumbled upon Amundsen's winter quarters, and suddenly Scott realizes that, in addition to frost and danger, there is also an enemy who disputes the championship from him and can snatch the secret of the obstinate land before him. He checks on the map; in his notes one can hear the alarm with which he discovered that the Amundsen site was one hundred and ten kilometers closer to the pole than his. He is shocked, but does not lose courage. "Forward, to the glory of the fatherland!" he writes proudly in his diary.

This is the only mention of Amundsen in the diary. His name is no longer found. But there is no doubt that since that day a gloomy shadow has fallen on a lonely log house in the ice and that this name, hourly, in a dream and in reality, disturbs its inhabitants.

WALK TO THE POLE

At a distance of a mile from the hut, an observation post was set up on a hill. There, on a steep hillock, lonely, like a cannon aimed at an invisible enemy, stands an apparatus for measuring the first thermal vibrations of the approaching sun. They wait all day for his arrival. Bright wonderful reflections are already playing in the morning sky, but the solar disk has not yet risen above the horizon. This reflected light, heralding the arrival of the long-awaited luminary, kindles their impatience, and finally the phone rings in the hut, and from the observation post it is reported that the sun has risen, for the first time after many months it raised its head in the polar night. Its light is still weak and pale, its rays barely warm the frosty air, the arrows of the measuring device barely waver, but the mere sight of the sun is already great happiness. The expedition is gearing up in a feverish haste so as not to lose a single minute of this short bright season, which marks both spring, and summer, and autumn, although according to our moderate concepts it is still a severe winter. Aerosleighs fly ahead. Behind them are sleds drawn by dogs and Siberian horses. The road is prudently divided into stages; every two days of the journey, a warehouse is built, where clothes, food and, most importantly, kerosene, condensed heat, and protection from endless frosts are left for the return journey. They march all together, but will return in turn, in separate groups, so that the last small detachment - the chosen ones who are destined to conquer the pole - have as many supplies as possible, the freshest dogs and the best sleds. The campaign plan is masterfully designed, even failures are foreseen. And, of course, there is no shortage of them. After two days of travel, the snowmobiles break down, they are thrown as extra ballast. The horses also did not live up to expectations, but this time wildlife triumphs over technology, because exhausted horses are shot down and they give the dogs nutritious food that strengthens their strength.

On November 1, 1911, the expedition members are divided into detachments. The photographs capture this amazing caravan: first thirty travelers, then twenty, ten and, finally, only five people move through the white desert of the dead primitive world. One always walks in front, looking like a savage, wrapped in furs and scarves, from under which only the beard and eyes are visible; a hand in a fur mitten holds the reins of a horse that is pulling a heavily loaded sleigh; behind him - the second, in the same attire and the same pose, behind him the third, twenty black dots, stretched out in a sinuous line across the endless blinding whiteness. At night they burrow into tents, erect snow ramparts to protect their horses from the wind, and in the morning they set off again on a monotonous and bleak path, breathing in the icy air that penetrates human lungs for the first time in millennia.

Difficulties are multiplying. The weather is gloomy, instead of forty kilometers they sometimes cover only thirteen, and yet every day is precious, since they know that someone is moving invisibly to them across the white desert towards the same goal. Every little thing is dangerous. A dog has run away, a horse refuses to eat - all this causes anxiety, because in this loneliness, ordinary values ​​\u200b\u200btake on a different, new meaning. Anything that helps keep human life precious, irreplaceable. From the state of the hooves of one horse depends, perhaps, glory; a cloudy sky, a blizzard can interfere with an immortal feat. In addition, the health of travelers is deteriorating; some suffer from snow blindness, others have frostbitten hands or feet; the horses, which have to reduce the feed, are weakening day by day, and, finally, in the sight of the Beardmore glacier, their strength finally fails them. The heavy duty of killing these tenacious animals, which have become in two years life together away from the world as friends whom everyone knew by name and repeatedly rewarded with caresses, must be fulfilled. "Slaughter camp" was the name given to this sad place. Part of the expedition sets off on the return trip, the rest gather all their strength for the last painful pass through the glacier, through the formidable rampart encircling the pole, which can only be overcome by the hot flame of human will.

They move more and more slowly, because the crust here is uneven, grainy, and the sledges have to be dragged, not pulled. Sharp ice floes cut through the runners, legs are wounded from walking on dry, icy snow. But they do not give up: on December 30 they will reach the eighty-seventh degree of latitude, the extreme point to which Shackleton reached. Here the last detachment must return, only five chosen ones are allowed to go to the pole. Scott selects people. No one dares to argue with him, but it is hard for everyone to turn back so close to the goal and cede to their comrades the glory of being the first to see the pole. But the choice has been made. Once again they shake hands with each other, courageously hiding their excitement, and disperse in different directions. Two small, barely noticeable detachments moved - one to the south, towards the unknown, the other to the north, to their homeland. Both of them look back many times in order to feel the living presence of friends at the last minute. The detachment of the returnees had already disappeared from sight. Lonely continue their journey into the unknown distance five chosen ones: Scott, Bowers, Ots, Wilson and Evans.

SOUTH POLE

More disturbing are the records in these last days; they flutter like a blue compass needle as they approach the pole. “How endlessly the shadows crawl around us, moving forward from the right side, then slipping away again to the left!” But despair is replaced by hope. Increasingly with great excitement, Scott notes the distance traveled: “It's only a hundred and fifty kilometers to the pole; but if it doesn't get easier, we won't survive," he writes in exhaustion. Two days later: "One hundred and thirty-seven kilometers to the Pole, but we won't get them easily." And suddenly: “There are only ninety-four kilometers to the pole. If we don't make it, we'll still be close as hell!" On January 14, hope becomes certainty. “Only seventy kilometers, we are on target.” The next day - triumph, rejoicing; he writes almost cheerfully: “Just another miserable fifty kilometers; Let's get there, no matter the cost!" These feverish recordings seize the soul, in which one feels the tension of all forces, the thrill of impatient expectation. Prey is close, hands are already reaching for the last secret of the earth. One more last throw - and the goal is achieved.

JANUARY SIXTEEN

"High spirits" - noted in the diary. In the morning they set out earlier than usual, impatience driving them out of their sleeping bags; rather, rather, to see with my own eyes the great formidable secret. Fourteen kilometers pass in half a day through the soulless white desert five fearless: they are cheerful, the goal is close, the feat for the glory of mankind is almost accomplished. Suddenly, concern covers one of the travelers - Bowers. With a burning gaze, he glares at a barely noticeable point, blackening among the vast expanses of snow. He does not have the courage to express his conjecture, but everyone's heart shrinks from a terrible thought: perhaps this is a road milestone set by a human hand. They strive to dispel their fears. They try to convince themselves - like Robinson, who, noticing other people's footprints on a desert island, inspired himself that these were the prints of his own feet - that they see a crack in the ice or, perhaps, some kind of shadow. Trembling with excitement, they come closer, still trying to deceive each other, although everyone already knows the bitter truth: the Norwegians, Amundsen ahead of them.

Soon, the last hope is shattered by an indisputable fact: a black flag attached to a turning pole flutters over someone else's abandoned parking lot; traces of runners and dog paws dispel all doubts - here was Amundsen's camp. The unheard of, the incomprehensible has happened: the pole of the Earth, deserted for thousands of years, for millennia, perhaps from the beginning of the beginning, inaccessible to human gaze, - in some molecule of time, for a month it is open twice. And they were late - out of millions of months they were only one month late, they came second in a world for which the first is everything and the second is nothing! All efforts are in vain, the hardships suffered are absurd, the hopes of long weeks, months, years are insane. “All the labors, all the deprivations and torments - for what? Scott writes in his diary. “Void dreams that are now over.” Tears appear in their eyes, despite the mortal fatigue, they cannot sleep. Dejectedly, in gloomy silence, as if condemned, they make the last transition to the pole, which they hoped to win so victoriously. No one tries to console anyone; they silently wander on. On January 18, Captain Scott and his four companions reach the Pole. The hope of being the first to accomplish a feat no longer blinds him, and he assesses the bleak landscape with an indifferent look. “Nothing to the eye, nothing that differs from the terrifying monotony last days” - that's all that is written about the pole by Robert F. Scott. The only thing that stops their attention is not created by nature, but by an enemy hand: Amundsen's tent with the Norwegian flag haughtily fluttering on the fortress reclaimed by mankind. They find a letter from the conquistador to the unknown person who is the second to set foot on this place, with a request to send it to the Norwegian king Gakon. Scott takes upon himself the fulfillment of the gravest duty: to testify before mankind about someone else's feat, which he passionately desired for himself.

Sadly, they hoist the "late English flag" next to the banner of Amundsen's victory. Then they leave "the place that betrayed their hopes" - a cold wind blows after them. With a prophetic presentiment, Scott writes in his diary: "It is terrible to think about the way back."

DEATH

The return is fraught with danger tenfold. The compass pointed the way to the Pole. Now, on the way back, the most important thing is not to lose track of yourself, and this for many weeks, so as not to stray away from the warehouses where food, clothing and warmth, contained in several gallons of kerosene, await them. And anxiety seizes them every time a snowy whirlwind covers their eyes, for one wrong step is tantamount to death. In addition, there is no longer the former cheerfulness; going on a hike, they were charged with the energy accumulated in the warmth and abundance of their Antarctic homeland.

And one more thing: the steel spring of the will has weakened. In the campaign to the pole they were inspired by a great hope to realize the cherished dream of the whole world; the consciousness of an immortal feat gave them superhuman strength. Now they are fighting only for the salvation of their lives, for their mortal existence, for the inglorious return, which in the depths of their souls, perhaps, they fear rather than desire.

It's hard to read the records of those days. The weather is getting worse, winter has come earlier than usual, the loose snow under the soles freezes into dangerous traps in which the foot gets stuck, the frost exhausts the tired body. Therefore, their joy is so great every time when, after many days of wandering, they reach the warehouse; a spark of hope flared up in their words. And nothing speaks more eloquently about the heroism of these people, lost in immense loneliness, than the fact that Wilson, even here, on the verge of death, tirelessly continues his scientific observations and added sixteen kilograms of rare mineral rocks to the necessary load of his sledges.

But little by little, human courage recedes before the onslaught of nature, which mercilessly, with millennia of tempered force, brings down on the five daredevils all its weapons of destruction: frost, blizzard, piercing wind. Long wounded legs; reduced rations and only one hot meal a day can no longer maintain their strength. The comrades notice with horror that Evans, the strongest, suddenly begins to behave very strangely. He lags behind them, constantly complaining about real and imagined suffering; from his slurred speeches they conclude that the unfortunate one, either as a result of a fall, or not having endured the torment, has lost his mind. What to do? Throw him in the icy wilderness? But, on the other hand, they need to get to the warehouse as soon as possible, otherwise ... Scott does not dare to inscribe this word. At one o'clock in the morning on February 17, the unfortunate Evans dies a day's march from that "Slaughter Camp" where they can feed for the first time thanks to the horses killed a month ago.

The four of them continue the campaign, but evil fate pursues them; the nearest warehouse brings bitter disappointment: there is too little kerosene, which means that fuel must be sparingly spent - the most vital, the only sure weapon against frost. After an icy blizzard night, they wake up, exhausted, and, having risen with difficulty, drag on; one of them, Ots, has frostbitten toes. The wind is getting sharper, and on March 2, at the next warehouse, they are again in for a cruel disappointment: again there is too little fuel.

Now fear is heard in Scott's notes. It can be seen how he is trying to suppress it, but through the deliberate calm, a cry of despair breaks through every now and then: “It cannot go on like this,” or: “God bless us! Our strength is running out!”, or: “Our game ends tragically,” and finally: “Will Providence come to our aid? We have nothing more to expect from people.” But they drag on and on, without hope, gritting their teeth. Ots is falling further and further behind, he is a burden to his friends. With a midday temperature of 42 degrees, they are forced to slow down, and the unfortunate one knows that he can cause their death. Travelers are already prepared for the worst. Wilson gives each of them ten morphine tablets to hasten the end if necessary. Another day they try to bring a sick person with them. By evening, he himself demands to be left in a sleeping bag and not to connect his fate with his fate. Everyone resolutely refuses, although they are fully aware that this would bring them relief. A few miles more, Ots trudges on frostbitten legs to the parking lot where they spend the night. In the morning they look out of the tent: a blizzard is raging fiercely.

Suddenly, Ots gets up. "I'll be out for a minute," he tells his friends. "Maybe I'll stay outside for a bit." They are trembling, everyone understands what this walk means. But no one dares to keep him even with a word. No one dares to extend his hand in farewell, everyone is reverently silent, for they know that Lawrence Oates, captain of the Enniskillen Dragoon Regiment, heroically marches towards death.

Three tired, exhausted people trudge on through the endless iron-ice desert. They no longer have the strength or hope, only the instinct of self-preservation still makes them move their legs. The bad weather is raging more and more menacingly, in each warehouse there is a new disappointment: there is little kerosene, little heat. On March 21, they are only twenty kilometers from the warehouse, but the wind is blowing with such deadly force that they cannot get out of the tent. Every evening they hope that in the morning they will be able to reach the goal, meanwhile the supplies are decreasing and with them - the last hope. There is no more fuel, and the thermometer shows forty degrees below zero. It's all over: they have a choice - to freeze or die of hunger. For eight days, three people struggle with inevitable death in a cramped tent, amid the silence of the primitive world. On the 29th, they come to the conclusion that no miracle can save them anymore. They decide not to step closer to the coming fate and accept death proudly, as they accepted everything that fell to their lot. They climb into their sleeping bags, and not a single breath told the world about their death throes.

LETTERS OF A DYING MAN

In these moments, alone with an invisible but so close death, Captain Scott remembers all the ties that connected him with life. Amid the icy silence, which the human voice has not broken for centuries, at the hours when the wind furiously shakes the thin walls of the tent, he is imbued with the consciousness of community with his nation and all of humanity. Before his eyes in this white desert, like a haze, there are images of those who were connected with him by bonds of love, fidelity, friendship, and he turns his word to them. With numb fingers, Captain Scott writes, in the hour of his death he writes letters to all the living he loves.

Amazing letters! Everything small has disappeared in them from the mighty breath of imminent death, and it seems that they are filled with the crystal clear air of the desert sky. They are addressed to people, but they speak to all mankind. They are written for their time, but they speak for eternity.

He writes to his wife. He conjures her to take care of her son - his most precious heritage - asks to warn him against lethargy and laziness, and, having accomplished one of the greatest feats of world history, confesses: “You know, I had to force myself to be active - I always had a tendency to laziness." On the verge of death, he does not repent of his decision, on the contrary, he approves of it: “How much I could tell you about this journey! And how much better it is than sitting at home, among all sorts of amenities.

He writes to the wives and mothers of his companions who died with him, testifying to their valor. On his deathbed, he consoles the families of his comrades in misfortune, inspiring them with his own inspired and already unearthly faith in the greatness and glory of their heroic death.

He writes to friends - with all modesty towards himself, but filled with pride for the whole nation, whose worthy son he feels in his last hour. “I don’t know if I was capable of a great discovery,” he admits, “but our death will serve as proof that courage and resilience are still inherent in our nation.” And those words that all his life did not allow him to utter male pride and spiritual chastity, these words are now snatched from him by death. “I have never met a person,” he writes to his best friend, “whom I would love and respect as much as you, but I could never show you what your friendship means to me, because you gave me so much, and I I couldn't give you anything in return."

And he writes last letter, the best of all - to the English people. He considers it his duty to explain that in the struggle for the glory of England, he died through no fault of his own. He lists all the random circumstances that took up arms against him, and in a voice to which the proximity of death gives a unique pathos, he calls on all Englishmen not to leave his loved ones. His last thought is not about his fate, his last word is not about his death, but about the lives of others: "For God's sake, take care of our loved ones." After that - blank sheets.

Until the last minute, until the pencil slipped from his stiff fingers, Captain Scott kept his diary. The hope that these records, testifying to the courage of the English nation, would be found at his body, supported him in these inhuman efforts. With a dead hand he still manages to draw last will: "Forward this diary to my wife!" But in the cruel consciousness of impending death, he crosses out "to my wife" and writes terrible words on top: "To my widow."

ANSWER

Winterers wait for weeks in a log cabin. At first calmly, then with a slight uneasiness, and finally with increasing anxiety. Twice they went out to help the expedition, but bad weather drove them back. The polar explorers left without guidance spend the whole long winter in their parking lot; a premonition of trouble falls like a black shadow on the heart. During these months, the fate and feat of Captain Robert Scott are hidden in snow and silence. The ice imprisoned them in a glass coffin, and only on October 29, with the onset of the polar spring, an expedition is equipped to find at least the remains of the heroes and the message bequeathed by them. On November 12, they reach the tent: they see bodies frozen in sleeping bags, they see Scott, who, dying, fraternally hugged Wilson, they find letters, documents; they betray the burial of dead heroes. A simple black cross above a snowy mound stands alone in a white expanse, where living evidence of a heroic deed is buried forever.

No, not forever! Suddenly, their deeds are resurrected, a miracle of technology of our age has happened! Friends bring negatives and films to their homeland, they are developed, and here again Scott is seen with his companions on a campaign, pictures of the polar nature are visible, which, besides them, only Amundsen contemplated. Through electric wires, the news of his diary and letters flies around the amazed world, the English king kneels in the cathedral, honoring the memory of the heroes. Thus, a feat that seemed in vain becomes life-giving, failure - a fiery call to humanity to intensify its forces to achieve the hitherto unattainable: a valiant death gives rise to a tenfold will to live, a tragic death an irresistible desire for peaks that go to infinity. For only vanity amuses itself with occasional luck and easy success, and nothing elevates the soul so much as the mortal combat of a person with the formidable forces of fate - this greatest tragedy of all times, which poets sometimes create, and life - thousands and thousands of times.

Notes

1

I mean guillotine

(back)

2

Long live the emperor! (French)

(back)

3

Go to the place of fire! (French)

(back)

4

Unknown land (lat.)

(back)

5

New land (lat.)

(back)

6

"South Polar Times"

(back)

One Night Genius

An irretrievable moment

Opening Eldorado

Fight for the South Pole. . . . . . .

1792. For two or three months now the National Assembly has not been able to decide the question: peace or war against the Austrian emperor and the Prussian king. Louis XVI himself is indecisive: he understands the danger that the victory of the revolutionary forces brings to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties. The Girondins, wishing to keep power in their hands, are eager for war; the Jacobins with Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is growing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more furiously, and public opinion is more and more inflamed thanks to them. And therefore, when the King of France finally declares war on April 20, everyone involuntarily feels relieved, as happens when any difficult issue is resolved. All these endless long weeks a stormy atmosphere oppressing the soul has weighed over Paris, but even more tense, even more painful is the excitement that reigns in the border cities. Troops have already been drawn up to all bivouacs, in every village, in every city, volunteer squads and detachments of the National Guard are being equipped; fortifications are being erected everywhere, and above all in Alsace, where they know that, as always in the battles between France and Germany, the first, decisive battle will fall on the lot of this small patch of French soil. Here, on the banks of the Rhine, the enemy, the adversary, is not an abstract, vague concept, not a rhetorical figure, as in Paris, but tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the tower of the cathedral - you can distinguish with the naked eye the approaching Prussian regiments. At night, over the river coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other side the signals of the enemy horn, the rattling of weapons, the rumble of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will spew thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle of Germany against France will resume, this time in the name of new freedom, on the one hand; and in the name of preserving the old order, on the other.

And that is why the day of April 25, 1792, is so significant, when a military relay race delivered a message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. At once from all the houses and lanes streams of excited people poured out; solemnly, regiment after regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for the last review of the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is already waiting for him with a three-colored sash over his shoulder and a three-colored cockade on his hat, which he waves, welcoming the defiling troops. Fanfares and drum rolls call for silence, and Dietrich reads aloud a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all the squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental band plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnolu. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a fervent, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a marching march. The crowd again spreads through the houses and lanes, spreading the enthusiasm that has seized it everywhere; in cafes, in clubs, incendiary speeches are made and proclamations are handed out. "To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bend you!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar appeals, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, through the mouths of all citizens, these militant, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds pick them up again and again.

When war is declared, the crowd always rejoices in the squares and streets; but in these hours of general rejoicing, other, cautious voices are heard; a declaration of war awakens fear and concern, which, however, lurk in timid silence or whisper barely audibly in dark corners. There are always and everywhere mothers; But will the foreign soldiers kill my son? - they think; everywhere there are peasants who value their houses, land, property, livestock, crops; so will not their dwellings be plundered, and the fields trampled by brutalized hordes? Will not their arable land be saturated with blood? But the mayor of the city of Strasbourg, Baron Friedrich Dietrich, although he is an aristocrat, like the best representatives of the French aristocracy, is wholeheartedly devoted to the cause of the new freedom; he wants to hear only loud, sure-sounding voices of hope, and therefore he turns the day of the declaration of war into a national holiday. With a tricolor sling over his shoulder, he hurries from meeting to meeting, inspiring the people. He orders wine and additional rations to be distributed to the marching soldiers, and in the evening he arranges a farewell party for generals, officers and senior administrative officials in his spacious mansion on the Place de Broglie, and the enthusiasm reigning on it turns it into a celebration of victory in advance. Generals, like all generals in the world, are firmly convinced that they will win; they play the role of honorary chairmen at this evening, and the young officers, who see the whole meaning of their lives in the war, freely share their opinions and provoke each other. They brandish their swords, embrace, proclaim toasts, and, warmed by good wine, speak more and more passionately. And in these speeches, the incendiary slogans of newspapers and proclamations are repeated again: “To arms, citizens! Forward, shoulder to shoulder! Let the crowned tyrants tremble, let us carry our banners over Europe! Sacred to the motherland is love! The whole people, the whole country, united by faith in victory, by a common desire to fight for freedom, longs to merge into one at such moments.

And now, in the midst of speeches and toasts, Baron Dietrich turns to a young captain of the engineering troops, named Rouge, who is sitting next to him. He remembered that this glorious - not exactly handsome, but very attractive officer - six months ago, in honor of the proclamation of the constitution, wrote a good hymn to freedom, then arranged for the orchestra by the regimental musician Pleyel. The thing turned out to be melodic, the military choir learned it, and it was successfully performed, accompanied by an orchestra, in the main square of the city. Shouldn't we organize a similar celebration on the occasion of the declaration of war and the march of the troops? Baron Dietrich, in a casual tone, as usual asking good friends for some trifling favor, asks Captain Rouget (by the way, this captain, without any reason, appropriated the title of nobility and bears the name Rouget de Lisle), whether he will take advantage of the patriotic upsurge to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving tomorrow to fight the enemy.

Rouge is a small, modest man: he never fancied himself a great artist - no one publishes his poems, and all theaters reject operas, but he knows that he succeeds in poetry just in case. Wanting to please a high official and friend, he agrees. Okay, he'll try. Bravo, Rouge! - The general sitting opposite drinks to his health and orders, as soon as the song is ready, immediately send it to the battlefield - let it be something like an inspiring step of a patriotic march. The Army of the Rhine really needs such a song. Meanwhile, someone is already making a new speech. More toasts, clink of glasses, noise. A mighty wave of general enthusiasm swallowed up a casual brief conversation. All the more enthusiastic and louder voices sound, the feast becomes more and more stormy, and only far after midnight do the guests leave the mayor's house.

Deep night. The day so significant for Strasbourg ended on April 25, the day of the declaration of war - or rather, April 26 has already come. All houses are shrouded in darkness, but darkness is deceptive - there is no night rest in it, the city is excited. The soldiers in the barracks are preparing for the march, and in many of the shuttered houses, the more cautious of the citizens may already be packing their belongings in preparation for their flight. Squads of foot soldiers march through the streets; either a horse messenger would gallop, clattering with its hooves, or the guns would rumble along the bridge, and all the time the monotonous roll-call of the sentries was heard. The enemy is too close: the soul of the city is too excited and alarmed to sleep at such decisive moments.

Star clock of mankind Stefan Zweig

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Title: Mankind's Star Clock

About the book "Humanity's Star Clock" by Stefan Zweig

Stefan Zweig (1881-1942) - famous writer and critic, was born into a wealthy family. His parents provided him with a decent education. After graduating from high school, he entered the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Vienna, where he received his doctorate. Already during his studies, Stefan Zweig published his first book - a collection of poems that were written under the influence of such literary geniuses as Stefan George and Hofmannsthal. The writer even took it upon himself to send his works to the court of the then-famous modernist poet Rilke and received his book in return, so a real friendship began between the two poets.

Although Zweig was fond of poetry, real success came to him after the publication of short stories. The writer developed his own concept of writing them. His works were radically different from the works of the masters of this genre. In the center of each story of the author sounds the monologue of the protagonist, who is in a state of passion.

Events in his stories most often occur during travel. The theme of the road was very close to the author, since he himself spent most of his life traveling.

The Star Clock of Humanity is a cycle of short stories by an Austrian writer. In miniatures, he depicted episodes of the past and skillfully combined the exploits of individuals with turning points in history. The collection "Star Clock of Humanity" includes short stories in which the author easily and clearly talks about scientific exploits and facts from the biography of famous people.

The Star Clock of Humanity introduces the reader to the author of the Marseillaise, Roger de Lisle, the great commander Napoleon and the English explorer Captain Scott.

Stefan Zweig shows these titans of humanity from a slightly different angle. He does not praise them, but, on the contrary, shows that they became great not by vocation, but by force of circumstances.

In many works of the writer everything is decided by the moment. A fleeting word or an insignificant act turns out to be decisive in the lives of many people.
Zweig's works in the Star Clock of Humanity cycle are saturated with drama. They entice with extraordinary plots and make the reader think about the vicissitudes. human destinies. In his works, the Austrian writer emphasizes the weakness of human nature in the face of passion and strong emotions, but also talks about the constant readiness of people to perform feats.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online book Star Clock of Humanity by Stefan Zweig in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. Buy full version you can have our partner. Also, here you will find last news from literary world, find out the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from the book "Humanity's Star Clock" by Stefan Zweig

Fate is attracted to the powerful and powerful. For years, she slavishly submits to her chosen one - Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, because she loves natural natures, like herself - an incomprehensible element.

For strong spirit there is no shameful death.

Zweig Stefan

Star clock of mankind

One Night Genius

1792. For two or three months now the National Assembly has not been able to decide the question: peace or war against the Austrian emperor and the Prussian king. Louis XVI himself is indecisive: he understands the danger that the victory of the revolutionary forces brings to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties. The Girondins, wishing to keep power in their hands, are eager for war; the Jacobins with Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is growing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more furiously, and public opinion is more and more inflamed thanks to them. And therefore, when the King of France finally declares war on April 20, everyone involuntarily feels relieved, as happens when any difficult issue is resolved. All these endless long weeks a stormy atmosphere oppressing the soul has weighed over Paris, but even more tense, even more painful is the excitement that reigns in the border cities. Troops have already been drawn up to all bivouacs, in every village, in every city, volunteer squads and detachments of the National Guard are being equipped; fortifications are being erected everywhere, and above all in Alsace, where they know that, as always in the battles between France and Germany, the first, decisive battle will fall on the lot of this small patch of French soil. Here, on the banks of the Rhine, the enemy, the adversary, is not an abstract, vague concept, not a rhetorical figure, as in Paris, but tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the tower of the cathedral - you can distinguish with the naked eye the approaching Prussian regiments. At night, over the river coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other side the signals of the enemy horn, the rattling of weapons, the rumble of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will spew thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle of Germany against France will resume, this time in the name of new freedom, on the one hand; and in the name of preserving the old order, on the other.

And that is why the day of April 25, 1792, is so significant, when a military relay race delivered a message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. At once from all the houses and lanes streams of excited people poured out; solemnly, regiment after regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for the last review of the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is already waiting for him with a three-colored sash over his shoulder and a three-colored cockade on his hat, which he waves, welcoming the defiling troops. Fanfares and drum rolls call for silence, and Dietrich reads aloud a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all the squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental band plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnolu. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a fervent, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a marching march. The crowd again spreads through the houses and lanes, spreading the enthusiasm that has seized it everywhere; in cafes, in clubs, incendiary speeches are made and proclamations are handed out. "To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bend you!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar appeals, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, through the mouths of all citizens, these militant, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds pick them up again and again.

When war is declared, the crowd always rejoices in the squares and streets; but in these hours of general rejoicing, other, cautious voices are heard; a declaration of war awakens fear and concern, which, however, lurk in timid silence or whisper barely audibly in dark corners. There are always and everywhere mothers; But will the foreign soldiers kill my son? - they think; everywhere there are peasants who value their houses, land, property, livestock, crops; so will not their dwellings be plundered, and the fields trampled by brutalized hordes? Will not their arable land be saturated with blood? But the mayor of the city of Strasbourg, Baron Friedrich Dietrich, although he is an aristocrat, like the best representatives of the French aristocracy, is wholeheartedly devoted to the cause of the new freedom; he wants to hear only loud, sure-sounding voices of hope, and therefore he turns the day of the declaration of war into a national holiday. With a tricolor sling over his shoulder, he hurries from meeting to meeting, inspiring the people. He orders wine and additional rations to be distributed to the marching soldiers, and in the evening he arranges a farewell party for generals, officers and senior administrative officials in his spacious mansion on the Place de Broglie, and the enthusiasm reigning on it turns it into a celebration of victory in advance. Generals, like all generals in the world, are firmly convinced that they will win; they play the role of honorary chairmen at this evening, and the young officers, who see the whole meaning of their lives in the war, freely share their opinions and provoke each other. They brandish their swords, embrace, proclaim toasts, and, warmed by good wine, speak more and more passionately. And in these speeches, the incendiary slogans of newspapers and proclamations are repeated again: “To arms, citizens! Forward, shoulder to shoulder! Let the crowned tyrants tremble, let us carry our banners over Europe! Sacred to the motherland is love! The whole people, the whole country, united by faith in victory, by a common desire to fight for freedom, longs to merge into one at such moments.