While I was enjoying myself thus, among the towns and villages on the banks of the Danube, admiring the scenery, cultivating the acquaintance of the industrious rural population of the great river, and making an occasional trip into the interior, the dogs of war were let loose, and the curtain rose on the darkest tragedy of the nineteenth century.
The comic and the tragic are inextricably mingled in this world. I believe that this is no accident, but, like everything else, a special arrangement. “All fun makes man a fool,” but “all sorrow” makes him a desperado. The feeling of anxiety aroused by the war news was, I may say, mitigated by the manner of its announcement.
“Sir,” cried Lancey, bursting into the cabin one afternoon while I was preparing for a trip ashore, “the Roossians ’as declared war, an’ the whole country is gettin’ hup in harms!”
Of course I had been well aware for some time past that there was a prospect, nay, a probability, of war; but I had not allowed myself to believe it, because I have a strong natural tendency to give civilised men credit for more sense than they appear to possess. That Russia would really draw the sword, and sacrifice millions of treasure, and thousands of her best young lives, to accomplish an object that could be more easily and surely attained by diplomacy, with the expenditure of little money and no bloodshed, seemed to me incredible. That the other European nations should allow this state of things to come to pass, seemed so ridiculous that I had all along shut my eyes to facts, and proceeded on my voyage in the confidence of a peaceful solution of the “Eastern question.”
“In days of old,” I said to my skipper, in our last conversation on this subject, which we were fond of discussing, “the nations were less educated than now, and less imbued perhaps with the principles of the peace-teaching gospel, which many of them profess to believe; but now the Christian world is almost out of its teens; intercommunication of ideas and interests is almost miraculously facile. Thought is well-nigh instantaneously flashed from hemisphere to hemisphere, if not from pole to pole; commerce is so highly cultivated that international exhibitions of the raw material and the fabrics of all nations are the order of the day; while good-will between man and man—to say nothing of woman—is so prevalent, that I really find it hard to believe in the possibility of a great European war.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Mr Whitlaw, in a tone of cynicism, to which at times he gave pretty free indulgence, “the Crimean war occurred in the nineteenth century, and the American civil war, and the young widows of the Franco-Prussian war are not yet grey-haired, while their children have scarcely reached their teens. Truly, civilisation and the progress of knowledge, which men boast of so much, seem to be of little value.”
I pointed out to Mr Whitlaw that he was wrong in supposing that civilisation is of little value. “If you compare the condition of the United States or England,” I said, “with that of the Red Indians of your own land, or with the semi-barbarous states of Asia, you must allow that civilisation has done much. It seems to me that the fault of mankind lies in expecting too much of that condition. Civilisation teaches man how to make the world most comfortable to himself and to his fellows; but there is a higher attainment than that, and it is only Christianity which can teach man how to sacrifice himself for others, and, in so doing, to attain the same ends as those arrived at by civilisation, with more important and lasting ends in addition.”
“Well, then, on that principle,” objected the skipper, “you ought to expect war just now, for there is very little Christianity going that I can see, though plenty of civilisation.”
“On these points we differ, Mr Whitlaw,” said I, “for there seems to me very little civilisation at present, considering the age of the world; and, on the other hand, there is much genuine Christianity,—more, I believe, than meets the careless or the jaundiced eye. However, now that war has been declared, it becomes necessary that we should get out of the Danube as fast as possible.”
Accordingly, the yacht’s head was turned eastward, and we descended rapidly with the stream. My intention was good, but the result was disastrous; not an unwonted state of things, the best intentions in human affairs being frequently doomed to miscarry.
I must ask the reader now to turn aside with me from my own personal adventures, to events which had occurred near the banks of the Pruth,—the river that divides Russia from Turkey.
Here, on Tuesday, the 24th of April 1877, a scene of the utmost animation and excitement prevailed. The Emperor of “all the Russias” was about to review his troops previous to the declaration of war on Turkey. Up to that time, of course, war had been expected—as regards the army, eagerly desired; but no declaration had absolutely been made.
Ungheni, where the railway crosses the Pruth, and not far from Kischeneff, the capital of Bessarabia, was fixed on as the spot where the grand review should take place.
Great were the preparations for the reception of his Majesty, for whether “majesty” be right or wrong, majesty must be honoured and cheered. Majesty, male or female, represents power, and power must be treated with respect, nay, ought to be so treated—when it behaves itself!
There is something overwhelmingly grand in multitude. Humanity cannot resist the influence. It is quite clear that the human race were meant to be gregarious. What were the orator without his multitude? I might go further, and ask, What were the multitude without its orator? Flags and banners waved, and ribbons rippled that day in Bessarabia, for the serried legions of Russia marched in almost unending columns towards Ungheni, on the Roumanian frontier, and, after they had passed, the Emperor himself made for the same point with the Grand Duke Nicholas, and the Czarewitch, and General Ignatieff, and the Minister of War, and many other dignitaries of the empire, with a numerous and gorgeous staff.
The day was magnificent. The people who streamed out to see the review were enthusiastic. Perhaps, if they had been Bulgarian peasantry, and had been able to foresee the future, their enthusiasm would not have been so great. Yet I do not say that their enthusiasm was misplaced. They saw a nation’s chivalry assembled to fight and die, if need be, in the nation’s cause, with its Emperor to patronise, and its nobles to lead the legions on, in all of which there was ground for real enthusiasm.
Among the regiments that marched that day to Ungheni was one to which I would draw special attention. It was not much better, perhaps, than the others, but it was a good typical Russian regiment, and had a commander at its head who looked as if he could do it justice. They marched at a smart pace, four miles an hour, with a long, dogged, steady tramp that was clumsy to look at, but seemed likely to last. Few of the men were tall, but they were burly, square-set fellows, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and smart of limb. They wore a French-like blue cap, with a red band round it, and a blue tunic, with loose blue trousers stuffed into boots that reached the knee. Their knapsacks were hairy, and their belts black, the latter suggesting deliverance from that absurdity of old, pipeclay. Their great-coats, heavy and brown, were worn in a roll over the left shoulder, and each man carried his own kettle, the latter being suggestive of tea and tuck-in, followed by tobacco and turn-in.
Among these warriors, in his proper position, marched a noteworthy young lieutenant. He was my old college chum and brother-in-law to be, Nicholas Naranovitsch, head and shoulders over his fellows, straight as a poplar, proud as a peacock, and modest as an untried man ought to be.
The spot for the review was well chosen, on a gentle undulating hillside, which enabled the spectators to see the whole army at once. The weather was bright and sunny, as I have said, and the glitter of uniforms and thousands of bayonets with the broad blaze reflected from a long line of polished field-pieces, sent a thrill through many a heart, suggesting “glory.” There were a few hearts also, no doubt, to whom they suggested the natural end for which these glorious things were called together—blood and murder, national ruination, broken constitutions, desolated homes, and sudden death.
Holiday reviews are common enough all over the world, but this was no holiday review. Every one knew that it was the prelude to war, and there was an appropriate gravity and silence in the conduct of spectators. It was deeply impressive, too, to watch the long lines and masses of troops,—each unit full of youth, strength, energy, enthusiasm, hope,—standing perfectly silent, absolutely motionless, like statues, for full an hour and a half. Their deep silence and immobility seemed to produce a sympathetic condition in the spectators. There was no laughing, jesting, or “chaff” among them.
Even when the Emperor arrived there was no cheering. A greater than the Emperor had overawed them. They merely swayed open and took off hats deferentially as he passed. It was not till he began to ride round the lines with his brilliant staff that the silence was broken by music and cheers.
Of the review itself I will not speak. That, and the three-quarters of an hour mass which followed, being over, a murmur of expectation ran through the crowd and along the ranks like a solemn growl. Then there was a deep, intense silence, which was faintly broken by the Bishop of Kischeneff reading the manifesto. He had not read far, when sobs were heard. It was the voice of the Emperor Alexander, who prided himself on the fact that the glory of his reign had hitherto been its peaceful character. They say that it had been his boast and hope that he should finish it without a war. Previously he had said to the troops: “I have done everything in my power to avoid war and bloodshed. Nobody can say we have not been patient, or that the war has been of our seeking. We have practised patience to the last degree, but there comes a time when even patience must end. When that time comes, I know that the young Russian army of to-day will not show itself unworthy of the fame which the old army won in days gone by.”
What the “young army” thought of the fame of its elder brother, as well as of the sobs of its present Emperor, may be gathered from the fact that it went all but mad with enthusiasm! When the Bishop finished reading, there went up a wild and universal shout of joy of exultation, of triumph, of relief, as though a great weight of suspense had been lifted from the hearts of the multitude. It spread through the army like light, and was raised again and again, until the very vault of heaven seemed to thunder, while the soldiers tossed their caps in the air, or twirled them on their bayonets for several minutes.
Then the ordre du jour of the Grand Duke Nicholas, commander-in-chief of the army, was read to every battalion, squadron, and battery, and the day’s work was done. The right was legally and constitutionally granted to some hundreds of thousands of young men to go forth and slaughter, burn, and destroy, to their hearts’ content—in other words, to “gather laurels.”
It was a sad day’s work—sad for Turkey, sad for Russia, sad for Europe, and especially sad for the women, children, and old people of the theatre of the future war. It was a good day’s work for nobody and for nothing; but it was the legitimate outcome of work that had been going on for years before.
In pondering over the matter since, I have often been led to ask myself with considerable surprise, Why did this war occur—who wanted it? It is quite plain that Europe did not, equally plain that Turkey did not, still more plain that the Emperor Alexander did not, for he wept at the prospect of it “like a child.” Who, then, did desire and cause it? There are some things in this remarkable world that no man can understand. At all events I cannot. When I put the same question, long afterwards, to my dear and ever-sagacious mother, she replied, “Do you not think, Jeff; that perhaps the men in power, somewhere, wanted it and caused it? There are some countries, you know, where the people are mere chessmen, who have nothing whatever to do or say in the management of their own affairs, and are knocked about, wisely or foolishly as the case may be, by the men in power. England herself was in that sad case once, if we are to believe our school histories, and some of the European nations seem to be only now struggling slowly out of that condition, while others are still in bondage.”
I think my mother was right. After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that war is usually, though not always, caused by a few ambitious men in power at the head of enslaved or semi-enslaved nations. Not always, I repeat, because free nations, being surrounded by savage, barbarous, and semi-free, are sometimes wheedled, dragged, or forced into war in spite of themselves.
After the review some of the regiments started directly for the frontier.
Nicholas Naranovitsch was summoned to the presence of his colonel. Nicholas was very young and inexperienced; nevertheless, during the brief period in which he had served, he had shown himself possessed of so much ability and wisdom that he was already selected to go on a secret mission. What that mission was he never told me. One result of it, however, was, that he and I had a most unexpected meeting on the Danube in very peculiar circumstances.
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