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1792 For two to 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 the victory of the revolutionary forces poses to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties either. The Girondins, wanting to retain power in their hands, are eager for war; The Jacobins and Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is increasing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more frantically, and thanks to them, public opinion is becoming more and more inflamed. And therefore, when on April 20 the King of France finally declares war, everyone involuntarily experiences relief, as happens when resolving any difficult issue. All these endless long weeks, a soul-crushing stormy atmosphere weighed over Paris, but the excitement reigning in the border towns was even more tense, even more painful. Troops have already been deployed to all bivouacs; in every village, in every city, volunteer squads and detachments are being equipped National Guard; fortifications are being erected everywhere, and above all in Alsace, where they know that the first, decisive battle will fall to the lot of this small piece of French land, as always in battles between France and Germany. 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 a tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the cathedral tower - one can discern the approaching Prussian regiments with the naked eye. At night, over the river, coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other bank the signals of the enemy's bugle, the clanking of weapons, the roar of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will erupt with thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle between Germany and 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, was so significant, when a military relay carried the message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. Immediately, streams of excited people poured out of all the houses and alleys; solemnly, regiment by regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for a final review to the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is waiting for him with a tricolor sash over his shoulder and a tricolor cockade on his hat, which he waves, greeting the marching troops. Fanfare and drumming call for silence, and Dietrich loudly reads a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all squares. And they barely stop talking last words, the regimental orchestra plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnola. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a perky, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a march. The crowd again spreads through houses and alleys, spreading its enthusiasm everywhere; in cafes and clubs they make incendiary speeches and hand out proclamations. “To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bow our necks!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar calls, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, on the lips of all citizens, these fighting, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds take them up again and again.

When war is declared, the crowds always rejoice in the squares and streets; but during these hours of general rejoicing, other, cautious voices are also heard; a declaration of war awakens fear and concern, which, however, lurk in timid silence or whisper barely audibly in dark corners. There are mothers everywhere and always; But won't foreign soldiers kill my son? - they think; Everywhere there are peasants who value their houses, land, property, livestock, and harvests; So won't their homes be plundered and their fields trampled by brutal hordes? Will their arable land be saturated with blood? But the mayor 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 new freedom; he wants to hear only loud, confident voices of hope, and therefore he turns the day of declaration of war into a national holiday. With a tricolor sash over his shoulder, he hurries from meeting to meeting, inspiring the people. He orders wine and additional rations to be distributed to the soldiers setting out on the campaign, and in the evening he organizes a farewell party for generals, officers and senior administrative officials in his spacious mansion on the Place de Broglie, and the enthusiasm reigning there turns it into a celebration of victory in advance. The 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, teasing each other. They wave swords, embrace, toast and, warmed by good wine, make more and more passionate speeches. 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! Love for the homeland is sacred!” The entire people, the entire country, united by faith in victory and a common desire to fight for freedom, yearns to merge into one at such moments.

And so, in the midst of speeches and toasts, Baron Dietrich turns to the young captain sitting next to him engineering troops named Rouge. He remembered that this glorious - not exactly handsome, but very handsome officer - six months ago, in honor of the proclamation of the constitution, wrote a good hymn to freedom, at the same time 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 arrange the same celebration on the occasion of the declaration of war and the departure of the troops on the campaign? Baron Dietrich, in a casual tone, as one usually asks 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 surname Rouget de Lisle), would he take advantage of the patriotic upsurge , to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving to fight the enemy tomorrow.

Rouge is small humble person he: never imagined himself to be a great artist - no one publishes his poems, and all theaters reject his operas, but he knows that poetry works for him 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, to immediately send it to the battlefield - let it be something like a patriotic march inspiring the step. The Rhine Army really needs a song like this. Meanwhile, someone is already saying new speech. More toasts, clinking glasses, noise. A mighty wave of general enthusiasm swallowed up the casual brief conversation. The voices sound more and more enthusiastic and louder, the feast becomes more and more stormy, and only long after midnight the guests leave the mayor’s house.

Deep night. Such a significant day for Strasbourg ended on April 25, the day of the declaration of war - or rather, April 26 had already arrived. All the houses are shrouded in darkness, but the darkness is deceptive - there is no peace at night, the city is agitated. Soldiers in the barracks are preparing for the march, and in many houses with closed shutters, the more cautious among the citizens may already be packing their belongings in preparation for flight. Platoons of infantrymen march through the streets; first a horse messenger will gallop along, clattering his hooves, then guns will roar along the bridge, and all the time the monotonous roll call of the sentries can be heard. The enemy is too close: the soul of the city is too excited and alarmed for it to fall asleep at such decisive moments.

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Title: Humanity's Finest Hours

About the book “Humanity’s Finest Hours” 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 response, and 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. At the center of each story by the author is a 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.

“Humanity’s Finest Hours” is a series of short stories by an Austrian writer. In miniatures, he depicted episodes of the past and masterfully connected the exploits of individuals with turning points in history. The collection “Humanity's Finest Hours” includes short stories in which the author easily and accessiblely talks about scientific exploits and facts from the biography of famous people.

“Humanity's Finest Hours” introduces the reader to the author of “La 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 perspective. He does not praise them, but, on the contrary, shows that they became great not by calling, but by force of circumstances.

In many of the writer’s works, everything is decided by the moment. A fleeting word or an insignificant deed turns out to be decisive in the lives of many people.
Zweig’s works in the “Humanity’s Finest Hours” series are imbued with drama. They attract with extraordinary plots and make the reader think about the vicissitudes of 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 website about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “Humanity’s Finest Hours” 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 real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Quotes from the book “Humanity’s Finest Hours” by Stefan Zweig

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

For a strong spirit there is no shameful death.

Zweig Stefan Humanity's Finest Hour

Stefan Zweig

In historical miniatures from the series “Humanity’s Finest Hours,” Zweig paints episodes of the past that combine a person’s personal feat with a turning point in history.

One night genius

1792 For two to 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 the victory of the revolutionary forces poses to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties either. The Girondins, wanting to retain power in their hands, are eager for war; The Jacobins and Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is increasing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more frantically, and thanks to them, public opinion is becoming more and more inflamed. And therefore, when on April 20 the King of France finally declares war, everyone involuntarily experiences relief, as happens when resolving any difficult issue. All these endless long weeks, a soul-crushing stormy atmosphere weighed over Paris, but the excitement reigning in the border towns was even more tense, even more painful. Troops have already been deployed 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 the first, decisive battle will fall to the lot of this small piece of French land, as always in battles between France and Germany. 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 a tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the cathedral tower - one can discern the approaching Prussian regiments with the naked eye. At night, over the river, coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other bank the signals of the enemy's bugle, the clanking of weapons, the roar of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will erupt with thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle between Germany and 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, was so significant, when a military relay carried the message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. Immediately, streams of excited people poured out of all the houses and alleys; solemnly, regiment by regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for a final review to the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is waiting for him with a tricolor sash over his shoulder and a tricolor cockade on his hat, which he waves, greeting the marching troops. Fanfare and drumming call for silence, and Dietrich loudly reads a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental orchestra plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnola. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a perky, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a march. The crowd again spreads through houses and alleys, spreading its enthusiasm everywhere; in cafes and clubs they make incendiary speeches and hand out proclamations. “To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bow our necks!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar calls, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, on the lips of all citizens, these fighting, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds take them up again and again.

And so, in the midst of speeches and toasts, Baron Dietrich turns to a young captain of the engineering forces, sitting next to him, named Rouget. He remembered that this glorious - not exactly handsome, but very handsome officer - six months ago, in honor of the proclamation of the constitution, wrote a good hymn to freedom, at the same time arranged for the orchestra by the regimental musician Pleyel. The little thing turned out to be melodic, the military choir learned it, and it was successfully performed, accompanied by an orchestra, on the main square of the city. Shouldn't we arrange the same celebration on the occasion of the declaration of war and the departure of the troops on the campaign? Baron Dietrich, in a casual tone, as one usually asks 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 surname Rouget de Lisle), would he take advantage of the patriotic upsurge , to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving to fight the enemy tomorrow.

Rouget is a small, modest man: he never imagined himself to be a great artist - no one publishes his poems, and all theaters reject his operas, but he knows that poetry works for him 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, to immediately send it to the battlefield - let it be something like a patriotic march inspiring the step. The Rhine Army really needs a song like this. Meanwhile, someone is already making a new speech. More toasts, clinking glasses, noise. A mighty wave of general enthusiasm swallowed up the casual brief conversation. The voices sound more and more enthusiastic and louder, the feast becomes more and more stormy, and only long after midnight the guests leave the mayor’s house.

Rouget was also unusually excited when he finally reached his modest little room at 126 Grand Rue up the spiral staircase. He did not forget his 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, and toasts still rings in his ears. “To arms, citizens!.. Forward, sons of freedom!.. Let us crush the black power of tyranny!..” But he also remembers other words overheard in passing: the voices of women trembling for the lives of their sons, the voices of peasants fearing that their fields will be trampled by enemy hordes and covered in blood. He takes up the pen and almost unconsciously writes down the first two lines; this is just a echo, an echo, a repetition of the appeals he heard:

Forward, sons of our dear fatherland!

The moment of glory is coming!

)

Zweig Stefan Humanity's Finest Hours

One night genius

1792 For two to 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 the victory of the revolutionary forces poses to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties either. The Girondins, wanting to retain power in their hands, are eager for war; The Jacobins and Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is increasing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more frantically, and thanks to them, public opinion is becoming more and more inflamed. And therefore, when on April 20 the King of France finally declares war, everyone involuntarily experiences relief, as happens when resolving any difficult issue. All these endless long weeks, a soul-crushing stormy atmosphere weighed over Paris, but the excitement reigning in the border towns was even more tense, even more painful. Troops have already been deployed 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 the first, decisive battle will fall to the lot of this small piece of French land, as always in battles between France and Germany. 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 a tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the cathedral tower - one can discern the approaching Prussian regiments with the naked eye. At night, over the river, coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other bank the signals of the enemy's bugle, the clanking of weapons, the roar of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will erupt with thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle between Germany and 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, was so significant, when a military relay carried the message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. Immediately, streams of excited people poured out of all the houses and alleys; solemnly, regiment by regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for a final review to the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is waiting for him with a tricolor sash over his shoulder and a tricolor cockade on his hat, which he waves, greeting the marching troops. Fanfare and drumming call for silence, and Dietrich loudly reads a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental orchestra plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnola. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a perky, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a march. The crowd again spreads through houses and alleys, spreading its enthusiasm everywhere; in cafes and clubs they make incendiary speeches and hand out proclamations. “To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bow our necks!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar calls, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, on the lips of all citizens, these fighting, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds take them up again and again.

Forward, sons of our dear fatherland! The moment of glory is coming!

He re-reads it and is surprised: just what he needs. There is a beginning. Now I would like to find a suitable rhythm and melody. Rouget takes the violin out of the cabinet and runs the bow along the strings. And - lo and behold! - from the very first bars he manages to find a motive. He again grabs the pen and writes, carried 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 of tyrants, anxiety for the homeland, faith in victory, love of freedom. He doesn’t even have to compose, invent, he just rhymes, puts into rhythm the melodies that passed from mouth to mouth today, on this significant day, and he expressed, sang, told in his song everything that he felt that day all French people. He doesn’t even need to compose a melody; through the closed shutters the rhythm of the street penetrates into the room, the rhythm of this anxious night, angry and defiant; it is interrupted by the steps of marching soldiers and the roar of cannon carriages. Perhaps it is not he himself, Rouget, who hears it with his sensitive hearing, but the spirit of the time, which has settled into the mortal shell of a person for just one night, catches this rhythm. The melody more and more obediently submits to the jubilant and hammer-beaten beat that beats out the heart of the entire French people. As if under someone's dictation, Rouget writes down words and notes more quickly and hastily - he is seized by a stormy impulse, which his petty bourgeois soul has never known before. All the exaltation, all the inspiration that was not inherent to him, no, but only miraculously captured his soul, concentrated at a single point and with a mighty explosion lifted the pathetic amateur to a colossal height above his modest talent, as if a bright, sparkling rocket was thrown to the very stars. For just one night, Captain Rouget de Lisle is destined to become the brother of the immortals; The first two lines of the song, composed of ready-made phrases, from slogans picked up on 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, walking shoulder to shoulder! Love for the homeland is sacred. 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, was completed before dawn. Rouget extinguishes the candle and throws himself on the bed. Some force, he himself doesn’t 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, that’s how it is: the creator, the poet, the genius died in him again. But on the table, completely separated from the sleeper, 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 coming of morning. From time to time, the wind carries the sounds of volleys from the other side of the Rhine - the first firefight has begun. Rouget wakes up, with difficulty getting 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 piece of paper written on the table. Poetry? But when did I compose them? Music? Notes scribbled by my hand? But when did I write this? Oh yes! The marching song promised yesterday to my friend Dietrich for the Army of the Rhine! Rouget runs his eyes through the verses and hums the tune to himself. But, like any author of a newly created work, he feels only complete uncertainty. His regiment comrade lives next to him. Rouget hurries to show him and sing his song to him. Tom likes it, he only suggests a few small adjustments. This first praise fills Rouge with confidence. Burning with the author's impatience and proud that he fulfilled his promise so quickly, he rushes to the mayor and catches Dietrich on his morning walk; Walking around the garden, he composes a new speech. How! Is it ready yet? Well, let's listen. Both go into the living room; Dietrich sits down at the harpsichord, Rouget sings. Attracted by the unusual music at such an early hour, the mayor's wife arrives. She promises to rewrite the song, multiply it and, like a true musician, volunteers to write an accompaniment so that this very evening she can perform this new song, along with many others, in front of friends at home. The mayor, who is proud of his rather pleasant tenor voice, undertakes to learn it by heart; and on April 26, that is, in the evening of the same day, at the dawn of which the words and music of the song were written, it is performed for the first time in the living room of the mayor of Strasbourg in front of random listeners.

Probably, the listeners applauded the author in a friendly manner 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 had fluttered into their mortal world on invisible wings. It rarely 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 relegated to the level of a banal episode from social 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 fine young man, poet and composer, very quickly composed the words and music of a marching song. Mule, who has a pleasant tenor, immediately sang it, the song is very sweet, there is something original in it. This is Glitch, only much better and more lively. 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 share. In the evening the song was performed in our living room to the great delight of everyone present.”

“To the great pleasure of all those present” - how cold these words breathe for us! But at the first performance, Marseillaise could not arouse feelings other than friendly sympathy and approval, for it could not yet appear in all its strength. Marseillaise is not chamber piece 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 romance. A song whose exciting, elastic and percussive rhythm is born of the call:

"To arms, citizens!" - an appeal to the people, to the crowd, and its only worthy accompaniment is the ringing of weapons, the sounds of fanfare and the tread of marching regiments. This song was created not for indifferent, comfortably seated 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 Rouget de Lisle's song by inspiration similar to that which gave birth to it. In the meantime, her words and melody, in their magical consonance, have not yet penetrated 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 hymn of its glory.

And Rouget de Lisle himself, to whom this miracle happened, no more than others understands the meaning of what he created in a sleepwalking state under the spell of some changeable spirit. This handsome dilettante is heartily glad to receive applause and kind praise. With the petty vanity of a small man, he strives to fully exploit his small success in a small provincial circle. He sings the new song to his friends in coffee shops, orders handwritten copies of it and sends them to the generals of the Army of the Rhine. Meanwhile, 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 march out, they perform it in the main square of the city. A patriotic publisher volunteers to print it, and it comes out with a respectful dedication from Rouget de Lisle to his superior, General Luckner. None of the generals, however, even thinks about introducing a new march during their campaign: obviously, this song by Rouget 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 speedy oblivion.

But the living force invested in the master’s creation will never allow itself to be hidden under lock and key for a long time. A creation can be forgotten for a while, it can be prohibited, even buried, and yet the elemental force living in it will triumph over the transitory. For a month, two months there was not a word about the “Marching Song of the Army of the Rhine”. Printed and handwritten copies of it are lying around somewhere or passing from hand to hand. indifferent people. But it is enough if inspired work inspires at least one person, for true inspiration is always fruitful. On June 22, at the opposite end of France, in Marseille, the Friends of the Constitution club gives a banquet in honor of the volunteers participating in the campaign. Five hundred ardent young men in brand new National Guard uniforms sit at long tables. The same feverish excitement reigns here as at the feast in Strasbourg on April 25, but even more passionate and stormy thanks to the southern temperament of the Marseilles, and at the same time not as loudly victorious as then, in the first hours after the declaration of war. For, despite the boastful assurances of the generals that the French revolutionary troops would easily cross the Rhine and be welcomed everywhere with open arms, this did not happen at all. On the contrary, the enemy has penetrated deeply into the borders of France, he threatens its independence, 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 - knocks on his glass and stands up. Everyone falls silent and looks at him, waiting for a speech, a toast. But instead, the young man, raising his hand, begins to sing a song, some completely new one, unfamiliar to them and unknown to them, a song that fell into his hands, which begins with the words: “Forward, sons of the dear fatherland!” And suddenly, as if a spark fell into a barrel of gunpowder, a flame broke out: feeling came into contact with feeling the eternal poles of human will. All these young men setting out on the campaign 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 impulse of inspiration. 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 up the military formation!” On the street, under the windows, curious people gathered, wanting to hear what they were singing here with such enthusiasm, and so they, too, picked up the chorus, and the next day tens of thousands of people were already singing the song. It is published 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 along the big roads and their strength begins to give out, as soon as someone starts singing a new anthem, its invigorating, whipping rhythm gives new energy to those walking. When they pass through the village and peasants come running from everywhere to look 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, and in their unstoppable rush forward they long to carry her over the world.

Paris is the first victory of the Marseillaise, for this will soon be the name of the anthem composed by Rouget de Lisle. On July 30, a battalion of Marseille volunteers with their banner and song marches along the outskirts of the city. Thousands and thousands of Parisians crowd the streets, wanting to give the soldiers an honorable welcome; and when five hundred people, marching through the city, sing a song in unison, in one voice, in time with their steps, the crowd becomes wary. What kind of song is this? What a wonderful, inspiring melody! What a solemn chorus, like the sound of a fanfare: “Come to arms, citizens!” These words, accompanied by a rolling drumbeat, penetrate into all hearts! In two or three hours they are being sung in all parts of Paris. Carmagnola is forgotten, all the worn-out verses and old marches are forgotten. The revolution found its voice in the Marseillaise, and the revolution adopted it as its anthem.

The victorious march of 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 the psalm. In just two or three months, the Marseillaise becomes the anthem of an entire people, the marching song of the entire army. Servan, the first Minister of War of the French Republic, was able to feel the enormous 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 becomes more widely known than all the works of Racine, Moliere and Voltaire. Not a single celebration ends without the Marseillaise, not a single battle begins before the regimental orchestra loses this march of freedom. In the battles of Jemappe and Nervinden, French troops line up to attack to the sound of its sounds, and the enemy generals, who encourage their soldiers according to the old recipe with a double portion of vodka, see with horror that they have nothing to oppose the all-crushing power of this “terrible” song, which, when sung in chorus thousands of voices sing, a violent and echoing wave hits the ranks of their soldiers. Wherever France fights, the Marseillaise soars like the winged Nike, the goddess of victory, drawing countless people to mortal combat.

Meanwhile, in the small garrison of Huening, the unknown captain of the engineering troops, Rouget de Lisle, sits, diligently drawing plans for trenches and fortifications. Perhaps he had already forgotten the “Marching Song of the Army of the Rhine,” which he created on that long-ago 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 Marseilles,” every bar of it, 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, sounding to the skies and ascending to the stars, does not lift up on its wings the only person - precisely the one who created it. No one in the whole of France even thinks about the captain of the engineering troops, Rouget de Lisle, and all the enormous, unprecedented glory for a song goes to the song itself: not even its faint shadow falls on the author. His name is not printed on the texts of the Marseillaise, and the powers that be would probably never 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, like no one else, contributed to the cause of the revolution with his immortal song, and is ready to give all his strength to contain it. And when the Marseilles 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 rather than serve the Jacobins. He does not want to put new meaning into the words of his song “Dear Freedom”; 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 of the Marseillaise, Mayor Dietrich, General Luckner, to whom it is dedicated, and all the noble officers, are led to the guillotine, former first by her listeners, Rouget gives vent to his bitterness; and now - the irony of fate! - the singer of the revolution is thrown into prison as a counter-revolutionary, he is tried for treason. And only the 9th of Thermidor, when the doors of the dungeons opened with the fall of Robespierre, saved the French Revolution from the absurdity of sending the creator of its immortal song under the “national razor.”

And yet it would be a heroic death, and not a vegetation 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 was destined to experience his only truly creative hour in his life. They took away his uniform and deprived him of his pension; the poems, operas, plays that he writes are not published by anyone, 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 to help him out of compassion. However, since that ill-fated night, something hopelessly broke in his soul; she is poisoned by the monstrous cruelty of chance, which allowed him to spend three hours as a genius, a god, and then with contempt threw him back to his former insignificance. Rouget quarrels with all the authorities: to Bonaparte, who wanted to help him, he writes daring, pathetic letters and publicly boasts that he voted against him. Confused in business, Rouget indulges in suspicious speculation and even ends up in the debtor's prison of Sainte-Pélagie for non-payment of a bill. Annoyed by everyone, besieged by creditors, tracked by the police, he finally climbs somewhere into the provincial wilderness and from there, as if from the grave, abandoned and forgotten by everyone, he watches the fate of his immortal song. He also happened to witness how the Marseillaise, together with the victorious troops of Napoleon, rushed like a whirlwind 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 completely banned her. And when, after a whole human century, in the July Revolution of 1830, the words and melody of the song were again heard with all their former force on the barricades of Paris and the bourgeois king Louis Philippe granted its author a tiny pension, the embittered old man no longer felt anything but surprise. To a person abandoned in his loneliness, it seems like a miracle that someone suddenly remembered him; but this memory is short-lived, and when in 1836 the seventy-six-year-old old man died in Choisy-le-Roi, no one remembered his name.

And only during the World War, when the Marseillaise, which had long become the national anthem, again thundered militantly on all fronts of France, was there an order to transfer the ashes of the little captain Rouget de Lisle to the Les Invalides and bury him next to the ashes of the little corporal Bonaparte, finally unknown to 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 one night to be a poet.

An irrevocable moment

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

But sometimes - although in all eras only occasionally - she suddenly, on a strange whim, rushes into the arms of mediocrity. Sometimes - and these are the most amazing moments in world history - the thread of fate for one single trembling minute falls into the hands of a nonentity. And these people usually experience not joy, but fear of the responsibility that involves them in the heroics of the world game, and almost always they let go of the fate that was accidentally given to them from their trembling hands. Few of them are given the chance to grasp Lucky case and exalt yourself with him. For only for a moment does the great descend into insignificance, and whoever misses this moment will lose it forever.

PEERS

In the midst of the balls, love affairs, intrigues and bickering of the Congress of Vienna, the news struck like a cannon shot that Napoleon, the captive lion, had escaped from his cage on the Elbe; and relay race after relay race 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 grabbed by someone’s clawed paw, the ministers who had just been bickering and quarreling are huddled together; English, Prussian, Austrian, and Russian troops are hastily assembled in order to crush the usurper a second time and finally; Never before has Europe of hereditary kings and emperors been 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 an offensive on the Rhine, and Russian regiments are slowly and heavily marching through Germany as a reserve.

Napoleon takes in the danger that threatens him with a single glance. He knows that he cannot wait until the whole pack is gathered. He must separate them, must attack each individually - the Prussians, the British, the Austrians - before they become a European army and defeat his empire. He must hurry before there is a murmur within the country; must achieve victory before the Republicans get stronger and unite with the royalists, before the two-faced, elusive Fouche, in alliance with Talleyrand - his opponent and double - stabs him in the back. He must, taking advantage of the enthusiasm that gripped his army, defeat the enemies with one swift onslaught. Every missed day means damage, every hour aggravates the danger. And he immediately casts the lot of war on the bloodiest battlefield in Europe - Belgium. On June 15, at three o'clock in the morning, the vanguard of the great and now only Napoleonic army crosses the border. On the 16th, at Ligny, she repels the Prussian army. This is the first blow of the paw of a lion breaking free - crushing, but not fatal. The defeated, but not destroyed, Prussian army retreats to Brussels.

Napoleon is preparing a second strike, this time against Wellington. He cannot allow himself or his enemies a moment's respite, for their strength is growing day by day, and the country behind him, the bloodless, grumbling French people, must be stunned by the intoxication of victory reports. Already on the 17th he approached Quatre Bras with his entire army, where a cold, calculating enemy, Wellington, had fortified himself. Napoleon's orders have never been more prudent, his military orders clearer than on that day: he is not only preparing 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 - it must pursue the Prussian troops on the heels and prevent them from uniting with the British.

He entrusts the command of this part of the army to Marshal Grushi. Grushi is an ordinary man, but brave, diligent, honest, reliable, a battle-tested cavalry chief, but no more than a cavalry chief. This is not a brave, ardent cavalry leader like Murat, not a strategist like Saint-Cyr and Berthier, not a hero like Ney. His chest is not covered with a cuirass, his name is not surrounded by legend, there is not one distinctive feature, which would bring him fame and a rightful place in heroic myth Napoleonic era; It was only through his misfortune, his failure, that he became famous. 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 also without exploits. The bullets of the Austrians, the sun of Egypt, the daggers of the Arabs, the frosts of Russia, removed his predecessors from his path: Deza at Marengo, Kleber at Cairo, Lanna at Wagram; He did not pave the road to the highest rank for himself - it was cleared for him by twenty years of war.

That Grouchy is not a hero or a strategist, but only a reliable, devoted, brave and prudent 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, important matter to a mediocre commander.

On 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 Grushi leaves his place in the military hierarchy to enter world history. Only for one moment, but what a moment! Napoleon's order is clear. While he himself leads the attack on the British, Grouchy with one-third of the army should pursue the Prussians. At first glance, a very simple task, clear and direct, but at the same time flexible and double-edged, like a sword. For Grushi is charged with the duty of strictly maintaining contact with the main forces of the army during the operation.

The marshal hesitantly accepts the order. He is not 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 discontent of his generals behind him and - who knows? - perhaps the ominous sound of the wings of impending fate. Only the proximity of the main apartment somewhat calms him down: only three hours of forced march separate his army from the army of the emperor.

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

NIGHT IN CAYOU

The northern rain pours continuously. Like a wet herd, Napoleon's soldiers approach in the dark, dragging two pounds of mud on their soles; There is no refuge anywhere - no home, no shelter. The straw is so damp that you can’t lie down on it, so the soldiers sleep sitting, with their backs pressed against each other, ten to fifteen people each, in the pouring rain. There is no rest for the emperor either. Feverish excitement drives him from place to place; Reconnaissance is hampered by impenetrable bad weather; spies bring only confused messages. He doesn't yet know whether Wellington will take the fight; There is also no news about the Prussian army from Grusha. And at one in the morning, neglecting the lashing downpour, he himself walks along the outposts, approaching within a cannon shot of 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 Grouchy’s first dispatches: 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 walks 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 entire army should line up and be ready to attack. The orderlies are galloping in all directions. Already the drums are beating the gathering. And only after this Napoleon throws himself onto the camp bed for a two-hour sleep.

MORNING IN WATERLOO

Nine o'clock in the morning. But not all the shelves are assembled yet. The ground, softened by a three-day downpour, makes movement difficult and delays suitable artillery. A sharp wind is blowing, the sun is only gradually peeking through; but this is not the sun of Austerlitz, bright, radiant, promising happiness, but only a sadly 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 wave their sabers militantly, the infantry raises their bearskin caps on their bayonets in greeting. The drums thunder frantically, the trumpets frantically and joyfully greet the commander, but all this fireworks of sounds is covered by the booming, friendly, jubilant cry of the seventy-thousandth army: “Vive l" Empereur!”

Not a single parade in the entire twenty years of Napoleon's reign was more majestic and solemn than this last review. As soon as the screams had subsided, at eleven o'clock - two hours late, a fatal delay - the order was given to the gunners to hit the red uniforms at the foot of the hill with grapeshot. 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 never tire of following its ups and downs, rereading 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’s saddle. This battle is a masterpiece of dramatic escalation with a continuous change of fears and hopes, with a denouement in which everything is resolved by the final catastrophe, an example of true tragedy, for here the fate of the hero predetermined the fate of Europe, and a fantastic fireworks display of the Napoleonic epic, before dying out forever, falling from the heights, Once again it soared to the heavens like a rocket.

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

PEAR ERROR

Grouchy, the unwitting arbiter of Napoleon's fate, on his orders the night before, set out in the indicated direction. Rain stopped. The companies that yesterday smelled gunpowder for the first time walk carefree, as if in a peaceful country; the enemy is still not visible, there is no trace of the defeated Prussian army.

Suddenly, while the marshal is having a quick breakfast in the farmhouse, the ground shakes slightly under his feet. Everyone is listening. Again and again, dull and already fading, the roar rolls in: these are cannons, distant gunfire, however, not that far, at most - at a distance of a three-hour march. Several officers, according to Indian custom, put their ears to the ground to catch the direction. A dull, distant hum is heard continuously. This is the cannonade at Mont Saint-Jean, the beginning of Waterloo. Pears convenes a council. Warmly, fieryly, Gerard, his assistant, demands: “Il faut marcher au canon” - forward to the place of fire! Another officer supports him: there, quickly there! Everyone understands that the emperor has encountered the British and a fierce battle is in full swing. Pears hesitates. Accustomed to obedience, he fearfully adheres to the instructions, the order of the emperor - to pursue the retreating Prussians. Gerard loses his temper seeing the marshal’s indecisiveness: “Marchez au canon!” - as a command, not a request, this demand of a subordinate sounds in the presence of twenty people - military and civilian. Pears are unhappy. He repeats more sharply and strictly that he is obliged to fulfill his duty exactly until the emperor himself changes the order. The officers are disappointed and the guns roar amid 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 on the spot in a timely manner. Pears thinks. He thinks for just one second.

A DECISIONAL MOMENT IN WORLD HISTORY

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

Grouchy vigorously rejects the offer. No, it is still unacceptable to split up such a small army. His task is to pursue the Prussians, and nothing more. He refuses to act contrary to the orders received. Dissatisfied officers remain silent. Silence reigns around Grusha. And in this silence, something that neither words nor deeds can return irrevocably goes away - the decisive moment goes away. The victory remained with Wellington.

And the shelves move on. Gerard and Vandamme clench their fists angrily. Grushy is alarmed and is losing confidence hour by hour, 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 to 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 muffled over the shaking earth - the iron lot of Waterloo.

AFTERNOON

Meanwhile, it’s already one o’clock in the afternoon. Four attacks were repulsed, but they significantly weakened Wellington's center; Napoleon is preparing for a decisive assault. He orders the artillery at Belle Alliance to be reinforced, and before the smoke of the guns stretches a curtain between the hills, Napoleon takes a last look at the battlefield.

And then in the northeast he notices some shadow that seems to be crawling out of the forest: fresh troops! Instantly all the telescopes turn in that direction: Was it Grushi, 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, Prussian regiments. For the first time, the emperor has a hunch that the defeated Prussian army has escaped persecution and is heading to join the British, while a third of his own army is moving around in empty space without any benefit. He immediately writes a note to Grushi, ordering him to keep in touch at all costs and prevent the Prussians from entering the battle.

At the same time, Marshal Ney receives orders to attack. Wellington must be overthrown before the Prussians approach: now, when the chances have so suddenly and sharply decreased, we must not hesitate to put everything on the line. And so, over the course of several hours, furious attacks followed one after another, and more and more infantry units entered the battle. They occupy the destroyed villages, retreat, and again a wave of people fiercely rushes at the already battered squares of the enemy. But Wellington is still holding out, and there is still no word from Grusha. “Where are Grushi? Where is Grushi stuck? - the emperor whispers in alarm, looking at the approaching vanguard of the Prussians. And his generals are starting to lose patience. Deciding to forcefully snatch the outcome of the battle, Marshal Ney, acting as boldly and courageously as Grouchy acted uncertainly (three horses had already been killed under him), immediately throws the entire French cavalry into the fire. Ten thousand cuirassiers and dragoons gallop towards death, crash into squares, crush ranks, mow down gun servants. True, they are driven back, but the strength of the English army is drying up, the fist clenching the fortified hills begins to unclench. And when the thinned French cavalry retreats before the cannonballs, Napoleon's last reserve - the old guard - with a firm and slow gait goes to storm the heights, the possession of which marks the fate of Europe.

INTERCLOSURE

All day long, four hundred cannons thunder on both sides. On the battlefield, the tramp of horses merges with volleys of guns, drums beat deafeningly, the earth shakes from the roar and roar. But on higher ground, on both hills, both commanders are wary of listening to quieter sounds through the noise of battle.

The chronometers tick, faintly, like a bird's heart, in the Emperor's hand and in Wellington's hand; Both of them continually grab their watches and count the minutes and seconds, waiting for the last, decisive help. Wellington knows that Blücher is coming, Napoleon is relying on Grushi. Both of them have exhausted their reserves, and the one who receives reinforcements first will win. Both look through a telescope at the edge of the forest, where the Prussian avant-garde looms like a light cloud. Advanced patrols or the army itself, which escaped from pursuit of Grusha? The British resistance is already weakening, but the French troops are also tired. Taking a deep breath, like two fighters, opponents stand against each other, gathering their strength for the last fight, which will decide the outcome of the fight.

And finally, gunfire comes from the direction of the forest - cannons and rifles are firing: “Enfin Grouchy!” - finally, Pears! Napoleon breathes a sigh of relief. Confident that his flank is now not threatened, he gathers the remnants of the army and again attacks the center of Wellington in order to knock down the British bolt blocking Brussels and break open the gates to Europe.

But the skirmish turned out to be a mistake: the Prussians, misled by the non-English form, opened fire on the Hanoverians; the shooting stops, and Prussian troops emerge from the forest unhindered in a wide and mighty stream. No, it’s not Grushi with his regiments, it’s Blucher approaching and with him the inevitable denouement. The news quickly spreads among the imperial regiments, they begin to retreat - so far in tolerable order. But Wellington feels the moment has come. He rides on horseback to the very edge of such a fiercely defended hill, takes off his hat and waves it over his head, pointing at 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 attacks the tired, thinned army from the flank. A scream is heard, a murderous “Save yourself who can!” A few more minutes - and the great army turns into an unstoppable stream, driven by fear, which carries everyone and everything, even Napoleon, with it. As if into yielding water, without encountering resistance, the enemy cavalry rushes into this quickly rolling back and wide-spreading stream; Napoleon's carriage, the military treasury and all the artillery are fished out from the foam of panicked screams; Only the onset of darkness saves the emperor's life and freedom. But the one who, at midnight, splashed with mud, exhausted, falls onto a chair in a wretched village tavern, is no longer an emperor. The end of the empire, his dynasty, his destiny; little indecisiveness, limited person destroyed what the bravest, most perspicacious of people 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 carriage along the Brussels road, from Brussels to the sea, where a ship was waiting for him. He arrives in London before the government couriers and, taking advantage of the fact that news has not yet reached the capital, he literally blows up the stock exchange; With this stroke of genius, Rothschild founds a new empire, a new dynasty.

The next day, all of England will learn about the victory, and in Paris, the traitor Fouché, loyal to himself, will know about the defeat; The victorious ringing of bells rings over Brussels and Germany.

Only one person the next morning still knows nothing about Waterloo, despite the fact that only a four-hour journey separates him from the scene of the tragedy: the ill-fated Grouchy, who steadily carries out the order to pursue the Prussians. But surprisingly, the Prussians are nowhere to be found, and this worries him. And the guns roar louder and louder, as if calling for help. Everyone feels the ground trembling beneath them, and every shot reverberates in their hearts. Everyone knows: this is not a simple skirmish; a gigantic, decisive battle has broken out. Grouchy 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 come across the only Prussian detachment - Blucher's rearguard, and this seems to them to be a deliverance. Like those possessed, they rush into the enemy trenches - Gerard is ahead of all; 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 realizes that this small victory is already useless, because there, on the side where the battlefield is, everything suddenly became quiet. There was a menacing, terribly silent, peaceful deathly silence. And everyone is convinced that the roar of the guns was still better than this painful uncertainty. The battle is apparently over, the Battle of Waterloo, about which Grouchy finally receives (alas, too late!) news, along with Napoleon’s demand to go for reinforcements. It is over, a gigantic battle, but who is victorious?

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 here meaninglessly, in impenetrable darkness. In the morning they leave the bivouac and walk along the roads again, 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 us. They help him out of the saddle and bombard him with questions. The officer's face is distorted with despair, his hair, wet with sweat, sticks to his temples, he is shaking from mortal fatigue, and he is barely able to mutter a few inaudible words, but no one understands these words, cannot, does not want to understand. They take him for a madman, for a drunk, because he says that there is no more emperor, there is no imperial army, France is lost. But little by little they extract detailed information from him, and everyone learns 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 takes upon himself the full burden of guilt. An indecisive and timid subordinate, who did not know how to unravel great destinies in those significant moments, 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 he justifies his hesitations and at the same time bitterly regrets them.

Those who were still angry with him yesterday listen to him in silence. Everyone could blame him, boasting that he proposed a different, better solution. But no one dares, no one wants to do this. They are silent and silent. Immeasurable grief blocked their lips.

And at this hour, having missed the decisive second, Grushi belatedly reveals his remarkable talent as a military leader. All his virtues - prudence, diligence, restraint, 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, with a brilliant tactical maneuver through the thick of the enemy troops, withdraws his regiments without losing a single cannon or a single soldier, and saves for France, for the empire, the remnants of its 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 his firmness and management; nothing can compensate him for that second that made him the arbiter of fate and which he was unable to retain.

So terribly does a great, unique moment avenge itself, which only rarely falls to the lot of a mortal, if the one who is called by mistake abandons it. All the bourgeois virtues are a reliable shield from the demands of peacefully ongoing everyday life: prudence, zeal, common sense - all of them helplessly melt in the flames of one single decisive second, which is revealed only to genius and seeks its embodiment in it. With contempt she pushes away the cowardly; Only the brave one is lifted up to heaven by her fiery right hand and numbered among the host of heroes.

Opening of Eldorado

THE MAN WHO IS TIRED OF EUROPE

1834 An American steamer is on its way from Le Havre to New York. On board, among hundreds of adventurers, is Johann August Suter; he is thirty-one years old, comes from Rünenberg, near Basel, and is looking forward to the moment when the ocean will lie between him and the European guardians of the law. Bankrupt, thief, swindler, he, without thinking twice, abandoned 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 the way to a new life. On July 7, he landed in New York and for two years in a row he did whatever he had to do here: he was a packer, a pharmacist, a dentist, a dealer in all kinds of drugs, and a squash owner. Finally, having settled down somewhat, 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 small fortune in a short time and, it seemed, could already live in peace. But past his house in an endless line, hurrying somewhere, people pass - fur traders, hunters, soldiers, adventurers - they come from the west and go to the west, and this word “west” gradually acquires some kind of magical power for him . First - everyone knows this - 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 by; Then the mountains begin, high, inaccessible, and, finally, that unknown country, California, no one knows anything for sure about it, but miracles are told about its fabulous riches; there rivers of milk and honey are at your service, just wish it, but it is far, very far, and you can only get there by risking your life.

But Johann August Suter had the blood of an adventurer in his veins. Live in peace and cultivate your land! No, this did not appeal to him. In 1837, he sold all his belongings, equipped an expedition - acquired wagons, horses, oxen, and, leaving Fort Independence, set off into the Unknown.

HIKE TO CALIFORNIA

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

Zooter was left alone. In vain did they try to keep him here in Vancouver, in vain did they offer him service; he did not give in to persuasion, he was irresistibly attracted by the magic word “California”. On an old, broken sailing ship, he crosses the ocean, heading first to the Sandwich Islands, and then, with great difficulty, passing Alaska, he lands on the coast, on a godforsaken piece of land called San Francisco. But this is not the same San Francisco - a city with a million people, which expanded unprecedentedly after the earthquake - as we know it today. No, it was a miserable fishing village, so named by 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, there was a lack of energetic, enterprising people. Zooter hires a horse and descends into the fertile Sacramento Valley; a day was enough for him to be convinced that there was room here not only for a farm or a large ranch, but for an entire kingdom. The next day he appears in Monterey, in the wretched capital, introduces himself to Governor Alverado and outlines to him a plan for the development of the region: several Polynesians came with him from the islands, and in the future, as needed, he will bring them here, he is ready to establish a settlement here, to found a colony, which he will call it New Helvetia.

Why New Helvetia? - asked the governor.

“I am Swiss and a Republican,” replied Zoeter.

Okay, do what you want, I give you a concession for ten years.

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

NEW HELVETIA

1839 A caravan slowly stretches up the banks of the Sacramento River. In front was Johann August Suter on horseback with a gun over his shoulder, behind him were two or three Europeans, then one hundred and fifty Polynesians in short shirts, thirty ox-drawn wagons with food supplies, seeds, weapons, fifty horses, one hundred and fifty mules, cows, sheep and, finally , a small rearguard - that's the whole army that will conquer New Helvetia. A giant fiery shaft clears the way for them. Forests are burned - it is more convenient than cutting them down. And as soon as the greedy flame swept across the ground, they got to work among the still smoking trees. They built warehouses, dug wells, sown fields that did not require plowing, and made corrals for countless herds. Reinforcements are gradually arriving from neighboring places, from colonies abandoned by missionaries.

The success was gigantic. The first harvest was harvested on its own. The barns were bursting with grain, the herds already numbered thousands, and, although it was sometimes difficult - campaigns against the natives, who invaded the colony again and again, took a lot of energy - New Helvetia turned into a flourishing corner of the earth. Canals are laid, mills are built, trading posts are opened, ships scurry up and down the rivers, Zooter supplies not only Vancouver and the Sandwich Islands, but also all ships anchored off the coast of California. He grows wonderful Californian fruits, which are now famous throughout the world. He orders vines from France and the Rhine, they are well received here, and in a few years vast areas of this distant land are covered with vineyards. For himself, he built a house and well-appointed farms, his Pleyel piano made a long journey of one hundred and eighty days from Paris, a steam engine from New York was carried across the entire continent by sixty oxen. 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 remembers that fourteen years ago he left his wife and three sons somewhere. He writes to them, calls them to him, to his kingdom, now he feels the power in his hands - he is the master of New Helvetia, one of the richest people on earth - and so be it. And finally, the United States is taking this neglected province from Mexico. Now everything is safe and secure. A few more years - and Zouter will become the richest man in the world.

FATAL BLOW OF THE SPADE

1848, January. Suddenly, James Marshall, his carpenter, appears to Zooter. Beside himself with excitement, he bursts into the house - he must tell Zooter something very important. Zooter is surprised: just yesterday he sent Marshall to his farm in Coloma, where a new sawmill is being built, and now he has returned without permission, stands in front of the owner, unable to stop trembling, pushes him into the room, locks the door and pulls out a full handful of sand from his pocket - yellow grains shine in it. Yesterday, while digging, he saw these strange pieces of metal and decided that they were gold, but everyone else laughed at him. Zooter immediately becomes alert, takes the sand, and washes it; yes, it's gold, and he'll go to the farm with Marshall tomorrow. And the carpenter - the first victim of the fever that would soon sweep the whole world - did not wait for the morning and at night, in the rain, moved back.

The next day, Colonel Zuter was already in Coloma. The canal was dammed and the sand began to be examined. It is enough to fill the screen, shake it slightly, and shiny grains of gold remain on the black mesh. Zooter calls the few Europeans who were with him and takes their word to remain silent until the sawmill is built. Deep in thought, he returns to his farm. Grandiose plans are born in his mind. It has never happened before that gold was given so easily, lay so openly, almost not hidden in the ground - and this is his land, Zutera! It seemed as if a decade had flown by in one night - and now he was the richest man in the world.

GOLDEN FEVER

The most rich? No, the poorest, most destitute beggar in this world. A week later the secret became known. One woman is always a woman! - she told it to some passer-by and gave him several golden grains. And then the unheard of happened - Zoeter’s people immediately quit their work: the blacksmiths fled from their anvils, the shepherds from their flocks, the winegrowers from their vines, the soldiers threw down their guns - everyone, as if possessed, hastily grabbed the screens, basins, rushed there, to the sawmill, to extract gold. One night the region became deserted. Cows, which have no one to milk, are dying, bulls are breaking pens, trampling fields where crops are rotting, cheese factories have stopped, barns are collapsing. The entire complex mechanism of the huge economy froze. Telegraph wires carried the alluring news of gold across seas and lands. And people are already arriving from cities and harbors, sailors are leaving their ships, officials are leaving their jobs; In endless columns, gold miners come from the west and east, on foot, on horseback and in wagons - a swarm of human locusts, gripped by a gold fever. An unbridled, rude horde, recognizing no other right than the right of the strong, no other power than the power of the revolver, overwhelmed the flourishing colony. Everything was their property, no one dared to contradict these robbers. They slaughtered Zooter's cows, destroyed his barns and built houses for themselves, trampled his arable land, and stole his cars. One night Zouter became a beggar; he, like King Midas, choked on his own gold.

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

Zooter, bankrupt again, looked at these giant dragon shoots in a daze. At first, he and 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 cursed river and the unfortunate sand. There his wife and three already grown-up sons found him, but she soon died - the hardships of the grueling journey took their toll. Nevertheless, now he has three sons with him, he no longer has one pair of hands, but four, and Zooter again took up work; again, but together with his sons, step by step, he began to make his way into the people, taking advantage of the fabulous fertility of this soil and secretly nurturing a new grandiose plan.

PROCESS

1850 California became part of the United States of America. Following the wealth, order was finally restored in this region obsessed with the gold rush. Anarchy has been curbed and the law has regained its strength.

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 State Government is obliged to compensate for the loss caused to it by the plunderers of its property; of all the gold mined on his land, he demands his share. A process began on a scale that humanity had never yet known about. Zouter sued the 17,221 farmers who had settled on his plantations and demanded that they vacate their illegally occupied plots. He demanded twenty-five million dollars in damages from the California state authorities for the roads, bridges, canals, dams, and mills they had appropriated; he demands 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 could handle the business: the huge profits that the new farms bring are entirely spent on the ruinous process. For four years the case has been moving from one instance to another. On March 15, 1855, the verdict was finally delivered. The incorruptible Judge Thompson, the highest official of California, recognized Zooter's rights to the land as fully justified and indisputable. On that day, Johann August Suter achieved his goal. He is the richest man in the world.

END

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

And for twenty long years the feeble-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, scoundrels, swindlers, people without honor and conscience who extract his last penny from him - his pitiful pension and incite him to continue the litigation. He himself does not need money, he hated gold, which made him a beggar, destroyed his children, and 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 presents his claims to Congress, he trusts various charlatans who resume this matter with great noise. Having dressed Zoeter in a clownish general's uniform, 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, beggarly years. Day after day, Zooter - the laughing stock of all officials, the amusement of all street urchins - 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 annoying petitioner is kept waiting. And there, at the entrance to the Congress building, in the afternoon, he is finally overtaken by a life-saving rupture of heart, the ministers are hastily removing the corpse of some beggar, a beggar, in whose pocket lies a document confirming, according to all earthly laws, the rights of him and his heirs his for the largest fortune in the history of mankind.

Until now, no one has demanded their share of Zouter's inheritance, not a single great-grandson has declared his claims.

To this day, San Francisco, the entire huge region, is located on foreign soil, the law is still trampled here, and only the pen of Blaise Cendrars gave the forgotten Johann August Suter the only right of the people great destiny- the right to memory of descendants.

The fight for the South Pole

FIGHT FOR THE EARTH

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

On old maps and globes the words “Terra incognita” disappeared under the inscriptions of knowledgeable people; the man of the twentieth century knows his planet. An inquisitive thought, in search of new paths, is already forced to descend to the bizarre creatures of the deep sea or ascend to the endless expanses of the sky. Only the air roads remained untrodden, but steel birds are already soaring into the sky, overtaking each other, rushing to new heights, new distances, for all the mysteries have been solved and the soil of earthly curiosity has been depleted.

But the earth bashfully hid one secret from human gaze until our century - it saved two tiny places of its tormented, mutilated body from the greed of its own creatures. She kept the North and South Poles, two almost non-existent, almost insubstantial points, the two ends of the axis around which she has been rotating for thousands of years, untouched, unsullied. She covered this last secret with icy masses, and put eternal winter on guard to protect it from human greed. Frost and whirlwinds imperiously block the entrance, horror and mortal danger drive away daredevils. Only the sun is allowed to cast a quick glance at 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 icy crystal coffin, the body of the Swedish engineer Andre, the bravest of the brave, the one who wanted to hot-air balloon rise above the pole and did not return. All attempts are broken against the sparkling ice walls. For millennia, right up to the present day, the earth here hides its face, in last time victoriously repelling the furious onslaught of mortals. 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 already in his first decade he wants to conquer what millennia could not conquer. The courage of individual daredevils is joined by the rivalry of nations. They are fighting 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; begins a crusade of all tribes and peoples for the possession of places consecrated by fiery desire. Expeditions are being organized on all continents. Humanity is waiting impatiently, because it already knows: the battle is for the last secret of living space. Cook and Peary head from America to the North Pole; Two ships are heading 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 coincides with his track record: he conscientiously performed his duties, which earned him the approval of his superiors, and participated in Shackleton’s expedition. No feats or special heroism were 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 with hidden energy. Gray eyes, tightly compressed lips. Not a single romantic trait, not a glimmer of humor in this face, only iron will and practical common sense. The handwriting is ordinary English handwriting without shades and without curls, fast and confident. His style is clear and precise, expressive in describing the facts and yet dry and matter-of-fact, like the language of a report. Scott writes in English as Tacitus writes in Latin—in uncouth lumps. In everything one can see a man without imagination, a fanatic of practical matters, and therefore a true Englishman, in whom, like most of his compatriots, even genius fits within the strict framework 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 constant iron energy, with the same consciousness of the commonality of tasks and with the same cold, withdrawn face.

But his will is as strong as steel; this is discovered even before the feat is accomplished. Scott intends to finish what Shackleton started. He equips an expedition, but lacks funds. This 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, without hesitation, leaves his Andromache. Friends and comrades are soon found, and nothing earthly can shake his will. “Terra Nova” is the name of a strange ship that should take him to the edge of the Arctic Ocean - strange because it, like Noah’s Ark, is full of all kinds of living creatures, and at the same time it is a laboratory, equipped with books and a thousand precision instruments. For to this deserted, 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 primitive household items - furs, skins, live cattle - are amazingly combined on board with the most complex equipment that meets the latest word in science. And the same astonishing duality that characterizes the ship characterizes the enterprise itself: adventure - but deliberate and balanced, like a commercial transaction, courage - but combined with the most skilful precautions, precise anticipation of all details in the face of unforeseen contingencies.

On June 1, 1910, the expedition leaves England. This summer, the Anglo-Saxon island shines with beauty. The meadows are covered with lush greenery, the sun pours out warmth and light onto a clear, unclouded world. The sailors look with sadness at the shore disappearing from view, because they know that for years, perhaps, they will say goodbye to the warmth and sun forever. 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 unconquered piece of conquered Earth.

ANTARCTIC UNIVERSITY

Meanwhile, they venture out on small forays. They test snowmobiles, learn to ski, and train dogs. They are preparing supplies for a big trip, but slowly, slowly the pages of the calendar are being torn off, and it is still far from summer (until December), when the ship will make its way to them through the pack ice with letters from home. But already now, in the midst of winter, in small detachments they make short treks to harden themselves, test tents, and test experiments. They don’t succeed in everything, but obstacles only fuel their ardor. When they, tired and chilled, return to the parking lot, they are greeted with joyful cries and the warmth of the fire, and this cozy hut at the seventy-seventh degree of latitude, after several days of deprivation, seems to them the best home in the world.

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

This is the only mention of Amundsen in the diary. His name doesn't appear anymore. But there is no doubt that from that day a dark shadow fell on the lonely log house in the ice and that this name disturbs its inhabitants every hour, in dreams and in reality.

HIKE TO THE POLE

An observation post was set up on a hill a mile from the hut. There, on a steep hillock, alone, like a cannon aimed at an invisible enemy, stands an apparatus for measuring the first thermal fluctuations of the approaching sun. They wait all day for his appearance. 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 appearance of the long-awaited luminary, inflames their impatience, and finally the telephone rings in the hut, and from the observation post they report that the sun has risen, for the first time after many months it has raised its head in the polar night. Its light is still weak and pale, its rays barely warm the frosty air, the needles of the measuring instrument barely fluctuate, but just the sight of the sun is already great happiness. The expedition is preparing itself in feverish haste so as not to lose a single minute of this short bright season, which marks spring, summer, and autumn, although according to our moderate standards it is still a harsh winter. A snowmobile is flying ahead. Behind them are sledges drawn by dogs and Siberian horses. The road is prudently divided into stages; Every two days of travel, 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 set out on the campaign all together, but will return one by one, in separate groups, so that the last small detachment - the chosen ones who are destined to conquer the Pole - is left with as many supplies as possible, the freshest dogs and the best sledges. The plan of the trip is masterfully developed, even failures are foreseen. And, of course, there is no shortage of them. After two days of travel, the snowmobile breaks down and is abandoned as excess ballast. The horses also did not live up to expectations, but this time Live nature triumphs over technology, because exhausted horses are shot, and they give the dogs nutritious food that strengthens their strength.

On November 1, 1911, the expedition members split into groups. The photographs capture this amazing caravan: first thirty travelers, then twenty, ten and finally only five people moving through the white desert of the dead primitive world. There is always one in front, looking like a savage, wrapped in furs and scarves, from under which only his 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 is a second, in the same attire and the same pose, followed by a third, twenty black dots stretched out in a sinuous line across the endless blinding whiteness. At night they burrow into tents, erect snow walls to protect their horses from the wind, and in the morning they again set out on a monotonous and joyless journey, inhaling icy air, penetrating into 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, invisible to them, across the white desert towards the same goal. Any little thing threatens danger. A dog runs away, a horse refuses food - all this causes anxiety, because in this loneliness ordinary values take on a different, new meaning. Everything that helps preserve human life is precious and irreplaceable. Perhaps glory depends on the condition of one horse’s hooves; A cloudy sky or a blizzard can hinder 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 their feed, weaken day by day, and finally, in sight of the Beardmore glacier, their strength finally fails. The heavy duty of killing these tenacious animals, who have grown in two years life together far from the world with friends, whom everyone knew by name and more than once rewarded with affection, must be fulfilled. This sad place was called “Slaughter Camp.” Part of the expedition sets off on the return journey, the rest gather all their strength for the last painful pass through the glacier, through the formidable shaft encircling the pole, which can only be overcome by the hot flame of human will.

They are moving more and more slowly, because the crust here is uneven and grainy and the sledges have to be pulled, not pulled. Sharp ice floes cut through the runners, my 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, extreme point, 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 contradict him, but it’s hard for everyone to turn back so close to the goal and give up to their comrades the glory of being the first to see the pole. But the choice has been made. Once again they shake each other’s hands, courageously hiding their excitement, and go 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 around many times in order to feel the living presence of friends at the last minute. The detachment of those returning had already disappeared from sight. The five chosen ones continue their journey into the unknown distance alone: Scott, Bowers, Oates, Wilson and Evans.

SOUTH POLE

The records become more alarming in these last days; they tremble like a blue compass needle as it approaches the pole. “How endlessly the shadows creep around us, moving forward with right side, then slipping away to the left again!” But despair gives way to hope. Scott notes the distance traveled with increasing excitement: “Only one hundred and fifty kilometers to the pole; but if it doesn’t get easier, we won’t be able to stand it,” he writes in exhaustion. Two days later: “One hundred and thirty-seven kilometers to the Pole, but we won’t get it easily.” And suddenly: “Only ninety-four kilometers left to the Pole. Even if we don’t make it, we’ll still be damn close!” On January 14, hope becomes confidence. “Only seventy kilometers, we are at the goal.” The next day - triumph, rejoicing; he writes almost cheerfully: “Another measly fifty kilometers; We’ll get there, no matter what it takes!” These feverish recordings grab your soul, in which you can feel the tension of all your strength, the thrill of impatient anticipation. The prey is close, hands are already reaching out to the last secret of the earth. One last throw - and the goal is achieved.

SIXTEENTH OF JANUARY

“High spirits” - noted in the diary. In the morning they set out earlier than usual, impatience drove them out of their sleeping bags; rather, rather see with your own eyes the great terrible secret. Five undaunted people walk fourteen kilometers in half a day across a soulless white desert: they are cheerful, the goal is close, the feat for the glory of humanity is almost accomplished. Suddenly anxiety grips one of the travelers, Bowers. With a burning gaze, he fixes on a barely noticeable point, blackening among the vast expanses of snow. He doesn’t have the courage to express his guess, but everyone’s heart clenches with a terrible thought: perhaps this is a road milestone set by a human hand. They are trying to dispel their fears. They try to convince themselves - like Robinson, who, having noticed other people's footprints on a desert island, convinced 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 was ahead of them.

Soon the last hope is shattered by an immutable fact: a black flag attached to a turning pole flutters over a strange, abandoned parking lot; traces of runners and dog paws dispel all doubts - Amundsen’s camp was here. The unheard of, the incomprehensible has happened: the pole of the Earth, uninhabited for millennia, for millennia, perhaps since the beginning, inaccessible to human gaze - in some molecule of time, over the course of a month, was opened twice. And they were late - out of millions of months they were late by one single month, they came second in a world for which the first is everything, and the second is nothing! All efforts are in vain, the hardships endured are absurd, the hopes of long weeks, months, years are insane. “All the work, all the hardships and torment - for what? - Scott writes in his diary. “Empty dreams that are now over.” Tears come to their eyes, despite their mortal fatigue, they cannot sleep. Sadly, in sullen silence, as if condemned, they make the last transition to the pole, which they hoped to conquer so victoriously. No one is trying to console anyone; They wander on silently. 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 evaluates the bleak landscape with an indifferent gaze. “Nothing for the eye, nothing that would differ from the terrifying monotony of the last days” - that’s all that Robert F. Scott wrote about the pole. The only thing that stops their attention was created not by nature, but by the enemy’s hand: Amundsen’s tent with the Norwegian flag fluttering arrogantly from a fortress reclaimed by humanity. They find a letter from the conquistador to the unknown person who will be the second to set foot on this place, with a request to forward it to the Norwegian king Gakon. Scott takes upon himself to fulfill his gravest duty: to testify to humanity about someone else's feat, which he passionately desired for himself.

They sadly hoist the “late English flag” next to Amundsen’s victory banner. 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’s scary to think about the return journey.”

DEATH

The return is fraught with tenfold danger. A compass pointed the way to the pole. Now, on the way back, the most important thing is not to lose their own trail, and this for many weeks, so as not to stray away from the warehouses, where food, clothing and warmth await them, contained in several gallons of kerosene. And anxiety seizes them every time a snow whirlwind obscures their eyes, because one wrong step is tantamount to death. Moreover, there is no longer the same vivacity; setting out on a campaign, they were charged with energy accumulated in the warmth and abundance of their Antarctic homeland.

And one more thing: the steel spring of will has weakened. On the trip to the Pole they were inspired great hope to fulfill the cherished dream of the whole world; the consciousness of an immortal feat gave them superhuman strength. Now they are fighting only to save their lives, for their mortal existence, for an 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 arrived earlier than usual, the loose snow under the soles is freezing into dangerous traps in which the foot gets stuck, the frost is exhausting the tired body. That is why their joy is so great every time when, after wandering for many days, they reach the warehouse; a flash of hope sounds in their words. And nothing speaks more eloquently of the heroism of these people, lost in immense solitude, 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 sleds.

But little by little, human courage retreats before the onslaught of nature, which mercilessly, with force hardened over millennia, brings down all its weapons of destruction on the five daredevils: frost, blizzard, piercing wind. Legs have long been wounded; cut rations and hot food taken only once a day can no longer maintain their strength. His comrades notice with horror that Evans, the strongest, suddenly begins to behave very strangely. He lags behind them, constantly complaining about real and imaginary suffering; from his inarticulate speeches they conclude that the unfortunate man, either as a result of a fall or unable to withstand the torment, lost his mind. What to do? Abandon him in the icy desert? But, on the other hand, they need to get to the warehouse as soon as possible, otherwise... Scott does not dare to write this word. At one o'clock in the morning on February 17, the unfortunate Evans dies within a day's march of that "Slaughter Camp" where they can get their first fill thanks to the horses killed a month ago.

The four of them continue the hike, but evil fate pursues them; the nearest warehouse brings bitter disappointment: there is too little kerosene there, which means that you need to use fuel sparingly - the most vital, the only true weapon against the frost. After an icy, blizzard night, they wake up, exhausted, and, having difficulty getting up, trudge on; one of them, Ots, has frostbitten toes. The wind is becoming increasingly harsh, and on March 2 at the next warehouse they will again be severely disappointed: again there is too little fuel.

Now fear can be heard in Scott's notes. You can see how he is trying to suppress it, but through the deliberate calm every now and then a cry of despair breaks through: “This cannot continue,” or: “God bless us! Our strength is running out!”, or: “Our game ends tragically,” and finally: “Will providence come to our aid? We can’t expect anything more from people.” But they trudge on and on, without hope, gritting their teeth. Ots is falling further and further behind and is a burden to his friends. With a midday temperature of 42 degrees, they are forced to slow down, and the unfortunate man knows that he could be the cause of 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 take the patient with them. By evening, he himself demands that they leave him in a sleeping bag and not link their fate with his fate. Everyone resolutely refuses, although they are fully aware that this would bring them relief. Ots trudges a few more kilometers on frostbitten feet to the parking lot where they spend the night. In the morning they look out of the tent: the blizzard is raging fiercely.

Suddenly Ots gets up. “I’ll go out for a minute,” he tells his friends. “Maybe I’ll stay outside for a bit.” They are overcome with trembling, everyone understands what this walk means. But no one dares to restrain him with even a word. No one dares to extend a hand to him in farewell, everyone is reverently silent, because they know that Lawrence Oates, captain of the Enniskillen Dragoons, is heroically walking towards death.

Three tired, exhausted people trudge further across the endless iron-ice desert. They no longer have strength or hope, only the instinct of self-preservation still forces them to move their legs. The bad weather is raging more and more menacingly, in every warehouse there is a new disappointment: not enough kerosene, not enough heat. On March 21, they are only twenty kilometers from the warehouse, but the wind is blowing with such deadly force that they cannot leave the tent. Every evening they hope that in the morning they will be able to reach their goal, meanwhile supplies are dwindling and with them is their last hope. There is no more fuel, and the thermometer shows forty degrees below zero. It's all over: they have a choice - 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. They decide not to move one step closer to the impending doom and to accept death proudly, as they accepted everything that befell them. They crawl into their sleeping bags, and not a single breath tells the world about their death throes.

LETTERS FROM A DYING MAN

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

Amazing letters! Everything small has disappeared in them from the mighty breath of near 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 of humanity. They were written for their time, but speak for eternity.

He writes to his wife. He conjures her to take care of her son - his most precious heritage - asks her 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 have 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, surrounded by all sorts of comforts.”

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 fellow sufferers, instilling in them 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 entire nation, of which he feels like a worthy son 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 his male pride and spiritual chastity did not allow him to utter, these words are now snatched from him by death. “I have never met a person,” he writes to his best friend, “whom I 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 have taken up arms against him, and in a voice to which the proximity of death gives 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 - empty sheets of paper.

Before last minute Until the pencil slipped from his numb fingers, Captain Scott wrote his diary. The hope that these records, testifying to the courage of the English nation, would be found on his body, supported him in these superhuman efforts. With his dead hand, he still manages to write his last wish: “Send this diary to my wife!” But in the cruel consciousness of impending death, he crosses out “to my wife” and writes on top the terrible words: “To my widow.”

ANSWER

Winterers wait for weeks in a log cabin. At first calmly, then with slight anxiety, 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 entire long winter at their camp; 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 was equipped to find at least the remains of the heroes and the message they had bequeathed. On November 12, they reach the tent: they see bodies frozen in sleeping bags, see Scott, who, dying, hugged Wilson brotherly, find letters, documents; they bury the dead heroes. A simple black cross towers lonely over a snowy mound in the 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 century has happened! Friends bring negatives and films home, they are developed, and now Scott is again seen with his companions on a hike, pictures of polar nature are visible, which, besides them, only Amundsen contemplated. The news of his diary and letters spreads through electric wires to 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 becomes a fiery call to humanity to strain its strength to achieve the hitherto unattainable: valiant death gives rise to a tenfold will to live, tragic death an uncontrollable desire for heights stretching into infinity. For only vanity consoles itself with random luck and easy success, and nothing elevates the soul more than a person’s mortal battle 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

This means the guillotine

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2

Long live the Emperor! (French)

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3

Go to the place of fire! (French)

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4

Unknown land (lat.)

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5

New land (lat.)

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6

South Pole Times

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One night genius

An irrevocable moment

Opening of Eldorado

The struggle for the South Pole. . . . . . .

Zweig Stefan

Humanity's Finest Hour

One night genius

1792 For two to 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 the victory of the revolutionary forces poses to him, but he also understands the danger of their defeat. There is no consensus among the parties either. The Girondins, wanting to retain power in their hands, are eager for war; The Jacobins and Robespierre, striving to become in power, are fighting for peace. The tension is increasing every day: the newspapers are screaming, there are endless disputes in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more frantically, and thanks to them, public opinion is becoming more and more inflamed. And therefore, when on April 20 the King of France finally declares war, everyone involuntarily experiences relief, as happens when resolving any difficult issue. All these endless long weeks, a soul-crushing stormy atmosphere weighed over Paris, but the excitement reigning in the border towns was even more tense, even more painful. Troops have already been deployed 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 the first, decisive battle will fall to the lot of this small piece of French land, as always in battles between France and Germany. 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 a tangible, visible reality itself; from the bridgehead - the cathedral tower - one can discern the approaching Prussian regiments with the naked eye. At night, over the river, coldly sparkling in the moonlight, the wind carries from the other bank the signals of the enemy's bugle, the clanking of weapons, the roar of cannon carriages. And everyone knows: one word, one royal decree - and the muzzles of the Prussian guns will erupt with thunder and flame, and the thousand-year struggle between Germany and 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, was so significant, when a military relay carried the message from Paris to Strasbourg that France had declared war. Immediately, streams of excited people poured out of all the houses and alleys; solemnly, regiment by regiment, the entire city garrison proceeded for a final review to the main square. There, the mayor of Strasbourg, Dietrich, is waiting for him with a tricolor sash over his shoulder and a tricolor cockade on his hat, which he waves, greeting the marching troops. Fanfare and drumming call for silence, and Dietrich loudly reads a declaration drawn up in French and German, he reads it in all squares. And as soon as the last words fall silent, the regimental orchestra plays the first of the marches of the revolution - Carmagnola. This, in fact, is not even a march, but a perky, defiantly mocking dance song, but the measured tinkling step gives it the rhythm of a march. The crowd again spreads through houses and alleys, spreading its enthusiasm everywhere; in cafes and clubs they make incendiary speeches and hand out proclamations. “To arms, citizens! Forward, sons of the fatherland! We will never bow our necks!” All speeches and proclamations begin with such and similar calls, and everywhere, in all speeches, in all newspapers, on all posters, on the lips of all citizens, these fighting, sonorous slogans are repeated: “To arms, citizens! Tremble, crowned tyrants! Forward, dear freedom!” And hearing these fiery words, the jubilant crowds take them up again and again.

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