Humanity's finest hour Stefan. Stefan Zweig is humanity's finest hour. About the book “Humanity’s Finest Hours” Stefan Zweig

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. No consensus and the parties. 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 arguments in the clubs, rumors are swarming more and more frantically, and thanks to them, everything is becoming more and more inflamed. public opinion. And therefore, when on April 20 the King of France finally declares war, everyone involuntarily feels relieved, as happens when any resolution is resolved. difficult question. 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. Fanfares and drumming call for silence, and Dietrich reads loudly a composition composed in French and German languages declaration, 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 the loud, confident voices of hope, and so he turns the day of the declaration of war into folk 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 does when asking good friends for some trifling favor, asks Captain Rouget (by the way, this captain, without any reason, embezzled noble title and bears the surname Rouget de Lisle), will he take advantage of the patriotic enthusiasm to compose a marching song for the Army of the Rhine, which is leaving tomorrow to fight the enemy.

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 sleep in such a decisive moments.

Zweig Stefan star clock humanity

Stefan Zweig

In historical miniatures from the series “Humanity’s Finest Hours,” Zweig paints episodes of the past in which personal feat a person 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.

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 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.

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.

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!

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 or invent, he just...

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.

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.

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.

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 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.