Part 5

War came, the Emperor being, by common report, most reluctant to consent to its declaration. He was its first victim. Five weeks after taking the field, he surrendered with nearly one hundred and ninety thousand men at Sédan. The corruption which through twenty years he had fostered, in all parts of the state where he expected to profit by it, had gangrened the army also, that branch which a military tyrant needs to have honestly administered. And now in his need the army failed him. He had been caught, as every one is caught who imagines that he can be wicked with impunity and still keep virtue for an ally when he needs her. From top to bottom his war department was rotten. Conscripts had, by bribe, evaded service; generals had sworn to false muster-rolls; ministers had connived with dishonest contractors. At Sédan, Napoleon paid the penalty of the corruption which he had erected into a system; at Sédan, moreover, he completed that cycle of parallels and imitations which he had made the business of his life. Just as Prussian Blücher paralyzed the last rally of the great Napoleon at Waterloo, so Prussian Moltke achieved the ignominy of Napoleon the Little at Sédan.

Men forget, even when they do not forgive. Frenchmen, furious at the humiliation of Sédan, cursed Napoleon as the author of it. But after a quarter of a century, although they have not forgiven him, they have come to look on him as victim rather than as villain. Later writers have held him up to be pitied. They describe his long years of suffering from the stone; they paint him during that month of August, 1870, as a poor, abject creature of circumstances, driven to bay by an irresistible foe, buffeted, scorned, despised by his own officers and troops. They show him to us, speechless and in agony, lifted from his horse at Saarbrücken; or huddled into a third-class railway carriage with a crowd of common soldiers escaping from the oncoming Prussians; or sitting, as cheerless as a death’s-head, at a council of war; now lodged in mean quarters; now passing gloomily down regiments on their way to defeat, and never a voice to cry _Vive l’Empereur_; ever growing more and more haggard and nervous with worry, disaster, and endless cigarettes; continually pelted with telegrams from Empress Eugénie at Paris, “Do this--do that, or the Empire is lost;” until that final early morning interview with Bismarck in the weaver’s cottage at Donchéry. Latter-day Frenchmen, beholding such misery, have forgotten that Napoleon himself was chiefly responsible for it, and have ceased to execrate.

In closing, let us read, from a letter Bismarck wrote to his wife the day after the surrender, a description of the meeting of Napoleon and his conqueror:--

“_Vendresse_, Sept. 3, 1870. Yesterday morning at five o’clock, after I had been negotiating until one o’clock, A. M., with Moltke and the French generals about the capitulation to be concluded, I was awakened by General Reille, with whom I am acquainted, to tell me that Napoleon wished to speak with me. Unwashed and unbreakfasted, I rode towards Sedan, found the Emperor in an open carriage, with three aides-de-camp and three in attendance on horseback, halted on the road before Sédan. I dismounted, saluted him just as politely as at the Tuileries, and asked for his commands. He wished to see the King. I told him, as the truth was, that his Majesty had his quarters fifteen miles away, at the spot where I am now writing. In answer to Napoleon’s question where he should go, I offered him, as I was not acquainted with the country, my own quarters at Donchéry, a small place in the neighborhood, close by Sédan. He accepted and drove, accompanied by his six Frenchmen, by me and by Carl (who in the mean time had ridden after me), through the lonely morning, towards our lines. Before reaching the spot, he began to be troubled on account of the possible crowd, and he asked me if he could alight in a lonely cottage by the wayside. I had it inspected by Carl, who brought word it was mean and dirty. ‘_N’importe_’ (No matter), said N., and I ascended with him a rickety, narrow staircase. In an apartment ten feet square, with a deal-table and two rush-bottomed chairs, we sat for an hour; the others were below. A powerful contrast with our last meeting in the Tuileries in ’67. Our conversation was difficult, if I wanted to avoid touching on topics which could not but affect painfully the man whom God’s mighty hand had cast down. I had sent Carl to fetch officers from the town, and to beg Moltke to come.”

That morning the terms of capitulation were drawn up, and the next day Napoleon went a prisoner to Wilhelmshöhe, whence, in due time, he was allowed to depart for England. At Chislehurst, on January 9, 1873, he died, having lived to see not only the extinction of French Imperialism and of the temporal Papacy, but also the creation of the German Empire and the union of Italy. To prevent all of these things had been his aim.

In a life like Garibaldi’s we see what a disinterested genius can do by appealing to men’s noble motives: the career of Louis Napoleon illustrates not less clearly what a man with talents and without scruples can accomplish by appealing to the instincts of vainglory and selfishness and terror; to the instinct which bullies weak nations and hoists the flag where it does not belong; to the instinct which has not the courage to acknowledge an error, but is quick to impute injuries, and declares that there shall be one conscience for politicians and another for citizens. Let us not flatter ourselves that only the French have cherished these stupendous delusions; let us rather take warning by the retribution exacted from them.

“Forgetful is green earth: the Gods alone Remember everlastingly; they strike Remorselessly, and ever like for like. By their great memories the Gods are known.”

KOSSUTH

The history of Hungary is in this respect unique: it records the career of an alien tribe which, cutting its way from Eastern Asia to the heart of Europe, founded there a nation, and this nation, after the friction of a thousand years, still preserves its racial characteristics. In 894 Duke Arpád led his horde of Magyars--whose earlier kinsmen were Huns and Avars--up the valley of the Danube. Long were they a terror to Europe; then, gradually, they had to content themselves with Hungary as their home. They became Christians; they adopted a monarchical government; alongside of their Aryan neighbors, they took on mediæval civilization. Europe, unable to expel or to destroy, acknowledged them as citizens. The time came when the Magyars, in a conflict lasting fivescore years, defended Europe against the invasion of another horde of Asiatic barbarians; till, unsupported by their neighbors, the Magyars succumbed to the Turks in the battle of Mohács in 1526. Afterwards, for one hundred and fifty years, Hungary herself writhed in the hands of the Mussulman; when that bondage ceased, she had a different oppressor,--Austria.

The Hungarian monarchy was elective, and after the battle of Mohács the Magyars chose for their king the sovereign of the Austrian states. The succession continued in the House of Hapsburg, becoming in fact hereditary; but, before the Magyars accepted him as king, each Hapsburg candidate must be ratified by the Hungarian Diet, and must swear to uphold the Hungarian Constitution. When, however, the expulsion of the Turks, at the end of the seventeenth century, left the Austrian sovereigns free to exercise their authority, they set about curtailing the ancient liberties of Hungary. Throughout the eighteenth century that process went on: the Magyars protested; the Emperor-King encroached, or, when the protests threatened to pass into insurrection, he paused for a while and gave fair promises.

Such was the situation when the French Revolution, followed by Napoleon’s colossal ambition, startled Europe. During the quarter century of upheaval, the Magyars, still pouring their grievances into Vienna, remained loyal to their King. After Napoleon’s downfall, the Old Régime being firmly reëstablished, Emperor Francis not only failed to keep his promises towards Hungary, but revived the old policy of Austrianization, which meant the substitution of German for Magyar officials, and the removal of the chief branches of government to Vienna. Again the protests became angry, until Francis, baffled and alarmed, convened the Diet. With the year 1825, when that Diet met, began the modern struggle of Hungary to recover that home rule which one after another of her Hapsburg kings had solemnly sworn to respect, and had as perfidiously disregarded. Thus the seed of the Magyar revolution was sown, like that of so many others, in a demand for the restoration of acknowledged rights, and not in a demand for innovation. Home rule,--Hungary to govern herself, instead of being bullied by foreigners who happened to be also subjects of her Emperor-King,--that seemed an object as simple and definite as it was just. Experience soon showed, however, that this cause was not simple; that it no more could be attained alone than gold can be taken from quartz without crushing the quartz and separating the silver and lead, and the crushed quartz itself, from the desired gold. For Hungary was imbedded in an old civilization, which must be broken up before home rule, and many another modern ideal, could be attained.

Imagine a country having an area about as large as the State of Colorado, inhabited by people sprung from four different races,--the Magyar, the Slav, the German, and the Italian: imagine, further, these races subdivided into eight different peoples,--Magyars, having poor kinsmen called Szeklers; Slavs, sending forth four different shoots, Slovaks in the North, Croats in the Southwest, Serbs in the South, and Wallachs in the East; imagine this motley population holding various creeds,--Roman Catholic, Greek Catholic, Calvinist, Lutheran, and Unitarian: imagine not merely each race, but each people, cherishing its own language, its own customs, its own ambitions, which inevitably clashed with those of its neighbors: and having imagined all this, you have not yet come to the end of Hungary’s complex organism. Beside the conflicts of race and creed, there were political and social complications.

The dominant race was the Magyars, who numbered, however, only a third of the total population; their prevailing system was the feudal. A few hundred great nobles, or magnates, a considerable body of small nobles and a multitude of artisans, tradesmen, and peasants made up the social strata. Every Magyar who could trace descent to Arpád and his followers--though he were but a peasant in condition--was a noble: members of all the other races had no political rights. Hungary proper comprised fifty-two counties, each of which had its local congregation or assembly, which met four times a year, and sent suggestions or bills of grievances to the Central Diet, composed of the Table of Magnates and the Table of Deputies. A Palatine or Viceroy, representing the Sovereign, was the actual head of the kingdom. Outside of Hungary proper, the Croats had their local Diet at Agram, and Transylvania had hers; both also chose representatives to the Hungarian Diet. In a measure, therefore, we may call Hungary a federation, not forgetting, however, that it was a federation in which one race, the Magyars, domineered. The Latin language was the common medium of communication between Hungary and Austria, and among the diverse peoples.

The most significant event of the Diet of 1825 was the use by Count Stephen Széchenyi of the Magyar language instead of the Latin. Széchenyi, having traveled in Western Europe, came back imbued with large schemes of progress. He helped to introduce steamboats on the Danube; he founded a Magyar Academy; he proposed to join Buda and Pesth by a suspension bridge. By stimulating the material welfare of his country, he hoped that many of the social abuses would vanish without a struggle. And now his use of the Magyar language was a symptom of the awakening of the spirit of nationality,--one of the controlling motives in the history of Europe during the nineteenth century. In Hungary, as elsewhere, the arousing of that spirit was evidenced not only by an intenser political life, but also by a literary revival.

In direct reforms the Diet of 1825 accomplished little,--the Austrian government being still adroit in postponing a settlement,--but it was important in so far as it revealed the presence of new forces, whose nature was as yet undetermined. By the time another Diet assembled, in 1832, several questions had taken a definite shape. Foremost, of course, was Hungary’s demand of home rule, in which all Magyars stood side by side; but when it came to internal affairs, they inevitably disagreed. The advanced Liberals proposed to emancipate the serfs, to extend the suffrage, and to abolish many of the privileges of the aristocracy. How grievous was the condition of the Hungarian serf may be inferred from the fact that, in spite of an improvement decreed by Maria Theresa, he was still bound to contribute to his landlord the equivalent of more than one hundred days’ labor a year; he had no civic rights, and no other chance of redress than in the manorial court presided over by his master. The nobles, on the other hand, paid no taxes, ruled the county assemblies, appointed magistrates, and, except in case of a foreign invasion, rendered no military service, in return for all their exorbitant immunities.

That Magyar aristocracy has played so prominent a part in the history of Hungary that we may pause a moment to describe it. In 1830 the Magyar magnate was still the most picturesque noble in Europe. Like the Spanish grandee and the Venetian senator of an earlier time, he represented one of the highest expressions of the privileged classes. He was haughty, but warm-hearted; emotional, but brave: appeal to his honor, to his magnanimity, and--as Maria Theresa found--he would forget his grievances, disregard his interests, and devote himself body and soul to your cause. He might be ignorant, a spendthrift, an exacting master, but in his capacity for generosity he was--by whatever standard--truly a noble. In old times his forefathers had assembled every year, or when an emergency required, on the plain of Rákos,--a host of gallant warriors, in brilliant armor and gorgeous cloaks and trappings. There they deliberated--perhaps chose a king or deposed one--and then each rode home with his retinue, to live in a splendor half-barbaric for another year. In his dress the Magyar had an Oriental love of color, and in his music there is a similar glow, a similar charm.

As late as 1840 both the magnates and the lesser nobility clung to their national costume as loyally as to their national constitution. “It now consists of the _attilla_” writes Paget at that date, “a frock coat, reaching nearly to the knee, with a military collar, and covered in front with gold lace; over this is generally worn, hanging loosely on one shoulder, the _mente_, a somewhat larger coat, lined with fur, and with a fur cape. It is generally suspended by some massive jeweled chain. The tight pantaloons and ankle-boots, with the never-failing spurs, form the lower part. The _kalpak_, or fur cap, is of innumerable forms, and ornamented by a feather fastened by a rich brooch. The white heron’s plume, or aigrette, the rare product of the Southern Danube, is the most esteemed. The neck is opened, except for a black ribbon loosely passed round it, the ends of which are finished with gold fringe. The sabre is in the shape of the Turkish scimitar; indeed, richly ornamented Damascus blades, the spoils of some unsuccessful Moslem invasion, are very often worn, and are highly prized.

“The sword-belt is frequently a heavy gold chain, such as our ancient knights wore over their armor. The colors, as in many respects the form, of the Hungarian uniform, depend entirely on the taste of the individual, and vary from the simple blue dress of the hussar, with white cotton lace, to the rich stuffs, covered with pearls and diamonds, of the Prince Esterházy.

“On the whole, I know of no dress so handsome, so manly, and at the same time so convenient. It is only on gala days that gay and embroidered dresses are used; on ordinary occasions, as sittings of the Diet, county meetings, and others in which it is customary to wear uniform, dark colors with black silk lace, and trousers, or Hessian boots, are commonly used.”[1]

[1] John Paget, _Hungary and Transylvania_ (new edition, New York, 1850), i, 249, 250.

Such, in its dress, was the Magyar aristocracy which the reformers set themselves to overcome; and in their character those Magyar nobles--were they magnates or simply gentlemen--cherished a tenacity of class unsurpassed by any other aristocrats in Europe. Nevertheless, the reformers boldly put forth a programme which involved the complete social and political reorganization of the country,--even throwing down a challenge to the aristocracy to surrender privileges in which these deemed their very existence rooted. Parties had begun to array themselves on these lines when Louis Kossuth entered public life.

Born at the village of Monok, Zemplen County, on April 27, 1802, Kossuth had for his father a lesser noble, Slavic in origin, Lutheran in faith, and lawyer by profession. The son received a good education, and began to practice law, which led easily to politics. He sat in his county assembly, was early conspicuous as an advocate of popular rights and as an eloquent speaker. Thus equipped, he took his seat in the Diet of 1832, where, as proxy to a magnate, he had a voice but no vote. There seemed slight chance of his emerging from his proxy’s obscurity, but to genius all conditions are fluid. Kossuth conceived the plan of publishing the reports of the debates in the Diet. The government permitted no newspapers, and trimmed all other publications to suit its views; but the members of both Houses could speak freely, without danger of arrest for any of their utterances in the Diet. To circulate their speeches would, therefore, as Kossuth saw, put within reach of the Hungarians a mass of political reading not otherwise obtainable. Hardly had he begun to publish, ere government signified its desire of buying his press. Deprived of this, he employed secretaries who wrote out his abstracts of the proceedings and sent them through the mails to their destination. Government ordered its postmen to confiscate and destroy. Still unvanquished, Kossuth dispatched his budgets by special messengers. Government was foiled. By these devices, before the close of the Diet in 1836, Kossuth--the obscure magnate’s proxy--had become one of the most widely known men in the kingdom. The reports were literally _his_ reports, giving not only the tenor of the chief debates, but also his comments thereon.

He now proposed to edit in similar fashion the proceedings of the quarterly meetings of the fifty-two county assemblies; but Government, no longer restrained by his inviolability as member of the Diet, arrested him. He spent two years in prison, denied books and all intercourse with his friends, before his case came to trial: then he was sentenced to a further confinement of four years, during which his great solace was the study of Shakespeare.

Meanwhile, political and social agitation was swelling. The King, thinking a European war over the Eastern Question imminent, summoned another Diet to vote him a fresh subsidy and more soldiers. But the Diet, indignant and headstrong, refused all help till Kossuth and some other political prisoners should be released. The King yielded. Kossuth came forth a national hero.

After several months spent in recuperating his health, Kossuth, in January, 1841, established the _Pesti Hirlap_, or _Pesth Gazette_. That Government acquiesced in this project showed how far the tide of Liberalism had risen. It showed, too, that Government was astute,--hoping in this way to rob Kossuth of his martyr’s halo; deeming it wiser to let him publish openly than surreptitiously; trusting, above all, to the sharpness of its censors’ eyes and scissors. Kossuth, on his side, was equally cunning, versed in the art of dressing his opinions in such guise that the censor could not object to them, though they carried a meaning which his readers knew how to interpret according to his intention. He wrote on all topics with a vehemence and an Oriental heat which won him tens of thousands of admirers. Like any Magyar patriot, he could count on one of the most powerful of allies,--the race hatred between his countrymen and the Austrians. The very word “German” signified, in the Magyar language, _vile_, _base_, _despicable_. There was a Magyar proverb to the effect that “German is the only language God does not understand.” Innumerable illustrations of this antipathy might be cited, but the following, which Paget tells, will serve as well as another: The proprietor of a theatre produced what he considered a fine piece of scenery, in which was represented a full moon, with round, fat, clean-shaved face. When it rose, the audience hissed, and shouted, “Down with the German moon!” The manager took the hint; next night there rose a swarthy-cheeked, black-moustachioed orb. Hurrahs burst from every mouth, and all cried, “Long live our own true Magyar moon!”

Doubt not that Kossuth knew how to kindle the fuel which ages of hatred had been storing. He had the gift peculiar to really great popular leaders of appealing directly to racial pride and passion; so it mattered little that he dealt in generalizations. Speaking broadly, he preached the abolition of feudalism and the aggrandizement of the Magyar nationality. The former purpose brought him and the Liberals into conflict with the conservative aristocracy; the latter inflamed against the Magyars the long-smouldering hatred of their subject peoples.

For the spirit of nationality had awakened these also. The Slavs of Croatia, Slavonia, and Dalmatia dreamed of establishing a great Slavic kingdom in Southeastern Europe; they, too, were putting forth a literature. Their Illyrism--to their prospective nation they gave the name “Illyria”--clashed with the recrudescent Magyarism. When the Hungarian Diet decreed that the Magyar language should be taught in their schools, and that every official must use it, they protested as strenuously as the Magyars themselves had protested when Austria tried to impose the German language and German officials on them. “The Magyars are an island in the Slavic ocean,” exclaimed Gaj, the poet and spokesman of Illyrism, to the Hungarian Diet: “I did not make this ocean, I did not stir up its waves; but take care that they do not go over your heads and drown you.” Nevertheless, the law was passed. In the Southland the Serbs along the Danube, in the East the Wallachs of Transylvania, feeling the first tingle of national aspirations, resented this encroachment. Austria--whose motto was, _Divide et impera_--found her advantage in embittering tribe with tribe and class with class.