# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Retreat from Moscow (Les Châtiments, Victor Hugo)

THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.
VICTOR HUGO.
(Les Châtiments.)
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red: For the first time the eagle hung down its head. Sombre days! The Emperor slowly came back, Leaving behind him Moscow smoking and black. Like an avalanche winter burst amain, One white plain past, spread another white plain. Nor banner nor chief any order could keep, Late the grand army, now bewildered sheep. The wings from the centre could hardly be known. It snowed. Dead horses and carts overthrown Sheltered the wounded. Bivouacs forlorn Displayed strange sights, sometimes, as broke the morn Trumpeters were seen, upright at their post, Mute, on the saddle, and covered with frost; Trumpets of copper that gave out no tone, Fixed, as for ever, unto lips of stone. Bullets, grape-shot and shells, mixed with the snow, Rained as from heaven upon the troops below. Surprised to find themselves trembling with cold, Who ne'er trembled from fear, these veterans bold Marched pensive; on their grey moustaches clung The hoar-frost; torn above the banners hung.
It snowed,—it snowed continuous. The chill breeze Whistled upon the glazed frost's endless seas; With naked feet, on, on they ever went, No bread to eat, and not a sheltering tent. They were no more hearts living, troops of war, They were mere phantoms of a dream, afar In darkness wandering, amid vapours dim; A mystery; of shadows a procession grim Upon a black sky, to its very rim. Solitude, vast and frightful to behold, Was everywhere,—a Nemesis mute and cold. The snow silently as it fell dense, A shroud immense for this army immense; And every soul felt as if left alone In a wide wilderness, where no light shone, To die, with none to pity or to see. From this sad empire shall we e'er get free? Two foes—the Czar, the North. The North is worst. Cannon were thrown away in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the scant fire high; Those who lay down woke not, or woke to die. Sad and confused, the groups that wildly fled, Devoured them all the desert still and dread. 'Neath the white folds the blinding snow had raised Whole regiments slept. History amazed Beheld the ruin. What to this retreat, Was any former downfall or defeat! What Hannibal's reverses wrapped in gloom! What Attila's, when whole hordes received their doom! Fugitives, men wounded, guns, horses, carts, Tumbrils and waggons, hurried from all parts In wild confusion; at the bridges oft The crush was frightful. Vultures wheeled aloft! Ten thousand men lay down fatigued to sleep,
And then perhaps a hundred woke; a heap Of corpses had the rest become. One night, Ney, whom an army followed late, in flight His watch disputed with three Cossacks wild. 'Who goes! Alert! To arms!' And then defiled These phantoms with their guns, and o'er and o'er, Came the same scenes of tumult and of gore. Our troops beheld upon them headlong fall Time after time, at some strange trumpet-call, Frightful, enwrapt with gloom, with cries like those Of the bald vultures 'mid the boundless snows, Horrible squadrons, whirlwinds of wild men. Perished our army, fled our glory then. The Emperor was there. He stood and gazed At the wild havoc all around, amazed. As on a giant tree for ages spared Falls the rude axe, misfortune now first dared To strike upon him, and he trembling saw, He, living oak, his branches fall, with awe. Chiefs, soldiers, followers died. But with love, Those that remained, all dastard fear above, Still watched his tent to see his shadow pass Backwards and forwards. They believed, alas! Yet in his star; it could not, could not be; He had a work to do, a destiny! To hurl him headlong from his high estate, Would be high treason in his bondsman Fate. And all the while he felt himself alone, Stunned with disasters few have ever known. Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul, What more was written in the Future's scroll? Was this an expiation? It must be so. For what? From whom could he the meaning know? The man of glory trembled, weak and pale,
Like some frail reed beneath an autumn gale. Where were his legions? Scattered on the plains, Or buried in the snow. What now remains? What hides the future still? Ah, who can say? He turned to God, for one enlightening ray. 'Is this the vengeance, God of Hosts?' he cried, And his faint murmur on his pale lips died. 'Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?' A pause; his name was called; of flame a jet Sprang in the darkness; a voice answered, 'No, Not yet.' Outside still lay the dazzling snow. Was it a voice indeed, or but a dream? Hush! hark! No, now, 'tis but the vulture's scream.