The battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won it as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic;[10] Blucher sees nothing in it but fire; Wellington understands nothing in regard to it. Look at the reports. The bulletins are confused, the commentaries involved. Some stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four moments; Muffling cuts it up into three changes; Charras alone, though we hold another judgment than his on some points, seized with his haughty glance the characteristic outlines of that catastrophe of human genius in conflict with divine chance. All the other historians suffer from being somewhat dazzled, and in this dazzled state they fumble about. It was a day of lightning brilliancy; in fact, a crumbling of the military monarchy which, to the vast stupefaction of kings, drew all the kingdoms after it--the fall of force, the defeat of war.
[10] "A battle terminated, a day finished, false measures repaired, greater successes assured for the morrow,--all was lost by a moment of panic, terror."--Napoleon, Dictees de Sainte Helene.
In this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part played by men amounts to nothing.
If we take Waterloo from Wellington and Blucher, do we thereby deprive England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England nor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank Heaven, nations are great, independently of the lugubrious feats of the sword. Neither England, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a scabbard. At this epoch when Waterloo is only a *ing of swords, above Blucher, Germany has Schiller; above Wellington, England has Byron. A vast dawn of ideas is the peculiarity of our century, and in that aurora England and Germany have a magnificent radiance. They are majestic because they think. The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrinsic with them; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident. The aggrandizement which they have brought to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as its source. It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory. That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm. Civilized people, especially in our day, are neither elevated nor abased by the good or bad fortune of a captain. Their specific gravity in the human species results from something more than a combat. Their honor, thank God! their dignity, their intelligence, their genius, are not numbers which those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the lottery of battles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered. There is less glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace; reason takes the word. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us, therefore, speak of Waterloo coldly from both sides. Let us render to chance that which is due to chance, and to God that which is due to God. What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The winning number in the lottery.
The quine[11] won by Europe, paid by France.
[11] Five winning numbers in a lottery.
It was not worth while to place a lion there.
Waterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and Wellington. They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God, who is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate coolness, an imperturbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground, tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions, carnage, executed according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, nothing voluntarily left to chance, the ancient classic courage, absolute regularity; on the other, intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming glance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which strikes like the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the mysteries of a profound soul, associated with destiny; the stream, the plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to obey, the despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle; faith in a star mingled with strategic science, elevating but perturbing it. Wellington was the Bareme of war; Napoleon was its Michael Angelo; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by calculation. On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who succeeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come. Wellington expected Blucher; he came.
Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his dawning, had encountered him in Italy, and beaten him superbly. The old owl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not only struck as by lightning, but disgraced. Who was that Corsican of six and twenty? What signified that splendid ignoramus, who, with everything against him, nothing in his favor, without provisions, without ammunition, without cannon, without shoes, almost without an army, with a mere handful of men against masses, hurled himself on Europe combined, and absurdly won victories in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict, who almost without taking breath, and with the same set of combatants in hand, pulverized, one after the other, the five armies of the emperor of Germany, upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi, Wurmser on Beaulieu, Melas on Wurmser, Mack on Melas? Who was this novice in war with the effrontery of a luminary? The academical military school excommunicated him, and as it lost its footing; hence, the implacable rancor of the old Caesarism against the new; of the regular sword against the flaming sword; and of the exchequer against genius. On the 18th of June, 1815, that rancor had the last word. and beneath Lodi, Montebello, Montenotte, Mantua, Arcola, it wrote: Waterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the majority. Destiny consented to this irony. In his decline, Napoleon found Wurmser, the younger, again in front of him.
In fact, to get Wurmser, it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.
Waterloo is a battle of the first order, won by a captain of the second.
That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo, is England; the English firmness, the English resolution, the English blood; the superb thing about England there, no offence to her, was herself. It was not her captain; it was her army.
Wellington, oddly ungrateful, declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst, that his army, the army which fought on the 18th of June, 1815, was a "detestable army." What does that sombre intermingling of bones buried beneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that?
England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make Wellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing but a hero like many another. Those Scotch Grays, those Horse Guards, those regiments of Maitland and of Mitchell, that infantry of Pack and Kempt, that cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset, those Highlanders playing the pibroch under the shower of grape-shot, those battalions of Rylandt, those utterly raw recruits, who hardly knew how to handle a musket holding their own against Essling's and Rivoli's old troops,--that is what was grand. Wellington was tenacious; in that lay his merit, and we are not seeking to lessen it: but the least of his foot-soldiers and of his cavalry would have been as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth as much as the Iron Duke. As for us, all our glorification goes to the English soldier, to the English army, to the English people. If trophy there be, it is to England that the trophy is due. The column of Waterloo would be more just, if, instead of the figure of a man, it bore on high the statue of a people.
But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She still cherishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion. She believes in heredity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none in power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people. And as a people, it willingly subordinates itself and takes a lord for its head. As a workman, it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldier, it allows itself to be flogged.
It will be remembered, that at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant who had, it appears, saved the army, could not be mentioned by Lord Paglan, as the English military hierarchy does not permit any hero below the grade of an officer to be mentioned in the reports.
That which we admire above all, in an encounter of the nature of Waterloo, is the marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rain, the wall of Hougomont, the hollow road of Ohain, Grouchy deaf to the cannon, Napoleon's guide deceiving him, Bulow's guide enlightening him,-- the whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted.
On the whole, let us say it plainly, it was more of a * than of a battle at Waterloo.
Of all pitched battles, Waterloo is the one which has the smallest front for such a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters of a league; Wellington, half a league; seventy-two thousand combatants on each side. From this denseness the carnage arose.
The following calculation has been made, and the following proportion established: Loss of men: at Austerlitz, French, fourteen per cent; Russians, thirty per cent; Austrians, forty-four per cent. At Wagram, French, thirteen per cent; Austrians, fourteen. At the Moskowa, French, thirty-seven per cent; Russians, forty-four. At Bautzen, French, thirteen per cent; Russians and Prussians, fourteen. At Waterloo, French, fifty-six per cent; the Allies, thirty-one. Total for Waterloo, forty-one per cent; one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants; sixty thousand dead.
To-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth, the impassive support of man, and it resembles all plains.
At night, moreover, a sort of visionary mist arises from it; and if a traveller strolls there, if he listens, if he watches, if he dreams like Virgil in the fatal plains of Philippi, the hallucination of the catastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th of June lives again; the false monumental hillock disappears, the lion vanishes in air, the battle-field resumes its reality, lines of infantry undulate over the plain, furious gallops traverse the horizon; the frightened dreamer beholds the flash of sabres, the gleam of bayonets, the flare of bombs, the tremendous interchange of thunders; he hears, as it were, the death rattle in the depths of a tomb, the vague clamor of the battle phantom; those shadows are grenadiers, those lights are cuirassiers; that skeleton Napoleon, that other skeleton is Wellington; all this no longer exists, and yet it *es together and combats still; and the ravines are empurpled, and the trees quiver, and there is fury even in the clouds and in the shadows; all those terrible heights, Hougomont, Mont-Saint-Jean, Frischemont, Papelotte, Plancenoit, appear confusedly crowned with whirlwinds of spectres engaged in exterminating each other.
滑铁卢战争是个谜。它对胜者和败者都一样是不明不白的。对拿破仑，它是恐怖①，布吕歇尔只看见炮火，威灵顿完全莫名其妙。看那些报告吧。公报是漫无头绪的，评论是不得要领的。这部分人讷讷，那部分人期期。若米尼把滑铁卢战事分成四个阶段；米夫林又把它截成三个转变，惟有夏拉，虽然在某几个论点上我们的见解和他不一致，但他却独具慧眼，是抓住那位人杰和天意接触时产生的惨局中各个特殊环节的人。其他的历史家都有些目眩神迷，也就不免在眩惑中摸索。那确是一个风驰电掣的日子，好战的专制政体的崩溃震动了所有的王国，各国君王都为之大惊失色，强权覆灭，黩武主义败退。
①“一场战斗的结束，一日工作的完成，措置失宜的挽救，来日必获的更大胜利，这一切全为了一时的恐怖而失去了。”（拿破仑在圣赫勒拿岛日记。）棗原注。
在那不测之事中，显然有上天干预的痕迹，人力是微不足道的。
我们假设把滑铁卢从威灵顿和布吕歇尔的手中夺回，英国和德国会丧失什么吗？不会的。名声大振的英国和庄严肃穆的德国都和滑铁卢问题无关。感谢上天，民族的荣誉并不在残酷的武功。德国、英国、法国都不是区区剑匣所能代表的。当滑铁卢剑声铮铮的时代，在布吕歇尔之上，德国有哥德，在威灵顿之上，英国有拜伦。思想的广泛昌明是我们这一世纪的特征，在那曙光里，英国和德国都有它们辉煌的成就。它们的思想已使它们成为大家的表率。它们有提高文化水平的独特功绩。那种成就是自发的，不是偶然触发的。它们在十九世纪的壮大决不起源于滑铁卢。只有野蛮民族才会凭一战之功突然强盛。那是一种顷忽即灭的虚荣，有如狂风掀起的白浪。文明的民族，尤其是在我们这个时代，不因一个将领的幸与不幸而有所增损。他们在人类中的比重不取决于一场战事的结果。他们的荣誉，谢谢上帝，他们的尊严，他们的光明，他们的天才都不是那些赌鬼似的英雄和征服者在战争赌局中所能下的赌注。常常是战争失败，反而有了进步。少点光荣，使多点*。鼙鼓无声，理性争鸣。那是一种以败为胜的玩意儿。既是这样，就让我们平心静气，从两方面来谈谈滑铁卢吧。我们把属于机缘的还给机缘，属于上帝的归诸上帝。滑铁卢是什么？是一种丰功伟绩吗？不，是一场赌博。
是一场欧洲赢了法国输了的赌博。
在那地方立只狮子似乎是不值得的，况且滑铁卢是有史以来一次最奇特的遭遇。拿破仑和威灵顿，他们不是敌人，而是两个背道而驰的人。喜用对偶法的上帝从来不曾造出一种比这更惊人的对比和更特别的会合。一方面是准确，预见，循规蹈矩，谨慎，先谋退步，预留余力，头脑顽强冷静，步骤坚定，战略上因地制宜，战术上部署平衡，进退有序，攻守以时，绝不怀侥幸心理，有老将的传统毅力，绝对缜密周全；而另一方面是直觉，凭灵感，用奇兵，有超人的本能，料事目光如炬，一种说不出的如同鹰视雷击般的能力，才气纵横，敏捷，自负，心曲深沉，鬼神莫测，狎玩命运，川泽、原野、山林似乎都想去操纵，迫使服从，那位专制魔王甚至对战场也要放肆，他把军事科学和星相学混为一谈，加强了信心，同时也搅乱了信心。威灵顿是战争中的巴雷姆①，拿破仑是战争中的米开朗琪罗，这一次，天才被老谋深算击溃了。
①巴雷姆（BarreDme），十七世纪法国数学家。
两方面都在等待援兵。计算精确的人成功了。拿破仑等待格鲁希，他没有来。威灵顿等待布吕歇尔，他来了。
威灵顿，便是进行报复的古典战争，波拿巴初露头角时，曾在意大利碰过他，并把他打得落花流水。那老枭曾败在雏鹰手里。古老的战术不仅一败涂地，而且臭名远扬。那个当时才二十六岁的科西嘉人是什么，那个风流倜傥的无知少年，势孤敌众，两手空空，没有粮秣，没有军火，没有炮，没有鞋，几乎没有军队，以一小撮人反抗强敌，奋击沆瀣一气的欧洲，他在无可奈何之中竟不近情理地多次获得胜利，那究竟是怎么回事？从什么地方钻出了那样一个霹雳似的暴客，能够一口气，用一贯的手法，先后粉碎德皇的五个军，把博利厄摔在阿尔文齐身上，维尔姆泽摔在博利厄身上，梅拉斯摔在维尔姆泽身上，麦克又摔在梅拉斯身上。那目空一切的新生尤物是什么人？学院派的军事学家在逃遁时都把他看作异端。因此在旧恺撒主义与新恺撒主义之间，在规行矩步的刀法与雷奔电掣的剑法之间，庸才与天才之间，有了无可调和的仇恨。仇恨终于在一八一五年六月十八日写出了那最后的字，在洛迪、芒泰贝洛、芒泰诺泰、曼图亚、马伦哥、阿尔科拉①之后，添上了滑铁卢。庸人们的胜利，多数人的慰藉。上天竟同意了这种讽刺。拿破仑在日薄西山时又遇见了小维尔姆泽②。
①这些都是拿破仑打胜仗的地方。
②维尔姆泽（Wumser，1724?797），奥军将领，一七九六年为拿破仑所败，此时已去世。
的确，要打败维尔姆泽，只需使威灵顿的头发变白就是了。
滑铁卢是一场头等战争，却被一个次等的将领胜了去。
在滑铁卢战争中，我们应当钦佩的是英格兰，是英国式的刚毅，英国式的果敢，英国式的热血；英格兰的优越，它不至见怪吧，在于它本身。不是它的将领，而是它的士兵。
忘恩负义到出奇的威灵顿在给贵人巴塞司特的一封信里提到他的军队，那在一八一五年六月十八日作战的军队，是一支“可恶的军队”。那些七零八落埋在滑铁卢耕地下的可怜枯骨对他的话又作何感想？
英格兰在威灵顿面前过于妄自菲薄了。把威灵顿捧得那样高便是小看了英格兰。威灵顿只是个平凡的英雄。那些灰色的苏格兰军、近卫骑兵、梅特兰和米契尔的联队、派克和兰伯特的步兵、庞森比和萨默塞特的骑兵、在火线上吹唢呐的山地人、里兰特的部队、那些连火枪都还不大知道使用但却敢于对抗埃斯林、里沃利①的老练士卒的新兵，他们才是伟大的。威灵顿顽强，那是他的优点，我们不和他讨价还价，但是他的步兵和骑兵的最小的部分都和他一样坚强。铁军比得上铁公爵。在我们这方面，我们全部的敬意属于英国的士兵、英国的军队和英国的人民。假使有功绩，那功绩也应属于英格兰。滑铁卢的华表如果不是顶着一个人像，而是把一个民族的塑像高插入云，那样会比较公允些。
但是大英格兰听了我们在此地所说的话一定会恼怒。它经历了它的一六八八年和我们的一七八九年后却仍保留封建的幻想。它信仰世袭制度和等级制度。世界上那个最强盛、最光荣的民族尊重自己的国家而不尊重自己的民族。做人民的，自甘居人之下，并把一个贵人顶在头上。工人任人蔑视，士兵任人鞭笞。我们记得，在因克尔曼②战役中，据说有个中士救了大军的险，但是贵人腊格伦没有为他论功行赏，因为英国的军级制度不容许在战报中提到官长等级以下的任何英雄。
①两处皆拿破仑打胜仗的地方。
②因克尔曼（Inkermann），阿尔及利亚城市，即今之穆斯塔加奈姆（MostaCganem）。
在滑铁卢那种性质的会战中，我们最佩服的，是造化布置下的那种怪诞的巧合。夜雨，乌古蒙的墙，奥安的凹路，格路希充耳不闻炮声，拿破仑的向导欺心卖主，比洛的向导点拨得宜；那一连串天灾人祸都演得极尽巧妙。
概括起来说，在滑铁卢确是战争少，*多。
滑铁卢在所有的阵地战中是战线最短而队伍最密集的一次。拿破仑，一法里的四分之三，威灵顿，半法里，每边七万二千战士。*便由那样的密度造成的。
有人作过这样的计算，并且列出了这样的比例数字，阵亡人数在奥斯特里茨，法军百分之十四，俄军百分之三十，奥军百分之四十四；在瓦格拉姆，法军百分之十三，奥军百分之十四；在莫斯科河，法军百分之三十七，俄军，四十四；在包岑，法军百分之十三，俄军和奥军，十四；在滑铁卢，法军百分之五十六，联军，三十一。滑铁卢总计，百分之四十一。战士十四万四千，阵亡六万。
到今日，滑铁卢战场恢复了大地棗世人的不偏不倚的安慰者棗的谧静，和其他的原野一样了。
可是一到晚上，就有一种鬼魂似的薄雾散布开来，假使有个旅人经过那里，假使他望，假使他听，假使他象维吉尔在腓力比①战场上那样梦想，当年溃乱的幻景就会使他意夺神骇。六月十八的惨状会重行出现，那伪造的纪念堆隐灭了，俗不可耐的狮子消失了，战场也恢复了它的原来面目；一行行的步兵象波浪起伏那样在原野上前进，奔腾的怒马驰骋天边；惊魂不定的沉思者会看见刀光直晃，枪刺闪烁，炸弹爆发，雷霆交击，血肉横飞，他会听到一片鬼魂交战的呐喊声，隐隐约约，有如在墓底呻吟，那些黑影，便是羽林军士；那些荧光，便是铁骑；那枯骸，便是拿破仑，另一枯骸，是威灵顿；那一切早已不存在了，可是仍旧鏖战不休，山谷殷红，林木颤栗，杀气直薄云霄；圣约翰山、乌古蒙、弗里谢蒙，帕佩洛特、普朗尚努瓦，所有那些莽旷的高地，都隐隐显出无数鬼影，在朦胧中回旋厮杀。
①腓力比（Philippes），城名，在马其顿，公元前四十二年，安敦尼和屋大维在此战胜布鲁图斯。
