—FELIX KLEIN MORE THAN ONCE during the World War when the French troops were hard pressed and reinforcements nonexistent, the high command saved the day by routing some prima donna out of her boudoir, rushing her to the front, draping her from neck to heels in the tricolor, and ordering her to sing the Marseillaise to the exhausted men. Having sung her piece the lady rolled back to Paris in her limousine; the heartened troops advanced, and the following morning a cynically censored press once more unanimously assured a gullible public that “the day of glory has arrived”—with unmentioned casualties. In 1812 the day of glory was still on its way. Prima donnas did not accompany Napoleon Bonaparte’s half-million troops on their triumphal march into Russia. The men did their own singing as the Russians retreated before the invincible Grand Army, and the endless plains rang to the stirring chant which had swept tyrants from their thrones and elevated Napoleon to their place. All was going as gloriously as the most enthusiastic singer could have wished: six days before Napoleon crossed the Niemen his brilliant diplomatic strategy had indirectly exasperated President Madison into hurling the United States into a distracting war on England; the Russians were running harder than ever on their race back to Moscow, and the Grand Army was doing its valiant best to keep up with the reluctant enemy.
