A JESTING MARSHAL.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 4332, 6 February 1875, Page 1 (Supplement)

A JESTING MARSHAL.

The stories told of the celebrated Russian Marshal SuvoroS display better than whole pages of description the wonderful way in which ho contrived to adapt himself to the rude spirits with whom he had to deal, without losing one jot of his authority. • What Napoleon was to the French, Suvoroff was to the Russian army—now jesting with a soldier, and now rebuking a general; one day sharing a ration of black bread beside a bivouac fire, and the next speaking as an equal to princes and potentates. In fact, the two great sponsors of Russian wit form a most picturesque contrast. Balkaireff was very much the character of a spaniel in a lion’s cage—admiring even while mocking his formidable patron, behaving towards him with a half-waggish, half-aSeotionate familiarity, perpetually forgiven. Suvoroff comes before ns an uncrowned

king, one whose authority needed outward symbol; an autocrat of nature’s miking, full of rough, hearty familiarity that was in no danger of breeding contempt, and surrounded by men who enjoyed the bonhommie while they dreaded tire displeasure of the little pugnosed, grimy man, who was, in their eyes, the incarnation of earthly power and grandeur. It must be owned, however - , that in his own peculiar vein of pleasantry the old Marshal more than once met with his match. One of his favorite jokes was to confuse a man by asking him, unexpectedly—- “ How many stars are there in the sky ?” On one occasion he put this question to one of his sentries on a bitter January night, such as only Russia can produce. The soldier, not a whit disturbed, answered coolly ; “ Wait a little and I will tell you and he deliberately began to count, “ One, two, three,” &c. In this way he went gravely on to a hundred, at which point Suvoroff, who was already halffrozen, thought it high time to ride off—not, however, without inquiring the name of the ready reckoner. The next day the latter found himself promoted, and the story (which Suvoroff told with great glee to his staff) speedily made its way through the army. . On another occasion one of the generals of a division sent him a sergeant with despatches, at the same time recommending the bearer to Suvoroff’s notice. The Marshal, as usual, proceeded to test Irim by a series of whimsical questions ; but the catechumen was equal to the occasion. “How far is it to the moon?” asked Suvoroff. “ Two of your Excellency’s forced marches,” answered the sergeant. “ Supposing you were blockaded, and had no provisions left, how would you supply yourself?” “ From the enemy.” “How many fish are ther-e in the sea ?” “ As many as have not been caught.” And so the examination went on, till Suvoroff finding his new acquaintance armed at all points, at length asked him, as a final poser : “What is the difference between your colonel and myself?” “ The difference is this,” replied the soldier, coolly, “my colonel cannot make me a captain ; but your Excellency has only to say the word.” Suvoroff, struck by his shrewdness, kept his eyes upon the man ; and, in no long time after, actually gave him the specified promotion. The anecdotes of the great Marshal’s eccentricities—his habits of wandering about the camp in disguise, his whim of giving the signal for attack by crowing like a cock, his astounding endurance of heat or- cold, his savage disregard of personal comfort and neatness—are beyond calculation; but the most characteristic of all was his appearance in 1799, at the Austrian Court, then one of the most brilliant in Europe. On being shown to the room prepared for him (a splendid apartment, filled with costly mirrors and riehfurniture)this modern Diogenes said simply:— “ Turn out the rubbish, and shake me down some straw.” An Austrian grandee who came to visit him was startled at these preparations, and still more so at the first sight of the Marshal’s “baggage,” which consisted of two coarse shirts and a tattered cloak tied up in a bundle. “Is that enough for winter?” asked the astonished visitor. “ The winter’s the father of us Russians,” answered Suvoroff, with a grin ; “ besides you don’t feel the cold when you’re riding full gallop.” “ But when you’re tired of riding what do you do ?” “ Walk.” “ But when you’re tired of walking ?” “Run.” And do you never sleep, then?” asked the petrified questioner. “Sometimes, when I've nothing better to do,” replied Suvoroff, carelessly ; “ and when I want to have a very luxurious nap, I take off one of my spurs.” The Austrian bowed and retired, doubtless considerably enlightened in his ideas of a Russian general.