Chapter Chapter 40 · 第40章

At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he had

been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his

face and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was

over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed

Bolkónski that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor

Francis received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the

conversation began Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor

seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say.

“Tell me, when did the battle begin?” he asked hurriedly.

Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple:

“Was Kutúzov well? When had he left Krems?” and so on. The Emperor

spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions—the

answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest

him.

“At what o’clock did the battle begin?” asked the Emperor.

“I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o’clock the battle began at

the front, but at Dürrenstein, where I was, our attack began after

five in the afternoon,” replied Bolkónski growing more animated and

expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which

he had ready in his mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor

smiled and interrupted him.

“How many miles?”

“From where to where, Your Majesty?”

“From Dürrenstein to Krems.”

“Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.”

“The French have abandoned the left bank?”

“According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the

night.”

“Is there sufficient forage in Krems?”

“Forage has not been supplied to the extent...”

The Emperor interrupted him.

“At what o’clock was General Schmidt killed?”

“At seven o’clock, I believe.”

“At seven o’clock? It’s very sad, very sad!”

The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and

was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he

saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday’s adjutant

reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him

his own house. The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the

Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring

on him. The Empress’ chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The

archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and

for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador

took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to

him.

Contrary to Bilíbin’s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully

received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutúzov was awarded

the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards.

Bolkónski was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning

calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five

in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to

Bilíbin’s house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle

and his visit to Brünn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of

luggage. Franz, Bilíbin’s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some

difficulty out of the front door.

Before returning to Bilíbin’s Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop

to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some

time in the shop.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, your excellency!” said Franz, with difficulty rolling the

portmanteau into the vehicle, “we are to move on still farther. The

scoundrel is again at our heels!”

“Eh? What?” asked Prince Andrew.

Bilíbin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement.

“There now! Confess that this is delightful,” said he. “This

affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without

striking a blow!”

Prince Andrew could not understand.

“But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the

town knows?”

“I come from the archduchess’. I heard nothing there.”

“And you didn’t see that everybody is packing up?”

“I did not... What is it all about?” inquired Prince Andrew

impatiently.

“What’s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that

Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat

is now rushing along the road to Brünn and will be here in a day or

two.”

“What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was

mined?”

“That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why.”

Bolkónski shrugged his shoulders.

“But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It

will be cut off,” said he.

“That’s just it,” answered Bilíbin. “Listen! The French entered

Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those

gentlemen, messieurs les maréchaux, * Murat, Lannes, and Belliard,

mount and ride to the bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.)

‘Gentlemen,’ says one of them, ‘you know the Thabor Bridge is

mined and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its

head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up

the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign the

Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so let us three go and take

it!’ ‘Yes, let’s!’ say the others. And off they go and take the

bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of the

Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication.”

* The marshalls.

“Stop jesting,” said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news

grieved him and yet he was pleased.

As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless

situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it

out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift him from

the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame!

Listening to Bilíbin he was already imagining how on reaching the army

he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one

that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the

executing of the plan.

“Stop this jesting,” he said.

“I am not jesting,” Bilíbin went on. “Nothing is truer or sadder.

These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs;

they assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on

their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the

tête-de-pont. * They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that

the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with

Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The

officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, crack

jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to

the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into

the water, and approaches the tête-de-pont. At length appears the

lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself.

‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars!

Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s hand.... The

Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Auersperg’s

acquaintance.’ In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so

bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly

established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the

sight of Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, qu’il n’y voit que du

feu, et oublie celui qu’il devait faire faire sur l’ennemi!” *(2)

In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilíbin did not forget to

pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation. “The

French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the

bridge is taken! But what is best of all,” he went on, his excitement

subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, “is that the

sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire

the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French

troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes

stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general,

goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are being deceived, here

are the French!’ Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is

allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a

true Gascon) and says: ‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian

discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It

was a stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and

orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair

of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor

rascality....”

* Bridgehead.

* (2) That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that

he ought to be firing at the enemy.

“It may be treachery,” said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the

gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing,

and the glory that awaited him.

“Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,” replied

Bilíbin. “It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is

just as at Ulm... it is...”—he seemed to be trying to find the right

expression. “C’est... c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackés (It is...

it is a bit of Mack. We are Macked),” he concluded, feeling that he

had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His

hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a

slight smile he began to examine his nails.

“Where are you off to?” he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had

risen and was going toward his room.

“I am going away.”

“Where to?”

“To the army.”

“But you meant to stay another two days?”

“But now I am off at once.”

And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to

his room.

“Do you know, mon cher,” said Bilíbin following him, “I have been

thinking about you. Why are you going?”

And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles

vanished from his face.

Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply.

“Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to

the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher, it is

heroism!”

“Not at all,” said Prince Andrew.

“But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other

side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary,

is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for

anything else.... You have not been ordered to return and have not been

dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our

ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmütz, and Olmütz is a

very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my calèche.”

“Do stop joking, Bilíbin,” cried Bolkónski.

“I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are

you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two

things,” and the skin over his left temple puckered, “either you

will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will

share defeat and disgrace with Kutúzov’s whole army.”

And Bilíbin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was

insoluble.

“I cannot argue about it,” replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he

thought: “I am going to save the army.”

“My dear fellow, you are a hero!” said Bilíbin.