Bab Bab 177 · 第177章

This letter had not yet been presented to the Emperor when Barclay, one

day at dinner, informed Bolkónski that the sovereign wished to see him

personally, to question him about Turkey, and that Prince Andrew was to

present himself at Bennigsen’s quarters at six that evening.

News was received at the Emperor’s quarters that very day of a fresh

movement by Napoleon which might endanger the army—news subsequently

found to be false. And that morning Colonel Michaud had ridden round the

Drissa fortifications with the Emperor and had pointed out to him that

this fortified camp constructed by Pfuel, and till then considered

a chef-d’oeuvre of tactical science which would ensure Napoleon’s

destruction, was an absurdity, threatening the destruction of the

Russian army.

Prince Andrew arrived at Bennigsen’s quarters—a country gentleman’s

house of moderate size, situated on the very banks of the river. Neither

Bennigsen nor the Emperor was there, but Chernýshev, the Emperor’s

aide-de-camp, received Bolkónski and informed him that the Emperor,

accompanied by General Bennigsen and Marquis Paulucci, had gone a second

time that day to inspect the fortifications of the Drissa camp, of the

suitability of which serious doubts were beginning to be felt.

Chernýshev was sitting at a window in the first room with a French novel

in his hand. This room had probably been a music room; there was still

an organ in it on which some rugs were piled, and in one corner stood

the folding bedstead of Bennigsen’s adjutant. This adjutant was also

there and sat dozing on the rolled-up bedding, evidently exhausted by

work or by feasting. Two doors led from the room, one straight on into

what had been the drawing room, and another, on the right, to the study.

Through the first door came the sound of voices conversing in German

and occasionally in French. In that drawing room were gathered, by

the Emperor’s wish, not a military council (the Emperor preferred

indefiniteness), but certain persons whose opinions he wished to know in

view of the impending difficulties. It was not a council of war, but,

as it were, a council to elucidate certain questions for the Emperor

personally. To this semicouncil had been invited the Swedish General

Armfeldt, Adjutant General Wolzogen, Wintzingerode (whom Napoleon had

referred to as a renegade French subject), Michaud, Toll, Count Stein

who was not a military man at all, and Pfuel himself, who, as Prince

Andrew had heard, was the mainspring of the whole affair. Prince Andrew

had an opportunity of getting a good look at him, for Pfuel arrived soon

after himself and, in passing through to the drawing room, stopped a

minute to speak to Chernýshev.

At first sight, Pfuel, in his ill-made uniform of a Russian general,

which fitted him badly like a fancy costume, seemed familiar to Prince

Andrew, though he saw him now for the first time. There was about

him something of Weyrother, Mack, and Schmidt, and many other German

theorist-generals whom Prince Andrew had seen in 1805, but he was more

typical than any of them. Prince Andrew had never yet seen a German

theorist in whom all the characteristics of those others were united to

such an extent.

Pfuel was short and very thin but broad-boned, of coarse, robust build,

broad in the hips, and with prominent shoulder blades. His face was

much wrinkled and his eyes deep set. His hair had evidently been hastily

brushed smooth in front of the temples, but stuck up behind in quaint

little tufts. He entered the room, looking restlessly and angrily

around, as if afraid of everything in that large apartment. Awkwardly

holding up his sword, he addressed Chernýshev and asked in German where

the Emperor was. One could see that he wished to pass through the rooms

as quickly as possible, finish with the bows and greetings, and sit down

to business in front of a map, where he would feel at home. He nodded

hurriedly in reply to Chernýshev, and smiled ironically on hearing that

the sovereign was inspecting the fortifications that he, Pfuel, had

planned in accord with his theory. He muttered something to himself

abruptly and in a bass voice, as self-assured Germans do—it might

have been “stupid fellow”... or “the whole affair will be ruined,” or

“something absurd will come of it.”... Prince Andrew did not catch

what he said and would have passed on, but Chernýshev introduced him to

Pfuel, remarking that Prince Andrew was just back from Turkey where the

war had terminated so fortunately. Pfuel barely glanced—not so much at

Prince Andrew as past him—and said, with a laugh: “That must have been a

fine tactical war”; and, laughing contemptuously, went on into the room

from which the sound of voices was heard.

Pfuel, always inclined to be irritably sarcastic, was particularly

disturbed that day, evidently by the fact that they had dared to inspect

and criticize his camp in his absence. From this short interview with

Pfuel, Prince Andrew, thanks to his Austerlitz experiences, was able to

form a clear conception of the man. Pfuel was one of those hopelessly

and immutably self-confident men, self-confident to the point of

martyrdom as only Germans are, because only Germans are self-confident

on the basis of an abstract notion—science, that is, the supposed

knowledge of absolute truth. A Frenchman is self-assured because he

regards himself personally, both in mind and body, as irresistibly

attractive to men and women. An Englishman is self-assured, as being a

citizen of the best-organized state in the world, and therefore as an

Englishman always knows what he should do and knows that all he does as

an Englishman is undoubtedly correct. An Italian is self-assured because

he is excitable and easily forgets himself and other people. A Russian

is self-assured just because he knows nothing and does not want to know

anything, since he does not believe that anything can be known. The

German’s self-assurance is worst of all, stronger and more

repulsive than any other, because he imagines that he knows the

truth—science—which he himself has invented but which is for him the

absolute truth.

Pfuel was evidently of that sort. He had a science—the theory of oblique

movements deduced by him from the history of Frederick the Great’s wars,

and all he came across in the history of more recent warfare seemed to

him absurd and barbarous—monstrous collisions in which so many blunders

were committed by both sides that these wars could not be called wars,

they did not accord with the theory, and therefore could not serve as

material for science.

In 1806 Pfuel had been one of those responsible, for the plan of

campaign that ended in Jena and Auerstädt, but he did not see the least

proof of the fallibility of his theory in the disasters of that war. On

the contrary, the deviations made from his theory were, in his opinion,

the sole cause of the whole disaster, and with characteristically

gleeful sarcasm he would remark, “There, I said the whole affair would

go to the devil!” Pfuel was one of those theoreticians who so love

their theory that they lose sight of the theory’s object—its practical

application. His love of theory made him hate everything practical, and

he would not listen to it. He was even pleased by failures, for failures

resulting from deviations in practice from the theory only proved to him

the accuracy of his theory.

He said a few words to Prince Andrew and Chernýshev about the present

war, with the air of a man who knows beforehand that all will go wrong,

and who is not displeased that it should be so. The unbrushed tufts

of hair sticking up behind and the hastily brushed hair on his temples

expressed this most eloquently.

He passed into the next room, and the deep, querulous sounds of his

voice were at once heard from there.