บทที่ บทที่ 93 · 第93章

Bilíbin was now at army headquarters in a diplomatic capacity, and

though he wrote in French and used French jests and French idioms,

he described the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and

self-derision genuinely Russian. Bilíbin wrote that the obligation of

diplomatic discretion tormented him, and he was happy to have in Prince

Andrew a reliable correspondent to whom he could pour out the bile he

had accumulated at the sight of all that was being done in the army.

The letter was old, having been written before the battle at

Preussisch-Eylau.

“Since the day of our brilliant success at Austerlitz,” wrote

Bilíbin, “as you know, my dear prince, I never leave headquarters. I

have certainly acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me;

what I have seen during these last three months is incredible.

“I begin ab ovo. ‘The enemy of the human race,’ as you know,

attacks the Prussians. The Prussians are our faithful allies who have

only betrayed us three times in three years. We take up their cause, but

it turns out that ‘the enemy of the human race’ pays no heed to

our fine speeches and in his rude and savage way throws himself on the

Prussians without giving them time to finish the parade they had begun,

and in two twists of the hand he breaks them to smithereens and installs

himself in the palace at Potsdam.

“‘I most ardently desire,’ writes the King of Prussia to

Bonaparte, ‘that Your Majesty should be received and treated in my

palace in a manner agreeable to yourself, and in so far as circumstances

allowed, I have hastened to take all steps to that end. May I have

succeeded!’ The Prussian generals pride themselves on being polite to

the French and lay down their arms at the first demand.

“The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the

King of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender.... All

this is absolutely true.

“In short, hoping to settle matters by taking up a warlike attitude,

it turns out that we have landed ourselves in war, and what is more,

in war on our own frontiers, with and for the King of Prussia. We have

everything in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely,

a commander in chief. As it was considered that the Austerlitz success

might have been more decisive had the commander in chief not been so

young, all our octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski

and Kámenski the latter was preferred. The general comes to us,

Suvórov-like, in a kibítka, and is received with acclamations of joy

and triumph.

“On the 4th, the first courier arrives from Petersburg. The mails

are taken to the field marshal’s room, for he likes to do everything

himself. I am called in to help sort the letters and take those meant

for us. The field marshal looks on and waits for letters addressed

to him. We search, but none are to be found. The field marshal grows

impatient and sets to work himself and finds letters from the Emperor

to Count T., Prince V., and others. Then he bursts into one of his wild

furies and rages at everyone and everything, seizes the letters, opens

them, and reads those from the Emperor addressed to others. ‘Ah! So

that’s the way they treat me! No confidence in me! Ah, ordered to keep

an eye on me! Very well then! Get along with you!’ So he writes the

famous order of the day to General Bennigsen:

“‘I am wounded and cannot ride and consequently cannot command the

army. You have brought your army corps to Pultúsk, routed: here it is

exposed, and without fuel or forage, so something must be done, and, as

you yourself reported to Count Buxhöwden yesterday, you must think of

retreating to our frontier—which do today.’

“‘From all my riding,’ he writes to the Emperor, ‘I have got a

saddle sore which, coming after all my previous journeys, quite prevents

my riding and commanding so vast an army, so I have passed on the

command to the general next in seniority, Count Buxhöwden, having sent

him my whole staff and all that belongs to it, advising him if there is

a lack of bread, to move farther into the interior of Prussia, for only

one day’s ration of bread remains, and in some regiments none at all,

as reported by the division commanders, Ostermann and Sedmorétzki, and

all that the peasants had has been eaten up. I myself will remain in

hospital at Ostrolenka till I recover. In regard to which I humbly

submit my report, with the information that if the army remains in its

present bivouac another fortnight there will not be a healthy man left

in it by spring.

“‘Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is

already in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and

glorious task for which he was chosen. I shall await your most gracious

permission here in hospital, that I may not have to play the part of a

secretary rather than commander in the army. My removal from the army

does not produce the slightest stir—a blind man has left it. There are

thousands such as I in Russia.’

“The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all,

isn’t it logical?

“This is the first act. Those that follow are naturally increasingly

interesting and entertaining. After the field marshal’s departure

it appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle.

Buxhöwden is commander in chief by seniority, but General Bennigsen

does not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who

are within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity

to fight a battle ‘on his own hand’ as the Germans say. He does so.

This is the battle of Pultúsk, which is considered a great victory but

in my opinion was nothing of the kind. We civilians, as you know, have

a very bad way of deciding whether a battle was won or lost. Those who

retreat after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to

that it is we who lost the battle of Pultúsk. In short, we retreat

after the battle but send a courier to Petersburg with news of a

victory, and General Bennigsen, hoping to receive from Petersburg the

post of commander in chief as a reward for his victory, does not give up

the command of the army to General Buxhöwden. During this interregnum

we begin a very original and interesting series of maneuvers. Our aim is

no longer, as it should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to

avoid General Buxhöwden who by right of seniority should be our chief.

So energetically do we pursue this aim that after crossing an unfordable

river we burn the bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy, who at

the moment is not Bonaparte but Buxhöwden. General Buxhöwden was all

but attacked and captured by a superior enemy force as a result of one

of these maneuvers that enabled us to escape him. Buxhöwden pursues

us—we scuttle. He hardly crosses the river to our side before we

recross to the other. At last our enemy, Buxhöwden, catches us and

attacks. Both generals are angry, and the result is a challenge on

Buxhöwden’s part and an epileptic fit on Bennigsen’s. But at the

critical moment the courier who carried the news of our victory at

Pultúsk to Petersburg returns bringing our appointment as commander in

chief, and our first foe, Buxhöwden, is vanquished; we can now turn

our thoughts to the second, Bonaparte. But as it turns out, just at

that moment a third enemy rises before us—namely the Orthodox Russian

soldiers, loudly demanding bread, meat, biscuits, fodder, and whatnot!

The stores are empty, the roads impassable. The Orthodox begin looting,

and in a way of which our last campaign can give you no idea. Half the

regiments form bands and scour the countryside and put everything

to fire and sword. The inhabitants are totally ruined, the hospitals

overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere. Twice the marauders even

attack our headquarters, and the commander in chief has to ask for a

battalion to disperse them. During one of these attacks they carried off

my empty portmanteau and my dressing gown. The Emperor proposes to give

all commanders of divisions the right to shoot marauders, but I much

fear this will oblige one half the army to shoot the other.”

At first Prince Andrew read with his eyes only, but after a while,

in spite of himself (although he knew how far it was safe to trust

Bilíbin), what he had read began to interest him more and more. When he

had read thus far, he crumpled the letter up and threw it away. It was

not what he had read that vexed him, but the fact that the life out

there in which he had now no part could perturb him. He shut his eyes,

rubbed his forehead as if to rid himself of all interest in what he

had read, and listened to what was passing in the nursery. Suddenly he

thought he heard a strange noise through the door. He was seized with

alarm lest something should have happened to the child while he was

reading the letter. He went on tiptoe to the nursery door and opened it.

Just as he went in he saw that the nurse was hiding something from him

with a scared look and that Princess Mary was no longer by the cot.

“My dear,” he heard what seemed to him her despairing whisper behind

him.

As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, he was

seized by an unreasoning panic—it occurred to him that the child was

dead. All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.

“All is over,” he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his

forehead. He went to the cot in confusion, sure that he would find it

empty and that the nurse had been hiding the dead baby. He drew the

curtain aside and for some time his frightened, restless eyes could not

find the baby. At last he saw him: the rosy boy had tossed about till he

lay across the bed with his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking

his lips in his sleep and breathing evenly.

Prince Andrew was as glad to find the boy like that, as if he had

already lost him. He bent over him and, as his sister had taught him,

tried with his lips whether the child was still feverish. The soft

forehead was moist. Prince Andrew touched the head with his hand; even

the hair was wet, so profusely had the child perspired. He was not dead,

but evidently the crisis was over and he was convalescent. Prince Andrew

longed to snatch up, to squeeze, to hold to his heart, this helpless

little creature, but dared not do so. He stood over him, gazing at his

head and at the little arms and legs which showed under the blanket. He

heard a rustle behind him and a shadow appeared under the curtain of

the cot. He did not look round, but still gazing at the infant’s face

listened to his regular breathing. The dark shadow was Princess Mary,

who had come up to the cot with noiseless steps, lifted the curtain,

and dropped it again behind her. Prince Andrew recognized her without

looking and held out his hand to her. She pressed it.

“He has perspired,” said Prince Andrew.

“I was coming to tell you so.”

The child moved slightly in his sleep, smiled, and rubbed his forehead

against the pillow.

Prince Andrew looked at his sister. In the dim shadow of the curtain her

luminous eyes shone more brightly than usual from the tears of joy that

were in them. She leaned over to her brother and kissed him, slightly

catching the curtain of the cot. Each made the other a warning gesture

and stood still in the dim light beneath the curtain as if not wishing

to leave that seclusion where they three were shut off from all the

world. Prince Andrew was the first to move away, ruffling his hair

against the muslin of the curtain.

“Yes, this is the one thing left me now,” he said with a sigh.