Chương Chương 178 · 第178章

Prince Andrew’s eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when

Count Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkónski, but not

pausing, went into the study, giving instructions to his adjutant as he

went. The Emperor was following him, and Bennigsen had hastened on

to make some preparations and to be ready to receive the sovereign.

Chernýshev and Prince Andrew went out into the porch, where the Emperor,

who looked fatigued, was dismounting. Marquis Paulucci was talking to

him with particular warmth and the Emperor, with his head bent to the

left, was listening with a dissatisfied air. The Emperor moved forward

evidently wishing to end the conversation, but the flushed and excited

Italian, oblivious of decorum, followed him and continued to speak.

“And as for the man who advised forming this camp—the Drissa camp,” said

Paulucci, as the Emperor mounted the steps and noticing Prince Andrew

scanned his unfamiliar face, “as to that person, sire...” continued

Paulucci, desperately, apparently unable to restrain himself, “the man

who advised the Drissa camp—I see no alternative but the lunatic asylum

or the gallows!”

Without heeding the end of the Italian’s remarks, and as though

not hearing them, the Emperor, recognizing Bolkónski, addressed him

graciously.

“I am very glad to see you! Go in there where they are meeting, and wait

for me.”

The Emperor went into the study. He was followed by Prince Peter

Mikháylovich Volkónski and Baron Stein, and the door closed behind them.

Prince Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperor’s permission, accompanied

Paulucci, whom he had known in Turkey, into the drawing room where the

council was assembled.

Prince Peter Mikháylovich Volkónski occupied the position, as it were,

of chief of the Emperor’s staff. He came out of the study into the

drawing room with some maps which he spread on a table, and put

questions on which he wished to hear the opinion of the gentlemen

present. What had happened was that news (which afterwards proved to be

false) had been received during the night of a movement by the French to

outflank the Drissa camp.

The first to speak was General Armfeldt who, to meet the difficulty that

presented itself, unexpectedly proposed a perfectly new position

away from the Petersburg and Moscow roads. The reason for this was

inexplicable (unless he wished to show that he, too, could have an

opinion), but he urged that at this point the army should unite and

there await the enemy. It was plain that Armfeldt had thought out that

plan long ago and now expounded it not so much to answer the questions

put—which, in fact, his plan did not answer—as to avail himself of the

opportunity to air it. It was one of the millions of proposals, one as

good as another, that could be made as long as it was quite unknown

what character the war would take. Some disputed his arguments, others

defended them. Young Count Toll objected to the Swedish general’s views

more warmly than anyone else, and in the course of the dispute drew from

his side pocket a well-filled notebook, which he asked permission to

read to them. In these voluminous notes Toll suggested another scheme,

totally different from Armfeldt’s or Pfuel’s plan of campaign. In answer

to Toll, Paulucci suggested an advance and an attack, which, he urged,

could alone extricate us from the present uncertainty and from the trap

(as he called the Drissa camp) in which we were situated.

During all these discussions Pfuel and his interpreter, Wolzogen

(his “bridge” in court relations), were silent. Pfuel only snorted

contemptuously and turned away, to show that he would never demean

himself by replying to such nonsense as he was now hearing. So when

Prince Volkónski, who was in the chair, called on him to give his

opinion, he merely said:

“Why ask me? General Armfeldt has proposed a splendid position with an

exposed rear, or why not this Italian gentleman’s attack—very fine, or

a retreat, also good! Why ask me?” said he. “Why, you yourselves know

everything better than I do.”

But when Volkónski said, with a frown, that it was in the Emperor’s name

that he asked his opinion, Pfuel rose and, suddenly growing animated,

began to speak:

“Everything has been spoiled, everything muddled, everybody thought they

knew better than I did, and now you come to me! How mend matters? There

is nothing to mend! The principles laid down by me must be strictly

adhered to,” said he, drumming on the table with his bony fingers. “What

is the difficulty? Nonsense, childishness!”

He went up to the map and speaking rapidly began proving that no

eventuality could alter the efficiency of the Drissa camp, that

everything had been foreseen, and that if the enemy were really going to

outflank it, the enemy would inevitably be destroyed.

Paulucci, who did not know German, began questioning him in French.

Wolzogen came to the assistance of his chief, who spoke French badly,

and began translating for him, hardly able to keep pace with Pfuel, who

was rapidly demonstrating that not only all that had happened, but all

that could happen, had been foreseen in his scheme, and that if there

were now any difficulties the whole fault lay in the fact that his plan

had not been precisely executed. He kept laughing sarcastically, he

demonstrated, and at last contemptuously ceased to demonstrate, like

a mathematician who ceases to prove in various ways the accuracy of

a problem that has already been proved. Wolzogen took his place and

continued to explain his views in French, every now and then turning to

Pfuel and saying, “Is it not so, your excellency?” But Pfuel, like a man

heated in a fight who strikes those on his own side, shouted angrily at

his own supporter, Wolzogen:

“Well, of course, what more is there to explain?”

Paulucci and Michaud both attacked Wolzogen simultaneously in French.

Armfeldt addressed Pfuel in German. Toll explained to Volkónski in

Russian. Prince Andrew listened and observed in silence.

Of all these men Prince Andrew sympathized most with Pfuel, angry,

determined, and absurdly self-confident as he was. Of all those present,

evidently he alone was not seeking anything for himself, nursed no

hatred against anyone, and only desired that the plan, formed on a

theory arrived at by years of toil, should be carried out. He was

ridiculous, and unpleasantly sarcastic, but yet he inspired involuntary

respect by his boundless devotion to an idea. Besides this, the remarks

of all except Pfuel had one common trait that had not been noticeable

at the council of war in 1805: there was now a panic fear of Napoleon’s

genius, which, though concealed, was noticeable in every rejoinder.

Everything was assumed to be possible for Napoleon, they expected him

from every side, and invoked his terrible name to shatter each other’s

proposals. Pfuel alone seemed to consider Napoleon a barbarian like

everyone else who opposed his theory. But besides this feeling of

respect, Pfuel evoked pity in Prince Andrew. From the tone in which

the courtiers addressed him and the way Paulucci had allowed himself to

speak of him to the Emperor, but above all from a certain desperation

in Pfuel’s own expressions, it was clear that the others knew, and Pfuel

himself felt, that his fall was at hand. And despite his self-confidence

and grumpy German sarcasm he was pitiable, with his hair smoothly

brushed on the temples and sticking up in tufts behind. Though he

concealed the fact under a show of irritation and contempt, he was

evidently in despair that the sole remaining chance of verifying his

theory by a huge experiment and proving its soundness to the whole world

was slipping away from him.

The discussions continued a long time, and the longer they lasted

the more heated became the disputes, culminating in shouts and

personalities, and the less was it possible to arrive at any general

conclusion from all that had been said. Prince Andrew, listening to this

polyglot talk and to these surmises, plans, refutations, and shouts,

felt nothing but amazement at what they were saying. A thought that had

long since and often occurred to him during his military activities—the

idea that there is not and cannot be any science of war, and that

therefore there can be no such thing as a military genius—now appeared

to him an obvious truth. “What theory and science is possible about a

matter the conditions and circumstances of which are unknown and cannot

be defined, especially when the strength of the acting forces cannot be

ascertained? No one was or is able to foresee in what condition our or

the enemy’s armies will be in a day’s time, and no one can gauge the

force of this or that detachment. Sometimes—when there is not a coward

at the front to shout, ‘We are cut off!’ and start running, but a brave

and jolly lad who shouts, ‘Hurrah!’—a detachment of five thousand

is worth thirty thousand, as at Schön Grabern, while at times fifty

thousand run from eight thousand, as at Austerlitz. What science can

there be in a matter in which, as in all practical matters, nothing

can be defined and everything depends on innumerable conditions, the

significance of which is determined at a particular moment which arrives

no one knows when? Armfeldt says our army is cut in half, and Paulucci

says we have got the French army between two fires; Michaud says that

the worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in having the river behind it,

and Pfuel says that is what constitutes its strength; Toll proposes

one plan, Armfeldt another, and they are all good and all bad, and the

advantages of any suggestions can be seen only at the moment of trial.

And why do they all speak of a ‘military genius’? Is a man a genius who

can order bread to be brought up at the right time and say who is to go

to the right and who to the left? It is only because military men are

invested with pomp and power and crowds of sychophants flatter power,

attributing to it qualities of genius it does not possess. The best

generals I have known were, on the contrary, stupid or absent-minded

men. Bagratión was the best, Napoleon himself admitted that. And of

Bonaparte himself! I remember his limited, self-satisfied face on the

field of Austerlitz. Not only does a good army commander not need any

special qualities, on the contrary he needs the absence of the highest

and best human attributes—love, poetry, tenderness, and philosophic

inquiring doubt. He should be limited, firmly convinced that what he

is doing is very important (otherwise he will not have sufficient

patience), and only then will he be a brave leader. God forbid that he

should be humane, should love, or pity, or think of what is just

and unjust. It is understandable that a theory of their ‘genius’ was

invented for them long ago because they have power! The success of a

military action depends not on them, but on the man in the ranks who

shouts, ‘We are lost!’ or who shouts, ‘Hurrah!’ And only in the ranks

can one serve with assurance of being useful.”

So thought Prince Andrew as he listened to the talking, and he roused

himself only when Paulucci called him and everyone was leaving.

At the review next day the Emperor asked Prince Andrew where he would

like to serve, and Prince Andrew lost his standing in court circles

forever by not asking to remain attached to the sovereign’s person, but

for permission to serve in the army.