War and Peace: Original Version

As he emerged from the palace, he felt that all the interest and joy that victory had brought him had now been left behind in the indifferent hands of the war minister and the polite adjutant. His entire frame of mind had changed instantly and the battle now seemed to him like a distant memory from long ago: what now seemed most vital and significant to him were his reception by the war minister, the politeness of the adjutant and his forthcoming presentation to the emperor.

XI

Prince Andrei went on to the house of the Russian diplomat, Bilibin. The diplomat’s German servant recognised Prince Andrei, who had stayed with Bilibin when he visited Vienna, and chatted garrulously as he received him.

“Herr von Bilibin was obliged to leave his apartment in Vienna. That accursed Bonaparte!” said the diplomat’s servant. “He has created so many misfortunes, so much loss and disorder!”

“Is Mr. Bilibin well?” asked Prince Andrei.

“Not entirely well, he’s still not going out, and will be very glad to see you. This way, if you please. They will bring your things. Will the Cossack be staying here too? Look, here’s the master, he has heard you.”

“Ah, dear prince, no guest is more welcome,” said Bilibin, coming out to greet his visitor. “Franz, put the prince’s things in my bedroom. Well, here as a herald of victory? Excellent. But I am a house-bound invalid, as you see.”

“Yes, a herald of victory,” replied Prince Andrei, “but not, it would seem, a very welcome one.”

“Well, if you are not too tired, tell me of your exalted feats over supper,” said Bilibin and, putting his feet up on a chaise-longue, he settled himself by the fire to wait until Prince Andrei, washed and changed, emerged into the diplomat’s luxurious study and sat down to the meal that had been prepared for him. “Franz, move the screen, or it will be too hot for the prince.”

After his journey, and indeed after the entire campaign, throughout which he had been totally deprived of the comforts of cleanliness and a civilised life, Prince Andrei now felt pleasantly relaxed on being once more in the luxurious surroundings to which he had been accustomed since childhood. He also found it pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to talk, if not actually in Russian (for he and Bilibin spoke in French), then at least with someone Russian who, he knew, shared his own aversion (an aversion now felt with particular intensity) to the Austrians. The only thing that struck an unpleasant note was that Bilibin listened to his account with almost the same distrust and indifference as had the Austrian war minister.

Bilibin was a man of about thirty-five, a bachelor, from the same social circles as Prince Andrei. They had already been acquainted in St. Petersburg, but had become particularly close during Prince Andrei’s last visit to Vienna with Kutuzov. Bilibin had told him on that occasion that should he ever come to Vienna, he must be sure to stay with him. Just as Prince Andrei was a young man who promised to go far in the military field, so Bilibin promised even greater things in the field of diplomacy. Though still young in years, he was not new to diplomacy, since he had entered the service at sixteen, and had been in Paris, in Copenhagen and now in Vienna where he held an important post. Both the chancellor and our envoy in Vienna knew and valued him. He was not one of those numerous diplomats who are expected to display purely negative qualities, doing nothing of great note and merely speaking French in order to be effective. He was, rather, a diplomat who loved his work and knew how to go about it and, despite his natural indolence, sometimes spent whole nights at his desk. Whatever the task, he always applied the same effort. It was not the question “why?” but the question “how?” that interested him. No matter what the content, it was the composing of a circular, a memorandum or a report with concise, deft elegance that gave him satisfaction. Aside from his writing, Bilibin’s wider capacities were also greatly valued, in particular his ability to establish contact with the higher spheres of power and maintain dialogue at that level.

Bilibin loved conversation in the same way that he loved work, but only so long as it could be subtly witty. In company he was constantly alert for the chance to say something of note and he would only take part when he could do so. All Bilibin’s talk was spiced with sharply original, well-turned phrases that appealed to everyone. These witticisms were expressly forged in Bilibin’s internal laboratory to travel forth, so that lesser members of society might remember them with ease and bear them from one set of drawing rooms to another. And indeed, Bilibin’s opinions had spread through all the drawing rooms of Vienna, being frequently repeated and frequently having influence on matters deemed important.

His thin, emaciated, unusually pale face was entirely covered with large, young wrinkles, which always looked as assiduously and scrupulously clean as the tips of one’s fingers after a bath. The movements of these wrinkles were his physiognomy’s main means of expression. Either his forehead would wrinkle into broad folds and his eyebrows would rise, or his eyebrows would be lowered and large folds would form on his cheeks. The gaze of the small, deep-set eyes was always direct and jovial.

Despite his refinement of dress, refinement of manners and the elegant French that he spoke so well, there were nevertheless still Russian traits discernible in his whole face, figure and the modulations of his voice.

Bolkonsky related the action in the most modest fashion, without once mentioning himself, and told about the reception by the war minister.

“They made me as welcome with this news as a dog at a game of skittles,” he concluded.

Bilibin laughed and relaxed the folds in his skin.

“And yet, mon cher,” he said, contemplating his own fingernail from a distance and again puckering the skin above his left eye, “for all my respect for the Army of Orthodoxy, I’m bound to say that your victory was not an altogether brilliant one.”

He went on in the same vein in French, pronouncing in Russian only those words that he wished to emphasise with contempt.

“How could it be? You fell with the entire bulk of your army upon the unfortunate Mortier with his single division, and this Mortier slips through your hands? Where’s the victory in that?”

“Come now, be serious,” Prince Andrei replied, pushing away his plate, “we can still claim without bragging that it’s somewhat better than the Ulm.”

“Why did you not capture us a marshal, at least one?”

“Because not everything happens as expected, or as smoothly as at a parade. We had planned, as I told you, to approach the rear by seven in the morning, but we had not reached it by five in the evening.”

“And why did you not arrive at seven in the morning? You ought to have arrived by seven in the morning,” said Bilibin, smiling, “you really ought to have arrived by seven in the morning.”

“And why did you not impress upon Bonaparte via diplomatic channels that it would be better for him to leave Genoa alone?” Prince Andrei asked in the same tone.

“I know,” interrupted Bilibin, “you’re thinking it’s all very easy to capture marshals while sitting on a divan by the fireside. That is true, but even so, why did you not capture him? And don’t be surprised that not only the war minister, but also the most august Emperor and King Franz will not be over-delighted by your victory and even I, a miserable secretary at the Russian embassy, do not feel any need to express my joy by giving my Franz a thaler and letting him take time off to go to the Prater with his girlfriend … although of course, there’s no Prater around here.”

BILIBIN Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867 (#ulink_0c455d9a-b97d-56a0-8446-ed2b0a963198)

He looked directly at Prince Andrei and suddenly released the gathered skin of his forehead.

“Now it is my turn to ask you ‘why’, mon cher,” said Bolkonsky. “I must confess, I do not understand, perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intellect, but I do not understand. Mack loses an entire army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl show no signs of life and make mistake upon mistake, and finally only Kutuzov achieves a genuine victory and shatters the French spell, and the war minister is not even interested in knowing the details.”

“That is precisely the reason why, my dear fellow. Take another piece of roast, there won’t be anything else.”

“Merci.”

“You see, mon cher – hoorah for the Tsar, for Rus, for the faith! – all that is fine and good but what interest, say I, have we, the Austrian court, in your victories? Bring us good news of a victory by Archduke Karl or Ferdinand – one archduke is as good as another, as you know – even if it’s only over Bonaparte’s fire brigade, and that is a different matter, we’ll set the cannon roaring. But this only seems deliberately intended to mock us. Archduke Karl does nothing, Archduke Ferdinand covers himself in shame. You abandon Vienna and no longer defend it, as if you had said to us: God is with us, but you go with God – and take your capital with you. The one general we all loved, Schmidt, you lead into the path of a bullet and then you regale us with a victory! You have captured a couple of navvies dressed up as Bonaparte’s generals. You are bound to admit that nothing more irritating than the news that you bring could possibly be imagined. As if you did it on purpose, quite on purpose. Apart from which, even if you did win a brilliant victory, even if Archduke Karl did win a brilliant victory, what would that change, in the general course of events? It’s already too late, with Vienna occupied by the French.”

“Occupied, you say? Vienna is occupied?”

“Not only is it occupied, but Bonaparte is in Schönbrunn and the count, your dear Count Vrbna, is on his way to receive his orders.”

After the fatigue and impressions of the journey, the reception, and especially after the meal, Bolkonsky found it hard to grasp the full meaning of the words he had just heard.

“That is a quite different kettle of fish,” he said, taking out a toothpick and moving closer to the hearth.

“This morning Count Lichtenfels was here,” Bilibin continued, “and he showed me a letter which described the French parade in Vienna in detail. Prince Murat and the whole caboodle … You can see why your victory is not such a very joyous event and why you cannot be welcomed as saviour …”

“Really, it makes no difference to me, absolutely no difference,” said Prince Andrei, beginning to understand that his news of the battle at Krems really was of little importance in view of such events as the occupation of the capital of Austria. “But how was Vienna taken? What of the bridge and its famous fortification, and Prince Auersperg? We heard rumours that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna,” he said.

“Prince Auersperg is stationed on this side, our side, and defending us, defending us very poorly, I think, but nonetheless defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has still not been taken, and I hope it will not be taken, because it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should have been in the mountains of Bohemia long ago, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour caught between two fires.”

“If that happens, the campaign is over,” said Prince Andrei.

“That is what I think too. And the simpletons here think it as well, but they don’t dare to say so. It will be just as I said at the start of the campaign, this whole business will be decided not by your skirmish at Dürenstein, and not by gunpowder at all, but by the people who dreamed it up,” said Bilibin, repeating one of his bons mots, releasing the skin on his forehead and pausing for a moment. “The only question is, what will come of the Berlin meeting between Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia? If Prussia joins the alliance, they will leave Austria no choice, and there will be war. But if not, then all that has to be done (take this pear, it is very good) is to agree on where to compose the initial articles of the new Campo Formio.”

“But what exceptional genius this is!” Prince Andrei suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and banging it on the table. “And what luck this man has!”

“Buonaparte?” enquired Bilibin, wrinkling his forehead to signal the approach of a bon mot. “Buonaparte?” he said, with special emphasis on the u. “I rather think that now he is dictating laws to Austria from Schönbrunn, he should be relieved of his u. I hereby declare an innovation, to call him simply Bonaparte. Wouldn’t you like some more coffee? Franz!”

“No, joking apart,” said Prince Andrei, “you are in a position to know. What do you think, how will all this end?”

“This is what I think. Austria has been left looking foolish, and she is not used to that, and she will repay the favour. And she has been left looking foolish because, in the first place, her provinces are ruined (they say the Army of Orthodoxy is terrible when it comes to plunder), her army is shattered, her capital is captured, and all this for his Sardinian Majesty’s beautiful eyes.”