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Volume I, Part Two, Chapter IX

Prince Andrei stayed at Brünn with his acquaintance, the Russian diplomat Bilibin.

— Ah, my dear Prince, there is no more welcome guest, — said Bilibin, coming out to meet Prince Andrei. — Franz, put the prince's things in my bedroom! — he said to the servant who was accompanying Bolkonsky. — So, a messenger of victory? Splendid. And I am sitting here ill, as you see.

Prince Andrei, having washed and dressed, came into the diplomat's luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bilibin settled down comfortably by the fireplace.

Prince Andrei, not only after his journey, but after the whole campaign during which he had been deprived of all the comforts of cleanliness and the elegancies of life, experienced a pleasant feeling of rest amidst these luxurious conditions of life to which he had been accustomed from childhood. Besides, it was pleasant for him, after his Austrian reception, to speak, if not in Russian (they spoke French), at least with a Russian who, he supposed, shared the general Russian aversion (now particularly keenly felt) to the Austrians.

Bilibin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, of the same circle as Prince Andrei. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but had become more intimate during Prince Andrei's last visit to Vienna with Kutuzov. Just as Prince Andrei was a young man who gave promise of rising high in the military profession, so, and to an even greater extent, did Bilibin give promise in diplomacy. He was still a young man, but no longer a young diplomat, since he had entered the service at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris and in Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in Vienna. Both the chancellor and our ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of that large class of diplomats who are obliged to have only negative qualities, not to do certain things, and to speak French in order to be very good diplomats; he was one of those diplomats who like and know how to work, and, in spite of his laziness, he sometimes spent nights at his writing table. He worked equally well whatever the nature of the work. It was not the question "why" that interested him, but the question "how." What the diplomatic matter was, he did not care; but to draft a circular, memorandum, or report skillfully, pointedly, and elegantly — in this he found great pleasure. Bilibin's services were valued, besides his written work, for his skill in dealing with and conversing in the highest spheres.

Bilibin liked conversation as he liked work, but only when the conversation could be elegantly witty. In society he was always waiting for an opportunity to say something remarkable, and entered into conversation only under these conditions. Bilibin's conversation was constantly sprinkled with originally witty, polished phrases of general interest. These phrases were manufactured in Bilibin's inner laboratory, as if deliberately, of a portable nature, so that insignificant society people could conveniently remember them and carry them from drawing room to drawing room. And indeed, les mots de Bilibine se colportaient dans les salons de Vienne, [Bilibin's sayings circulated in the drawing rooms of Vienna,] as it was said, and often had an influence on so-called important matters.

His thin, worn, sallow face was covered all over with deep wrinkles, which always looked as cleanly and carefully washed as the tips of one's fingers after a bath. The movements of these wrinkles formed the principal play of his physiognomy. Now his forehead would pucker in broad folds, and his eyebrows rise; now his eyebrows would descend, and deep wrinkles would form by his cheeks. His deep-set, rather small eyes always looked straight and cheerfully.

— Well, now tell us about your exploits, — he said. Bolkonsky in the most modest manner, without once mentioning himself, described the engagement and his reception by the minister of war.

— Ils m'ont reçu avec ma nouvelle, comme un chien dans un jeu de quilles, [They received me with my news like a dog at a game of skittles,] — he concluded.

Bilibin smiled, relaxing the folds of his skin.

— Cependant, mon cher, — he said, examining his nail from a distance and gathering the skin above his left eye, — malgré la haute estime que je professe pour le "Orthodox Russian army," j'avoue que votre victoire n'est pas des plus victorieuses. [However, my dear, despite the high esteem I profess for the "Orthodox Russian army," I confess that your victory is not of the most victorious.]

He continued in French, pronouncing in Russian only those words which he contemptuously wished to emphasize.

— How is that? You with your whole mass fall upon the unfortunate Mortier with his one division, and this Mortier slips through your fingers? Where is the victory?

— But, seriously speaking, — answered Prince Andrei, — we can nevertheless say without boasting that this is a little better than Ulm...

— Why didn't you capture us a single, just a single marshal?

— Because not everything happens as it is planned, and not as regularly as on parade. We planned, as I told you, to get to their rear by seven in the morning, and we had not arrived by five in the evening.

— But why didn't you arrive by seven in the morning? You ought to have arrived at seven in the morning, — Bilibin said with a smile, — you ought to have arrived at seven in the morning.

— Why didn't you suggest to Bonaparte through diplomatic channels that he had better leave Genoa? — Prince Andrei said in the same tone.

— I know, — interrupted Bilibin, — you think it is very easy to capture marshals sitting on a sofa in front of a fireplace. That is true, but still, why didn't you capture him? And do not be surprised that not only the minister of war, but also His August Majesty Emperor and King Francis will not be too delighted by your victory; and even I, a humble secretary of the Russian embassy, feel no special joy...

He looked straight at Prince Andrei, and suddenly smoothed out the gathered skin on his forehead.

— Now it is my turn to ask you "why," my dear boy? — said Bolkonsky. — I confess I do not understand; perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intellect, but I do not understand: Mack loses a whole army, Archduke Ferdinand and Archduke Charles give no signs of life and make mistake after mistake; finally Kutuzov alone gains a real victory, destroying the charme [The spell of invincibility.] of the French, and the minister of war does not even care to hear the details!

— That is exactly why, my dear boy. Voyez-vous, mon cher: [You see, my dear:] hurrah! for the Tsar, for Russia, for the faith! Tout ça est bel et bon, [All that is well and good,] but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care about your victories? You bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Charles or Ferdinand — un archiduc vaut l'autre, [One archduke is as good as another,] as you know — even if it is only over Bonaparte's fire brigade, that is another matter, and we would fire off cannons. But this, as if on purpose, can only vex us. The Archduke Charles does nothing, the Archduke Ferdinand covers himself with disgrace. You abandon Vienna, you no longer defend it, comme si vous nous disiez: [As if you were saying to us:] God is with us, and God be with you and your capital. The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt: you expose him to a bullet and then congratulate us on a victory! ... You must admit that a more exasperating piece of news than the one you bring could not have been invented. C'est comme un fait exprès, comme un fait exprès. [It's as if done on purpose, on purpose.] Besides, supposing you had gained a brilliant victory, supposing even Archduke Charles had gained a victory, what would that have changed in the general course of events? It's too late now, when Vienna is occupied by the French troops.

— What do you mean, occupied? Vienna is occupied?

— Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schönbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Wrbna, is going to him for orders.

Bolkonsky, after the fatigue and impressions of his journey, of his reception, and especially after his dinner, felt that he could not grasp the full significance of the words he had heard.

— Count Lichtenfels was here this morning, — continued Bilibin, — and showed me a letter containing a detailed description of the parade of the French in Vienna. Le prince Murat et tout le tremblement... [Prince Murat and all the rest of it...] You see that your victory is not a very joyous one, and that you cannot be received as a savior...

— Really, I don't care, I don't care at all! — said Prince Andrei, beginning to understand that his news of the battle of Krems was indeed of little importance in view of such events as the occupation of the Austrian capital. — But how was Vienna taken? What about the bridge and its famous tête de pont, [bridgehead,] and Prince Auersperg? We had rumors that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna, — he said.

— Prince Auersperg is on this, our side, and is defending us; very badly, I think, but still he is defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet 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 long ago have been in the mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have had a bad quarter of an hour between two fires.

— But this still does not mean that the campaign is over, — said Prince Andrei.

— And I think it is over. And the bigwigs here think so too, but they dare not say it. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign: it is not your échauffourée de Dürenstein, [skirmish at Dürrenstein,] not gunpowder at all, that will decide the matter, but those who invented it, — said Bilibin, repeating one of his mots, [witticisms,] smoothing the skin on his forehead, and pausing. — The only question is what will be the result of the interview between the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia at Berlin. If Prussia joins the alliance, on forcera la main à l'Autriche, [Austria's hand will be forced,] and there will be war. But if not, the only thing to do is to agree where to draw up the preliminary articles of a new Campo Formio. [Campo Formio.]

— But what extraordinary genius! — suddenly cried Prince Andrei, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it. — And what luck the man has!

— Buonaparte? [Buonaparte?] — said Bilibin interrogatively, wrinkling his forehead to indicate that a mot [[witticism]] was coming. — Buonaparte? — he said, laying special stress on the "u." I think, however, that now, when he dictates laws to Austria from Schönbrunn, il faut lui faire grâce de l'u. [we must spare him the "u."] I am decidedly introducing an innovation, and call him simply Bonaparte tout court. [just Bonaparte.]

— No, but joking apart, — said Prince Andrei, — do you really think the campaign is over?

— This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to it. And she will pay it back. And she has been made a fool of because, in the first place, her provinces have been ruined (on dit, le Orthodox est terrible pour le pillage), [they say the Orthodox are terrible for pillaging,] her army is beaten, her capital is taken, and all this pour les beaux yeux [for the beautiful eyes] of His Sardinian Majesty. And therefore — entre nous, mon cher [between ourselves, my dear boy] — I instinctively feel that we are being deceived; my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately.

— That is impossible! — said Prince Andrei. — That would be too base.

— Qui vivra verra, [He who lives will see,] — said Bilibin, again smoothing out his skin as a sign that the conversation was at an end.

When Prince Andrei reached the room prepared for him, and lay down in clean linen on the featherbed and scented, warmed pillows, he felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far away from him. The Prussian alliance, Austria's treachery, Bonaparte's new triumph, tomorrow's levée and parade, and the audience with Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts.

He closed his eyes, and instantly there sounded in his ears the rattle of the cannonade, the musketry, the rumble of carriage wheels, and again the musketeers were coming down the hill drawn out in a thin line, and the French were firing, and he felt his heart thrill, and he rode forward beside Schmidt, and the bullets whistled merrily around him, and he experienced a feeling of tenfold joy in life, such as he had not felt since childhood.

He woke up...

"Yes, all that really happened! ..." he said, smiling to himself a happy, childlike smile, and fell into a deep, youthful sleep.