“Where?”
“To the emperor.”
“Oh! oh! oh!”
“Well, good-bye, Bolkonsky! Good-bye, Prince; come early to dinner,” said several voices. “We’ll take good care of you.”
“Try to praise the order for the delivery of provisions and the itineraries as much as possible to the emperor,” said Bilibin, seeing Bolkonsky off to the front hall.
“I wish I could, but I can’t, as far as I know,” Bolkonsky replied, smiling.
“Well, generally, talk as much as possible. Audiences are his passion; but he neither likes nor is able to talk himself, as you’ll see.”
XII
At the levee, the emperor Franz merely looked intently into the face of Prince Andrei, who was standing in the place assigned to him among the Austrian officers, and nodded his long head at him. But after the levee, yesterday’s imperial adjutant courteously conveyed to Bolkonsky the emperor’s wish to grant him an audience. The emperor Franz received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation began, it struck Prince Andrei that the emperor was as if confused, did not know what to say, and blushed.
“Tell me, when did the battle begin?” he asked hastily.
Prince Andrei replied. After that question, other equally simple questions followed: “Was Kutuzov in good health? How long ago had he left Krems?” and so on. The emperor spoke with such an expression as if his whole goal consisted in asking a certain number of questions. The replies to these questions, as was only too clear, were of no interest to him.
“At what time did the battle begin?” asked the emperor.
“I am unable to tell Your Majesty at what time the battle at the front began, but in Dürenstein, where I was, the troops went into attack between five and six o’clock in the evening,” said Bolkonsky, livening up and supposing on this occasion that he would be able to present the truthful description already prepared in his head of all he knew and had seen.
But the emperor smiled and interrupted him:
“How many miles?”
“From where to where, Your Majesty?”
“From Dürenstein to Krems.”
“Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.”
“Have the French abandoned the left bank?”
“According to the scouts’ reports, the last of them crossed at night on rafts.”
“Is there enough forage in Krems?”
“Forage was not delivered in the quantities…”
The emperor interrupted him:
“At what time was General Schmidt killed?”
“At seven o’clock, I believe.”
“At seven o’clock? Very sad! Very sad!”
The emperor said that he thanked him and inclined his head. Prince Andrei went out and was at once surrounded on all sides by courtiers. On all sides affectionate eyes looked at him and affectionate words came to him. Yesterday’s imperial adjutant reproached him for not staying in the palace, and offered him his own house. The minister of war came up to congratulate him on the Order of Maria Theresa of the third degree, which the emperor was to bestow on him. The empress’s chamberlain invited him to her majesty. The archduchess also wanted to see him. He did not know whom to answer and needed a few seconds to collect his wits. The Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and started talking to him.
Contrary to what Bilibin had said, the news he brought was received joyfully. A thanksgiving prayer service was ordered. Kutuzov was awarded a Maria Theresa with large cross, and the whole army received rewards. Bolkonsky received invitations from all sides and had to spend the whole morning paying visits to the high dignitaries of Austria. Having finished his visits past four in the afternoon, mentally composing a letter to his father about the battle and his journey to Brünn, Prince Andrei was returning home to Bilibin’s. Before going to Bilibin’s, Prince Andrei had gone to a bookstore to stock up on books for the campaign and had spent a long time there. By the porch of the house occupied by Bilibin stood a britzka half filled with things, and Franz, Bilibin’s servant, dragging a trunk with difficulty, came out the door.
“What’s this?” asked Bolkonsky.
“Ach, Erlaucht!” said Franz, loading the trunk into the britzka with difficulty. “Wir ziehen noch weiter. Der Bösewicht ist schon wieder hinter uns her!”*208
“What is it? What?” Prince Andrei kept asking.
Bilibin came out to meet Bolkonsky. The usually calm face of Bilibin was troubled.
“Non, non, avouez que c’est charmant,” he was saying, “cette histoire du pont de Tabor” (a bridge in Vienna). “Ils l’ont passé sans coup férir.”*209
Prince Andrei understood nothing.
“But where are you coming from that you don’t know what every coachman in town already knows?”
“I’m coming from the archduchess. I didn’t hear anything there.”
“And you didn’t see people packing up everywhere?”
“No, I didn’t…But what’s it all about?” Prince Andrei asked impatiently.
“What’s it all about? It’s about the French having crossed the bridge defended by Auersperg, and the bridge wasn’t blown up, so Murat is now racing down the road to Brünn, and they’ll be here today or tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, here? How is it they didn’t blow up the bridge, since it’s mined?”
“That’s what I’m asking. Nobody knows, not even Bonaparte himself.”
Bolkonsky shrugged his shoulders.
“But if the bridge has been crossed, that means the army is lost: it will be cut off,” he said.
“That’s just the thing,” answered Bilibin. “Listen. The French enter Vienna, as I said. Everything’s fine. The next day, that is, yesterday, the gentlemen marshals, Murat, Lannes, and Belliard, get on their horses and set out for the bridge. (Note that all three are Gascons.) ‘Gentlemen,’ says one, ‘you know that the bridge of Thabor has been mined and countermined, and that in front of it is a terrible tête de pont and fifteen thousand troops, who have been ordered to blow up the bridge and not let us onto it. But it will be pleasing to our sovereign emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge. Let’s go the three of us and take the bridge.’ ‘Let’s go,’ say the others; and they go and take the bridge, cross it, and are now on this side of the Danube with their whole army, coming against us, against you and your communications.”
“Enough joking,” Prince Andrei said sadly and seriously.
This news was grievous and at the same time pleasant for Prince Andrei. As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation, it occurred to him that it was precisely he who was destined to lead the Russian army out of that situation, that here was that Toulon14 which would take him out of the ranks of unknown officers and open for him the first path to glory! Listening to Bilibin, he was already considering how, on coming to the army, he would submit an opinion at the military council which alone would save the army, and how he alone would be charged with carrying out this plan.
“Enough joking,” he said.
“I’m not joking,” Bilibin went on, “nothing is more true or sad. These gentlemen come to the bridge by themselves and wave white handkerchiefs; assure them all that a truce has been called and that they, the marshals, are coming to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. The officer on duty lets them into the tête de pont. They tell him a thousand Gascon absurdities: that the war is over, that the emperor Franz has fixed a meeting with Bonaparte, that they wish to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, joke, sit on the cannons, and meanwhile a French battalion gets onto the bridge unnoticed, throws the sacks of flammable material into the water, and approaches the tête de pont. Finally, the lieutenant general himself comes, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern. ‘Our dear enemy! Flower of the Austrian military, hero of the Turkish wars! The hostilities are over, we can shake hands with each other…The emperor Napoleon is burning with desire to meet Prince Auersperg.’ In short, these men aren’t Gascons for nothing, they so shower Auersperg with beautiful words, he’s so charmed by his quickly established intimacy with the French marshals, so dazzled by the sight of Murat’s mantle and ostrich feathers, qu’il n’y voit que du feu, et oublie celui qu’il devait faire, faire sur l’ennemi.”*210 (Despite the animation of his speech, Bilibin did not forget to pause after this mot, to allow time for it to be appreciated.) “The French battalion rushes into the tête de pont, spikes the cannons, and the bridge is taken. No, but the best thing of all,” he went on, his excitement with his own charming story subsiding, “is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon that was to give the signal to ignite the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes pushed his hand away. The sergeant, who was clearly smarter than his general, goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are deceived, the French are here!’ Murat sees that the game is up if the sergeant is allowed to speak. With feigned astonishment (a real Gascon), he turns to Auersperg: ‘Where is that Austrian discipline the world praises so much,’ he says, ‘if you allow the lower ranks to speak to you like that.’ C’est génial. Le prince Auersperg se pique d’honneur et fait mettre le sergeant aux arrêts. Non, mais avouez que c’est charmant toute cette histoire du pont de Tabor. Ce n’est ni bêtise, ni lâcheté…”†211 15