《War And Peace》Book2 CHAPTER XII

《War And Peace》　Book2 　CHAPTER XII
　　　　by Leo Tolstoy

AT THE LEVÉE the Emperor Francis only looked intently into Prince Andrey's
face, and nodded his long head to him as he stood in the place assigned him
among the Austrian officers. But after the levée the adjutant of the previous
evening ceremoniously communicated to Bolkonsky the Emperor's desire to give him
an audience. The Emperor Francis received him, standing in the middle of the
room. Prince Andrey was struck by the fact that before beginning the
conversation, the Emperor seemed embarrassed, didn't know what to say, and
reddened.

“Tell me when the battle began,” he asked hurriedly. Prince Andrey answered.
The question was followed by others, as simple: “Was Kutuzov well?” “How long
was it since he left Krems?” and so on. The Emperor spoke as though his sole aim
was to put a certain number of questions. The answers to these questions, as was
only too evident, could have no interest for him.

“At what o'clock did the battle begin?” asked the Emperor.

“I cannot inform your majesty at what o'clock the battle began in the front
lines, but at Därenstein, where I was, the troops began the attack about six in
the evening,” said Bolkonsky, growing more eager, and conceiving that now there
was a chance for him to give an accurate description, just as he had it ready 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 Därenstein to Krems?”

“Three and a half miles, your majesty.”

“The French abandoned the left bank?”

“As our scouts reported, the last crossed the river on rafts in the
night.”

“Have you enough provisions at Krems?”

“Provisions have not been furnished to the amount…”

The Emperor interrupted him:

“At what o'clock was General Schmidt killed?”

“At seven o'clock, I think.”

“At seven o'clock? Very sad! very sad!”

The Emperor said that he thanked him, and bowed. Prince Andrey withdrew, and
was at once surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he saw friendly
eyes gazing at him, and heard friendly voices addressing him. The adjutant of
the preceding evening reproached him for not having stopped at the palace, and
offered him his own house. The minister of war came up and congratulated him on
the Order of Maria Theresa of the third grade, with which the Emperor was
presenting him. The Empress's chamberlain invited him to her majesty. The
archduchess, too, wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and for a
few seconds he was trying to collect his ideas. The Russian ambassador took him
by the shoulder, led him away to a window, and began to talk to him.

Contrary to Bilibin's prognostications, the news he brought was received with
rejoicing. A thanksgiving service was arranged. Kutuzov was decorated with the
GREat cross of Maria Theresa, and rewards were bestowed on the whole army.
Bolkonsky received invitations on all hands, and had to spend the whole morning
paying visits to the principal personages in the Austrian Government. After
paying his visits, Prince Andrey, at five o'clock in the evening, was returning
homewards to Bilibin's, mentally composing a letter to his father about the
battle and his reception at Bränn. At the steps of Bilibin's house stood a cart
packed half full of things, and Franz, Bilibin's servant, came out of the
doorway, with difficulty dragging a travelling-trunk.

Before going back to Bilibin's Prince Andrey had driven to a book-seller's to
lay in a stock of books for the campaign, and had spent some time in the
shop.

“What is it?” asked Bolkonsky.

“Ah, your excellency!” said Franz, with some exertion rolling the trunk on
the cart. “We are to move on still farther. The scoundrel is already at our
heels again!”

“Eh? what?” queried Prince Andrey.

Bilibin came out to meet Bolkonsky. His ordinarily composed face looked
excited.

“No, no, confess that this is charming,” he said, “this story of the bridge
of Tabor. They have crossed it without striking a blow.”

Prince Andrey could not understand.

“Why, where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the town
knows by now?”

“I come from the archduchess. I heard nothing there.”

“And didn't you see that people are packing up everywhere?”

“I have seen nothing … But what's the matter?” Prince Andrey asked
impatiently.

“What's the matter? The matter is that the French have crossed the bridge
that Auersperg was defending, and they haven't blown up the bridge, so that
Murat is at this moment running along the road to Bränn, and to-day or to-morrow
they'll be here.”

“Here? But how is it the bridge wasn't blown up, since it was mined?”

“Why, that's what I ask you. No one—not Bonaparte himself—can tell why.”
Bolkonsky shrugged his shoulders.

“But if they have crossed the bridge, then it will be all over with the army;
it will be cut off,” he said.

“That's the whole point,” answered Bilibin. “Listen. The French enter Vienna,
as I told you. Everything is satisfactory. Next day, that is yesterday,
Messieurs les Maréchaux, Murat, Lannes, and Beliard get on their horses
and ride off to the bridge. (Remark that all three are Gascons.) ‘Gentlemen,'
says one, ‘you know that the Tabor bridge has been mined and countermined, and
is protected by a formidable fortification and fifteen thousand troops, who have
orders to blow up the bridge and not to let us pass. But our gracious Emperor
Napoleon will be pleased if we take the bridge. Let us go us there and take it.'
‘Yes, let us go,' say the others; and they start off and take the bridge, cross
it, and now with their whole army on this side of the Danube, they are coming
straight upon us, and upon you and your communications.”

“Leave off jesting,” said Prince Andrey, with mournful seriousness. The news
grieved Prince Andrey, and yet it gave him pleasure. As soon as he heard that
the Russian army was in such a hopeless position, the idea struck him that he
was the very man destined to extricate the Russian army from that position, and
that it had come—the Toulon—that would lift him for ever from out of the ranks
of unknown officers, and open the first path to glory for him! As he listened to
Bilibin, he was already considering how, on reaching the army, he would, at a
council of war, give the opinion that alone could save the army, and how he
would be entrusted alone to execute the plan.

“Leave off joking,” he said.

“I'm not joking,” Bilibin went on. “Nothing could be more truthful or more
melancholy. These three gentlemen advance to the bridge alone and wave white
handkerchiefs; they declare that it's a truce, and that they, the marshals, are
come for a parley with Prince Auersperg. The officer on duty lets them into the
tête du pont. They tell him a thousand Gascon absurdities; say that the
war is over, that Emperor Francis has arranged a meeting with Bonaparte, that
they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg.
These Gascon gentlemen embrace the officers, make jokes, and sit about on the
cannons, while a French battalion meantime advances unnoticed on the bridge,
flings the sacks of inflammable material into the river, and marches up to the
tête du pont. Finally the lieutenant-general himself appears, our dear
Prince Auersperg von Mautern. ‘My dear enemy! Flower of Austrian chivalry! hero
of the Turkish war! Hostility is at end, we can take each other's hands … the
Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make the acquaintance of Prince
Auersperg.' In a word, these gentlemen—not Gascons for nothing—so bewilder
Auersperg with fair words—he is so flattered at this speedy intimacy with French
marshals, so dazzled by the spectacle of their cloaks, and of the ostrich
feathers of Murat—that their fire gets into his eyes and makes him forget that
he ought to be firing on the enemy” (in spite of the interest of his story,
Bilibin did not omit to pause after this mot, to give time for its
appreciation). “A French battalion runs into the tête du pont, spikes the
cannons, and the bridge is taken. No, but really the best part of the whole
episode,” he went on, his excitement subsiding under the interest of his own
story, “is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the
signal for firing the mines and blowing up the bridge, this sergeant seeing the
French troops running on to the bridge wanted to fire, but Lannes pulled his arm
away. The sergeant, who seems to have been sharper than his general, goes up to
Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, they're deceiving you, here are the French!' Murat
sees the game is up if he lets the sergeant have his say. With an affectation of
surprise (a true Gascon!) he addresses Auersperg: ‘Is this the Austrian
discipline so highly extolled all over the world,' says he, ‘do you let a man of
low rank speak to you like this?' It was a stroke of genius. The Prince of
Auersperg is touched in his honour and has the sergeant put under arrest. No,
but confess that all this story of the bridge of Tabor is charming. It is
neither stupidity, nor cowardice …”

“It is treason, perhaps,” said Prince Andrey, vividly picturing to himself
GREy overcoats, wounds, the smoke and sound of firing, and the glory awaiting
him.

“Not that either. This puts the court into a pretty pickle,” pursued Bilibin.
“It is not treason, nor cowardice, nor stupidity; it is just as it was at Ulm …”
He seemed to ponder, seeking the phrase, “it is … c'est du Mack. Nous sommes
mackés,” he said, feeling he was uttering un mot, and a fresh one,
one that would be repeated. His creased-up brows let the puckers smooth out
quickly in sign of satisfaction, and with a faint smile he fell to scrutinizing
his finger-nails.

“Where are you off to?” he said, suddenly turning to Prince Andrey, who had
got up and was going to his room.

“I must start.”

“Where to?”

“To the army.”

“But you meant to stay another two days?”

“But now I am going at once”; and Prince Andrey, after a few words arranging
about his journey, went to his room.

“Do you know, my dear boy,” said Bilibin, coming into his room, “I have been
thinking about you. What are you going for?” And in support of the
irrefutability of his arguments on the subject, all the creases ran off his
face.

Prince Andrey looked inquiringly at him and made no reply.

“Why are you going? I know you consider that it's your duty to gallop off to
the army now that the army is in danger. I understand that, my boy, it's
heroism.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Prince Andrey.

“But you are un philosophe, be one fully, look at things from the
other side, and you will see that it is your duty, on the contrary, to take care
of yourself. Leave that to others who are no good for anything else … You have
received no orders to go back, and you are not dismissed from here, so that you
can remain and go with us, where our ill-luck takes us. They say they are going
to Olmätz. And Olmätz is a very charming town. And we can travel there
comfortably together in my carriage.”

“That's enough joking, Bilibin,” said Bolkonsky.

“I am speaking to you sincerely as a friend. Consider where are you going and
with what object now, when you can stay here. You have two alternatives before
you” (he puckered up the skin of his left temple) “either you won't reach the
army before peace will be concluded, or you will share the defeat and disgrace
with Kutuzov's whole army.” And Bilibin let his brow go smooth again, feeling
that his dilemma was beyond attack.

“That I can't enter into,” said Prince Andrey coldly, but he thought: “I am
going to save the army.”

“My dear fellow, you are a hero,” said Bilibin