LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

might be put to him, and the answers he would give. He expected to be presented to the Emperor straight away. But at the main entrance to the palace, an official ran out to him and, recognising him as a courier, showed him to a different entrance.

      “Turn right out of this corridor, your excellency, there you will find the duty aide-de-camp. He will take you to the war minister.”

      The duty aide-de-camp, after greeting Andrei, asked him to wait and went to the war minister. Five minutes later the aide-de-camp came back and, bowing with especial politeness and allowing Prince Andrei to precede him, showed the prince along a corridor to the study where the war minister was at work. The war minister apparently wished to employ his refined courtesy to protect himself against any attempt at familiarity by the Russian adjutant. Prince Andrei’s jubilant exaltation faded significantly as he approached the door of the war minister’s study. He felt insulted and, as always happened in his proud heart, at that very moment the feeling of offence expanded, unperceived by him, into a feeling of contempt that was entirely without any basis. In that same instant his resourceful mind also suggested to him the viewpoint from which he had the right to despise both the adjutant and the war minister. “No doubt it will seem to them very easy to win a victory, without smelling gunpowder,” he thought. His eyes narrowed contemptuously, his arms slumped lifelessly at his sides and he walked into the war minister’s study as if he could barely drag his feet along. This feeling grew stronger still when he saw the war minister sitting at a large desk paying no attention, for the first two minutes, to the man who had just come in. The war minister, whose bald head with its grey temples was bent over the papers which he was reading, in the light of two wax candles, and marking with a pencil, went on to complete his reading, refusing to raise his head, even when the door had opened and he heard footsteps.

      “Take this and pass it on,” the war minister said to his adjutant, handing him some papers and still ignoring the courier.

      Prince Andrei sensed that, of all the affairs occupying the war minister, the actions of Kutuzov’s army were those least capable of holding his interest, or so he wished to make the Russian courier feel. “But that is all the same to me,” he thought. The war minister gathered up the rest of his papers, squared them together edge to edge and raised his head. He had an intelligent and distinctive face. But as soon as he addressed Prince Andrei, his intelligent and firm expression altered, in a manner that was clearly habitual and deliberate, and his face assumed a stupid, affected smile that did not attempt to conceal its own artificiality, the smile of a man who receives many petitioners one after another.

      “From General-Field-Marshal Kutuzov?” he asked. “Good news, I hope? There has been a clash with Mortier? A victory? About time!”

      He took the dispatch, which was addressed to him, and began reading it with a sad expression.

      “Ah, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he said in German. “What a misfortune! What a misfortune!” After quickly looking through the dispatch, he laid it on the desk and glanced at Prince Andrei, evidently pondering something.

      “Ah, what a misfortune! You say the action is conclusive? But Mortier has not been taken, even so.” He thought for a moment. “I am very glad you have brought good news, although the death of Schmidt is a high price to pay for victory. His Majesty will certainly wish to see you, but not today. Thank you, take a rest now. Tomorrow be at the exit after the parade. However, I will let you know.”

      The stupid smile that had disappeared during the conversation appeared once again on the war minister’s face.

      “Goodbye, thank you very much. His Majesty the Emperor will probably wish to see you,” he repeated and inclined his head.

      Prince Andrei went out into the waiting room. There were two adjutants sitting there, talking to each other, evidently about something entirely unrelated to Prince Andrei’s arrival. One of them stood up reluctantly and, with the same insolent politeness as before, asked Prince Andrei to write his rank, title and address in the book that he handed to him. Prince Andrei complied with his wish in silence and left the waiting room without even glancing in his direction.

      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.

Скачать книгу