War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

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      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.”

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