War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

Чтение книги онлайн.

       BILIBIN Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867

      He looked directly at Prince Andrei and suddenly released the gathered skin of his forehead.

      “Now it is my turn to ask you ‘why’, mon cher,” said Bolkonsky. “I must confess, I do not understand, perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intellect, but I do not understand. Mack loses an entire army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl show no signs of life and make mistake upon mistake, and finally only Kutuzov achieves a genuine victory and shatters the French spell, and the war minister is not even interested in knowing the details.”

      “That is precisely the reason why, my dear fellow. Take another piece of roast, there won’t be anything else.”

      “Merci.”

      “You see, mon cher – hoorah for the Tsar, for Rus, for the faith! – all that is fine and good but what interest, say I, have we, the Austrian court, in your victories? Bring us good news of a victory by Archduke Karl or Ferdinand – one archduke is as good as another, as you know – even if it’s only over Bonaparte’s fire brigade, and that is a different matter, we’ll set the cannon roaring. But this only seems deliberately intended to mock us. Archduke Karl does nothing, Archduke Ferdinand covers himself in shame. You abandon Vienna and no longer defend it, as if you had said to us: God is with us, but you go with God – and take your capital with you. The one general we all loved, Schmidt, you lead into the path of a bullet and then you regale us with a victory! You have captured a couple of navvies dressed up as Bonaparte’s generals. You are bound to admit that nothing more irritating than the news that you bring could possibly be imagined. As if you did it on purpose, quite on purpose. Apart from which, even if you did win a brilliant victory, even if Archduke Karl did win a brilliant victory, what would that change, in the general course of events? It’s already too late, with Vienna occupied by the French.”

      “Occupied, you say? Vienna is occupied?”

      “Not only is it occupied, but Bonaparte is in Schönbrunn and the count, your dear Count Vrbna, is on his way to receive his orders.”

      After the fatigue and impressions of the journey, the reception, and especially after the meal, Bolkonsky found it hard to grasp the full meaning of the words he had just heard.

      “That is a quite different kettle of fish,” he said, taking out a toothpick and moving closer to the hearth.

      “This morning Count Lichtenfels was here,” Bilibin continued, “and he showed me a letter which described the French parade in Vienna in detail. Prince Murat and the whole caboodle … You can see why your victory is not such a very joyous event and why you cannot be welcomed as saviour …”

      “Really, it makes no difference to me, absolutely no difference,” said Prince Andrei, beginning to understand that his news of the battle at Krems really was of little importance in view of such events as the occupation of the capital of Austria. “But how was Vienna taken? What of the bridge and its famous fortification, and Prince Auersperg? We heard rumours that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna,” he said.

      “Prince Auersperg is stationed on this side, our side, and defending us, defending us very poorly, I think, but nonetheless defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has still not 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 have been in the mountains of Bohemia long ago, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour caught between two fires.”

      “If that happens, the campaign is over,” said Prince Andrei.

      “That is what I think too. And the simpletons here think it as well, but they don’t dare to say so. It will be just as I said at the start of the campaign, this whole business will be decided not by your skirmish at Dürenstein, and not by gunpowder at all, but by the people who dreamed it up,” said Bilibin, repeating one of his bons mots, releasing the skin on his forehead and pausing for a moment. “The only question is, what will come of the Berlin meeting between Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia? If Prussia joins the alliance, they will leave Austria no choice, and there will be war. But if not, then all that has to be done (take this pear, it is very good) is to agree on where to compose the initial articles of the new Campo Formio.”

      “But what exceptional genius this is!” Prince Andrei suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and banging it on the table. “And what luck this man has!”

      “Buonaparte?” enquired Bilibin, wrinkling his forehead to signal the approach of a bon mot. “Buonaparte?” he said, with special emphasis on the u. “I rather think that now he is dictating laws to Austria from Schönbrunn, he should be relieved of his u. I hereby declare an innovation, to call him simply Bonaparte. Wouldn’t you like some more coffee? Franz!”

      “No, joking apart,” said Prince Andrei, “you are in a position to know. What do you think, how will all this end?”

      “This is what I think. Austria has been left looking foolish, and she is not used to that, and she will repay the favour. And she has been left looking foolish because, in the first place, her provinces are ruined (they say the Army of Orthodoxy is terrible when it comes to plunder), her army is shattered, her capital is captured, and all this for his Sardinian Majesty’s beautiful eyes.”