Page 99 of 470
Dolgorkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his protg, but Prince Dolgorkov politely and firmly pressing his hand said nothing to Bors and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Prince Andrew in French.
“Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear fellow,” he said abruptly and eagerly, “I must confess to having been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with Russian valor—what more could be wished for?”
“So the attack is definitely resolved on?” asked Bolknski.
“And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him today for the Emperor.” Dolgorkov smiled significantly.
“Is that so? And what did he say?” inquired Bolknski.
“What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time. I tell you he is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most amusing,” he continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, “was that we could not think how to address the reply! If not as ‘Consul’ and of course not as ‘Emperor,’ it seemed to me it should be to ‘General Bonaparte.’”
“But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General Bonaparte, there is a difference,” remarked Bolknski.
“That’s just it,” interrupted Dolgorkov quickly, laughing. “You know Bilbin—he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’”
Dolgorkov laughed merrily.
“Only that?” said Bolknski.
“All the same, it was Bilbin who found a suitable form for the address. He is a wise and clever fellow.”
“What was it?”
“To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement franais,” said Dolgorkov, with grave satisfaction. “Good, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but he will dislike it extremely,” said Bolknski.
“Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he’s dined with him—the present Emperor—more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a more cunning or subtle diplomatist—you know, a combination of French adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and Count Markv? Count Markv was the only man who knew how to handle him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!”
And the talkative Dolgorkov, turning now to Bors, now to Prince Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markv, our ambassador, purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markv, probably expecting Markv to pick it up for him, and how Markv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching Bonaparte’s.
“Delightful!” said Bolknski. “But I have come to you, Prince, as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see...” but before Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon Dolgorkov to the Emperor.
“Oh, what a nuisance,” said Dolgorkov, getting up hurriedly and pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Bors. “You know I should be very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young man.” Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. “But you see... another time!”
Bors was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny, obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorkov out into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Emperor’s room by which Dolgorkov had entered—a short man in civilian clothes with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression. This short man nodded to Dolgorkov as to an intimate friend and stared at Prince Andrew with cool intensity, walking straight toward him and evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other turned away and went down the side of the corridor.
“Who was that?” asked Bors.
“He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorski.... It is such men as he who decide the fate of nations,” added Bolknski with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.
Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of Austerlitz, Bors was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorkov again and remained for a while with the Ismylov regiment.
At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Densov’s squadron, in which Nicholas Rostv served and which was in Prince Bagratin’s detachment, moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing into action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about two thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostv saw the Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then Generals Bagratin and Dolgorkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear before action which he had experienced as previously, all the inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostv spent that day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and shouts of hurrah, and saw wounded being brought back (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a stnya of Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement. The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostv going or coming. And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed.
