them, ‘you know the Thabor Bridge is mined and doubly
mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its head
and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to
blow up the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please
our sovereign the Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge,
so let us three go and take it!’ ‘Yes, let’s!’ say the others. And
off they go and take the bridge, cross it, and now with their
whole army are on this side of the Danube, marching on us,
you, and your lines of communication.’
*The marshalls.
‘Stop jesting,’ said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously.
This news grieved him and yet he was pleased.
As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such
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a hopeless situation it occurred to him that it was he who
was destined to lead it out of this position; that here was
the Toulon that would lift him from the ranks of obscure
officers and offer him the first step to fame! Listening to Bilibin he was already imagining how on reaching the army
he would give an opinion at the war council which would
be the only one that could save the army, and how he alone
would be entrusted with the executing of the plan.
‘Stop this jesting,’ he said
‘I am not jesting,’ Bilibin went on. ‘Nothing is truer or
sadder. These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and
wave white handkerchiefs; they assure the officer on duty
that they, the marshals, are on their way to negotiate with
Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the tete-de-pont.*
They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that the war
is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting
with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg,
and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen
embrace the officers, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and
meanwhile a French battalion gets to the bridge unobserved,
flings the bags of incendiary material into the water, and approaches the tete-de-pont. At length appears the lieutenant
general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself.
‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s
hand…. The Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to
make Prince Auersperg’s acquaintance.’ In a word, those
gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so bewildered him with fine
words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly established inti
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macy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the sight
of Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, qu’il n’y voit que du
feu, et oublie celui qu’il devait faire faire sur l’ennemi!’*[2]
In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilibin did not forget
to pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation.
‘The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the
guns, and the bridge is taken! But what is best of all,’ he went
on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest
of his own story, ‘is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow
up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops
were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes
stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than
his general, goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are
being deceived, here are the French!’ Murat, seeing that all
is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg
with feigned astonishment (he is a true Gascon) and says:
‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian discipline, if
you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It was a
stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake
and orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own
that this affair of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not
exactly stupidity, nor rascality…’
*Bridgehead.
*[2] That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that he
ought to be firing at the enemy.
‘It may be treachery,’ said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder,
the sounds of firing, and the glory that awaited him.
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‘Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,’
replied Bilibin.’It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as at Ulm… it is…’he seemed to be trying to
find the right expression. ‘C’est… c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackes [It is… it is a bit of Mack. We are Macked],’ he
concluded, feeling that he had produced a good epigram,
a fresh one that would be repeated. His hitherto puckered
brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a slight
smile he began to examine his nails.
‘Where are you off to?’ he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had risen and was going toward his room.
‘I am going away.’
‘Where to?’
‘To the army.’
‘But you meant to stay another two days?’
‘But now I am off at once.’
And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to his room.
‘Do you know, mon cher,’ said Bilibin following him, ‘I
have been thinking about you. Why are you going?’
And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the
wrinkles vanished from his face.
Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no
reply.
‘Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to
gallop back to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher, it is heroism!’
‘Not at all,’ said Prince Andrew.
‘But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look
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at the other side of the question and you will see that your
duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself. Leave it to
those who are no longer fit for anything else…. You have not
been ordered to return and have not been dismissed from
here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our ill
luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmutz, and Olmutz
is a very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in
my caleche.’
‘Do stop joking, Bilibin,’ cried Bolkonski.
‘I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where
and why are you going, when you might remain here? You
are faced by one of two things,’ and the skin over his left
temple puckered, ‘either you will not reach your regiment
before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with Kutuzov’s whole army.’
And Bilibin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was insoluble.
‘I cannot argue about it,’ replied Prince Andrew coldly,
but he thought: ‘I am going to save the army.’
‘My dear fellow, you are a hero!’ said Bilibin.
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Chapter XIII
That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of
War, Bolkonski set off to rejoin the army, not knowing
where he would find it and fearing to be captured by the
French on the way to Krems.
In Brunn everybody attached to the court was packing
up, and the heavy baggage was already being dispatched to
Olmutz. Near Hetzelsdorf Prince Andrew struck the high
road along which the Russian army was moving with great
haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage.
Prince Andrew took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack
commander, and hungry and weary, making his way past
the baggage wagons, rode in search of the commander in
chief and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the
position of the army reached him as he went along, and
the appearance of the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors.
‘Cette armee russe que l’or de l’Angleterre a transportee
des extremites de l’univers, nous allons lui faire eprouver
le meme sort(le sort de l’armee d’Ulm).’* He remembered
these words in Bonaparte’s address to his army at the beginning of the campaign, and they awoke in him astonishment
at the genius of his hero, a feeling of wounded pride, and a
hope of glory. ‘And should there be nothing left but to die?’
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he thought. ‘Well, if need be, I shall do it no worse than others.’
*”That Russian army which has been brought from the
ends of the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the
same fate(the fate of the army at Ulm).’
He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of
detachments, carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all kinds overtaking one another and
blocking the muddy road, three and sometimes four abreast.
From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear could reach,
there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts and gun
carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts,
the urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. All along the sides of the road fallen horses
were to be seen, some flayed, some not, and broken-down
carts beside which solitary soldiers sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their companies,
crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging
sacks. At each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were
yet denser and the din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers
floundering knee-deep in mud pushed the guns and wagons
themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, traces broke, and
lungs were strained with shouting. The officers directing the
march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their
voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw
by their faces that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder.
‘Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,’ thought
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Bolkonski, recalling Bilibin’s words.
Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was,
he rode up to a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a
strange one-horse vehicle, evidently rigged up by soldiers
out of any available materials and looking like something
between a cart, a cabriolet, and a caleche. A soldier was
driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the
apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew
rode up and was just putting his question to a soldier when
his attention was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the
woman in the vehicle. An officer in charge of transport was
beating the soldier who was driving the woman’s
