战争与和平(上)-第49章

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“Turning　to　the　right　out　of　the　corridor；　Euer　Hochgeboren；　you　will　find　the　adjutant　on　duty；”　the　official　said　to　him。　“He　will　conduct　you　to　the　minister　of　war。”
The　adjutant　on　duty；　meeting　Prince　Andrey；　asked　him　to　wait；　and　went　into　the　war　minister。　Five　minutes　later　the　adjutant　returned；　and　with　marked　courtesy；　bowing　and　ushering　Prince　Andrey　before　him；　he　led　him　across　the　corridor　to　the　private　room　of　the　war　minister。　The　adjutant；　by　his　elaborately　formal　courtesy；　seemed　to　wish　to　guard　himself　from　any　attempt　at　familiarity　on　the　part　of　the　Russian　adjutant。　The　joyous　feeling　of　Prince　Andrey　was　considerably　damped　as　he　approached　the　door　of　the　minister’s　room。　He　felt　slighted；　and　the　feeling　of　being　slighted　passed　instantaneously　without　his　being　aware　of　it　himself—into　a　feeling　of　disdain；　which　was　quite　uncalled　for。　His　subtle　brain　at　the　same　instant　supplied　him　with　the　point　of　view　from　which　he　had　the　right　to　feel　disdain　both　of　the　adjutant　and　the　minister　of　war。　“No　doubt　it　seems　to　them　a　very　simple　matter　to　win　victories；　never　having　smelt　powder！”　he　thought。　His　eyelids　drooped　disdainfully；　he　walked　with　peculiar　deliberateness　into　the　war　minister’s　room。　This　feeling　was　intensified　when　he　saw　the　minister　of　war　sitting　at　a　big　table；　and　for　the　first　two　minutes　taking　no　notice　of　his　entrance。　The　minister　of　war　had　his　bald　head；　with　grey　curls　on　the　temple；　held　low　between　two　wax　candles；　he　was　reading　some　papers；　and　marking　them　with　a　pencil。　He　went　on　reading　to　the　end；　without　raising　his　eyes　at　the　opening　of　the　door　and　the　sound　of　footsteps。
“Take　this　and　give　it　him；”　said　the　minister　of　war　to　his　adjutant；　handing　him　the　papers；　and　taking　no　notice　of　the　Russian　attaché。
Prince　Andrey　felt　that　either　the　minister　of　war　took　less　interest　in　the　doings　of　Kutuzov’s　army　than　in　any　other　subject　demanding　his　attention；　or　that　he　wanted　to　make　the　Russian　attaché　feel　this。　“But　that’s　a　matter　of　complete　indifference　to　me；”　thought　he。　The　minister　of　war　put　the　other　remaining　papers　together；　making　their　edges　level；　and　lifted　his　head。　He　had　an　intellectual　and　characteristic　head。　But　the　instant　he　turned　to　Prince　Andrey；　the　shrewd　and　determined　expression　of　the　war　minister’s　face　changed　in　a　manner　evidently　conscious　and　habitual。　On　his　face　was　left　the　stupid　smile—hypocritical；　and　not　disguising　its　hypocrisy—of　a　man　who　receives　many　petitioners；　one　after　another。
“From　General—Field　Marshal　Kutuzov？”　he　queried。　“Good　news；　I　hope？　Has　there　been　an　engagement　with　Mortier？　A　victory？　It　was　high　time！”
He　took　the　despatch；　which　was　addressed　to　him；　and　began　to　read　it　with　a　mournful　expression。
“Ah！　My　God！　my　God！　Schmidt！”　he　said　in　German。　“What　a　calamity！　what　a　calamity！”　Skimming　through　the　despatch；　he　laid　it　on　the　table　and　glanced　at　Prince　Andrey；　visibly　meditating　on　something。
“Ah；　what　a　calamity！　So　the　action；　you　say；　was　a　decisive　one？”　（“Mortier　was　not　taken；　however；”　he　reflected。）　“Very　glad　you　have　brought　good　news；　though　the　death　of　Schmidt　is　a　costly　price　for　the　victory。　His　majesty　will　certainly　wish　to　see　you；　but　not　to…day。　I　thank　you；　you　must　need　repose。　To…morrow；　be　at　the　levée　after　the　review。　But　I　will　let　you　know。”
The　stupid　smile；　which　had　disappeared　while　he　was　talking；　reappeared　on　the　war　minister’s　face。
“Au　revoir；　I　thank　you　indeed。　His　majesty　the　Emperor　will　most　likely　wish　to　see　you；”　he　repeated；　and　he　bowed　his　head。
As　Prince　Andrey　left　the　palace；　he　felt　that　all　the　interest　and　happiness　that　had　been　given　him　by　this　victory　had　been　left　behind　by　him　now　in　the　indifferent　hands　of　the　minister　and　the　formal　adjutant。　The　whole　tenor　of　his　thoughts　had　instantaneously　changed。　The　battle　figured　in　his　mind　as　a　remote；　far…away　memory。


Chapter　10
PRINCE　ANDREY　stayed　at　Br？nn　with　a　Russian　of　his　acquaintance　in　the　diplomatic　service；　Bilibin。
“Ah；　my　dear　prince；　there’s　no　one　I　could　have　been　more　pleased　to　see；”　said　Bilibin；　coming　to　meet　Prince　Andrey。　“Franz；　take　the　prince’s　things　to　my　bedroom；”　he　said　to　the　servant；　who　was　ushering　Bolkonsky　in。　“What；　a　messenger　of　victory？　That’s　capital。　I’m　kept　indoors　ill；　as　you　see。”
After　washing　and　dressing；　Prince　Andrey　came　into　the　diplomat’s　luxurious　study　and　sat　down　to　the　dinner　prepared　for　him。　Bilibin　was　sitting　quietly　at　the　fireplace。
Not　his　journey　only；　but　all　the　time　he　had　spent　with　the　army　on　the　march；　deprived　of　all　the　conveniences　of　cleanliness　and　the　elegancies　of　life；　made　Prince　Andrey　feel　now　an　agreeable　sense　of　repose　among　the　luxurious　surroundings　to　which　he　had　been　accustomed　from　childhood。　Moreover；　after　his　Austrian　reception；　he　was　glad　to　speak—if　not　in　Russian；　for　they　talked　French—at　least　to　a　Russian；　who　would；　he　imagined；　share　the　general　Russian　dislike　（which　he　felt　particularly　keenly　just　then）　for　the　Austrians。
Bilibin　was　a　man　of　five…and…thirty；　a　bachelor；　of　the　same　circle　as　Prince　Andrey。　They　had　been　acquainted　in　Petersburg；　but　had　become　more　intimate　during　Prince　Andrey’s　last　stay　at　Vienna　with　Kutuzov。　Just　as　Prince　Andrey　was　a　young　man；　who　promised　to　rise　high　in　a　military　career；　Bilibin　promised　to　do　even　better　in　diplomacy。　He　was　still　a　young　man；　but　not　a　young　diplomat；　as　he　had　been　in　the　service　since　he　was　sixteen。　He　had　been　in　Paris　and　in　Copenhagen；　and　now　in　Vienna　he　filled　a　post　of　considerable　importance。　Both　the　foreign　minister　and　our　ambassador　at　Vienna　knew　him　and　valued　him。　He　was　not　one　of　that　great　multitude　of　diplomats　whose　qualification　is　limited　to　the　possession　of　negative　qualities；　who　need　simply　avoid　doing　certain　things　and　speak　French　in　order　to　be　very　good　diplomats。　He　was　one　of　those　diplomats　who　like　work　and　understand　it；　and　in　spite　of　his　natural　indolence；　he　often　spent　nights　at　his　writing…table。　He　worked　equally　well　whatever　the　object　of　his　work　might　be。　He　was　interested　not　in　the　question　“Why？”　but　in　the　question　“How？”　What　constituted　his　diplomatic　work；　he　did　not　mind；　but　to　draw　up　a　circular；　a　memorandum；　or　a　report　subtly；　pointedly；　and　elegantly；　was　a　task　which　gave　him　great　pleasure。　Apart　from　such　labours；　Bilibin’s　merits　were　esteemed　the　more　from　his　ease　in　moving　and　talking　in　the　higher　spheres。
Bilibin　enjoyed　conversation　just　as　he　enjoyed　work；　only　when　the　conversation　could　be　elegantly　witty。　In　society　he　was　continually　watching　for　an　opportunity　of　saying　something　striking；　and　did　not　enter　into　conversation　except　under　such　circumstances。　Bilibin’s　conversation　was　continually　sprinkled　with　original；　epigrammatic；　polished　phrases　of　general　interest。　These　phrases　were　fashioned　in　the　inner　laboratory　of　Bilibin’s　mind；　as　though　intentionally；　of　portable　form；　so　that　insignificant　persons　could　easily　remember　them　and　carry　them　from　drawing…room　to　drawing…room。　And　Bilibin’s　good　things　were　hawked　about　in　Viennese　drawing…rooms　and　afterwards　had　an　influence　on　so…called　great　events。
His　thin；　lean；　yellow　face　was　all　covered　with　deep　creases；　which　always　looked　as　clean　and　carefully　washed　as　the　tips　of　one’s　fingers　after　a　bath。　The　movement　of　these　wrinkles　made　up　the　chief　play　of　expression　of　his　countenance。　At　one　moment　his　forehead　wrinkled　up　in　broad　furrows；　and　his　eyebrows　were　lifted；　at　another　moment　his　eyebrows　drooped　again　and　deep　lines　creased　his　cheeks。　His　deep…set；　small　eyes　looked　out　frankly　and　good…humouredly。
“Come；　now；　tell　us　about　your　victories；”　he　said。　Bolkonsky　in　the　most　modest　fashion；　without　once　mentioning　himself　in　connection　with　it；　described　the　engagement；　and　afterwards　his　reception　by　the　war　minister。
“They　received　me　and　my　news　like　a　dog　in　a　game　of　skittles；”　he　concluded。
Bilibin　grinned；　and　the　creases　in　his　face　disappeared。
“All　the　same；　my　dear　fellow；”　he　said；　gazing　from　a　distance　at　his　finger…nails；　and　wrinklin