War and Peace
village of Rykónty, on the Russian side of the Niemen, by dawn. There he
was stopped by French cavalry sentinels.
A French noncommissioned officer of hussars, in crimson uniform and a
shaggy cap, shouted to the approaching Balashëv to halt. Balashëv did
not do so at once, but continued to advance along the road at a walking
pace.
The noncommissioned officer frowned and, muttering words of abuse,
advanced his horse’s chest against Balashëv, put his hand to his saber,
and shouted rudely at the Russian general, asking: was he deaf that
he did not do as he was told? Balashëv mentioned who he was. The
noncommissioned officer began talking with his comrades about regimental
matters without looking at the Russian general.
After living at the seat of the highest authority and power, after
conversing with the Emperor less than three hours before, and in general
being accustomed to the respect due to his rank in the service, Balashëv
found it very strange here on Russian soil to encounter this hostile,
and still more this disrespectful, application of brute force to
himself.
The sun was only just appearing from behind the clouds, the air was
fresh and dewy. A herd of cattle was being driven along the road from
the village, and over the fields the larks rose trilling, one after
another, like bubbles rising in water.
Balashëv looked around him, awaiting the arrival of an officer from the
village. The Russian Cossacks and bugler and the French hussars looked
silently at one another from time to time.
A French colonel of hussars, who had evidently just left his bed, came
riding from the village on a handsome sleek gray horse, accompanied
by two hussars. The officer, the soldiers, and their horses all looked
smart and well kept.
It was that first period of a campaign when troops are still in full
trim, almost like that of peacetime maneuvers, but with a shade of
martial swagger in their clothes, and a touch of the gaiety and spirit
of enterprise which always accompany the opening of a campaign.
The French colonel with difficulty repressed a yawn, but was polite and
evidently understood Balashëv’s importance. He led him past his soldiers
and behind the outposts and told him that his wish to be presented to
the Emperor would most likely be satisfied immediately, as the Emperor’s
quarters were, he believed, not far off.
They rode through the village of Rykónty, past tethered French hussar
horses, past sentinels and men who saluted their colonel and stared with
curiosity at a Russian uniform, and came out at the other end of the
village. The colonel said that the commander of the division was a mile
and a quarter away and would receive Balashëv and conduct him to his
destination.
The sun had by now risen and shone gaily on the bright verdure.
They had hardly ridden up a hill, past a tavern, before they saw a group
of horsemen coming toward them. In front of the group, on a black horse
with trappings that glittered in the sun, rode a tall man with plumes
in his hat and black hair curling down to his shoulders. He wore a red
mantle, and stretched his long legs forward in French fashion. This man
rode toward Balashëv at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and
gold lace glittering in the bright June sunshine.
Balashëv was only two horses’ length from the equestrian with the
bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was galloping
toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when Julner, the
French colonel, whispered respectfully: “The King of Naples!” It was,
in fact, Murat, now called “King of Naples.” Though it was quite
incomprehensible why he should be King of Naples, he was called so,
and was himself convinced that he was so, and therefore assumed a more
solemn and important air than formerly. He was so sure that he really
was the King of Naples that when, on the eve of his departure from that
city, while walking through the streets with his wife, some Italians
called out to him: “Viva il re!” * he turned to his wife with a pensive
smile and said: “Poor fellows, they don’t know that I am leaving them
tomorrow!”
* “Long live the king.”
But though he firmly believed himself to be King of Naples and pitied
the grief felt by the subjects he was abandoning, latterly, after he had
been ordered to return to military service—and especially since his last
interview with Napoleon in Danzig, when his august brother-in-law had
told him: “I made you King that you should reign in my way, but not in
yours!”—he had cheerfully taken up his familiar business, and—like a
well-fed but not overfat horse that feels himself in harness and grows
skittish between the shafts—he dressed up in clothes as variegated and
expensive as possible, and gaily and contentedly galloped along the
roads of Poland, without himself knowing why or whither.
On seeing the Russian general he threw back his head, with its long hair
curling to his shoulders, in a majestically royal manner, and looked
inquiringly at the French colonel. The colonel respectfully informed His
Majesty of Balashëv’s mission, whose name he could not pronounce.
“De Bal-machève!” said the King (overcoming by his assurance the
difficulty that had presented itself to the colonel). “Charmed to
make your acquaintance, General!” he added, with a gesture of kingly
condescension.
As soon as the King began to speak loud and fast his royal dignity
instantly forsook him, and without noticing it he passed into his
natural tone of good-natured familiarity. He laid his hand on the
withers of Balashëv’s horse and said:
“Well, General, it all looks like war,” as if regretting a circumstance
of which he was unable to judge.
“Your Majesty,” replied Balashëv, “my master, the Emperor, does not
desire war and as Your Majesty sees...” said Balashëv, using the words
Your Majesty at every opportunity, with the affectation unavoidable in
frequently addressing one to whom the title was still a novelty.
Murat’s face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened to “Monsieur
de Bal-machève.” But royauté oblige! * and he felt it incumbent on
him, as a king and an ally, to confer on state affairs with Alexander’s
envoy. He dismounted, took Balashëv’s arm, and moving a few steps away
from his suite, which waited respectfully, began to pace up and down
with him, trying to speak significantly. He referred to the fact that
the Emperor Napoleon had resented the demand that he should withdraw his
troops from Prussia, especially when that demand became generally known
and the dignity of France was thereby offended.
* “Royalty has its obligations.”
Balashëv replied that there was “nothing offensive in the demand,
because...” but Murat interrupted him.
“Then you don’t consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor?” he asked
unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile.
Balashëv told him why he considered Napoleon to be the originator of the
war.
“Oh, my dear general!” Murat again interrupted him, “with all my heart I
wish the Emperors may arrange the affair between them, and that the war
begun by no wish of mine may finish as quickly as possible!” said he,
in the tone of a servant who wants to remain good friends with another
despite a quarrel between their masters.
And he went on to inquiries about the Grand Duke and the state of his
health, and to reminiscences of the gay and amusing times he had spent
with him in Naples. Then suddenly, as if remembering his royal dignity,
Murat solemnly drew himself up, assumed the pose in which he had stood
at his coronation, and, waving his right arm, said:
“I won’t detain you longer, General. I wish success to your mission,”
and with his embroidered red mantle, his flowing feathers, and his
glittering ornaments, he rejoined his suite who were respectfully
awaiting him.
Balashëv rode on, supposing from Murat’s words that he would very soon
be brought before Napoleon himself. But instead of that, at the next
village the sentinels of Davout’s infantry corps detained him as
the pickets of the vanguard had done, and an adjutant of the corps
commander, who was fetched, conducted him into the village to Marshal
Davout.
CHAPTER V
Davout was to Napoleon what Arakchéev was to Alexander—though not a
coward like Arakchéev, he was as precise, as cruel, and as unable to
express his devotion to his monarch except by cruelty.
In the organism of states such men are necessary, as wolves are
necessary in the organism of nature, and they always exist, always
appear and hold their own, however incongruous their presence and their
proximity to the head of the government may be. This inevitability alone
can explain how the cruel Arakchéev, who tore out a grenadier’s mustache
with his own hands, whose weak nerves rendered him unable to face
danger, and who was neither an educated man nor a courtier, was able to
maintain his powerful position with Alexander, whose own character was
chivalrous, noble, and gentle.
Balashëv found Davout seated on a barrel in the shed of a peasant’s hut,
writing—he was auditing accounts. Better quarters could have been
found him, but Marshal Davout was one of those men who purposely put
themselves in most depressing conditions to have a justification for
being gloomy. For the same reason they are always hard at work and in a
hurry. “How can I think of the bright side of life when, as you see, I
am sitting on a barrel and working in a dirty shed?” the expression of
his face seemed to say. The chief pleasure and necessity of such men,
when they encounter anyone who shows animation, is to flaunt their own
dreary, persistent activity. Davout allowed himself that pleasure when
Balashëv was brought in. He became still more absorbed in his task when
the Russian general entered, and after glancing over his spectacles at
Balashëv’s face, which was animated by the beauty of the morning and
by his talk with Murat, he did not rise or even stir, but scowled still
more and sneered malevolently.
When he noticed in Balashëv’s face the disagreeable impression this
reception produced, Davout raised his head and coldly asked what he
wanted.
Thinking he could have been received in such a manner only because
Davout did not know that he was adjutant general to the Emperor
Alexander and even his envoy to Napoleon, Balashëv hastened to inform
him of his rank and mission. Contrary to his expectation, Davout, after
hearing him, became still surlier and ruder.
“Where is your dispatch?” he inquired. “Give it to me. I will send it to
the Emperor.”
Balashëv replied that he had been ordered to hand it personally to the
Emperor.
“Your Emperor’s orders are obeyed in your army, but here,” said Davout,
“you must do as you’re told.”
And, as if to make the Russian general still more conscious of his
dependence on brute force, Davout sent an adjutant to call the officer
on duty.
Balashëv took out the packet containing the Emperor’s letter and laid it
on the table (made of a door with its hinges still hanging on it, laid
across two barrels). Davout took the packet and read the inscription.
“You are perfectly at liberty to treat me with respect or not,”
protested Balashëv, “but permit me to observe that I have the honor to
be adjutant general to His Majesty....”
Davout glanced at him silently and plainly derived pleasure from the
signs of agitation and confusion which appeared on Balashëv’s face.
“You will be treated as is fitting,” said he and, putting the packet in
his pocket, left the shed.
A minute later the marshal’s adjutant, de Castrès, came in and conducted
Balashëv to the quarters assigned him.
That day he dined with the marshal, at the same board on the barrels.
Next day Davout rode out early and, after asking Balashëv to come to