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Pfuel
was evidently of that sort. He had a science--the theory of
oblique
movements deduced by him from the history of Frederick the
Great's
wars, and all he came across in the history of more recent
warfare
seemed to him absurd and barbarous--monstrous collisions in
which
so many blunders were committed by both sides that these wars
could
not be called wars, they did not accord with the theory, and
therefore
could not serve as material for science.
In
1806 Pfuel had been one of those responsible, for the plan of
campaign
that ended in Jena and Auerstadt, but he did not see the least
proof
of the fallibility of his theory in the disasters of that war. On
the
contrary, the deviations made from his theory were, in his
opinion,
the
sole cause of the whole disaster, and with characteristically
gleeful
sarcasm he would remark, "There, I said the whole affair would
go
to the devil!" Pfuel was one of those theoreticians who so love
their
theory
that they lose sight of the theory's object--its practical
application.
His love of theory made him hate everything practical, and
he
would not listen to it. He was even pleased by failures, for
failures
resulting
from deviations in practice from the theory only proved to him
the
accuracy of his theory.
He
said a few words to Prince Andrew and Chernyshev about the
present
war,
with the air of a man who knows beforehand that all will go
wrong,
and
who is not displeased that it should be so. The unbrushed tufts
of
hair
sticking up behind and the hastily brushed hair on his temples
expressed
this most eloquently.
He
passed into the next room, and the deep, querulous sounds of his
voice
were at once heard from there.
CHAPTER
XI
Prince
Andrew's eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when
Count
Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkonski, but not
pausing,
went into the study, giving instructions to his adjutant as he
went.
The Emperor was following him, and Bennigsen had hastened on to
make
some preparations and to be ready to receive the sovereign.
Chernyshev
and Prince Andrew went out into the porch, where the Emperor,
who
looked fatigued, was dismounting. Marquis Paulucci was talking to
him
with particular warmth and the Emperor, with his head bent to the
left,
was listening with a dissatisfied air. The Emperor moved forward
evidently
wishing to end the conversation, but the flushed and excited
Italian,
oblivious of decorum, followed him and continued to speak.
"And
as for the man who advised forming this camp--the Drissa camp,"
said
Paulucci, as the Emperor mounted the steps and noticing Prince
Andrew
scanned his unfamiliar face, "as to that person, sire..."
continued
Paulucci, desperately, apparently unable to restrain himself,
"the
man who advised the Drissa camp--I see no alternative but the
lunatic
asylum or the gallows!"
Without
heeding the end of the Italian's remarks, and as though not
hearing
them, the Emperor, recognizing Bolkonski, addressed him
graciously.
"I
am very glad to see you! Go in there where they are meeting, and
wait
for
me."
The
Emperor went into the study. He was followed by Prince Peter
Mikhaylovich
Volkonski and Baron Stein, and the door closed behind them.
Prince
Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperor's permission, accompanied
Paulucci,
whom he had known in Turkey, into the drawing room where the
council
was assembled.
Prince
Peter Mikhaylovich Volkonski occupied the position, as it were,
of
chief of the Emperor's staff. He came out of the study into the
drawing
room with some maps which he spread on a table, and put
questions
on which he wished to hear the opinion of the gentlemen
present.
What had happened was that news (which afterwards proved to be
false)
had been received during the night of a movement by the French to
outflank
the Drissa camp.
The
first to speak was General Armfeldt who, to meet the difficulty
that
presented
itself, unexpectedly proposed a perfectly new position away
from
the Petersburg and Moscow roads. The reason for this was
inexplicable
(unless he wished to show that he, too, could have an
opinion),
but he urged that at this point the army should unite and
there
await the enemy. It was plain that Armfeldt had thought out that
plan
long ago and now expounded it not so much to answer the questions
put--which,
in fact, his plan did not answer--as to avail himself of the
opportunity
to air it. It was one of the millions of proposals, one as
good
as another, that could be made as long as it was quite unknown
what
character
the war would take. Some disputed his arguments, others
defended
them. Young Count Toll objected to the Swedish general's views
more
warmly than anyone else, and in the course of the dispute drew
from
his
side pocket a well-filled notebook, which he asked permission to
read
to them. In these voluminous notes Toll suggested another scheme,
totally
different from Armfeldt's or Pfuel's plan of campaign. In answer
to
Toll, Paulucci suggested an advance and an attack, which, he
urged,
could
alone extricate us from the present uncertainty and from the trap
(as
he called the Drissa camp) in which we were situated.
During
all these discussions Pfuel and his interpreter, Wolzogen (his
"bridge"
in court relations), were silent. Pfuel only snorted
contemptuously
and turned away, to show that he would never demean
himself
by replying to such nonsense as he was now hearing. So when
Prince
Volkonski, who was in the chair, called on him to give his
opinion,
he merely said:
"Why
ask me? General Armfeldt has proposed a splendid position with an
exposed
rear, or why not this Italian gentleman's attack--very fine, or
a
retreat, also good! Why ask me?" said he. "Why, you yourselves
know
everything
better than I do."
But
when Volkonski said, with a frown, that it was in the Emperor's
name
that
he asked his opinion, Pfuel rose and, suddenly growing animated,
began
to speak:
"Everything
has been spoiled, everything muddled, everybody thought they
knew
better than I did, and now you come to me! How mend matters?
There
is
nothing to mend! The principles laid down by me must be strictly
adhered
to," said he, drumming on the table with his bony fingers. "What
is
the difficulty? Nonsense, childishness!"
He
went up to the map and speaking rapidly began proving that no
eventuality
could alter the efficiency of the Drissa camp, that
everything
had been foreseen, and that if the enemy were really going to
outflank
it, the enemy would inevitably be destroyed.
Paulucci,
who did not know German, began questioning him in French.
Wolzogen
came to the assistance of his chief, who spoke French badly,
and
began translating for him, hardly able to keep pace with Pfuel,
who
was
rapidly demonstrating that not only all that had happened, but
all
that
could happen, had been foreseen in his scheme, and that if there
were
now any difficulties the whole fault lay in the fact that his
plan
had
not been precisely executed. He kept laughing sarcastically, he
demonstrated,
and at last contemptuously ceased to demonstrate, like a
mathematician
who ceases to prove in various ways the accuracy of a
problem
that has already been proved. Wolzogen took his place and
continued
to explain his views in French, every now and then turning to
Pfuel
and saying, "Is it not so, your excellency?" But Pfuel, like a
man
heated
in a fight who strikes those on his own side, shouted angrily at
his
own supporter, Wolzogen:
"Well,
of course, what more is there to explain?"
Paulucci
and Michaud both attacked Wolzogen simultaneously in French.
Armfeldt
addressed Pfuel in German. Toll explained to Volkonski in
Russian.
Prince Andrew listened and observed in silence.
Of
all these men Prince Andrew sympathized most with Pfuel, angry,
determined,
and absurdly self-confident as he was. Of all those present,
evidently
he alone was not seeking anything for himself, nursed no
hatred
against anyone, and only desired that the plan, formed on a
theory
arrived at by years of toil, should be carried out. He was
ridiculous,
and unpleasantly sarcastic, but yet he inspired involuntary
respect
by his boundless devotion to an idea. Besides this, the remarks
of
all except Pfuel had one common trait that had not been noticeable
at
the
council of war in 1805: there was now a panic fear of Napoleon's
genius,
which, though concealed, was noticeable in every rejoinder.
Everything
was assumed to be possible for Napoleon, they expected him
from
every side, and invoked his terrible name to shatter each other's
proposals.
Pfuel alone seemed to consider Napoleon a barbarian like
everyone
else who opposed his theory. But besides this feeling of
respect,
Pfuel evoked pity in Prince Andrew. From the tone in which the
courtiers
addressed him and the way Paulucci had allowed himself to
speak
of him to the Emperor, but above all from a certain desperation
in
Pfuel's
own expressions, it was clear that the others knew, and Pfuel
himself
felt, that his fall was at hand. And despite his self-confidence
and
grumpy German sarcasm he was pitiable, with his hair smoothly
brushed
on the temples and sticking up in tufts behind. Though he
concealed
the fact under a show of irritation and contempt, he was
evidently
in despair that the sole remaining chance of verifying his
theory
by a huge experiment and proving its soundness to the whole world
was
slipping away from him.
The
discussions continued a long time, and the longer they lasted the
more
heated became the disputes, culminating in shouts and
personalities,
and the less was it possible to arrive at any general
conclusion
from all that had been said. Prince Andrew, listening to this
polyglot
talk and to these surmises, plans, refutations, and shouts,
felt
nothing but amazement at what they were saying. A thought that
had
long
since and often occurred to him during his military
activities--the
idea
that there is not and cannot be any science of war, and that
therefore
there can be no such thing as a military genius--now appeared
to
him an obvious truth. "What theory and science is possible about
a
matter
the conditions and circumstances of which are unknown and cannot
be
defined, especially when the strength of the acting forces cannot
be
ascertained?
No one was or is able to foresee in what condition our or
the
enemy's armies will be in a day's time, and no one can gauge the
force
of this or that detachment. Sometimes--when there is not a coward
at
the front to shout, 'We are cut off!' and start running, but a
brave
and
jolly lad who shouts, 'Hurrah!'--a detachment of five thousand is
worth
thirty thousand, as at Schon Grabern, while at times fifty
thousand
run from eight thousand, as at Austerlitz. What science can
there
be in a matter in which, as in all practical matters, nothing can
be
defined and everything depends on innumerable conditions, the
significance
of which is determined at a particular moment which arrives
no
one knows when? Armfeldt says our army is cut in half, and
Paulucci
says
we have got the French army between two fires; Michaud says that
the
worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in having the river behind
it,
and
Pfuel says that is what constitutes its strength; Toll proposes
one
plan,
Armfeldt another, and they are all good and all bad, and the
advantages
of any suggestions can be seen only at the moment of trial.
And
why do they all speak of a 'military genius'? Is a man a genius
who
can
order bread to be brought up at the right time and say who is to
go
to
the right and who to the left? It is only because military men
are
invested
with pomp and power and crowds of sychophants flatter power,
attributing
to it qualities of genius it does not possess. The best
general
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