The subaltern scowled, swore under his breath, turned his horse front on towards Balashev, laid a hand on his sword and inquired with a coarse shout whether the Russian general was deaf and couldn't hear what people were saying. Balashev gave his name. The subaltern dispatched a soldier to his superior officer.
Completely ignoring Balashev, the subaltern fell into conversation with his comrades about regimental matters, not even glancing across at the Russian general. It was a very peculiar sensation for Balashev, accustomed as he was to all the courtesies of office close to the highest power and authority - scarcely three hours before he had been conversing with the Tsar himself - to stand here on Russian soil and watch this hostile, and, worse still, disrespectful, display of brute force.
The sun was just emerging from some dark clouds; the air was fresh and dewy. A herd of cattle was being driven along the road from the village. Across the fields, one after another, larks were popping up trilling and rising like bubbles in water.
Balashev looked all round, expecting an officer to ride out from the village. The Russian Cossacks, the bugler and the French hussars glanced at each other now and then in silence.
A French colonel of hussars, evidently fresh from his bed, came riding up from the village on a handsome sleek grey horse, accompanied by two hussars. The officers, the soldiers and the horses all had a swaggering smugness about them.
This was the earliest stage of a campaign, when the troops were still in a state of peaceful activity and good order, virtually ready for parade, with the right touch of military stylishness in their dress and the spirited bravado that always accompanies the start of a campaign.
Despite a struggle to suppress his yawns the French colonel was courteous enough, and the full significance of Balashev's arrival was not lost on him. He conducted him through the lines and informed him that his wish for an audience with the Emperor was likely to be immediately satisfied, since he had been led to believe the Emperor's quarters were not too far away.
They rode through the village of Rykonty, past French tethered horses, sentries and soldiers, who saluted their colonel, goggling at the sight of a Russian uniform. They came out on the other side of the village, and the colonel told Balashev they were not much more than a mile from the divisional commander, who would receive him and take him on to his destination.
The sun was now well up in the sky, shining merrily down on the bright green countryside.
They had just passed an inn on an uphill slope when a group of horsemen came riding down towards them led by a tall figure of a man sporting a plumed hat, a scarlet cloak, and shoulder-length black hair. His black horse bore trappings that glittered in the sun and he rode in the French manner, sticking his long legs out in front. This rider bore down on Balashev, ablaze in the bright June sunshine and aflutter with feathers, jewellery and gold lace trimmings.
This stately and theatrical galloping rider, a mass of bracelets, plumes, necklaces and gold, was within a couple of horse-lengths of Balashev when Julner, the French colonel, said to him in an awe-struck whisper, 'The King of Naples'.5 It was actually General Murat, but he was now called the 'King of Naples'. It was beyond all understanding how he could have become the King of Naples, but that was what they had called him and he, far from entertaining any doubts, behaved with more stateliness and gravity than ever before. He was so convinced of his standing as the King of Naples that when some Italians shouted 'Long live the King!' as he walked the streets with his wife just before leaving Naples, he turned to her with a poignant smile and said, 'These poor people, they don't know I'm leaving them tomorrow.'
But despite his firm belief that he was King of Naples, and his sympathy for his subjects in their grief at losing him, in recent days, after he had been ordered back into service, and especially after his meeting with Napoleon at Danzig, when his most eminent brother-in-law had said, 'I have made you a king for you to rule my way, and not yours,' he had resumed his familiar duties with all enthusiasm and now behaved like a well-fed but not overweight stallion feeling the touch of his harness and prancing about in the shafts; festooned with all colours and expensive trinkets, he now galloped the highways of Poland without the slightest idea where he was going or why.
Suddenly catching sight of a Russian general, he made a splendid royal gesture with his head, tossing back his mane of wavy curls, and looked quizzically at the French colonel. The colonel told his Majesty politely about Balashev and his mission, without being able to get his tongue round the name. 'De Bal-macheve!'6 said the King, sweeping aside the colonel's difficulty by sheer determination, and adding, with regal magnanimity, 'Delighted to make your acquaintance, general.' As soon as the King started speaking more loudly and quickly, his regal bearing deserted him in an instant, and, without noticing it, he lapsed into his natural tone of bonhomie and familiarity. He rested a hand on the withers of Balashev's horse.
'Well, General, it looks very much like war,' he said, ruefully implying that this was a matter that demanded his impartiality. 'Your Majesty,' answered Balashev, 'the Emperor, my master, has no desire for war, and as your Majesty can see . . .' Balashev was ringing all the grammatical changes of 'your Majesty', using the title with the affectation that is inevitable when addressing a personage for whom the title in question is still a novelty.
Murat's face beamed with idiotic smugness as he listened to 'Monsieur de Balacheff'. But royalty imposes obligations. As King and ally, he felt compelled to engage Alexander's envoy in conversation about matters of state. He dismounted, took Balashev by the arm and walked a few steps away from his entourage, who stayed behind waiting patiently, only to pace up and down with him, trying to say serious things. He mentioned that the Emperor Napoleon had been much offended by the demand for the withdrawal of his troops from Prussia, especially since news of the demand had leaked out, thus impugning the dignity of France. Balashev began to say that the demand was in no way offensive, because . . . but Murat cut across him.
'So you don't consider the Emperor Alexander to be the instigator?' he said suddenly, with a pleasant but fatuous smile.
Balashev told him precisely why he thought Napoleon was the war-monger.
'Ah, my dear general,' said Murat, interrupting again. 'I hope with all my heart the Emperors will come to some arrangement, and the war that has started by no desire of mine is brought to an end as soon as possible,' he said in the tone used by servants who want to go on being good friends even though their masters have quarrelled. Changing the subject, he inquired after the health of the grand duke, and recalled a most enjoyable time spent with him in Naples. Then, suddenly aware once again of his regal standing, Murat drew himself up into the splendid pose he had adopted for his coronation, and said with a wave of his right arm, 'I will detain you no longer, General. I wish you every success in your mission.' And, awhirl with plumes and embroidered scarlet cloak, and glinting with jewellery, he rejoined his patiently waiting entourage.
Balashev rode on, fully expecting from what Murat had said that he would be presented to Napoleon himself in no time at all. But instead of being taken straight to Napoleon he was detained at the entry to the next village by sentries from Davout's infantry corps, just as he had been at the front line, and an adjutant of the corps commander was summoned to take him into the village for a meeting with Marshal Davout himself.
CHAPTER 5
Davout was Napoleon's Arakcheyev, without his cowardice, but just as demanding and cruel as Alexander's Arakcheyev, and equally incapable of expressing his devotion by anything other than viciousness.
The organism of any state needs men like these in the way that the organism of nature needs wolves, and they are always there, showing themselves and holding their own, no matter how incongruous their presence and proximity to the head of the state may seem. This law of inevitability is the only way of explaining the fact that such a vicious man, capable of ripping out grenadiers' moustaches yet running scared of all danger because of his nerves, a man as
uncultivated and boorish as Arakcheyev, managed to enjoy lasting authority alongside a sovereign like Alexander, with all his gentle, chivalrous and noble character.
Balashev found Davout sitting on a tub in the indoor shed of a peasant's hut. He was busy writing, checking some accounts. An adjutant stood at his side. Better quarters could have been found, but Marshal Davout was one of those people who deliberately get themselves into the gloomiest circumstances in order to have the right to be gloomy. For the same reason they are always pressed for time and overburdened with work. 'Oh, it's all right for you thinking about the bright side of life, but look at me sitting on this tub in a filthy shed, hard at work!' said the expression on his face.
The greatest pleasure and sole requirement of people like this when they come across someone enjoying a busy life is to throw their own plodding and gloomy activity straight in his face. Davout allowed himself this pleasure when Balashev was brought before him. He plunged deeper into his work when the Russian general came in, though he did glance up through his spectacles at Balashev's face, a picture of excitement deriving from the loveliness of the morning and his talk with Murat; he did not rise, he did not budge, but he darkened his scowl with a nasty sneer.
Noting that Balashev's face had fallen at this reception, Davout looked across and asked him icily what he wanted.
Balashev could only imagine that he was being received like this only because Davout was unaware that he was a general on Alexander's staff, and his personal representative before Napoleon, so he lost no time in stating his rank and his mission. Against all expectations, when Davout had listened to what Balashev had to say he became even more uncouth and surly.
'Where's your dispatch?' he snapped. 'Give it to me. I'll send it to the Emperor.'
Balashev said he was under orders to hand the document to the Emperor in person.
'Your Emperor's orders are obeyed in your army, but here,' said Davout, 'you'll do as you're told.'
And, as if to make the Russian general even more conscious of being subject to brute force, Davout sent the adjutant to fetch the duty officer.
Balashev took out the packet containing the Tsar's letter and laid it on the table (a table consisting of a door laid across two tubs with the torn-off hinges still dangling from it). Davout took the envelope and read the address.
'You are perfectly at liberty to show me respect or not,' said Balashev, 'but, allow me to observe that I have the honour to serve as a general on his Majesty's staff . . .'
Davout glanced at him without saying a word, obviously delighted to observe signs of emotion and embarrassment on Balashev's face.
'You'll be given appropriate treatment,' he said, before putting the envelope in his pocket and walking out of the barn.
Shortly afterwards an adjutant of the marshal's by the name of Monsieur de Castres came in and escorted Balashev to the quarters that had been prepared for him.
That day he took dinner in the barn with the marshal at the same 'table' on the tubs.
Next day Davout went off early in the morning, but before doing so he sent for Balashev, and told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted him to stay there, to go on with the baggage-train if ordered to do so, and to talk to nobody but Monsieur de Castres.
After four tedious days of solitary confinement, with a strong sense of impotence and insignificance all the more agonizing because he had been so recently at the centre of power, and after several relocations along with the marshal's baggage and the French troops, who by now had taken the whole district, Balashev was brought back to French-occupied Vilna, and he re-entered the town by the same gate he had ridden out through four days before.
Next day one of the Emperor's gentlemen-in-waiting, Count Turenne, came to Balashev and told him the Emperor Napoleon was disposed to grant him an audience.
Four days before, sentries of the Preobrazhensky regiment had stood guard in front of the very house to which Balashev was now conducted, and this time two French grenadiers stood there, in their fur caps and blue uniforms open down the front, along with an escort of hussars and uhlans, and a brilliant entourage of adjutants, pages and generals, all waiting for Napoleon to come out, gathered together at the bottom of the steps round his saddle-horse and his Egyptian bodyguard, Rustan. Napoleon was to receive Balashev in the very house in Vilna from which Alexander had sent him on his way.
CHAPTER 6
Balashev, no stranger to imperial pomp, was astounded by the luxury and splendour of Napoleon's court.
Count Turenne led him into a large reception-room, where a number of generals, gentlemen-in-waiting and Polish magnates were waiting patiently, many of them people Balashev had seen at the court of the Russian Emperor. Duroc told him the Emperor Napoleon would receive the Russian general before going out for his ride.
Balashev was kept waiting for a few minutes before a gentleman-in-waiting came into the great room, bowed politely and walked off again, inviting him to follow.
Balashev went through into the small reception-room with only one other door, leading into the study, the room where the Russian Emperor had given him his orders and dispatched him. He stood there alone for a couple of minutes waiting. There was a rush of footsteps on the other side of the door, both halves of which were then flung open by a gentleman-in-waiting who came to a halt and stood there respectfully in attendance. In the ensuing silence someone else could be heard moving about in the study with a firm and resolute tread - Napoleon. He had just finished dressing for his ride and was wearing a blue uniform, open over a white waistcoat which covered his round belly, high boots and white doeskin breeches, stretched tightly over fat thighs and stumpy legs. His short hair looked as if it had just been brushed, but one lock had been left curling down in the middle of his broad forehead. His plump white neck stood out sharply against the black collar of his uniform. He smelt of eau-de-cologne. His full, young-looking face with its prominent chin shone with the graciousness of a monarch welcoming a visitor with regal splendour.
He emerged from the study at a quick pace, wobbling as he walked, with his head tilted slightly back. The whole of his tubby, dumpy figure, with his broad, fat shoulders and his chest and belly sticking out whether he liked it or not, had the impressive stateliness of a forty-year-old used to his creature comforts. It was also obvious that today he was in a particularly good mood.
He nodded in acknowledgement of Balashev's deep, deferential bow, walked over to him and started talking immediately like a man who values every moment of his time, and does not stoop to preparing anything in advance because he is confident of always speaking well and saying just what needs to be said.
'Good day to you, General!' he said. 'I have received the Emperor Alexander's letter brought by you, and I am very pleased to see you.' His large eyes took one glance at Balashev's face, and then he immediately looked straight past him.
It was obvious that Balashev's personality was of no interest to him. Clearly, the only thing that held any interest for him was anything going on in his own mind. Nothing outside his person held any significance because, as he saw it, everything in the world was dependent on his will.
'I do not, and did not, desire war, but you have forced me into it. Even now,' he continued, emphasizing the phrase, 'I stand ready to receive any explanations you may be able to give me.' And he held forth with a concise and lucid exposition of his reasons for being displeased with the Russian government.
Judging by the tone of gentle restraint and friendliness adopted by the French Emperor, Balashev became quite convinced that he wanted peace and was prepared to negotiate.
'Your Majesty! Emperor and master,' said Balashev, launching into his long-prepared speech the moment Napoleon had stopped talking and had levelled a quizzical look at him, but he felt disconcerted with the Emperor's eyes upon him. 'You look confused. Pull yourself together,' Napoleon seemed to be saying, as he examined Balashev's sword and uniform with the ghost of a smile. Balashev did manage to pull himself togeth
er and start speaking. He told him that the Emperor Alexander did not see Kurakin's demand for his passports as sufficient grounds for war, that Kurakin had been acting on his own initiative and without the Tsar's approval, and that the Tsar had no desire for war, and no relations with England.
'Not yet,' Napoleon put in, and, as if wary of his own feelings, he frowned and gave a slight nod for Balashev to continue.
After running through all he had been told to say, Balashev asserted that the Emperor Alexander wanted peace, and was prepared to negotiate - on one condition . . . At this point Balashev demurred, remembering the words Tsar Alexander had left out of his letter, but had insisted on having included in the open letter to Saltykov, and had instructed Balashev to repeat to Napoleon. Balashev recalled them: '. . . until every last enemy under arms has left Russian soil,' but he was held back by a feeling of some complexity. He couldn't bring himself to utter those words, however much he wanted to. He faltered and said, '. . . that all French troops withdraw beyond the Niemen.'
Napoleon could see how uneasy Balashev had been over those last words. The Emperor's face twitched, and his left calf began to pulsate rhythmically. He remained rooted to the same spot and his speech became louder and faster than before. During the ensuing outburst Balashev found himself continually looking down to stare at the pulsating twitch in Napoleon's left calf, which intensified as his voice grew louder.
'I am no less desirous of peace than the Emperor Alexander,' he began. 'I'm the man who has spent eighteen months doing everything possible to obtain it! For eighteen months I have been waiting for an explanation, but before negotiations can begin what demands are placed upon me?' he said with a scowl, stabbing the air with a puffy little white hand by way of a question.
'The withdrawal of your forces beyond the Niemen, sire,' said Balashev.
'Beyond the Niemen?' echoed Napoleon. 'So you now want me to withdraw beyond the Niemen - only beyond the Niemen?' he repeated, looking Balashev straight in the eyes.