That very day news had reached the Tsar’s quarters that Napoleon’s troops were on the move again, threatening the army – though this would turn out to be wrong. And that same morning Colonel Michaud had accompanied the Tsar on a tour of the Drissa fortifications, systematically pointing out that Pfuel’s fortified camp, which had been seen as a tactical masterpiece guaranteed to destroy Napoleon – this camp was a stupid idea that would be the downfall of the Russian army.
Prince Andrey proceeded to Bennigsen’s quarters, a small manor-house right down on the river-bank. Neither Bennigsen nor the Tsar was there, but Chernyshev, the Tsar’s aide-de-camp, received Bolkonsky and told him the Tsar had gone off for the second time that day with General Bennigsen and Marchese Paulucci on an inspection of the Drissa fortifications, about which they were beginning to have the most serious doubts.
Chernyshev was sitting by a window in the outer room with a French novel in his hand. This had probably once been the ballroom; the organ was still there, though it was piled with rugs, and a camp-bed belonging to Bennigsen’s adjutant took up one corner. The adjutant himself was there, sitting on his rolled-up bedding; he looked dozy and exhausted either from work or from too much partying. There were two doors leading out of the room, the old drawing-room door straight ahead and another one opening into the study on the right. Through the first door came the sounds of conversation mainly in German but with the odd burst of French. A meeting had been convened in the old drawing-room at the Tsar’s behest, not a council of war – the Tsar liked to keep things vague – just a few people he considered worth consulting over their imminent difficulties. Not a council of war, but an impromptu council convened for the Tsar’s personal benefit in order to clarify a number of questions. Invitations to this semi-council had been sent to the Swede, General Armfeldt, Adjutant-General Wolzogen, Wintzengerode (described by Napoleon as a renegade French subject), Michaud, Toll, Count Stein – anything but a military man – and finally Pfuel himself, the mainspring of everything, according to what Prince Andrey had heard. Prince Andrey managed to get a good look at this man when Pfuel came in shortly after him and lingered for a while exchanging a few words with Chernyshev before going on into the drawing-room.
At first sight Pfuel, in his sloppy Russian general’s uniform, which fitted him badly and looked like fancy dress, seemed familiar to Prince Andrey, though he had never seen him before. He was in the run of Weierother, Mack, Schmidt, and many other German generals obsessed with theory; Prince Andrey had seen them all at work in 1805, but Pfuel was a perfect specimen of the type. Prince Andrey had never before set eyes on a German theorist who so completely combined all the characteristics of the other Germans.
Pfuel was short and skinny but big-boned, coarse and robust, with broad hips and protruding shoulder-blades. He had a wrinkled face with deep-set eyes. His hair had obviously been hastily brushed back from his temples, but it stuck up behind in funny tufts. He looked worried and angry as he glanced round before walking into the large room, and he seemed to be scared of everything in there. Grasping his sword rather clumsily, he turned to Chernyshev and asked where the Tsar had gone. He made it clear that he wanted to walk straight through the rooms, get the formalities over as fast as he could and sit down at a map, where he would feel at home. He responded to Chernyshev with a few quick nods, and he gave a sarcastic smile when they told him the Tsar had gone out to inspect the fortifications that he, Pfuel, had laid down in accordance with his theory. He muttered something under his breath, growling in the sharp tones always used by arrogant Germans: ‘Stupid man . . .’ or ‘To hell with the whole damn thing . . .’ or ‘A nice mess this is going to be . . .’ Prince Andrey didn’t quite catch what he said and was about to move on, but Chernyshev introduced him to Pfuel, mentioning that he had just come on from Turkey, where the war had ended so well. Pfuel launched a fleeting glance at Prince Andrey, or rather through him, and said with a laugh: ‘A war of splendid tactics, I’m sure!’ With that he gave another contemptuous laugh and walked through into the room from which the sounds of voices were coming.
