Prince Pyotr Volkonsky was a kind of acting head of the Tsar’s staff. Volkonsky emerged from the study carrying some maps, which he spread out on the table before outlining a series of questions on which he wished to hear the opinions of the gentlemen present. During the night, it seemed, word had been received (falsely, as it turned out) that the French were on the march, threatening the Drissa camp with a pincer movement.
General Armfeldt spoke first, and he came out with a quite unexpected proposal for resolving the present difficulty, a brand-new suggestion, inexplicable except in terms of his eagerness to demonstrate that he too was not without opinions: that the army should form up in a position some distance from the Petersburg and Moscow roads and wait there for the enemy. Clearly, this was a plan that Armfeldt had thought up some time before, and he was putting it forward now not really as a solution to the present problem, because it had lost all relevance, but merely because he had spotted an opportunity for speaking. It was one suggestion among millions, all of them perfectly reasonable as long as no one had any real idea of how the war would work out. His proposal had its detractors and supporters. Young Colonel Toll was the Swedish general’s most vociferous detractor, and in the course of the ensuing argument he took a well-filled note-book out of his side pocket and asked permission to read from it. In a rambling discourse Toll put forward yet another plan of campaign – totally different from Armfeldt’s and Pfuel’s. Paulucci countered with a proposal for immediate advance and attack, which he saw as the only way out of the present uncertainty and the trap that we were now in – his description of the Drissa camp. During these heated discussions not a word came from Pfuel or his interpreter Wolzogen (the bridge between him and the court world). Pfuel limited himself to the occasional contemptuous snort, and then he turned his back on them to indicate that he wasn’t going to demean himself by responding to the rubbish he was hearing. But when Prince Volkonsky, who was chairing the debate, called upon him to voice an opinion, all he said was, ‘Why me? General Armfeldt has proposed an excellent position with the rear exposed. Or there’s this Italian gentleman with his attack – a splendid idea! Or a retreat? Just as good. Why ask me?’ he said. ‘Oh no, you all know better than I do.’
But when Volkonsky said with a scowl that he was asking his opinion on the Tsar’s behalf, Pfuel got to his feet, roused himself and launched forth.
‘You’ve messed it all up and ruined everything. You would have it you knew better than I did, and now you come running back for me to put things right. Well, nothing needs to be put right. All you have to do is carry on exactly according to the principles laid down by me,’ he said, rapping on the table with his bony fingers. ‘Where’s the difficulty? Nonsense – it’s child’s play!’ He went over to the map and began poking at it with a desiccated finger, jabbering away as he demonstrated that the effectiveness of the Drissa camp was immune to all contingencies, every development had been foreseen, and if the enemy did try a pincer movement, the enemy must face inevitable destruction.
Paulucci, who had no German, started asking questions in French. Wolzogen came to the rescue of his leader, who didn’t speak much French, and began translating what was said, but he could hardly keep up with Pfuel, who was speeding ahead with his demonstration that everything – not only what was happening now but anything that could possibly happen – was covered by his plan, and if trouble had arisen, this was due entirely to missing out on some of its details. He gave one sardonic laugh after another as he rambled on with his demonstration, and then brought it to an end with the contempt of a mathematician who refuses to use any other methods to establish a proof that has already been conclusively demonstrated. Wolzogen then took over in French, developing his own ideas with the occasional ‘Don’t you agree, your Excellency?’ addressed to Pfuel. But Pfuel was now like a soldier lashing out at his own men in the heat of battle, and he yelled furiously at everybody, including Wolzogen, ‘I ask you, what more is there to explain?’ Paulucci and Michaud sang in concert as they rounded on Wolzogen in French. Armfeldt was going on at Pfuel in German. Toll was giving Prince Volkonsky a Russian version of events. Prince Andrey held back, watching and listening.
Of all these men it was the fulminating, single-minded and absurdly arrogant Pfuel that Prince Andrey felt most sympathy for. He was clearly the only man there who wanted nothing for himself and knew no personal malevolence; all he wanted was to see his plan carried out, the plan that had cost him years of hard toil as his theory had evolved. He looked ridiculous, his sarcasm was offensive, but you had to admire his boundless devotion to an idea.
