War and Peace: Original Version

“But he’s wrong,” continued Zherkov, “I’ll be presented too, we were under fire as well.”

At that moment a puff of smoke appeared again in the groups with the artillery pieces, then a second and a third and just as the sound of the first shot reached them, a fourth puff appeared. Two sounds one after the other, then a third.

“O-oh!” gasped Nesvitsky, as if from some searing pain, clutching at the arm of the officer of the retinue. “Look, one of them has fallen, he’s fallen.”

“Two, I think.”

“If I were Tsar, I would never go to war. And why are they taking so long?”

They were hastily reloading the French field guns. Again, this time at even intervals, the puffs of smoke appeared, and the grapeshot rattled and clattered along the bridge. But this time Nesvitsky could not see what was happening there. Thick smoke rose from the bridge. The hussars had managed to set fire to it, and the French batteries were no longer firing at them simply in order to hinder them, but because the guns were trained and there was someone to shoot at. The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars returned to the horse-holders. Two volleys were fired inaccurately and all the grapeshot carried too far, but the final shot landed in the middle of the group of hussars and felled three of them.

Nikolai Rostov, obsessed by his relations with Bogdanovich, stayed on the bridge, not knowing what he ought to do. There was no one to hack at (in the way that he had always imagined battle) and he could not help in firing the bridge either, because he had not brought a plaited twist of straw with him, as the other soldiers had done. He was standing there looking around when suddenly there was a rattling sound like nuts being scattered along the bridge and one of the hussars closest to him fell on to the railings with a groan. Nikolai ran over to him together with some others. Again someone shouted: “Stretcher!” Four men grabbed hold of the hussar and began lifting him up.

“Aaaagh! Leave me, for Christ’s sake,” cried the wounded man, but even so they lifted him and set him down. His cap fell off. They picked it up and threw it on to the stretcher. Nikolai Rostov turned away, as though looking for something, he began looking into the distance, at the water of the Danube, at the sky, at the sun. How good the sky looked, how blue, calm and deep! How bright and triumphant the descending sun was! How tenderly lustrous the gleaming water was in the distant Danube! And even better were the distant blue mountains beyond the Danube, the convent, the mysterious ravines, the pine forests filled up to the crowns of the trees with mist … it was quiet and happy there … “I wouldn’t want anything, anything at all, if only I were there,” thought Nikolai. “In just me and this sun there is so much happiness, but here … groaning, suffering, fear and this uncertainty, this haste … Now they’re shouting something again and again everyone has gone running back somewhere, and I’m running with them, and there it is, there is death above me, around me … another instant and I shall never see this sun again, this water, this ravine …” At that moment the sun began moving behind the clouds; ahead of Nikolai another stretcher appeared. The fear of death and the stretcher, and love of the sun and life, all fused together into a single, painfully disturbing impression.

“Lord God Almighty! The One who is up there in this sky, save, forgive and protect me!” Nikolai whispered to himself.

The hussars ran up to the horse-holders, their voices became louder and calmer, the stretcher disappeared from view …

“Well, bwother, had a whiff of gunpowder?” Vaska Denisov’s voice shouted in his ear.

“It’s all over, but I’m a coward, I’m a coward,” thought Nikolai, and, sighing deeply, he took his Grachik, who was holding one foot out to the side, and began to mount him.

“What was that, grapeshot?” he asked Denisov.

“The weal thing, all wight!” shouted Denisov. “We put up a fine show. And it was a foul job! An attack is pleasant work, you’re all on fire, you forget yourself, but this is God knows what, they shoot at you like a target.”

And Denisov rode off to a group of men that had halted not far away from Rostov: the regimental commander, Nesvitsky, Zherkov and the officer of the retinue.

“But it seems that no one noticed,” Rostov thought to himself. And indeed, no one had noticed, because everyone was familiar with the feeling that the cadet new to fire had experienced for the first time.

“This will mean a report for you,” said Zherkov, “they might even promote me to second lieutenant.”

“Inform the prince that the bridge I have fired,” the colonel said triumphantly and happily.

“And if they ask about our losses?”

“A mere trifle!” rumbled the colonel. “Two hussars wounded and one killed outright,” he said with evident delight, unable to restrain a happy smile as he loudly snapped out the lovely word outright.

X

Pursued by a French army of a hundred thousand men under the command of Bonaparte, met by an unfriendly local population, no longer trusting in their allies, suffering from a shortage of provisions and obliged to act outside all the anticipated conditions of warfare, the Russian army of thirty thousand, under the command of Kutuzov, hastily retreated downstream along the Danube, halting where the enemy closed in on it and defending itself with rearguard action only insofar as necessary to withdraw without loss of heavy equipment. There were actions at Lambach, Amstetten and Melk, but despite the courage and fortitude that were acknowledged even by the French against whom the Russians were fighting, the only consequence of these actions was even more rapid withdrawal. The Austrian troops who had avoided capture at the Ulm and joined with Kutuzov at Braunau, now separated from the Russian army and Kutuzov was left with only his own weak, exhausted forces. It was no longer possible even to think of defending Vienna. Instead of the offensive strategy of war, thoroughly considered according to the laws of the new science of military strategy, the plan for which had been transmitted to Kutuzov by the Austrian Hofkriegsrat while he was in Vienna, the only goal – an almost unattainable one – that now presented itself to Kutuzov was to unite with the forces on their way from Russia without destroying his army as Mack had done at the Ulm.

On the 28th of October Kutuzov and his army crossed to the left bank of the Danube and halted for the first time, having put the Danube between them and the main forces of the French. On the 30th they attacked Mortier’s division on the left bank and routed it. In this action trophies were taken for the first time: a banner, guns and two enemy generals. For the first time, following two weeks of retreat, the Russian forces had halted and had not only been left holding the battlefield after the battle, but had also routed the French. Despite the fact that the troops were inadequately dressed and exhausted, with their numbers reduced by a third by stragglers and wounded, dead and sick, despite all this, the halt at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of the troops significantly. Throughout the army and at its headquarters there circulated extremely joyful, but inaccurate rumours of columns supposedly approaching from Russia, of some victory won by the Austrians and of Bonaparte retreating in fright.

During the battle, Prince Andrei had been with the Austrian general Schmidt, who was killed in the course of the action. Bolkonsky’s horse was wounded under him and he himself received a slight graze on the arm from a bullet. As a sign of the commander-in-chief’s special favour, he was sent to carry the news of this victory to the Austrian court, at that time no longer located in Vienna, which was under threat from French forces, but in Brünn. On the night following the battle an excited but unweary Prince Andrei (who, despite his delicate appearance, could bear physical fatigue far better than the very strongest of men) arrived in Krems on horseback with a report from Dokhturov for Kutuzov, and that same night Prince Andrei was sent as a courier to Brünn. To be sent as a courier signified, in addition to awards, an important step towards promotion. Having received the dispatch, and letters and instructions from comrades, Prince Andrei set off at night, getting into a britzka by the light of a lantern.

“Well, brother,” said Nesvitsky, embracing him as he saw him on his way. “I congratulate you in advance on the Order of Marya-Theresa.”

“I tell you as an honest man,” replied Prince Andrei, “if they were to give me nothing, it is all the same to me. I am so happy, so happy … that I am carrying such news … that I myself saw it … you understand me.”

The exciting sense of danger and awareness of one’s own courage that Prince Andrei had experienced during the battle had only been intensified by a sleepless night and the mission to the Austrian court. He was a different man, animated and affectionate.

“Well, Christ be with you …”

“Goodbye, my dear friend. Goodbye, Kozlovsky.”

“Kiss the pretty hand of Baroness Seifer from me. And bring back at least a bottle of Cordial if you have room,” said Nesvitsky.

“I’ll bring the bottle and give the kiss.”

“Goodbye.”

The whip cracked and the postal britzka set off at a gallop over the dark mud road, past the lights of the troops. It was a dark, starry night, the road was black against the white snow that had fallen the previous day, the day of the battle. Whether reviewing his impressions of the battle that had taken place, or happily imagining the impression that he would produce with the news of victory, recalling how he had been seen off by the commander-in-chief and by his comrades, Prince Andrei experienced the feeling of a man who has been waiting a long time for the happiness he desires to begin and has finally achieved it. No sooner did he close his eyes than his ears were filled with the roar of muskets and artillery, which fused with the hammering of the wheels and the impression of victory. Sometimes he began to dream that the Russians were running, that he himself had been killed, but he came to hurriedly, with a happy feeling, as if discovering anew that none of that had happened and, on the contrary, it was the French who had run. He recalled once again all the details of the victory, of his own calm courage during the battle and, reassured, he fell into a doze … The dark, starry night was followed by a bright, cheerful morning. The snow was melting in the sunshine, the horses were galloping along briskly and a diverse sequence of forests, fields and villages passed by on the right and left alike.

At one of the post-stages he overtook a string of wagons carrying Russian wounded. Sprawling on the front wagon, the Russian officer leading the transport shouted something, abusing a soldier with coarse words. There were six or more pale, bandaged, dirty wounded jolting over the rocky road in each of the long German Vorspans. Some of them were talking (he could hear Russian speech), others were eating bread, the most seriously hurt silently watched the courier galloping past them with the meek, childish interest of the sick.

“The poor unfortunates!” thought Prince Andrei. “But they are also inevitable …” He ordered the driver to stop and asked a soldier in which action they had been wounded.

“The day before yesterday on the Danube,” the soldier replied. Prince Andrei took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold coins.

“For everybody,” he added, addressing the officer who had come up to him. “Get well, lads,” he said to the soldiers, “there’s still plenty of work to do.”

“Well, mister adjutant, what news?” asked the officer, evidently wishing to strike up a conversation.

“Good news. Forward!” he called to the driver and galloped on. It was already completely dark when Prince Andrei drove into Brünn and found himself surrounded by tall buildings, the lights of shops, windows, houses and street lamps, beautiful carriages rattling along the roadway and all the atmosphere of a big, bustling town that a military man always finds so attractive after camp. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, as Prince Andrei drove up to the palace, he felt even more lively than the evening before, only his eyes now gleamed with a feverish glitter, and his thoughts revolved with exceptional rapidity and clarity. All the details of the battle appeared vividly to him again, no longer vague, but quite definite, in the condensed exposition which he was making to the Emperor Franz in his imagination. He vividly imagined the Emperor’s face, and all the chance questions that might be put to him, and the answers he would give. He expected to be presented to the Emperor straight away. But at the main entrance to the palace, an official ran out to him and, recognising him as a courier, showed him to a different entrance.

“Turn right out of this corridor, your excellency, there you will find the duty aide-de-camp. He will take you to the war minister.”

The duty aide-de-camp, after greeting Andrei, asked him to wait and went to the war minister. Five minutes later the aide-de-camp came back and, bowing with especial politeness and allowing Prince Andrei to precede him, showed the prince along a corridor to the study where the war minister was at work. The war minister apparently wished to employ his refined courtesy to protect himself against any attempt at familiarity by the Russian adjutant. Prince Andrei’s jubilant exaltation faded significantly as he approached the door of the war minister’s study. He felt insulted and, as always happened in his proud heart, at that very moment the feeling of offence expanded, unperceived by him, into a feeling of contempt that was entirely without any basis. In that same instant his resourceful mind also suggested to him the viewpoint from which he had the right to despise both the adjutant and the war minister. “No doubt it will seem to them very easy to win a victory, without smelling gunpowder,” he thought. His eyes narrowed contemptuously, his arms slumped lifelessly at his sides and he walked into the war minister’s study as if he could barely drag his feet along. This feeling grew stronger still when he saw the war minister sitting at a large desk paying no attention, for the first two minutes, to the man who had just come in. The war minister, whose bald head with its grey temples was bent over the papers which he was reading, in the light of two wax candles, and marking with a pencil, went on to complete his reading, refusing to raise his head, even when the door had opened and he heard footsteps.

“Take this and pass it on,” the war minister said to his adjutant, handing him some papers and still ignoring the courier.

Prince Andrei sensed that, of all the affairs occupying the war minister, the actions of Kutuzov’s army were those least capable of holding his interest, or so he wished to make the Russian courier feel. “But that is all the same to me,” he thought. The war minister gathered up the rest of his papers, squared them together edge to edge and raised his head. He had an intelligent and distinctive face. But as soon as he addressed Prince Andrei, his intelligent and firm expression altered, in a manner that was clearly habitual and deliberate, and his face assumed a stupid, affected smile that did not attempt to conceal its own artificiality, the smile of a man who receives many petitioners one after another.

“From General-Field-Marshal Kutuzov?” he asked. “Good news, I hope? There has been a clash with Mortier? A victory? About time!”

He took the dispatch, which was addressed to him, and began reading it with a sad expression.

“Ah, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he said in German. “What a misfortune! What a misfortune!” After quickly looking through the dispatch, he laid it on the desk and glanced at Prince Andrei, evidently pondering something.

“Ah, what a misfortune! You say the action is conclusive? But Mortier has not been taken, even so.” He thought for a moment. “I am very glad you have brought good news, although the death of Schmidt is a high price to pay for victory. His Majesty will certainly wish to see you, but not today. Thank you, take a rest now. Tomorrow be at the exit after the parade. However, I will let you know.”

The stupid smile that had disappeared during the conversation appeared once again on the war minister’s face.

“Goodbye, thank you very much. His Majesty the Emperor will probably wish to see you,” he repeated and inclined his head.

Prince Andrei went out into the waiting room. There were two adjutants sitting there, talking to each other, evidently about something entirely unrelated to Prince Andrei’s arrival. One of them stood up reluctantly and, with the same insolent politeness as before, asked Prince Andrei to write his rank, title and address in the book that he handed to him. Prince Andrei complied with his wish in silence and left the waiting room without even glancing in his direction.