War and Peace: Original Version. Лев Толстой

      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