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War and Peace, book three, chapter sixteen, read for libravox.org by Kyrsten Ferreri.
Kutzov, accompanied by his agitons, rode at a walking pace behind the caribbean ears.
When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column, he stopped at a solitary
deserted house that had probably once been an inn, where two roads parted.
Both of them led downhill, and troops were marching along both.
The fog had begun to clear, and enemy troops were already dimly visible about a mile
and a half off on the opposite heights.
Down below on the left, the firing became more distinct.
Kutzov had stopped, and was speaking to an Austrian general.
Prince Andrew, who was a little behind, looking at them, turned to an agitant to ask him
for a field-glass.
Look, look said this agitant, looking not at the troops in the distance, but down the hill
before him.
It's the French!
The two generals and the agitant took hold of the field-glass, trying to snatch it from
one another.
The expression on all their faces suddenly changed to one of horror.
The French were supposed to be a mile and a half away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly
appeared just in front of us.
It's the enemy?
No!
Yes!
See it is!
For certain!
But how is that, said different voices?
With the naked eye, Prince Andrew saw them below to the right, not more than 500 paces
from where Kutzov was standing, a dense French column coming up to meet the Absurons.
Here it is, the decisive moment has arrived.
My turn has come, thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse, he rode up to Kutzov.
The Absurons must be stopped your excellency, cried he.
But at that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all around.
Firing was heard quite close at hand, and a voice of naive terror, barely two steps
from Prince Andrew shouted, Brothers, all is lost!
And at this, as if at a command, everyone began to run.
Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five minutes before the troops
had passed the emperors.
Not only would it have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to
be carried back with it oneself.
Bulkonski only tried not to lose touch with it, and looked around, bewildered, and unable
to grasp what was happening in front of him.
Miss Vitsky, with an angry face, read and, unlike himself, was shouting to Kutzov that
if he did not ride away at once, he would certainly be taken prisoner.
Kutzov remained in the same place, and without answering, drew out a handkerchief.
Blood was flowing from his cheek.
Prince Andrew forced his way to him.
Your wounded, he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of his lower jaw.
The wound is not here, it is there, said Kutzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded
cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers.
Stop them, he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing that it was impossible
to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right.
A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him, and bore him back with it.
The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by them it was difficult
to get out again.
One was shouting, get on, why are you hindering us?
Another in the same place turned around and fired in the air.
A third was striking the horse Kutzov himself, rode.
Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, Kutzov, with his
sweet diminished by more than half, rode toward a sound of artillery fire nearby.
Having forced his way out of the crowd of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutzov,
saw on the slope of the hill, amid the smoke, a Russian battery that was still firing, and
Frenchmen running toward it.
Near-up stood some Russian infantry, neither moving forward to protect the battery, nor
backward with the fleeing crowd.
A mounted general separated himself from the infantry, and approached Kutzov.
Of Kutzov's sweet, only four remained.
They were all pale, and exchanged looks and silence.
Stop those wretches, gasped Kutzov to the regimental commander, pointing to the flying
soldiers.
But at that instant, as if to punish him for these words, bullets flew hissing across the
regiment, and across Kutzov's sweet, like a flock of little birds.
The French had attacked the battery, and seeing Kutzov were firing at him.
After this volley, the regimental commander clutched at his leg.
Several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant, who was holding the flag, let it fall from
his hands.
It swayed and fell, but caught on the muskets of the nearest soldiers.
The soldiers started firing without orders.
Oh, grown Kutzov despairingly, and looked around.
Bokonsky, he whispered.
His voice trembling from a consciousness of the feebleness of age.
Bokonsky, he whispered, pointing to the disordered battalion and at the enemy.
What is that?
But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of shame and anger choking
him, had already leapt from his horse, and run to the standard.
Forward lads, he shouted, and a voice piercing as a child.
Here it is, thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with pleasure the
whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him.
Several soldiers fell.
Hurrah shouted, Prince Andrew, and scarcely able to hold up the heavy standard.
He ran forward, with full confidence that the whole battalion would follow him.
And really, he only ran a few steps alone.
One soldier moved, and then another, and soon the whole battalion ran forward, shouting,
hurrah, and overtook him.
A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag that was swaying from its weight
in Prince Andrew's hands, but he was immediately killed.
Andrew again seized the standard, and dragging it by the staff ran on with the battalion.
In front he saw our artillery men, some of whom were fighting while others, having abandoned
their guns, were running toward him.
He also saw French infantry soldiers, who were seizing the artillery horses and turning
their guns round.
Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces of the canyon.
He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly, and to the right and left of him soldiers
continually groaned and dropped, but he did not look at them.
And looked only at what was going on in front of him.
At the battery.
He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his Shaco knocked a rye, pulling
one end of a mop, while a French soldier tugged at the other.
He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men,
who evidently did not realize what they were doing.
What are they about, thought Prince Andrew, as he gazed at them?
Why doesn't the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed?
Why doesn't the Frenchmen stab him?
He will not get away before the Frenchmen remembers his bayonet and stabs him.
And really, another French soldier trailing his musket ran up to the struggling men, and
the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had triumphantly secured the mop and still did not
realize what awaited him, was about to be decided.
But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended.
It seemed to him, as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head with the full swing
of a bludgeon.
It hurt a little, but the worst of it was that the pain distracted him, and prevented
his seeing what he had been looking at.
What's this?
Am I falling?
My legs are giving way, thought he, and he fell on his back.
He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended,
whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not, and whether the cannon had been captured
or saved.
But he saw nothing.
Above him there was now nothing but the sky, the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably
lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it.
How quiet, peaceful and solemn, not at all as I ran, thought Prince Andrew, not as
we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchmen with frightened
and angry faces struggled for them up.
How differently do those clouds glide across that lofty, infinite sky?
How was it I did not see that lofty sky before?
And how happy I am to have found it at last!
Yes, all is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky.
There is nothing, nothing but that, but even it does not exist.
There is nothing but quiet and peace, thank God.
And of chapter 16, this recording is in the public domain.
