Chapter IV: The Crimean War (1)

Joins army of the Danube. Siege of Silistria. Sevastopol. Projected Newspaper. _Sevastopol in December._ Battle of the Tchérnaya. Capture of the Maláhof. Courier to Petersburg. Song. Relations with superiors and fellow-officers. Self-depreciation. _The Wood-Felling._ _Sevastopol in May._ The Censor. On War.

AT twenty-five years of age it fell to Tolstoy's lot to take part in a great European war and thereby to extend the range of his experience in a way that considerably affected his subsequent life and writings.

Tolstoy tells us that he got his first understanding of war from Stendhal, the author of _Le Rouge et le Noir_ and _La Chartreuse de Parme_. In conversation with Paul Boyer, Tolstoy once spoke of those novels as inimitable works of art, adding, 'I am greatly indebted to Stendhal. He taught me to understand war. Re-read the description of the battle of Waterloo in _La Chartreuse de Parme_. Who ever before so described war? Described it, that is, as it is in reality? Do you remember Fabrice riding over the field of battle and understanding "nothing"?'

Tolstoy's brother Nicholas, though fond of war, also disbelieved in the popular romantic view of it, and used to say: 'All _that_ is embellishment, and in real war there is no embellishment.'--'A little later, in the Crimea,' added Tolstoy in his talk with Boyer, 'I had a grand chance to see with my own eyes that this is so.'

Of the causes that led to the war it need only be said that the rule of the Turks over Christian populations had long kept a dangerous sore open in Europe, and the consequent diplomatic difficulties were complicated by the indefiniteness of two lines in the Treaty of Kainardji, which Catherine the Great had imposed upon Turkey in 1774. There was also friction between the Eastern and Western Churches, with reference to the custody of the Places in Palestine rendered holy by their traditional connection with the Prince of Peace. Nicholas I, who had wellnigh drilled all intelligence out of those near him in his Government and in his army, was not accustomed to be thwarted. Dimly conscious of the first faint symptoms of that growth of Liberalism which a few years later, in the early 'sixties, led to sweeping reforms in Russia, he felt inclined to demonstrate the beneficence of his rule not by allowing changes to be made at home, but by arbitrarily inflicting reforms on Turkey. Failing to get his way by diplomatic pressure, he rashly proceeded to occupy the Danubian Principalities as a 'material guarantee' of Turkey's compliance with his demands.

He was opposed by Austria and Prussia as strongly as by England and France, and the pressure exerted by the four powers sufficed to compel him to withdraw his army from Turkish soil. Thereupon the war, which had as yet been waged only between Russia and Turkey, might well have ended, had not England and France undertaken a quite needless invasion of the Crimea: an enterprise in which Austria and Prussia refused to join. The end did not justify the proceedings, for in spite of success in this war, Napoleon the Third's dynasty crumbled to dust within twenty years, while within a like period after Palmerston's death Lord Salisbury frankly admitted that we had 'put our money on the wrong horse.' As to Nicholas I, his pride was destined to be bitterly mortified by the results of an enterprise which not only failed of its immediate object, but by its failure actually hastened the coming of those reforms in Russia against which he had set his face. Even Turkey did not really benefit by being allowed to oppress her subject races for a couple of generations longer.

It was the influence of Napoleon III, as Kinglake has pointed out, that led England to take part in the war. Having by treachery and murder made himself Emperor of the French, that monarch found himself for a time dangerously isolated from the support of people of good repute. In consultation with Palmerston, he decided to subordinate the traditional Eastern policy of his country to that of England if thereby he could succeed in being publicly paraded as the friend and ally of Queen Victoria. As soon as he had secured an alliance with England, with Palmerston's aid, and helped by the extraordinary war fever which seized the English nation, he quickly forced the peacefully disposed Lord Aberdeen along an inclined plane which ultimately plunged both nations into a war for which no sufficient motive justification or excuse existed.

1854

Hostilities between Russia and Turkey had begun in October 1853, but France and England did not break off negotiations with the former power till the end of March 1854, the very month in which Tolstoy reached Bucharest on his way through Wallachia to join the army.

From there he wrote to his aunt, telling of his journey. The roads after he had passed Khersón, and especially after he had crossed the frontier, were abominable; his journey lasted nine days; and he 'arrived almost ill with fatigue.'

A few days later, on 17th March, he wrote of his first interview with Gortchakóf:

[14]Le prince Gortchakóf n'était pas ici. Hier il vient d'arriver
et je viens de chez lui. Il m'a reçu mieux que je ne croyais--en
vrai parent. Il m'a embrassé, il m'a engagé de venir dîner tous les
jours chez lui et il veut me garder auprès de lui, mais ce n'est
pas encore décidé.

Pardon, chère tante, que je vous écris peu--je n'ai pas encore la
tête à moi,--cette grande et belle ville, toutes ces présentations,
l'opéra italien, le théâtre français, les deux jeunes Gortchakóf
qui sont de très braves garçons ... de sorte que je ne suis pas
resté deux heures chez moi, et je n'ai pas pensé à mes occupations.

[14] Prince Gortchakóf was not here. He arrived yesterday, and
I have just come from his lodgings. He received me better than
I expected--quite as a relation. He embraced me, and made me
promise to dine at his house every day. He wants to keep me
near him, but this is not yet decided.

Forgive me, dear Aunt, for writing but little to you--I have
not yet collected my wits; this large and fine town, all these
presentations, the Italian opera, the French theatre, the two
young Gortchakófs, who are very fine lads ... so that I have
not remained two hours at home, and have not thought of my
duties.

On 22nd March he adds: 'I learnt yesterday that I am not to remain with the Prince, but am to go to Oltenitza to join my battery.'

In May he wrote:

[15]Tandis que vous me croyez exposé à tous les dangers de la
guerre je n'ai pas encore senti la poudre turque, et je suis très
tranquillement à Boukarest à me promener, à faire de la musique et
à manger des glaces. En effet tout ce temps, excepté deux semaines
que j'ai passées à Oltenitza où j'ai été attaché à une batterie, et
une semaine que j'ai passée en courses par la Moldavie, Valachie et
Bessarabie par ordre du gén. Serjpoutóvsky auprès duquel je suis à
présent _by special appointment_, je suis resté à Boukarest et à
vous avouer franchement, ce genre de vie un peu dissipé, tout à
fait oisif et très coûteux que je mène ici me déplaît infiniment.
Auparavant c'était le service qui m'y retenait, mais à présent j'y
suis resté pendant près de trois semaines à cause d'une fièvre que
j'ai attrapée pendant mon voyage, mais dont, Dieu merci, je suis
pour le moment assez rétabli pour rejoindre dans deux ou trois
jours mon général qui est au camp près de Silistrie. A propos de
mon général, il a l'air d'être un très brave homme et paraît,
quoique nous nous connaissons fort peu, être bien disposé à mon
égard. Ce qui est encore fort agréable est que son état-major est
composé pour la plupart de gens comme il faut.

[15] While you are fancying me exposed to all the dangers
of war, I have not yet smelt Turkish powder, but am very
quietly at Bucharest, strolling about, making music, and
eating ices. In fact, all this time, except for two weeks I
spent at Oltenitza, where I was attached to a battery, and
one week I passed making excursions in Moldavia Wallachia and
Bessarabia by order of General Serzhpoutóvsky, on whose staff
I now am by special appointment, I have been at Bucharest; and
to speak frankly, the rather dissipated, quite idle and very
expensive kind of life that I lead here, displeases me very
much. Formerly it was the service that kept me here; but now
for three weeks I have been kept here by a fever caught during
my journey, but from which, thank God, I have for the present
recovered sufficiently to be able in two or three days' time
to rejoin my General, who is in camp near Silistria. Apropos
of my General, he appears to be a very fine fellow, and though
we know each other very slightly, seems well disposed toward
me. What is also agreeable is that his staff consists for the
most part of gentlemen.

We shall find Tolstoy modifying this opinion, a little later on; but it is worth noting that at this time he was fully alive to the superiority of '_gens comme il faut_,' and that his depreciation of them in later years may have been partly a reaction from a previous over-valuation.

By June 1854 the military and political situation was as follows. The Russians had advanced through Moldavia and Wallachia to the Danube, had crossed that river, and were besieging Silistria. Austria, supporting the other great powers, had massed a powerful army on the Turkish frontier, and a glance at the map of Europe will show that the Russian army, far removed from its base, was in imminent danger of being cut off by the Austrians, who peremptorily summoned Russia to evacuate the Principalities, and on 14th June concluded a formal alliance with the Porte. These circumstances explain the sudden abandonment of the siege of Silistria mentioned in the following letter, addressed by Leo Tolstoy to his Aunt Tatiána and to his brother Nicholas conjointly; though when he wrote it, the causes which produced the result he described were a mystery to him.

[16]Je vais vous parler donc de mes souvenirs de Silistrie. J'y ai
vu tant de choses intéressantes, poétiques et touchantes que le
temps que j'y ai passé ne s'effacera jamais de ma mémoire. Notre
camp était disposé de l'autre côté du Danube c.à d. sur la rive
droite sur un terrain très élevé au milieu de superbes jardins,
appartenant à Mustafa Pasha--le gouverneur de Silistrie. La vue
de cet endroit est non seulement magnifique, mais pour nous tous
du plus grand intérêt. Sans parler du Danube, de ces îles et de
ces rivages, les uns occupés par nous, les autres par les Turcs,
on voyait la ville, la forteresse, les petits forts de Silistrie
comme sur la main. On entendait les coups de canons, de fusils
qui ne cessaient ni jour ni nuit, et avec une lunette d'approche
on pouvait distinguer les soldats turcs. Il est vrai que c'est
un drôle de plaisir que de voir de gens s'entretuer et cependant
tous les soirs et matins je me mettais sur ma cart et je restais
des heures entières à regarder et ce n'était pas moi le seul qui
le faisait. Le spectacle était vraiment beau, surtout la nuit.
Les nuits ordinairement mes soldats se mettent aux travaux des
tranchées, et les Turcs se jettent sur eux pour les en empêcher,
alors il fallait voir et entendre cette fusillade. La première nuit
que j'ai passée au camp ce bruit terrible m'a reveillé et effrayé,
je croyais qu'on est allé a l'assaut et j'ai bien vite fait seller
mon cheval, mais ceux qui avait déjà passé quelque temps au camp
me dirent que je n'avais qu'à me tenir tranquille, que cette
canonnade et fusillade était une chose ordinaire et qu'on appela en
plaisantant, 'Allah'; alors je me suis recouché, mais ne pouvant
m'endormir je me suis amusé, une montre à la main, à compter les
coups de canon que j'entendais et j'ai compté 110 explosions dans
l'espace d'une minute. Et cependant tout ceci n'a eu de près
l'air aussi effrayant que cela le paraît. La nuit, quand on n'y
voyait rien, c'était à qui brûlerait le plus de poudre et avec ces
milliers de coups de canons on tuait tout au plus une trentaine
d'hommes de part et d'autre.

Ceci donc est un spectacle ordinaire que nous avions tous les
jours et dans lequel, quand on m'envoyait avec des ordres dans les
tranchées, je prenais aussi ma part; mais nous avions aussi des
spectacles extraordinaires, comme celui de la veille de l'assaut
quand on a fait sauter une mine de 240 pouds de poudre sous un des
bastions de l'ennemi. Le matin de cette journée le prince avait
été aux tranchées avec tout son état-major (comme le général auprès
duquel j'étais en fait partie, j'y ai aussi été) pour faire les
dispositions définies--vu pour l'assaut du lendemain. Le plan,
trop long pour que je puisse l'expliquer ici, était si bien fait,
tout était si bien prévu que personne ne doutait de la réussite. A
propos de cela il faut que je vous dise encore que je commence à
avoir de l'admiration pour le prince (au reste il faut en entendre
parler parmi les officiers et les soldats, non seulement je n'ai
jamais entendu dire du mal de lui, mais il est généralement adoré).

Je l'ai vu au feu pour la première fois pendant cette matinée.
Il faut voir cette figure un peu ridicule avec sa grande taille,
ses mains derrière le dos, sa casquette en arrière, ses lunettes
et sa manière de parler comme un dindon. On voit qu'il était
tellement occupé de la marche générale des affaires que les balles
et les boulets n'existaient pas pour lui; il s'expose au danger
avec tant de simplicité, qu'on dirait qu'il n'en a pas l'idée et
qu'involontairement qu'on n'a plus peur de lui que pour soi-même;
et puis donnant ses ordres avec tant de clarté et de précision
et avec cela toujours affable avec chacun. C'est un grand, c.à
d. un homme qui s'est voué toute sa vie au service de sa patrie
et pas par l'ambition, mais par le devoir. Je vais vous raconter
un trait de lui qui se lie à l'histoire de cet assaut que j'ai
commencé à raconter. L'après-dîner du même jour on a fait sauter
la mine, et près de 600 pièces d'artillerie ont fait feu sur le
fort qu'on voulait prendre, et on continuait ce feu pendant toute
la nuit, c'était un de ces coups d'oeil et une de ces émotions
qu'on n'oublie jamais. Le soir de nouveau le prince, avec tout le
tremblement, est allé coucher aux tranchées pour diriger lui-même
l'assaut qui devait commencer à 3 heures de la nuit même.

Nous étions tous là et comme toujours à la veille d'une bataille
nous faisions tous semblant de ne pas plus penser de la journée
de demain qu'à une journée ordinaire et tous, j'en suis sûr,
au fond du coeur ressentaient un petit serrement de coeur et
pas même un petit mais un grand, à l'idée de l'assaut. Comme tu
sais que le temps qui précède une affaire est le temps le plus
désagréable--c'est le seul où on a le temps d'avoir peur, et la
peur est un sentiment des plus désagréables. Vers le matin, plus
le moment approchait, plus le sentiment diminuait et vers 3 heures
quand nous attendions tous à voir partir le bouquet de fusées qui
était le signal de l'attaque--j'étais si bien disposé que si l'on
était venu me dire que l'assaut n'aurait pas lieu, cela m'aurait
fait beaucoup de peine. Et voilà que juste une heure avant le
moment de l'assaut arrive un aide de camp du maréchal avec l'ordre
d'ôter le siège de Silistrie. Je puis dire sans craindre de me
tromper que cette nouvelle a été reçue par tous--soldats, officiers
et généraux--comme un vrai malheur, d'autant plus qu'on savait par
les espions, qui nous venaient très souvent de Silistrie, et avec
lesquels j'avais très souvent l'occasion de causer moi-même, on
savait que ce fort pris,--chose dont personne ne doutait--Silistrie
ne pouvait tenir plus de 2 ou 3 jours. N'est-ce pas que si cette
nouvelle devait faire de la peine à quelqu'un ce devait être au
prince, qui pendant toute cette campagne ayant fait toute chose
pour le mieux, au beau milieu de l'action vit venir le maréchal
sur son dos pour gâter les affaires et puis ayant la seule chance
de réparer nos revers par cet assaut, il reçoit le contre ordre
du maréchal au moment de le commencer. Eh bien, le prince n'a pas
eu un moment de mauvaise humeur, lui, qui est si impressionable,
au contraire il a été content de pouvoir éviter cette boucherie,
dont il devait porter la responsabilité et tout le temps de la
retraite qu'il a dirigé lui-même, ne voulant passer qu'avec
le dernier des soldats, qui s'est faite avec un ordre et une
exactitude remarquables, il a été plus gai qu'il n'a jamais été. Ce
qui contribuait beaucoup à sa bonne humeur, c'était l'émigration
de près de 7000 familles bulgares, que nous prenons avec pour le
souvenir de la férocité des Turcs--férocité a laquelle malgré mon
incredulité j'ai été obligé de croire. Dès que nous avons quitté
des différents villages bulgares que nous occupions, les Turcs y
sont revenus et excepté les femmes assez jeunes pour un harem, ils
ont fait main basse sur tout ce qu'il y avait. Il y a un village
dans lequel je suis allé du camp pour y prendre du lait et des
fruits qui a été exterminé de la sorte. Alors dès que le prince
avait fait savoir aux Bulgares que ceux qui voulaient pouvaient
avec l'armée passer le Danube et devenir sujets russes, tout le
pays se soulève et tous avec leurs femmes, enfants, chevaux,
bétails arrivent au pont,--mais comme il était impossible de les
prendre tous, le prince a été obligé de refuser à ceux qui sont
venus les derniers et il fallait voir comme cela le chagrinait.
Il recevait toutes les députations qui venaient de ces pauvres
gens, il causait avec chacun d'eux, tâchait de leur expliquer
l'impossibilité de la chose, leur proposait de passer sans leurs
chariots et leur bétail et en se chargeant de leurs moyens de
subsistence jusqu'à ce qu'ils arrivassent en Russie, payant de sa
propre bourse des vaisseaux particuliers pour les transporter, en
un mot faisant tout son possible pour faire du bien à ces gens.

Oui, chère tante, je voudrais bien que votre prophétie se réalise.
La chose que j'ambitionne le plus, est d'être l'aide de camp d'un
homme comme lui que j'aime et que j'estime du plus profond de mon
coeur. Adieu, chère et bonne tante; je baise vos mains.

[16] I am going to tell you of my recollections of Silistria.
I there saw so much that was interesting, poetic and touching,
that the time I passed there will never be effaced from my
memory. Our camp was on the other side of the Danube, _i.e._
on the right bank, on very high ground amid splendid gardens
belonging to Mustafa Pasha, the Governor of Silistria. The
view from that place is not only magnificent, but of the
greatest interest to us all. Not to speak of the Danube, its
islets and its banks, some occupied by us, others by the
Turks, one could see the town, the fortress and the little
forts of Silistria as on the palm of one's hand. One heard
the booming of cannon and musket-shots unceasingly day and
night; and with a spy-glass one could distinguish the Turkish
soldiers. It is true it is a queer sort of pleasure to see
people killing one another, yet every evening and every
morning I got on to my cart and remained for hours at a
time, watching: nor was I the only one who did so. The sight
was really fine, especially at night. At night my soldiers
usually undertake trench-work, and the Turks fling themselves
upon them to hinder them; then one should see and hear the
fusillade! The first night I passed in camp, this dreadful
noise awoke and frightened me: I thought an assault had
begun. I very soon had my horse saddled; but those who had
been already some time in camp told me that I had only to
keep quiet: that this cannonade and fusillade was an ordinary
affair, and they jestingly called it 'Allah.' Then I lay down
again; but not being able to sleep, I amused myself, watch in
hand, counting the cannon-shots, and I counted 110 reports in
a minute. And yet, at close quarters, all this did not look
so terrible as might be supposed. At night, when nothing was
visible, it was a case of who could burn most powder, and with
all these thousands of cannon-shots at most some thirty men
were killed on each side....

This then was an ordinary performance we had every day, and
one in which I took a share when I was sent to the trenches
with orders; but we also had extraordinary performances,
such as the one on the eve of the attack, when a mine of 240
poods (8600 lbs.) of gunpowder was exploded under one of the
enemy's bastions. On the morning of that day the Prince had
been to the trenches with all his staff (and as the General
I was attached to belong to it, I was there too) to make the
final arrangements for next day's assault. The plan--too
long for me to explain here--was so well arranged, all was
so well foreseen, that no one doubted its success. Apropos
of this I must tell you further that I am beginning to feel
admiration for the Prince (for that matter you should hear how
the officers and soldiers speak of him: not only have I never
heard him spoken ill of, but he is generally adored).

That morning I saw him under fire for the first time. You
should see his rather absurd tall figure, his hands behind his
back, his cap on the back of his head, his spectacles, and
his way of speaking like a turkey-cock. One could see that he
was so preoccupied with the general trend of affairs that the
balls and bullets did not exist as far as he was concerned.
He exposes himself to danger so simply that one would say he
was unconscious of it, and involuntarily one fears it only for
oneself; [The text here is obscure, and the meaning a little
doubtful] and then he gives his orders with such clearness
and precision, and is at the same time always so affable with
everybody. He is a great man, _i.e._ a capable and honest man,
as I understand the word: one who has dedicated his whole
life to the service of his country, and not from ambition,
but for the sake of duty. I will give you a trait of his
character connected with the story I had begun to tell you of
the assault. After dinner that same day, the mine was sprung,
and nearly 600 guns opened fire on the fort we wished to take,
and this continued the whole night. It was such a sight and
such an emotion as one never forgets. That evening the Prince,
amid all the commotion, went to sleep in the trenches, that he
might personally direct the assault, which was to begin at 3
o'clock the same night.

We were all there, and as usual on the eve of a battle, we
all made believe not to think of the morrow more than of any
other day, and we all, I am sure, at bottom, felt our hearts
contract a little (and not a little, but a great deal) at
the thought of the assault. As you know, the time before a
fight is the most disagreeable: it is only then that one has
time to be afraid, and fear is a most disagreeable feeling.
Towards morning, the nearer the moment came the more the
feeling diminished, and towards 3 o'clock when we were all
expecting to see a shower of rockets let off, which was the
signal for the attack, I was so well inclined for it that I
should have been much disappointed if any one had come to
tell me that the attack was not to take place. And there!
Just an hour before the time for the attack, an aide-de-camp
comes from the Field-Marshal [Paskévitch, who for a time took
over the supreme command of the army of the Danube] with
orders to raise the siege of Silistria! I can say, without
fear of making a mistake, that this news was received by all,
soldiers, officers, and generals, as a real misfortune, the
more so as we knew from the spies--who very often came to us
from Silistria, and with whom I very often had occasion to
speak--that once we had taken this fort (about which none
of us felt any doubt) Silistria could not have held out for
more than 2 or 3 days. Is it not true that if this news was
calculated to pain any one, it must have been the Prince,
who having all through this campaign arranged everything for
the best, yet saw, in the very middle of the action, the
Field-Marshal override him and spoil the business? Having
this one chance to repair our reverses by this assault, he
received counter-orders from the Field-Marshal at the moment
of commencing! Well, the Prince was not put out of temper for
a moment. He who is so impressionable, was, on the contrary,
pleased to be able to avoid that butchery, the responsibility
for which he would have had to bear; and during the whole time
of the retreat--which he directed personally, not wishing to
cross (the Danube) before the last of the soldiers--which took
place with remarkable order and exactitude, he was gayer than
he has ever been. What contributed much to his good humour,
was the emigration of nearly 7000 Bulgarian families, whom we
took with us as a reminder of the ferocity of the Turks: a
ferocity in which, in spite of my incredulity, I was obliged
to believe. As soon as we quitted the different Bulgarian
villages we had occupied, the Turks returned to them, and
except women young enough for a harem, they made a clean sweep
of all that was in them. There was one village to which I went
from the camp for milk and fruit, which had been exterminated
in this way. So, as soon as the Prince let the Bulgarians
know that those who wished to, could cross the Danube with
our army and could become Russian subjects, the whole country
rose, and with their wives, children, horses and cattle, came
to the bridge: but as it was impossible to take them all, the
Prince was obliged to refuse the last arrivals, and you should
have seen how it grieved him to do so. He received all the
deputations which came from these poor folk, and spoke with
them all: trying to explain the impossibility of the matter,
offering to let them cross without their carts and cattle,
charging himself with their support till they could reach
Russia, and out of his own purse paying for private ships to
transport them; in a word, doing his very best for the welfare
of these people.

Yes, dear Aunt, I should much like your prophecy to come true.
What I desire most is to be aide-de-camp to such a man as he,
whom I love and esteem from the bottom of my heart. Adieu,
dear and kind Aunt. I kiss your hands.

The army retired to Bucharest, and here, at an officers' ball, Tolstoy seized an opportunity to beg Gortchakóf to have him transferred to where service would be most active.

The retreat from Silistria took place at the end of June, and on 2nd August we find Tolstoy starting for Russia. On the journey he fell ill and had to lie up in hospital. On 13th November in Kishinéf he renewed his application for an appointment in the Crimea, and was ordered to Sevastopol, which he reached on the 20th of that month.[17]

[17] In this chapter the dates, when possible, are given new
style (12 days later than the Russian style), in order that
they may tally with English accounts of the Crimean war.

1854

The situation there, at this time, was the following. The Allies had landed in the Crimea to the north of Sevastopol on 14th September, and had defeated the Russian army under Ménshikof on the 20th at Alma. Instead of marching straight into the town, which was almost undefended, they had then gone round and encamped on the south side, where they remained inactive till 17th October, by which time Todleben, an engineer of rare genius, had thrown up earthworks and mounted guns (many of them taken from the Russian ships Ménshikof sank at the entrance to the Roadstead). Ménshikof himself had practically abandoned the town, withdrawing the bulk of his army northward; but the situation was saved by the patriotism of just that section of the Russian forces which had been least exposed to the deadening influence of Nicholas the First's militarism,--namely by the officers and men of the fleet. Inspired by the example of the heroic Admiral Kornílof (who lost his life during the siege) they rallied to the defence with a courageous devotion seldom paralleled. Their example awoke enthusiasm throughout Russia and compelled Ménshikof to supply reinforcements, which enabled the town to hold out for eleven months, in spite of the great superiority of the Allies in rifles, artillery and the modern equipments of war generally.

Tolstoy reached Sevastopol when the defence was already fully organised, and when (in spite of the repulse experienced by the Russians at Inkerman) the garrison had gained confidence in their powers of resistance, and had settled down to a dogged defence.

Of the hospitals, in which the wounded saw one another's limbs amputated while waiting their own turn; of the staff officers, who managed to amuse themselves pretty well during the siege; of the commissariat officers, flourishing amid the general havoc; as well as of the line and non-commissioned officers and privates, upon whom the greatest hardships fell, Tolstoy gives vivid glimpses in the Sketches he wrote during the siege.

A fortnight after his arrival he writes, from somewhere outside the town, to his brother Sergius, apologising for not having sent him a letter sooner, and adds:

So much have I learnt, experienced, and felt this year that I
positively do not know what to begin to describe, nor how to
describe it as I wish to.... Silistria is now ancient history, and
we have Sevastopol, of which I suppose you all read with beating
hearts, and where I was four days ago. Well, how can I tell you
all I saw there, and where I went and what I did, and what the
prisoners and wounded French and English say; and _whether it hurts
them and hurts very much_,[18] and what heroes our enemies are,
especially the English? I will tell all that later at Yásnaya or at
Pirogóvo; and you will learn much of it from me through the press.
How this will happen, I will explain later; but now let me give
you an idea of the position of affairs in Sevastopol. The town is
besieged from one side, the south, where we had no fortifications
when the enemy approached it. Now we have on that side more than
500 heavy guns, and several lines of earthworks, positively
impregnable. I spent a week in the fortress, and to the last day
used to lose my way among that labyrinth of batteries, as in a
wood. More than three weeks ago the enemy advanced his trenches at
one place to within 200 yards, but gets no further. When he makes
the smallest advance he is overwhelmed with a hailstorm of shot and
shell.

[18] This must refer to some family joke, as it occurs in
other letters home, apropos of people who were killed.

The spirit of the army is beyond all description. In the times of
ancient Greece there was not such heroism. Kornílof, making the
round of the troops, instead of greeting them with, 'Good health to
you, lads!' says: 'If you have to die, lads, will you die?' and the
troops shout, 'We'll die, Your Excellency! Hurrah!' and they do not
say it for effect. On every face one saw that it was not jest but
earnest; and 22,000 men have already fulfilled the promise.

A wounded soldier, almost dying, told me they captured the 24th
French Battery but were not reinforced; and he wept aloud. A
Company of Marines nearly mutinied because they were to be
withdrawn from batteries in which they had been exposed to
shell-fire for thirty days. The soldiers extract the fuses from
the shells. Women carry water to the bastions for the soldiers.
Many are killed and wounded. The priests with their crosses go
to the bastions and read prayers under fire. In one brigade, the
24th, more than 160 wounded men would not leave the front. It is
a wonderful time! Now, however, after the 24th, we have quieted
down; it has become splendid in Sevastopol. The enemy hardly
fires, and all are convinced that he will not take the town; and
it is really impossible.... I have not yet succeeded in being in
action even once; but thank God that I have seen these people
and live in this glorious time. The bombardment of the 5th [17
October, n.s.] remains the most brilliant and glorious feat not
only in the history of Russia, but in the history of the world.
More than 1500 cannon were in action for two days against the
town, and not only did not cause it to capitulate, but did not
silence one two-hundredth part of our batteries. Though, I suppose,
this campaign is unfavourably regarded in Russia, our descendants
will place it above all others; do not forget that we, with equal
or even inferior forces, and armed only with bayonets, and with
the worst troops in the Russian army (such as the 6th corps) are
fighting a more numerous enemy aided by a fleet, armed with 3000
cannon, excellently supplied with rifles and with their best
troops. I do not even mention the superiority of their Generals.

Only our army could hold its ground and conquer (we shall yet
conquer, of that I am convinced) under such circumstances. You
should see the French and English prisoners (especially the
latter): they are each one better than the other--morally and
physically fine fellows. The Cossacks say it is even a pity to cut
them down, and alongside of them you should see some Chasseurs or
others of ours: small, lousy, and shrivelled up.

Now I will tell you how you will get printed news from me of the
deeds of these lousy and shrivelled heroes. In our artillery
staff, consisting, as I think I wrote you, of very good and
worthy men, a project has been started for publishing a military
newspaper, in order to maintain a good spirit in the army--a cheap
paper (at Rs. 3) and popularly written, so that the soldiers may
read it. We have drawn up a plan and submitted it to the Prince.
He likes the idea very much, and has submitted the project and a
specimen sheet which we also wrote, for the Emperor's sanction.
I and Stolýpin[19] are advancing the money for the publication.
I have been chosen joint editor with a Mr. Konstantínof, who
published _The Caucasus_, a man experienced in such work. The paper
will publish descriptions of the battles (but not such dry and
mendacious ones as other papers) courageous deeds, biographies, and
obituaries of good men, especially the unknown; military stories,
soldiers' songs, and popular articles on engineering, artillery,
etc. This plan pleases me very much: in the first place, I like the
work; and secondly, I hope the paper will be useful and not quite
bad. It is as yet merely a project, until we know the Emperor's
reply, about which I confess I have my fears. In the specimen sheet
sent to Petersburg, we rashly inserted two articles, one by me and
one by Rostóvtsef, not quite orthodox. For this business I want Rs.
1500, which I have asked Valeryán to send me.

[19] Father of the present (1908) Premier of Russia.

I, thank God, am well, and live happily and pleasantly since I
returned from Turkey. In general, my army service divides up into
two periods: beyond the frontier--horrid: I was ill, poor, and
lonely. This side of the frontier--I am well and have good friends,
though I am still poor: money simply runs away.

As to writing, I do not write; but, as Aunty teases me by saying,
'I test myself.' One thing disquiets me: this is the fourth year
I live without female society; and I may become quite coarse and
unsuited for family life, which I so enjoy.

A few days later his battery was moved to Simferópol, a town lying to the north of Sevastopol, beyond the sphere of actual fighting.

1855

On 6th January (o.s.) he wrote to his Aunt:

[20]On ne se bat plus en rase campagne, à cause de l'hiver qui est
extraordinairement rigoureux, surtout à présent; mais le siège
dure toujours.... J'avais parlé je crois d'une occupation que
j'avais en vue et qui me souriait beaucoup; à présent que la chose
est décidée, je puis le dire. J'avais l'idée de fonder un journal
militaire. Ce projet auquel j'ai travaillé avec le concours de
beaucoup de gens très distingués fut approuvé par le prince et
envoyé à la décision de sa Majesté, mais l'empereur a refusé.

Cette déconfiture, je vous l'avoue, m'a fait une peine infinie et a
beaucoup changé mes plans. Si Dieu veut que la campagne de Crimée
finisse bien et si je ne reçois pas une place dont je sois content,
et qu'il n'y ait pas de guerre en Russie, je quitterai l'armée pour
aller à Pétersbourg à l'académie militaire. Ce plan m'est venu,
1° parce que je voudrais ne pas abandonner la littérature dont il
m'est impossible de m'occuper dans cette vie de camp, et 2° parce
qu'il me paraît que je commence à devenir ambitieux, pas ambitieux,
mais je voudrais faire du bien et pour le faire il faut être plus
qu'un Sub-Lieutenant; 3° parce que je vous verrai tous et tous mes
amis.

[20] There is no more fighting in the open country on account
of the winter, which is extraordinarily rigorous, particularly
just now; but the siege still goes on.... I think I have
mentioned an occupation I had in view, which promised very
well--as I may say, now that it is settled. I had the idea of
founding a military newspaper. This project, at which I worked
with the co-operation of many very distinguished men, was
approved by the Prince and submitted to His Majesty for his
consent, but he has refused.

This disappointment has, I confess, distressed me greatly,
and has much altered my plans. If God wills that the
Crimean campaign should end well, and if I do not receive
an appointment that satisfies me, and if there is no war in
Russia, I shall leave the army and go to Petersburg to the
Military Academy. I have formed this plan, (1) because I do
not want to abandon literature, at which it is impossible to
work amid this camp life; (2) because it seems to me that I am
becoming ambitious: not ambitious, but I want to do some good,
and to do it one must be something more than a Sub-Lieutenant,
and (3) because I shall see you all and all my friends.

In May he wrote again to his brother:

From Kishinéf on 1st November (o.s.), I petitioned to be sent to
the Crimea, partly in order to see this war, and partly to break
away from Serzhpoutóvsky's staff, which I did not like, but most
of all from patriotism, of which at that time, I confess, I had a
bad attack. I did not ask for any special appointment, but left
it to those in authority to dispose of my fate. In the Crimea I
was appointed to a battery in Sevastopol itself, where I passed
a month very pleasantly amid simple, good companions, who are
specially good in time of real war and danger. In December our
battery was removed to Simferópol, and there I spent 6 weeks in a
squire's comfortable house, riding into Simferópol to dance and
play the piano with young ladies, and in hunting wild goats on the
Tchatyrdag [the highest point of the chain of mountains running
across the southern part of the Crimea] in company with officials.
In January there was a fresh shuffling of officers, and I was
removed to a battery encamped on the banks of the Belbék, 7 miles
from Sevastopol. There I got into hot water: the nastiest set of
officers in the battery; a Commander who, though good-hearted, was
violent and coarse; no comforts, and it was cold in the earth huts.
Not a single book, nor a single man with whom one could talk; and
there I received the Rs. 1500 [= about £180 at that time] for the
newspaper, sanction for which had already been refused; and there I
lost Rs. 2500, and thereby proved to all the world that I am still
an empty fellow, and though the previous circumstances may be taken
into account in mitigation, the case is still a very, very bad one.
In March it became warmer, and a good fellow, an excellent man,
Brenévsky, joined the battery. I began to recover myself; and on 1
April, at the very time of the bombardment, the battery was moved
to Sevastopol, and I quite recovered myself. There, till 15 May
(o.s.) I was in serious danger, _i.e._ for four days at a time, at
intervals of eight days, I was in charge of a battery in the 4th
Bastion; but it was spring and the weather was excellent, there was
abundance of impressions and of people, all the comforts of life,
and we formed a capital circle of well-bred fellows; so that those
six weeks will remain among my pleasantest recollections. On 15
May Gortchakóf, or the Commander of the Artillery, took it into his
head to entrust me with the formation and command of a mountain
platoon at Belbék, 14 miles from Sevastopol, with which arrangement
I am up to the present extremely well satisfied in many respects.

The transfer of Tolstoy from Sevastopol to Belbék was not, as he supposed when he wrote this letter, a whim of Gortchakóf's or of the Commander of the Artillery, but a result of his having written the first of his three sketches of the siege of Sevastopol, _Sevastopol in December_. The article, though not published in the _Contemporary_ till June, had been read in proof by the Emperor Alexander II [Nicholas had died 2nd March, n.s.], and had caused him to give instructions to 'take care of the life of that young man,' with the result that Tolstoy was removed from Sevastopol. The Dowager Empress Alexándra Fédorovna also read the story and, it is said, wept over it.

It was, perhaps, at this time (though I am not sure of the date) that Tolstoy found himself obliged to consent to the sale of the large wooden house in which he had been born, for the wretched price of 5000 'assignation roubles' (about £170). The house was taken to pieces, and removed to the estate of the purchaser, where it still stands, though not now in use.

Apropos of the above letter it should be mentioned that the Fourth Bastion was the one English writers call 'the Flagstaff Bastion.' It formed the southernmost point of the fortifications, as a glance at the accompanying map will show, and it was for a long time the point exposed to the fiercest fire.

Throughout the siege Tolstoy was accompanied by Alexis, one of the four serfs presented to the young Tolstoys when they entered the University. This man (who figures in more than one of Tolstoy's works under the name of Alyósha) brought him his rations to the bastion, a duty involving considerable danger. What the bastions were like in the first months of the siege, we learn from the following passages in the first part of _Sevastopol_:

...You want to get quickly to the bastions, especially to that
Fourth Bastion about which you have been told so many and such
different tales. When any one says, 'I am going to the Fourth
Bastion,' a slight agitation or a too marked indifference is always
noticeable in him; if men are joking they say, 'You should be
sent to the Fourth Bastion.' When you meet some one carried on a
stretcher, and ask, 'Where from?' the answer usually is, 'From the
Fourth Bastion.'...

...Beyond this barricade the houses on both sides of the street
are unoccupied: there are no signboards, the doors are boarded
up, the windows smashed; here a corner of the walls is knocked
down, and there a roof is broken in. The buildings look like old
veterans who have borne much sorrow and privation; they even seem
to gaze proudly and somewhat contemptuously at you. On the road
you stumble over cannon-balls that lie about, and into holes full
of water, made in the stony ground by bombs. You meet and overtake
detachments of soldiers, Cossacks, officers, and occasionally a
woman or a child--only it will not be a woman wearing a bonnet, but
a sailor's wife wearing an old cloak and soldier's boots. Farther
along the same street, after you have descended a little slope, you
will notice that there are now no houses, but only ruined walls in
strange heaps of bricks, boards, clay and beams, and before you,
up a steep hill, you see a black untidy space cut up by ditches.
This space you are approaching is the Fourth Bastion.... Here you
will meet still fewer people and no women at all, the soldiers
walk briskly by, traces of blood may be seen on the road, and
you are sure to meet four soldiers carrying a stretcher, and on
the stretcher probably a pale, yellow face and a blood-stained
overcoat....

The whiz of cannon-ball or bomb near by, impresses you unpleasantly
as you ascend the hill, and you at once understand the meaning
of the sounds very differently from when they reached you in the
town.... You have hardly gone a little way up, when bullets begin
to whiz past you right and left, and you will perhaps consider
whether you had not better walk inside the trench which runs
parallel to the road; but the trench is full of such yellow,
liquid, stinking mud, more than knee deep, that you are sure to
choose the road, especially as _everybody_ keeps to the road.
After walking a couple of hundred yards, you come to a muddy
place much cut up, surrounded by gabions, cellars, platforms, and
dug-outs, and on which large cast-iron cannon are mounted, and
cannon-balls lie piled in orderly heaps. All seems placed without
any aim, connection, or order. Here a group of sailors are sitting
in the battery; here, in the middle of the open space, half sunk
in mud, lies a shattered cannon; and there a foot-soldier is
crossing the battery, drawing his feet with difficulty out of
the sticky mud. Everywhere, on all sides and all about, you see
bomb-fragments, unexploded bombs, cannon-balls, and various traces
of an encampment, all sunk in the liquid, sticky mud. You think you
hear the thud of a cannon-ball not far off, and you seem to hear
the different sounds of bullets all around--some humming like bees,
some whistling, and some rapidly flying past with a shrill screech
like the string of some instrument. You hear the awful boom of a
shot which sends a shock all through you, and seems most dreadful.

'So this is it, the Fourth Bastion! This is that terrible, truly
dreadful spot!' So you think, experiencing a slight feeling
of pride and a strong feeling of suppressed fear. But you are
mistaken; this is still not the Fourth Bastion. This is only the
Yazónovsky Redoubt--comparatively a very safe and not at all
dreadful place. To get to the Fourth Bastion you must turn to the
right, along that narrow trench, where a foot-soldier, stooping
down, has just passed. In this trench you may again meet men with
stretchers, and perhaps a sailor or a soldier with spades. You
will see the mouths of mines, dug-outs into which only two men
can crawl, and there you will see the Cossacks of the Black Sea
Battalions, changing their boots, eating, smoking their pipes, and,
in short, living. And you will see again the same stinking mud,
the traces of camp life, and cast-iron refuse of every shape and
form. When you have gone some three hundred steps more, you come
out at another battery--a flat space with many holes, surrounded
with gabions filled with earth, and cannons on platforms, and the
whole walled in with earthworks. Here you will perhaps see four or
five soldiers playing cards under shelter of the breastworks; and
a naval officer, noticing that you are a stranger and inquisitive,
is pleased to show you his 'household' and everything that can
interest you.... He will tell you (but only if you ask) about the
bombardment on the 5th of October; will tell you how only one gun
in his battery remained usable and only eight gunners were left of
the whole crew, and how, all the same, next morning, the 6th, he
fired all his guns. He will tell you how a bomb dropped into one of
the dug-outs and knocked over eleven sailors; he will show you from
an embrasure the enemy's batteries and trenches, which are here not
more than seventy-five to eighty-five yards distant. I am afraid,
though, that when you lean out of the embrasure to have a look at
the enemy, you will, under the influence of the whizzing bullets,
not see anything; but if you do see anything, you will be much
surprised to find that this whitish stone wall which is so near
you, and from which puffs of white smoke keep bursting--that this
white wall is the enemy: is _him_, as the soldiers and sailors say.

It is even very likely that the naval officer, from vanity,
or merely for a little recreation, will wish to show you some
firing. 'Call the gunner and crew to the cannon'; and fourteen
sailors--clattering their hob-nailed boots on the platform,
one putting his pipe in his pocket, another still chewing a
rusk--quickly and cheerfully man the gun and begin loading.

Suddenly the most fearful roar strikes not only your ears but your
whole being, and makes you shudder all over. It is followed by the
whistle of the departing ball, and a thick cloud of powder-smoke
envelops you, the platform, and the moving black figures of the
sailors. You will hear various comments by the sailors concerning
this shot of ours, and you will notice their animation, the
evidences of a feeling which you had not perhaps expected: the
feeling of animosity and thirst for vengeance which lies hidden
in each man's soul. You will hear joyful exclamations: 'It's gone
right into the embrasure! It's killed two, I think.... There,
they're carrying them off!' 'And now _he's_ riled, and will send
one this way,' some one remarks; and really, soon after, you will
see before you a flash and some smoke; the sentinel standing on the
breastwork will call out 'Ca-n-non,' and then a ball will whiz past
you and squash into the earth, throwing out a circle of stones and
mud. The commander of the battery will be irritated by this shot
and will give orders to fire another and another cannon, the enemy
will reply in like manner, and you will experience interesting
sensations and see interesting sights. The sentinel will again call
'Cannon!' and you will have the same sound and shock, and the mud
will be splashed round as before. Or he will call out 'Mortar!' and
you will hear the regular and rather pleasant whistle--which it is
difficult to connect with the thought of anything dreadful--of a
bomb; you will hear this whistle coming nearer and faster towards
you, then you will see a black ball, feel the shock as it strikes
the ground, and will hear the ringing explosion. The bomb will fly
apart into whizzing and shrieking fragments, stones will rattle
into the air, and you will be bespattered with mud.