The Short Stories of Leo Tolstoy

The Short Stories
The Raid
Recollections Of A Billiard-Marker
The Wood-felling
The Sevastopol Sketches
The Snowstorm
Two Hussars
Lucerne
Albert
Three Deaths
Polikushka
God Sees The Truth, But Waits
The Prisoner Of The Caucasus
What Men Live By
Quench The Spark
Where Love Is, God Is Also
Wisdom Of Children
How Much Land Does A Man Need?
Ivan The Fool
How The Little Devil Earned The Crust Of Bread
The Repentant Sinner
A Grain As Big As A Hen’s Egg
The Three Hermits
Kholstomer
Master And Man
Too Dear!
Esarhaddon, King Of Assyria
Work, Death, And Sickness
Three Questions
After The Ball
Alyosha The Pot
The Devil
Father Sergius
The Bear Hunt
The Candle
The Coffee-House Of Surat
The Cutting Of The Forest
A Dialogue Among Clever People
Diary Of A Lunatic
The Empty Drum
Evil Allures, But Good Endures
Fables For Children
Fables Paraphrased From The Indian And Imitations
My Dream
There Are No Guilty People
The Young Tsar
The Godson
The Great Bear
Ilyás
The Imp And The Crust
The Long Exile
A Lost Opportunity
An Old Acquaintance
Scenes From Commonlife
Stories From Botany
Stories From Physics
Stories From The New Speller
Stories Of My Dogs
Tales From Zoology
Three Parables
The Two Brothers And The Gold
Neglect The Fire
Two Old Men
Yermak, The Conqueror Of Siberia

The Raid

A volunteer’s story

Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude 1935

This short story was first published in 1853 and is set in the Caucasus. The story takes the form of a conversation between the narrator and a military captain about the nature of bravery. The Raid was based on Tolstoy’s own experiences as an artillery cadet stationed in the Caucuses.

The portions of this story enclosed in square brackets are those the Censor suppressed, and are now published in English for the first time. The translation’s original footnotes have also been included.

Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII

Chapter I

[WAR ALWAYS INTERESTED me: not war in the sense of manoeuvres devised by great generals — my imagination refused to follow such immense movements, I did not understand them — but the reality of war, the actual killing. I was more interested to know in what way and under the influence of what feeling one soldier kills another than to know how the armies were arranged at Austerlitz and Borodino.

I had long passed the time when, pacing the room alone and waving my arms, I imagined myself a hero instantaneously slaughtering an immense number of men and receiving a generalship as well as imperishable glory for so doing. The question now occupying me was different: under the influence of what feeling does a man, with no apparent advantage to himself, decide to subject himself to danger and, what is more surprising still, to kill his fellow men? I always wished to think that this is done under the influence of anger, but we cannot suppose that all those who fight are angry all the time, and I had to postulate feelings of self-preservation and duty.

What is courage — that quality respected in all ages and among all nations? Why is this good quality — contrary to all others — sometimes met with in vicious men? Can it be that to endure danger calmly is merely a physical capacity and that people respect it in the same way that they do a man’s tall stature or robust frame? Can a horse be called brave, which fearing the whip throws itself down a steep place where it will be smashed to pieces; or a child who fearing to be punished runs into a forest where it will lose itself; or a woman who for fear of shame kills her baby and has to endure penal prosecution; or a man who from vanity resolves to kill a fellow creature and exposes himself to the danger of being killed?

In every danger there is a choice. Does it not depend on whether the choice is prompted by a noble feeling or a base one whether it should be called courage or cowardice? These were the questions and the doubts that occupied my mind and to decide which I intended to avail myself of the first opportunity to go into action.
In the summer of 184- I was living in the Caucasus at the small fortified post of N-.]

On the twelfth of July Captain Khl6pov entered the low door of my earth-hut. He was wearing epaulettes and carrying a sword, which I had never before seen him do since I had reached the Caucasus.
‘I come straight from the colonel’s,’ he said in answer to my questioning look. ‘To-morrow our battalion is to march.’
‘Where to?’ I asked.
‘To M. The forces are to assemble there.’
‘And from there I suppose they will go into action?’
‘I expect so.’
‘In what direction? What do you think?’
‘What is there to think about? I am telling you what I know. A Tartar galloped here last night and brought orders from the general for the battalion to march with two days’ rations of rusks. But where to, why, and for how long, we do not ask, my friend. We are told to go — and that’s enough.’
‘But if you are to take only two days’ rations of rusks it proves that the troops won’t be out longer than that’
‘It proves nothing at all.’

‘How is that?’ I .asked with surprise.
‘Because it is so. We went to Dargo and took one week’s rations of rusks, but we stayed there nearly a month.’
‘Can I go with you?’ I asked after a pause.
‘You could, no doubt, but my advice is, don’t. Why run risks?’

‘Oh, but you must allow me not to take your advice. I have been here a whole month solely on the chance of seeing an action, and you wish me to miss it!’
‘Well, you must please yourself. But really you had better stay behind. You could wait for us here and might go hunting — and we would go our way, and it would be splendid,’ he said with such conviction that for a moment it really seemed to me too that it would be ‘splendid’. However, I told him decidedly that nothing would induce me to stay behind.

‘But what is there for you to see?’ the captain went on, still trying to dissuade me. ‘Do you want to know what battles are like? Read Mikhaylovski Danllevski’s Description of War. It’s a fine book, it gives a detailed account of everything. It gives the position of every corps and describes how battles are fought.’
‘All that does not interest me,’ I replied.

‘What is it then? Do you simply wish to see how people are killed? — In 1832 we had a fellow here, also a civilian, a Spaniard I think he was. He took Part with us in two campaigns, wearing some kind of blue mantle. Well, they did for the fine fellow. You won’t astonish anyone here, friend!’
Humiliating though it was that the captain so misjudged my motives, I did not try to disabuse him.
‘Was he brave?’ I asked.
‘Heaven only knows: he always used to ride in front, and where there was firing there he always was.’
‘Then he must have been brave/ said I.
‘No. Pushing oneself in where one is not needed does not prove one to be brave.’ ‘Then what do you call brave?’
‘Brave? . . . Brave?’ repeated the captain with the air of one to whom such a question presents itself for the first time. ‘He who does what he ought to do is brave/ he said after thinking awhile.

I remembered that Plato defines courage as ‘The knowledge of what should and what should not be feared’, and despite the looseness and vagueness of the captain’s definition I thought that the fundamental ideas of the two were not so different as they might appear, and that the captain’s definition was even more correct than that of the Greek philosopher. For if the captain had been able to express himself like Plato he would no doubt have said that, ‘He is brave who fears only what should be feared and not what should not be feared’.
I wished to explain my idea to the captain.

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘it seems to me that in every danger there is a choice, and a choice made under the influence of a sense of duty is courage, but a choice made under the influence of a base motive is cowardice. Therefore a man who risks his life from vanity, curiosity, or greed, cannot be called brave; while on the other hand he who avoids a danger from honest consideration for his family, or simply from conviction, cannot be called a coward.’
The captain looked at me with a curious expression while I was speaking.

‘Well, that I cannot prove to you,’ he said, filling his pipe, ‘but we have a cadet here who is fond of philosophizing. You should have a talk with him. He also writes verses.’
I had known of the captain before I left Russia, but I had only made his acquaintance in the Caucasus. His mother, Mary Ivanovna Khlopova, a small and poor landowner, lives within two miles of my estate. Before I left for the Caucasus I had called on her. The old lady was very glad to hear that I should see her ‘Pashenka’, by which pet name she called the grey-haired elderly captain, and that I, ‘a living letter’, could tell him all about her and take him a small parcel from her. Having treated me to excellent pie and smoked goose, Mary Ivanovna went into her bedroom and returned with a black bag to which a black silk ribbon was attached.

‘Here, this is the icon of our Mother Mediatress of the Burning Bush,’ said she, crossing herself and kissing the icon of the Virgin and placing it in my hands. ‘Please let him have it. You see, when he went to the Caucasus I