From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew’s wound
and his presence there, Natasha had resolved to see him. She did not
know why she had to, she knew the meeting would be painful, but felt the
more convinced that it was necessary.
All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night. But now
that the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might
see. How was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant
moaning of the adjutant’s? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her
imagination he was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an
indistinct shape in the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the
quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there, and stood
still in terror. But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She
cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the
middle of a small room containing baggage. Another man - Timokhin - was
lying in a corner on the benches beneath the icons, and two others - the
doctor and a valet - lay on the floor.
The valet sat up and whispered something. Timokhin, kept awake by the
pain in his wounded leg, gazed with wide-open eyes at this strange
apparition of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket, and nightcap.
The valet’s sleepy, frightened exclamation, "What do you want? What’s
the matter?" made Natasha approach more swiftly to what was lying in the
corner. Horribly unlike a man as that body looked, she must see him.
She passed the valet, the snuff fell from the candle wick, and she saw
Prince Andrew clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she
had always seen him.
He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his
glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck,
delicate as a child’s, revealed by the turn-down collar of his shirt,
gave him a peculiarly innocent, childlike look, such as she had never
seen on him before. She went up to him and with a swift, flexible,
youthful movement dropped on her knees.
He smiled and held out his hand to her.
CHAPTER XXXII
Seven days had passed since Prince Andrew found himself in the
ambulance station on the field of Borodino. His feverish state and the
inflammation of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor’s
opinion sure to carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with
pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his
temperature was lower. He had regained consciousness that morning.
The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had
remained in the caleche, but at Mytishchi the wounded man himself asked
to be taken out and given some tea. The pain caused by his removal into
the hut had made him groan aloud and again lose consciousness. When he
had been placed on his camp bed he lay for a long time motionless with
closed eyes. Then he opened them and whispered softly: "And the tea?"
His remembering such a small detail of everyday life astonished
the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew’s pulse, and to his surprise and
dissatisfaction found it had improved. He was dissatisfied because he
knew by experience that if his patient did not die now, he would do so
a little later with greater suffering. Timokhin, the red-nosed major of
Prince Andrew’s regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being
taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of
Borodino. They were accompanied by a doctor, Prince Andrew’s valet, his
coachman, and two orderlies.
They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with
feverish eyes at the door in front of him as if trying to understand and
remember something.
"I don’t want any more. Is Timokhin here?" he asked.
Timokhin crept along the bench to him.
"I am here, your excellency."
"How’s your wound?"
"Mine, sir? All right. But how about you?"
Prince Andrew again pondered as if trying to remember something.
"Couldn’t one get a book?" he asked.
"What book?"
"The Gospels. I haven’t one."
The doctor promised to procure it for him and began to ask how he
was feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but
reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was
uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak
with which he was covered and, making wry faces at the noisome smell of
mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful
place. The doctor was very much displeased about something and made a
change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned
again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking
them to get him the book and put it under him.
"What trouble would it be to you?" he said. "I have not got one. Please
get it for me and put it under for a moment," he pleaded in a piteous
voice.
The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands.
"You fellows have no conscience," said he to the valet who was pouring
water over his hands. "For just one moment I didn’t look after you...
It’s such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it."
"By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him!"
said the valet.
The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the
matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked
to be carried into the hut after his caleche had stopped at Mytishchi.
After growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut he
again regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled
all that had happened to him, and above all vividly remembered the
moment at the ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of
a man he disliked, those new thoughts had come to him which promised him
happiness. And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again
possessed his soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of
happiness and that this happiness had something to do with the Gospels.
That was why he asked for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in
which they had put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts,
and when he came to himself a third time it was in the complete
stillness of the night. Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket
chirped from across the passage; someone was shouting and singing in
the street; cockroaches rustled on the table, on the icons, and on
the walls, and a big fly flopped at the head of the bed and around the
candle beside him, the wick of which was charred and had shaped itself
like a mushroom.
His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of,
feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the
power and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to
fix his whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the
deepest reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in and can
then return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew’s mind was not
in a normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more
active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most
diverse thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his
brain suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had
never reached when he was in health, but suddenly in the midst of its
work it would turn to some unexpected idea and he had not the strength
to turn it back again.
"Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be
deprived," he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut,
gazing fixedly before him with feverish wide open eyes. "A happiness
lying beyond material forces, outside the material influences that act
on man - a happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man
can understand it, but to conceive it and enjoin it was possible only
for God. But how did God enjoin that law? And why was the Son...?"
And suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off, and Prince Andrew
heard (without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality) a
soft whispering voice incessantly and rhythmically repeating
"piti-piti-piti," and then "titi," and then again "piti-piti-piti," and
"ti-ti" once more. At the same time he felt that above his face, above
the very middle of it, some strange airy structure was being erected out
of slender needles or splinters, to the sound of this whispered music.
He felt that he had to balance carefully (though it was difficult) so
that this airy structure should not collapse; but nevertheless it kept
collapsing and again slowly rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic
music - "it stretches, stretches, spreading out and stretching," said
Prince Andrew to himself. While listening to this whispering and feeling
the sensation of this drawing out and the construction of this edifice
of needles, he also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and
heard the rustle of the cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that
flopped against his pillow and his face. Each time the fly touched his
face it gave him a burning sensation and yet to his surprise it did not
destroy the structure, though it knocked against the very region of his
face where it was rising. But besides this there was something else of
importance. It was something white by the door - the statue of a sphinx,
which also oppressed him.
"But perhaps that’s my shirt on the table," he thought, "and that’s my
legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing
itself out, and ‘piti-piti-piti’ and ‘ti-ti’ and ‘piti-piti-piti’...?
That’s enough, please leave off!" Prince Andrew painfully entreated
someone. And suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of
his mind with peculiar clearness and force.
"Yes - love," he thought again quite clearly. "But not love which loves
for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason,
but the love which I - while dying - first experienced when I saw my enemy
and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love which is the very
essence of the soul and does not require an object. Now again I feel
that bliss. To love one’s neighbors, to love one’s enemies, to love
everything, to love God in all His manifestations. It is possible to
love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved
by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I
loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive?...
"When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but
divine love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can
destroy it. It is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have
I hated in my life? And of them all, I loved and hated none as I did
her." And he vividly pictured to himself Natasha, not as he had done in
the past with nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for
the first time picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her
feelings, her sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the
first time all the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his
rupture with her. "If only it were possible for me to see her once more!
Just once, looking into those eyes to say..."
"Piti-piti-piti and ti-ti and piti-piti-piti boom!" flopped the fly....
And his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world of
reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In
that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall,
something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo
was still burning, and the same shirtlike sphinx lay near the door; but
besides all this something creaked, there was a whiff of fresh air, and
a new white sphinx appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had
the pale face and shining eyes of the very Natasha of whom he had just
been thinking.
"Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is," thought Prince Andrew,
trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained
before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew
wished to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not,
and delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft whispering voice
continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched
out, and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all
his strength in an effort to recover his senses, he moved a little, and
suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and
like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to
himself, Natasha, that same living Natasha whom of all people he most
longed to love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to
him, was kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living
Natasha, and he was not surprised but quietly happy. Natasha, motionless
on her knees (she was unable to stir), with frightened eyes riveted on
him, was restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid. Only in the
lower part of it something quivered.
Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand.
"You?" he said. "How fortunate!"
With a rapid but careful movement Natasha drew nearer to him on her
knees and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began
kissing it, just touching it lightly with her lips.
"Forgive me!" she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him.
"Forgive me!"
"I love you," said Prince Andrew.
"Forgive...!"
"Forgive what?" he asked.
"Forgive me for what I ha-ve do-ne!" faltered Natasha in a scarcely
audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just
touching it with her lips.
"I love you more, better than before," said Prince Andrew, lifting her
face with his hand so as to look into her eyes.
Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly,
compassionately, and with joyous love. Natasha’s thin pale face, with
its swollen lips, was more than plain - it was dreadful. But Prince Andrew
did not see that, he saw her shining eyes which were beautiful. They
heard the sound of voices behind them.
Peter the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor.
Timokhin, who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had
long been watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare
body with the sheet as he huddled up on his bench.
"What’s this?" said the doctor, rising from his bed. "Please go away,
madam!"
At that moment a maid sent by the countess, who had noticed her
daughter’s absence, knocked at the door.
Like a somnambulist aroused from her sleep Natasha went out of the room
and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed.
From that time, during all the rest of the Rostovs’ journey, at every
halting place and wherever they spent a night, Natasha never left the
wounded Bolkonski, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected
from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a
wounded man.
Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die
in her daughter’s arms during the journey - as, judging by what the doctor
said, it seemed might easily happen - she could not oppose Natasha. Though
with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and Natasha
the thought occurred that should he recover their former engagement
would be renewed, no one - least of all Natasha and Prince Andrew - spoke of
this: the unsettled question of life and death, which hung not only over
Bolkonski but over all Russia, shut out all other considerations.
CHAPTER XXXIII
On the third of September Pierre awoke late. His head was aching, the
clothes in which he had slept without undressing felt uncomfortable on
his body, and his mind had a dim consciousness of something shameful
he had done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday’s
conversation with Captain Ramballe.
It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors.
Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved
stock which Gerasim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered
where he was and what lay before him that very day.
"Am I not too late?" he thought. "No, probably he won’t make his entry
into Moscow before noon."
Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but
hastened to act.
After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out.
But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could
not carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult
to hide such a big pistol even under his wide coat. He could not
carry it unnoticed in his belt or under his arm. Besides, it had been
discharged, and he had not had time to reload it. "No matter, the dagger
will do," he said to himself, though when planning his design he had
more than once come to the conclusion that the chief mistake made by the
student in 1809 had been to try to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But as
his chief aim consisted not in carrying out his design, but in proving
to himself that he would not abandon his intention and was doing all he
could to achieve it, Pierre hastily took the blunt jagged dagger in a
green sheath which he had bought at the Sukharev market with the pistol,
and hid it under his waistcoat.
Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head,
Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting
the captain, and passed out into the street.
The conflagration, at which he had looked with so much indifference the
evening before, had greatly increased during the night. Moscow was on
fire in several places. The buildings in Carriage Row, across the river,
in the Bazaar and the Povarskoy, as well as the barges on the Moskva
River and the timber yards by the Dorogomilov Bridge, were all ablaze.
Pierre’s way led through side streets to the Povarskoy and from there
to the church of St. Nicholas on the Arbat, where he had long before
decided that the deed should be done. The gates of most of the houses
were locked and the shutters up. The streets and lanes were deserted.
The air was full of smoke and the smell of burning. Now and then he met
Russians with anxious and timid faces, and Frenchmen with an air not of
the city but of the camp, walking in the middle of the streets. Both
the Russians and the French looked at Pierre with surprise. Besides his
height and stoutness, and the strange morose look of suffering in his
face and whole figure, the Russians stared at Pierre because they could
not make out to what class he could belong. The French followed him with
astonishment in their eyes chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the
other Russians who gazed at the French with fear and curiosity, paid no
attention to them. At the gate of one house three Frenchmen, who were
explaining something to some Russians who did not understand them,
stopped Pierre asking if he did not know French.
Pierre shook his head and went on. In another side street a sentinel
standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout
was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man’s musket as
he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side
of the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing of what went on around
him. He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like
something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night’s
experience, he was afraid of losing it. But he was not destined to bring
his mood safely to his destination. And even had he not been hindered by
anything on the way, his intention could not now have been carried out,
for Napoleon had passed the Arbat more than four hours previously on his
way from the Dorogomilov suburb to the Kremlin, and was now sitting in
a very gloomy frame of mind in a royal study in the Kremlin, giving
detailed and exact orders as to measures to be taken immediately
to extinguish the fire, to prevent looting, and to reassure the
inhabitants. But Pierre did not know this; he was entirely absorbed
in what lay before him, and was tortured - as those are who obstinately
undertake a task that is impossible for them not because of its
difficulty but because of its incompatibility with their natures - by the
fear of weakening at the decisive moment and so losing his self-esteem.
Though he heard and saw nothing around him he found his way by instinct
and did not go wrong in the side streets that led to the Povarskoy.
As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser - he
even felt the heat of the fire. Occasionally curly tongues of flame rose
from under the roofs of the houses. He met more people in the streets
and they were more excited. But Pierre, though he felt that something
unusual was happening around him, did not realize that he was
approaching the fire. As he was going along a footpath across a
wide-open space adjoining the Povarskoy on one side and the gardens
of Prince Gruzinski’s house on the other, Pierre suddenly heard the
desperate weeping of a woman close to him. He stopped as if awakening
from a dream and lifted his head.
By the side of the path, on the dusty dry grass, all sorts of household
goods lay in a heap: featherbeds, a samovar, icons, and trunks. On the
ground, beside the trunks, sat a thin woman no longer young, with long,
prominent upper teeth, and wearing a black cloak and cap. This woman,
swaying to and fro and muttering something, was choking with sobs. Two
girls of about ten and twelve, dressed in dirty short frocks and cloaks,
were staring at their mother with a look of stupefaction on their pale
frightened faces. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, who wore an
overcoat and an immense cap evidently not his own, was crying in his
old nurse’s arms. A dirty, barefooted maid was sitting on a trunk,
and, having undone her pale-colored plait, was pulling it straight
and sniffing at her singed hair. The woman’s husband, a short,
round-shouldered man in the undress uniform of a civilian official, with
sausage-shaped whiskers and showing under his square-set cap the hair
smoothly brushed forward over his temples, with expressionless face was
moving the trunks, which were placed one on another, and was dragging
some garments from under them.
As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet.
"Dear people, good Christians, save me, help me, dear friends... help
us, somebody," she muttered between her sobs. "My girl... My daughter!
My youngest daughter is left behind. She’s burned! Ooh! Was it for this
I nursed you.... Ooh!"
"Don’t, Mary Nikolaevna!" said her husband to her in a low voice,
evidently only to justify himself before the stranger. "Sister must have
taken her, or else where can she be?" he added.
"Monster! Villain!" shouted the woman angrily, suddenly ceasing to weep.
"You have no heart, you don’t feel for your own child! Another man would
have rescued her from the fire. But this is a monster and neither a
man nor a father! You, honored sir, are a noble man," she went on,
addressing Pierre rapidly between her sobs. "The fire broke out
alongside, and blew our way, the maid called out ‘Fire!’ and we rushed
to collect our things. We ran out just as we were.... This is what we
have brought away.... The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost.
We seized the children. But not Katie! Ooh! O Lord!..." and again she
began to sob. "My child, my dear one! Burned, burned!"
"But where was she left?" asked Pierre.
From the expression of his animated face the woman saw that this man
might help her.
"Oh, dear sir!" she cried, seizing him by the legs. "My benefactor, set
my heart at ease.... Aniska, go, you horrid girl, show him the way!" she
cried to the maid, angrily opening her mouth and still farther exposing
her long teeth.
"Show me the way, show me, I... I’ll do it," gasped Pierre rapidly.
The dirty maidservant stepped from behind the trunk, put up her plait,
sighed, and went on her short, bare feet along the path. Pierre felt
as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon. He held his head
higher, his eyes shone with the light of life, and with swift steps
he followed the maid, overtook her, and came out on the Povarskoy. The
whole street was full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame here
and there broke through that cloud. A great number of people crowded in
front of the conflagration. In the middle of the street stood a French
general saying something to those around him. Pierre, accompanied by the
maid, was advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French
soldiers stopped him.
"On ne passe pas!" * cried a voice.
* "You can’t pass!"
"This way, uncle," cried the girl. "We’ll pass through the side street,
by the Nikulins’!"
Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her.
She ran across the street, turned down a side street to the left, and,
passing three houses, turned into a yard on the right.
"It’s here, close by," said she and, running across the yard, opened a
gate in a wooden fence and, stopping, pointed out to him a small wooden
wing of the house, which was burning brightly and fiercely. One of its
sides had fallen in, another was on fire, and bright flames issued from
the openings of the windows and from under the roof.
As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and
involuntarily stopped.
"Which is it? Which is your house?" he asked.
"Ooh!" wailed the girl, pointing to the wing. "That’s it, that was our
lodging. You’ve burned to death, our treasure, Katie, my precious little
missy! Ooh!" lamented Aniska, who at the sight of the fire felt that she
too must give expression to her feelings.
Pierre rushed to the wing, but the heat was so great that he
involuntarily passed round in a curve and came upon the large house
that was as yet burning only at one end, just below the roof, and around
which swarmed a crowd of Frenchmen. At first Pierre did not realize
what these men, who were dragging something out, were about; but seeing
before him a Frenchman hitting a peasant with a blunt saber and trying
to take from him a fox-fur coat, he vaguely understood that looting was
going on there, but he had no time to dwell on that idea.
The sounds of crackling and the din of falling walls and ceilings, the
whistle and hiss of the flames, the excited shouts of the people, and
the sight of the swaying smoke, now gathering into thick black clouds
and now soaring up with glittering sparks, with here and there dense
sheaves of flame (now red and now like golden fish scales creeping along
the walls), and the heat and smoke and rapidity of motion, produced
on Pierre the usual animating effects of a conflagration. It had a
peculiarly strong effect on him because at the sight of the fire he felt
himself suddenly freed from the ideas that had weighed him down. He felt
young, bright, adroit, and resolute. He ran round to the other side of
the lodge and was about to dash into that part of it which was still
standing, when just above his head he heard several voices shouting
and then a cracking sound and the ring of something heavy falling close
beside him.
Pierre looked up and saw at a window of the large house some Frenchmen
who had just thrown out the drawer of a chest, filled with metal
articles. Other French soldiers standing below went up to the drawer.
"What does this fellow want?" shouted one of them referring to Pierre.
"There’s a child in that house. Haven’t you seen a child?" cried Pierre.
"What’s he talking about? Get along!" said several voices, and one of
the soldiers, evidently afraid that Pierre might want to take from
them some of the plate and bronzes that were in the drawer, moved
threateningly toward him.
"A child?" shouted a Frenchman from above. "I did hear something
squealing in the garden. Perhaps it’s his brat that the fellow is
looking for. After all, one must be human, you know...."
"Where is it? Where?" said Pierre.
"There! There!" shouted the Frenchman at the window, pointing to the
garden at the back of the house. "Wait a bit - I’m coming down."
And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot
on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the
ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the
garden.
"Hurry up, you others!" he called out to his comrades. "It’s getting
hot."
When they reached a gravel path behind the house the Frenchman pulled
Pierre by the arm and pointed to a round, graveled space where a
three-year-old girl in a pink dress was lying under a seat.
"There is your child! Oh, a girl, so much the better!" said the
Frenchman. "Good-by, Fatty. We must be human, we are all mortal you
know!" and the Frenchman with the spot on his cheek ran back to his
comrades.
Breathless with joy, Pierre ran to the little girl and was going to take
her in his arms. But seeing a stranger the sickly, scrofulous-looking
child, unattractively like her mother, began to yell and run away.
Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms. She screamed
desperately and angrily and tried with her little hands to pull Pierre’s
hands away and to bite them with her slobbering mouth. Pierre was seized
by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when
touching some nasty little animal. But he made an effort not to throw
the child down and ran with her to the large house. It was now, however,
impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, Aniska, was no
longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the
wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran
with her through the garden seeking another way out.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back
with his little burden to the Gruzinski garden at the corner of the
Povarskoy. He did not at first recognize the place from which he had set
out to look for the child, so crowded was it now with people and goods
that had been dragged out of the houses. Besides Russian families who
had taken refuge here from the fire with their belongings, there were
several French soldiers in a variety of clothing. Pierre took no notice
of them. He hurried to find the family of that civil servant in order to
restore the daughter to her mother and go to save someone else. Pierre
felt that he had still much to do and to do quickly. Glowing with the
heat and from running, he felt at that moment more strongly than ever
the sense of youth, animation, and determination that had come on him
when he ran to save the child. She had now become quiet and, clinging
with her little hands to Pierre’s coat, sat on his arm gazing about
her like some little wild animal. He glanced at her occasionally with a
slight smile. He fancied he saw something pathetically innocent in that
frightened, sickly little face.
He did not find the civil servant or his wife where he had left them. He
walked among the crowd with rapid steps, scanning the various faces he
met. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family
consisting of a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new,
cloth-covered, sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar
type, and a young woman. That very young woman seemed to Pierre the
perfection of Oriental beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched,
black eyebrows and the extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long,
beautiful, expressionless face. Amid the scattered property and the
crowd on the open space, she, in her rich satin cloak with a bright
lilac shawl on her head, suggested a delicate exotic plant thrown out
onto the snow. She was sitting on some bundles a little behind the old
woman, and looked from under her long lashes with motionless, large,
almond-shaped eyes at the ground before her. Evidently she was aware
of her beauty and fearful because of it. Her face struck Pierre and,
hurrying along by the fence, he turned several times to look at her.
When he had reached the fence, still without finding those he sought, he
stopped and looked about him.
With the child in his arms his figure was now more conspicuous than
before, and a group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him.
"Have you lost anyone, my dear fellow? You’re of the gentry yourself,
aren’t you? Whose child is it?" they asked him.
Pierre replied that the child belonged to a woman in a black coat who
had been sitting there with her other children, and he asked whether
anyone knew where she had gone.
"Why, that must be the Anferovs," said an old deacon, addressing a
pockmarked peasant woman. "Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy!" he added
in his customary bass.
"The Anferovs? No," said the woman. "They left in the morning. That must
be either Mary Nikolaevna’s or the Ivanovs’!"
"He says ‘a woman,’ and Mary Nikolaevna is a lady," remarked a house
serf.
"Do you know her? She’s thin, with long teeth," said Pierre.
"That’s Mary Nikolaevna! They went inside the garden when these wolves
swooped down," said the woman, pointing to the French soldiers.
"O Lord, have mercy!" added the deacon.
"Go over that way, they’re there. It’s she! She kept on lamenting and
crying," continued the woman. "It’s she. Here, this way!"
But Pierre was not listening to the woman. He had for some seconds been
intently watching what was going on a few steps away. He was looking at
the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them.
One of these, a nimble little man, was wearing a blue coat tied round
the waist with a rope. He had a nightcap on his head and his feet were
bare. The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a
long, lank, round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements
and with an idiotic expression of face. He wore a woman’s loose gown
of frieze, blue trousers, and large torn Hessian boots. The little
barefooted Frenchman in the blue coat went up to the Armenians and,
saying something, immediately seized the old man by his legs and the old
man at once began pulling off his boots. The other in the frieze gown
stopped in front of the beautiful Armenian girl and with his hands in
his pockets stood staring at her, motionless and silent.
"Here, take the child!" said Pierre peremptorily and hurriedly to the
woman, handing the little girl to her. "Give her back to them, give her
back!" he almost shouted, putting the child, who began screaming, on the
ground, and again looking at the Frenchman and the Armenian family.
The old man was already sitting barefoot. The little Frenchman had
secured his second boot and was slapping one boot against the other.
The old man was saying something in a voice broken by sobs, but Pierre
caught but a glimpse of this, his whole attention was directed to the
Frenchman in the frieze gown who meanwhile, swaying slowly from side to
side, had drawn nearer to the young woman and taking his hands from his
pockets had seized her by the neck.
The beautiful Armenian still sat motionless and in the same attitude,
with her long lashes drooping as if she did not see or feel what the
soldier was doing to her.
While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the
Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing
from her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young
woman, clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly.
"Let that woman alone!" exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice,
seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside.
The soldier fell, got up, and ran away. But his comrade, throwing down
the boots and drawing his sword, moved threateningly toward Pierre.
"Voyons, pas de bêtises!" * he cried.
* "Look here, no nonsense!"
Pierre was in such a transport of rage that he remembered nothing and
his strength increased tenfold. He rushed at the barefooted Frenchman
and, before the latter had time to draw his sword, knocked him off his
feet and hammered him with his fists. Shouts of approval were heard
from the crowd around, and at the same moment a mounted patrol of French
Uhlans appeared from round the corner. The Uhlans came up at a trot to
Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them. Pierre remembered nothing
of what happened after that. He only remembered beating someone and
being beaten and finally feeling that his hands were bound and that a
crowd of French soldiers stood around him and were searching him.
"Lieutenant, he has a dagger," were the first words Pierre understood.
"Ah, a weapon?" said the officer and turned to the barefooted soldier
who had been arrested with Pierre. "All right, you can tell all about it
at the court-martial." Then he turned to Pierre. "Do you speak French?"
Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply. His
face probably looked very terrible, for the officer said something in
a whisper and four more Uhlans left the ranks and placed themselves on
both sides of Pierre.
"Do you speak French?" the officer asked again, keeping at a distance
from Pierre. "Call the interpreter."
A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and
by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a
French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.
"He does not look like a common man," said the interpreter, after a
searching look at Pierre.
"Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary," remarked the officer. "And
ask him who he is," he added.
"Who are you?" asked the interpreter in poor Russian. "You must answer
the chief."
"I will not tell you who I am. I am your prisoner - take me!" Pierre
suddenly replied in French.
"Ah, ah!" muttered the officer with a frown. "Well then, march!"
A crowd had collected round the Uhlans. Nearest to Pierre stood the
pockmarked peasant woman with the little girl, and when the patrol
started she moved forward.
"Where are they taking you to, you poor dear?" said she. "And the little
girl, the little girl, what am I to do with her if she’s not theirs?"
said the woman.
"What does that woman want?" asked the officer.
Pierre was as if intoxicated. His elation increased at the sight of the
little girl he had saved.
"What does she want?" he murmured. "She is bringing me my daughter whom
I have just saved from the flames," said he. "Good-by!" And without
knowing how this aimless lie had escaped him, he went along with
resolute and triumphant steps between the French soldiers.
The French patrol was one of those sent out through the various
streets of Moscow by Durosnel’s order to put a stop to the pillage,
and especially to catch the incendiaries who, according to the general
opinion which had that day originated among the higher French officers,
were the cause of the conflagrations. After marching through a number
of streets the patrol arrested five more Russian suspects: a small
shopkeeper, two seminary students, a peasant, and a house serf, besides
several looters. But of all these various suspected characters, Pierre
was considered to be the most suspicious of all. When they had all been
brought for the night to a large house on the Zubov Rampart that was
being used as a guardhouse, Pierre was placed apart under strict guard.
BOOK TWELVE: 1812
CHAPTER I
In Petersburg at that time a complicated struggle was being carried on
with greater heat than ever in the highest circles, between the parties
of Rumyantsev, the French, Marya Fedorovna, the Tsarevich, and others,
drowned as usual by the buzzing of the court drones. But the calm,
luxurious life of Petersburg, concerned only about phantoms and
reflections of real life, went on in its old way and made it hard,
except by a great effort, to realize the danger and the difficult
position of the Russian people. There were the same receptions and
balls, the same French theater, the same court interests and service
interests and intrigues as usual. Only in the very highest circles were
attempts made to keep in mind the difficulties of the actual position.
Stories were whispered of how differently the two Empresses behaved
in these difficult circumstances. The Empress Marya, concerned for
the welfare of the charitable and educational institutions under her
patronage, had given directions that they should all be removed to
Kazan, and the things belonging to these institutions had already been
packed up. The Empress Elisabeth, however, when asked what instructions
she would be pleased to give - with her characteristic Russian patriotism
had replied that she could give no directions about state institutions
for that was the affair of the sovereign, but as far as she personally
was concerned she would be the last to quit Petersburg.
At Anna Pavlovna’s on the twenty-sixth of August, the very day of the
battle of Borodino, there was a soiree, the chief feature of which was
to be the reading of a letter from His Lordship the Bishop when sending
the Emperor an icon of the Venerable Sergius. It was regarded as a model
of ecclesiastical, patriotic eloquence. Prince Vasili himself, famed for
his elocution, was to read it. (He used to read at the Empress’.) The
art of his reading was supposed to lie in rolling out the words, quite
independently of their meaning, in a loud and singsong voice alternating
between a despairing wail and a tender murmur, so that the wail fell
quite at random on one word and the murmur on another. This reading,
as was always the case at Anna Pavlovna’s soirees, had a political
significance. That evening she expected several important personages who
had to be made ashamed of their visits to the French theater and aroused
to a patriotic temper. A good many people had already arrived, but Anna
Pavlovna, not yet seeing all those whom she wanted in her drawing room,
did not let the reading begin but wound up the springs of a general
conversation.
The news of the day in Petersburg was the illness of Countess Bezukhova.
She had fallen ill unexpectedly a few days previously, had missed
several gatherings of which she was usually the ornament, and was said
to be receiving no one, and instead of the celebrated Petersburg doctors
who usually attended her had entrusted herself to some Italian doctor
who was treating her in some new and unusual way.
They all knew very well that the enchanting countess’ illness arose from
an inconvenience resulting from marrying two husbands at the same time,
and that the Italian’s cure consisted in removing such inconvenience;
but in Anna Pavlovna’s presence no one dared to think of this or even
appear to know it.
"They say the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it is angina
pectoris."
"Angina? Oh, that’s a terrible illness!"
"They say that the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angina..." and
the word angina was repeated with great satisfaction.
"The count is pathetic, they say. He cried like a child when the doctor
told him the case was dangerous."
"Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman."
"You are speaking of the poor countess?" said Anna Pavlovna, coming
up just then. "I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little
better. Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world," she
went on, with a smile at her own enthusiasm. "We belong to different
camps, but that does not prevent my esteeming her as she deserves. She
is very unfortunate!" added Anna Pavlovna.
Supposing that by these words Anna Pavlovna was somewhat lifting the
veil from the secret of the countess’ malady, an unwary young man
ventured to express surprise that well-known doctors had not been called
in and that the countess was being attended by a charlatan who might
employ dangerous remedies.
"Your information may be better than mine," Anna Pavlovna suddenly and
venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, "but I know on good
authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man. He is private
physician to the Queen of Spain."
And having thus demolished the young man, Anna Pavlovna turned to
another group where Bilibin was talking about the Austrians: having
wrinkled up his face he was evidently preparing to smooth it out again
and utter one of his mots.
"I think it is delightful," he said, referring to a diplomatic note that
had been sent to Vienna with some Austrian banners captured from the
French by Wittgenstein, "the hero of Petropol" as he was then called in
Petersburg.
"What? What’s that?" asked Anna Pavlovna, securing silence for the mot,
which she had heard before.
And Bilibin repeated the actual words of the diplomatic dispatch, which
he had himself composed.
"The Emperor returns these Austrian banners," said Bilibin, "friendly
banners gone astray and found on a wrong path," and his brow became
smooth again.
"Charming, charming!" observed Prince Vasili.
"The path to Warsaw, perhaps," Prince Hippolyte remarked loudly and
unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him, understanding what he meant.
Prince Hippolyte himself glanced around with amused surprise. He knew no
more than the others what his words meant. During his diplomatic career
he had more than once noticed that such utterances were received as very
witty, and at every opportunity he uttered in that way the first words
that entered his head. "It may turn out very well," he thought, "but
if not, they’ll know how to arrange matters." And really, during the
awkward silence that ensued, that insufficiently patriotic person
entered whom Anna Pavlovna had been waiting for and wished to convert,
and she, smiling and shaking a finger at Hippolyte, invited Prince
Vasili to the table and bringing him two candles and the manuscript
begged him to begin. Everyone became silent.
"Most Gracious Sovereign and Emperor!" Prince Vasili sternly declaimed,
looking round at his audience as if to inquire whether anyone had
anything to say to the contrary. But no one said anything. "Moscow, our
ancient capital, the New Jerusalem, receives her Christ" - he placed a
sudden emphasis on the word her - "as a mother receives her zealous sons
into her arms, and through the gathering mists, foreseeing the brilliant
glory of thy rule, sings in exultation, ‘Hosanna, blessed is he that
cometh!’"
Prince Vasili pronounced these last words in a tearful voice.
Bilibin attentively examined his nails, and many of those present
appeared intimidated, as if asking in what they were to blame. Anna
Pavlovna whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman
muttering the prayer at Communion: "Let the bold and insolent
Goliath..." she whispered.
Prince Vasili continued.
"Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass
the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling
of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty
pride. This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and
zealous champion of old of our country’s weal, is offered to Your
Imperial Majesty. I grieve that my waning strength prevents rejoicing
in the sight of your most gracious presence. I raise fervent prayers to
Heaven that the Almighty may exalt the race of the just, and mercifully
fulfill the desires of Your Majesty."
"What force! What a style!" was uttered in approval both of reader and
of author.
Animated by that address Anna Pavlovna’s guests talked for a long time
of the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the
result of the battle to be fought in a few days.
"You will see," said Anna Pavlovna, "that tomorrow, on the Emperor’s
birthday, we shall receive news. I have a favorable presentiment!"
CHAPTER II
Anna Pavlovna’s presentiment was in fact fulfilled. Next day during the
service at the palace church in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, Prince
Volkonski was called out of the church and received a dispatch from
Prince Kutuzov. It was Kutuzov’s report, written from Tatarinova on the
day of the battle. Kutuzov wrote that the Russians had not retreated a
step, that the French losses were much heavier than ours, and that he
was writing in haste from the field of battle before collecting full
information. It followed that there must have been a victory. And at
once, without leaving the church, thanks were rendered to the Creator
for His help and for the victory.
Anna Pavlovna’s presentiment was justified, and all that morning a
joyously festive mood reigned in the city. Everyone believed the victory
to have been complete, and some even spoke of Napoleon’s having been
captured, of his deposition, and of the choice of a new ruler for
France.
It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength
and completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the
scene of action. General events involuntarily group themselves around
some particular incident. So now the courtiers’ pleasure was based as
much on the fact that the news had arrived on the Emperor’s birthday as
on the fact of the victory itself. It was like a successfully arranged
surprise. Mention was made in Kutuzov’s report of the Russian losses,
among which figured the names of Tuchkov, Bagration, and Kutaysov. In
the Petersburg world this sad side of the affair again involuntarily
centered round a single incident: Kutaysov’s death. Everybody knew
him, the Emperor liked him, and he was young and interesting. That day
everyone met with the words:
"What a wonderful coincidence! Just during the service. But what a loss
Kutaysov is! How sorry I am!"
"What did I tell about Kutuzov?" Prince Vasili now said with a
prophet’s pride. "I always said he was the only man capable of defeating
Napoleon."
But next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew
anxious. The courtiers suffered because of the suffering the suspense
occasioned the Emperor.
"Fancy the Emperor’s position!" said they, and instead of extolling
Kutuzov as they had done the day before, they condemned him as the cause
of the Emperor’s anxiety. That day Prince Vasili no longer boasted of
his protege Kutuzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was
mentioned. Moreover, toward evening, as if everything conspired to make
Petersburg society anxious and uneasy, a terrible piece of news was
added. Countess Helene Bezukhova had suddenly died of that terrible
malady it had been so agreeable to mention. Officially, at large
gatherings, everyone said that Countess Bezukhova had died of a
terrible attack of angina pectoris, but in intimate circles details
were mentioned of how the private physician of the Queen of Spain had
prescribed small doses of a certain drug to produce a certain effect;
but Helene, tortured by the fact that the old count suspected her and
that her husband to whom she had written (that wretched, profligate
Pierre) had not replied, had suddenly taken a very large dose of the
drug, and had died in agony before assistance could be rendered her.
It was said that Prince Vasili and the old count had turned upon the
Italian, but the latter had produced such letters from the unfortunate
deceased that they had immediately let the matter drop.
Talk in general centered round three melancholy facts: the Emperor’s
lack of news, the loss of Kutaysov, and the death of Helene.
On the third day after Kutuzov’s report a country gentleman arrived from
Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through
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383
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384
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385
.
386
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387
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388
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389
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390
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391
.
392
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393
394
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395
:
,
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396
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397
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399
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400
401
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402
,
403
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.
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.
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406
-
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407
-
-
408
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409
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410
.
411
412
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413
414
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,
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415
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417
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419
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.
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422
423
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425
.
426
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428
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429
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430
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431
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432
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434
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435
436
437
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445
446
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463
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466
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470
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476
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481
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569
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656
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683
684
685
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693
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695
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697
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701
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706
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.
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725
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727
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.
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750
:
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752
.
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.
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755
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756
757
758
759
760
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:
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763
764
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766
767
768
769
770
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780
781
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783
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787
788
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.
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794
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(
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.
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.
803
804
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,
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806
807
.
808
809
.
810
,
811
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,
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814
.
815
816
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817
,
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;
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820
.
821
822
"
.
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.
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825
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826
827
"
,
.
.
.
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828
.
829
830
"
,
.
831
.
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832
833
"
,
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.
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834
835
"
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836
.
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,
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.
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,
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839
,
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.
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842
843
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-
845
846
.
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848
"
,
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849
,
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850
.
851
.
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852
853
,
854
:
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856
.
857
858
"
,
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,
859
860
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861
.
862
863
"
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,
,
864
.
865
866
,
867
.
868
869
"
,
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,
"
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,
"
871
.
872
873
"
,
!
"
.
874
875
"
,
,
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876
.
,
.
877
.
878
.
879
880
,
881
.
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,
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,
"
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,
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.
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,
883
,
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,
885
,
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887
.
.
888
889
"
!
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890
891
.
.
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,
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,
,
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-
893
-
"
894
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,
895
,
,
‘
,
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!
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897
898
.
899
900
,
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,
.
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,
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:
"
904
.
.
.
"
.
905
906
.
907
908
"
909
-
;
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,
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.
,
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’
,
913
.
914
.
915
,
916
.
"
917
918
"
!
!
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.
920
921
’
922
923
.
924
925
"
,
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,
"
,
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926
,
.
!
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927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
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.
935
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,
936
937
.
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,
938
.
939
,
,
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941
.
.
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.
944
945
’
,
946
.
947
,
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948
,
,
949
.
950
951
952
953
.
954
.
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955
’
956
.
957
.
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,
958
,
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.
959
960
:
’
.
961
,
,
.
962
:
963
964
"
!
.
965
!
!
"
966
967
"
?
"
968
’
.
"
969
.
"
970
971
972
.
973
.
974
975
"
’
!
"
,
976
,
977
’
.
978
,
979
.
,
,
980
,
981
.
982
.
,
983
,
984
,
985
986
;
987
,
988
(
,
989
)
,
990
,
.
991
992
,
993
.
994
995
:
’
996
,
,
.
997
998
’
999
,
1000