of Princess Mary’s arrival, she softly left his room and hastened to her
with those swift steps that had sounded buoyant to Princess Mary.
There was only one expression on her agitated face when she ran into the
drawing room - that of love - boundless love for him, for her, and for all
that was near to the man she loved; and of pity, suffering for others,
and passionate desire to give herself entirely to helping them. It was
plain that at that moment there was in Natasha’s heart no thought of
herself or of her own relations with Prince Andrew.
Princess Mary, with her acute sensibility, understood all this at the
first glance at Natasha’s face, and wept on her shoulder with sorrowful
pleasure.
"Come, come to him, Mary," said Natasha, leading her into the other
room.
Princess Mary raised her head, dried her eyes, and turned to Natasha.
She felt that from her she would be able to understand and learn
everything.
"How..." she began her question but stopped short.
She felt that it was impossible to ask, or to answer, in words.
Natasha’s face and eyes would have to tell her all more clearly and
profoundly.
Natasha was gazing at her, but seemed afraid and in doubt whether to say
all she knew or not; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes
which penetrated into the very depths of her heart, it was impossible
not to tell the whole truth which she saw. And suddenly, Natasha’s lips
twitched, ugly wrinkles gathered round her mouth, and covering her face
with her hands she burst into sobs.
Princess Mary understood.
But she still hoped, and asked, in words she herself did not trust:
"But how is his wound? What is his general condition?"
"You, you... will see," was all Natasha could say.
They sat a little while downstairs near his room till they had left off
crying and were able to go to him with calm faces.
"How has his whole illness gone? Is it long since he grew worse? When
did this happen?" Princess Mary inquired.
Natasha told her that at first there had been danger from his feverish
condition and the pain he suffered, but at Troitsa that had passed
and the doctor had only been afraid of gangrene. That danger had also
passed. When they reached Yaroslavl the wound had begun to fester
(Natasha knew all about such things as festering) and the doctor had
said that the festering might take a normal course. Then fever set in,
but the doctor had said the fever was not very serious.
"But two days ago this suddenly happened," said Natasha, struggling with
her sobs. "I don’t know why, but you will see what he is like."
"Is he weaker? Thinner?" asked the princess.
"No, it’s not that, but worse. You will see. O, Mary, he is too good, he
cannot, cannot live, because..."
CHAPTER XV
When Natasha opened Prince Andrew’s door with a familiar movement and
let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the
sobs in her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now
tried to remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at
him without tears.
The princess understood what Natasha had meant by the words: "two days
ago this suddenly happened." She understood those words to mean that he
had suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs
of approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in
imagination Andrew’s face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle,
mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore
affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender
words to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and
that she would not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his
presence. Yet sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs
rose higher and higher in her throat as she more and more clearly
distinguished his form and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his
features, and then she saw his face and met his gaze.
He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by
pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand
he held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate
mustache he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them
as they entered.
On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Mary’s pace suddenly
slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly
felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and
eyes.
"But in what am I to blame?" she asked herself. And his cold, stern look
replied: "Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I..."
In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there
was an almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and
Natasha.
He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont.
"How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here?" said he in a voice
as calm and aloof as his look.
Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror
into Princess Mary’s heart as the tone of his voice.
"And have you brought little Nicholas?" he asked in the same slow, quiet
manner and with an obvious effort to remember.
"How are you now?" said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was
saying.
"That, my dear, you must ask the doctor," he replied, and again making
an evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his
words clearly did not correspond to his thoughts):
"Merci, chere amie, d’être venue." *
* "Thank you for coming, my dear."
Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just
perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now
understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his
tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be
felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible
in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand
anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not
because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something
else - something the living did not and could not understand - and which
wholly occupied his mind.
"There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together," said he,
breaking the silence and pointing to Natasha. "She looks after me all
the time."
Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a
thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that,
before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he
could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had
not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and
how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was
that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important,
had been revealed to him.
The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off.
"Mary came by way of Ryazan," said Natasha.
Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister Mary, and only
after calling her so in his presence did Natasha notice it herself.
"Really?" he asked.
"They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that..."
Natasha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was
making an effort to listen, but could not do so.
"Yes, they say it’s burned," he said. "It’s a great pity," and he gazed
straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers.
"And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?" Prince Andrew suddenly said,
evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. "He wrote here that he
took a great liking to you," he went on simply and calmly, evidently
unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for
living people. "If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you
to get married," he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having
found words he had long been seeking.
Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as
a proof of how far away he now was from everything living.
"Why talk of me?" she said quietly and glanced at Natasha.
Natasha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again
silent.
"Andrew, would you like..." Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling
voice, "would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking
about you!"
Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but
Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did
not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle
irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last
means of arousing him.
"Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Is he quite well?"
When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrew’s room he looked at
his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else
was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to
say to him.
When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her
brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began
to cry.
He looked at her attentively.
"Is it about Nicholas?" he asked.
Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping.
"Mary, you know the Gosp..." but he broke off.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. You mustn’t cry here," he said, looking at her with the same
cold expression.
When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at
the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With
a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their
point of view.
"Yes, to them it must seem sad!" he thought. "But how simple it is.
"The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father
feedeth them," he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary;
"but no, they will take it their own way, they won’t understand! They
can’t understand that all those feelings they prize so - all our feelings,
all those ideas that seem so important to us, are unnecessary. We cannot
understand one another," and he remained silent.
Prince Andrew’s little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew
nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge,
observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he
afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound
understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between
his father, Mary, and Natasha, than he had then. He understood it
completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up
to Natasha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his
beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled
and leaning his head against her he began to cry.
After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and
either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natasha of whom
he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and
shyly.
When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what
Natasha’s face had told her. She did not speak any more to Natasha of
hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and
did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that
Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so
evident.
CHAPTER XVI
Not only did Prince Andrew know he would die, but he felt that he was
dying and was already half dead. He was conscious of an aloofness from
everything earthly and a strange and joyous lightness of existence.
Without haste or agitation he awaited what was coming. That inexorable,
eternal, distant, and unknown the presence of which he had felt
continually all his life - was now near to him and, by the strange
lightness he experienced, almost comprehensible and palpable....
Formerly he had feared the end. He had twice experienced that terribly
tormenting fear of death - the end - but now he no longer understood that
fear.
He had felt it for the first time when the shell spun like a top before
him, and he looked at the fallow field, the bushes, and the sky, and
knew that he was face to face with death. When he came to himself after
being wounded and the flower of eternal, unfettered love had instantly
unfolded itself in his soul as if freed from the bondage of life that
had restrained it, he no longer feared death and ceased to think about
it.
During the hours of solitude, suffering, and partial delirium he
spent after he was wounded, the more deeply he penetrated into the new
principle of eternal love revealed to him, the more he unconsciously
detached himself from earthly life. To love everything and everybody and
always to sacrifice oneself for love meant not to love anyone, not
to live this earthly life. And the more imbued he became with that
principle of love, the more he renounced life and the more completely he
destroyed that dreadful barrier which - in the absence of such love - stands
between life and death. When during those first days he remembered that
he would have to die, he said to himself: "Well, what of it? So much the
better!"
But after the night in Mytishchi when, half delirious, he had seen her
for whom he longed appear before him and, having pressed her hand to his
lips, had shed gentle, happy tears, love for a particular woman again
crept unobserved into his heart and once more bound him to life. And
joyful and agitating thoughts began to occupy his mind. Recalling the
moment at the ambulance station when he had seen Kuragin, he could not
now regain the feeling he then had, but was tormented by the question
whether Kuragin was alive. And he dared not inquire.
His illness pursued its normal physical course, but what Natasha
referred to when she said: "This suddenly happened," had occurred two
days before Princess Mary arrived. It was the last spiritual struggle
between life and death, in which death gained the victory. It was
the unexpected realization of the fact that he still valued life as
presented to him in the form of his love for Natasha, and a last, though
ultimately vanquished, attack of terror before the unknown.
It was evening. As usual after dinner he was slightly feverish, and his
thoughts were preternaturally clear. Sonya was sitting by the table. He
began to doze. Suddenly a feeling of happiness seized him.
"Ah, she has come!" thought he.
And so it was: in Sonya’s place sat Natasha who had just come in
noiselessly.
Since she had begun looking after him, he had always experienced this
physical consciousness of her nearness. She was sitting in an armchair
placed sideways, screening the light of the candle from him, and was
knitting a stocking. She had learned to knit stockings since Prince
Andrew had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old
nurses who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in
the knitting of stockings. The needles clicked lightly in her slender,
rapidly moving hands, and he could clearly see the thoughtful profile
of her drooping face. She moved, and the ball rolled off her knees. She
started, glanced round at him, and screening the candle with her hand
stooped carefully with a supple and exact movement, picked up the ball,
and regained her former position.
He looked at her without moving and saw that she wanted to draw a
deep breath after stooping, but refrained from doing so and breathed
cautiously.
At the Troitsa monastery they had spoken of the past, and he had told
her that if he lived he would always thank God for his wound which had
brought them together again, but after that they never spoke of the
future.
"Can it or can it not be?" he now thought as he looked at her and
listened to the light click of the steel needles. "Can fate have brought
me to her so strangely only for me to die?... Is it possible that the
truth of life has been revealed to me only to show me that I have spent
my life in falsity? I love her more than anything in the world! But what
am I to do if I love her?" he thought, and he involuntarily groaned,
from a habit acquired during his sufferings.
On hearing that sound Natasha put down the stocking, leaned nearer to
him, and suddenly, noticing his shining eyes, stepped lightly up to him
and bent over him.
"You are not asleep?"
"No, I have been looking at you a long time. I felt you come in. No one
else gives me that sense of soft tranquillity that you do... that light.
I want to weep for joy."
Natasha drew closer to him. Her face shone with rapturous joy.
"Natasha, I love you too much! More than anything in the world."
"And I!" - She turned away for an instant. "Why too much?" she asked.
"Why too much?... Well, what do you, what do you feel in your soul, your
whole soul - shall I live? What do you think?"
"I am sure of it, sure!" Natasha almost shouted, taking hold of both his
hands with a passionate movement.
He remained silent awhile.
"How good it would be!" and taking her hand he kissed it.
Natasha felt happy and agitated, but at once remembered that this would
not do and that he had to be quiet.
"But you have not slept," she said, repressing her joy. "Try to sleep...
please!"
He pressed her hand and released it, and she went back to the candle and
sat down again in her former position. Twice she turned and looked at
him, and her eyes met his beaming at her. She set herself a task on her
stocking and resolved not to turn round till it was finished.
Soon he really shut his eyes and fell asleep. He did not sleep long and
suddenly awoke with a start and in a cold perspiration.
As he fell asleep he had still been thinking of the subject that now
always occupied his mind - about life and death, and chiefly about death.
He felt himself nearer to it.
"Love? What is love?" he thought.
"Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I
understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only
because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to
die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and
eternal source." These thoughts seemed to him comforting. But they were
only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they
were too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun. And there was the former
agitation and obscurity. He fell asleep.
He dreamed that he was lying in the room he really was in, but that
he was quite well and unwounded. Many various, indifferent, and
insignificant people appeared before him. He talked to them and
discussed something trivial. They were preparing to go away somewhere.
Prince Andrew dimly realized that all this was trivial and that he had
more important cares, but he continued to speak, surprising them by
empty witticisms. Gradually, unnoticed, all these persons began to
disappear and a single question, that of the closed door, superseded
all else. He rose and went to the door to bolt and lock it. Everything
depended on whether he was, or was not, in time to lock it. He went, and
tried to hurry, but his legs refused to move and he knew he would not be
in time to lock the door though he painfully strained all his powers. He
was seized by an agonizing fear. And that fear was the fear of death. It
stood behind the door. But just when he was clumsily creeping toward
the door, that dreadful something on the other side was already pressing
against it and forcing its way in. Something not human - death - was
breaking in through that door, and had to be kept out. He seized the
door, making a final effort to hold it back - to lock it was no longer
possible - but his efforts were weak and clumsy and the door, pushed from
behind by that terror, opened and closed again.
Once again it pushed from outside. His last superhuman efforts were vain
and both halves of the door noiselessly opened. It entered, and it was
death, and Prince Andrew died.
But at the instant he died, Prince Andrew remembered that he was asleep,
and at the very instant he died, having made an effort, he awoke.
"Yes, it was death! I died - and woke up. Yes, death is an awakening!" And
all at once it grew light in his soul and the veil that had till then
concealed the unknown was lifted from his spiritual vision. He felt as
if powers till then confined within him had been liberated, and that
strange lightness did not again leave him.
When, waking in a cold perspiration, he moved on the divan, Natasha went
up and asked him what was the matter. He did not answer and looked at
her strangely, not understanding.
That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Mary’s
arrival. From that day, as the doctor expressed it, the wasting fever
assumed a malignant character, but what the doctor said did not interest
Natasha, she saw the terrible moral symptoms which to her were more
convincing.
From that day an awakening from life came to Prince Andrew together with
his awakening from sleep. And compared to the duration of life it did
not seem to him slower than an awakening from sleep compared to the
duration of a dream.
There was nothing terrible or violent in this comparatively slow
awakening.
His last days and hours passed in an ordinary and simple way. Both
Princess Mary and Natasha, who did not leave him, felt this. They did
not weep or shudder and during these last days they themselves felt
that they were not attending on him (he was no longer there, he had left
them) but on what reminded them most closely of him - his body. Both felt
this so strongly that the outward and terrible side of death did not
affect them and they did not feel it necessary to foment their grief.
Neither in his presence nor out of it did they weep, nor did they ever
talk to one another about him. They felt that they could not express in
words what they understood.
They both saw that he was sinking slowly and quietly, deeper and deeper,
away from them, and they both knew that this had to be so and that it
was right.
He confessed, and received communion: everyone came to take leave of
him. When they brought his son to him, he pressed his lips to the boy’s
and turned away, not because he felt it hard and sad (Princess Mary and
Natasha understood that) but simply because he thought it was all that
was required of him, but when they told him to bless the boy, he did
what was demanded and looked round as if asking whether there was
anything else he should do.
When the last convulsions of the body, which the spirit was leaving,
occurred, Princess Mary and Natasha were present.
"Is it over?" said Princess Mary when his body had for a few minutes
lain motionless, growing cold before them. Natasha went up, looked at
the dead eyes, and hastened to close them. She closed them but did not
kiss them, but clung to that which reminded her most nearly of him - his
body.
"Where has he gone? Where is he now?..."
When the body, washed and dressed, lay in the coffin on a table,
everyone came to take leave of him and they all wept.
Little Nicholas cried because his heart was rent by painful perplexity.
The countess and Sonya cried from pity for Natasha and because he was
no more. The old count cried because he felt that before long, he, too,
must take the same terrible step.
Natasha and Princess Mary also wept now, but not because of their own
personal grief; they wept with a reverent and softening emotion which
had taken possession of their souls at the consciousness of the
simple and solemn mystery of death that had been accomplished in their
presence.
BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812
CHAPTER I
Man’s mind cannot grasp the causes of events in their completeness, but
the desire to find those causes is implanted in man’s soul. And without
considering the multiplicity and complexity of the conditions any one
of which taken separately may seem to be the cause, he snatches at the
first approximation to a cause that seems to him intelligible and says:
"This is the cause!" In historical events (where the actions of men are
the subject of observation) the first and most primitive approximation
to present itself was the will of the gods and, after that, the will of
those who stood in the most prominent position - the heroes of history.
But we need only penetrate to the essence of any historic event - which
lies in the activity of the general mass of men who take part in it - to
be convinced that the will of the historic hero does not control the
actions of the mass but is itself continually controlled. It may seem
to be a matter of indifference whether we understand the meaning of
historical events this way or that; yet there is the same difference
between a man who says that the people of the West moved on the East
because Napoleon wished it and a man who says that this happened because
it had to happen, as there is between those who declared that the
earth was stationary and that the planets moved round it and those who
admitted that they did not know what upheld the earth, but knew there
were laws directing its movement and that of the other planets. There
is, and can be, no cause of an historical event except the one cause of
all causes. But there are laws directing events, and some of these laws
are known to us while we are conscious of others we cannot comprehend.
The discovery of these laws is only possible when we have quite
abandoned the attempt to find the cause in the will of some one man,
just as the discovery of the laws of the motion of the planets was
possible only when men abandoned the conception of the fixity of the
earth.
The historians consider that, next to the battle of Borodino and the
occupation of Moscow by the enemy and its destruction by fire, the most
important episode of the war of 1812 was the movement of the Russian
army from the Ryazana to the Kaluga road and to the Tarutino camp - the
so-called flank march across the Krasnaya Pakhra River. They ascribe the
glory of that achievement of genius to different men and dispute as to
whom the honor is due. Even foreign historians, including the French,
acknowledge the genius of the Russian commanders when they speak of
that flank march. But it is hard to understand why military writers,
and following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound
conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon. In
the first place it is hard to understand where the profundity and genius
of this movement lay, for not much mental effort was needed to see that
the best position for an army when it is not being attacked is where
there are most provisions; and even a dull boy of thirteen could have
guessed that the best position for an army after its retreat from Moscow
in 1812 was on the Kaluga road. So it is impossible to understand by
what reasoning the historians reach the conclusion that this maneuver
was a profound one. And it is even more difficult to understand just why
they think that this maneuver was calculated to save Russia and destroy
the French; for this flank march, had it been preceded, accompanied,
or followed by other circumstances, might have proved ruinous to the
Russians and salutary for the French. If the position of the Russian
army really began to improve from the time of that march, it does not at
all follow that the march was the cause of it.
That flank march might not only have failed to give any advantage to
the Russian army, but might in other circumstances have led to its
destruction. What would have happened had Moscow not burned down? If
Murat had not lost sight of the Russians? If Napoleon had not remained
inactive? If the Russian army at Krasnaya Pakhra had given battle as
Bennigsen and Barclay advised? What would have happened had the French
attacked the Russians while they were marching beyond the Pakhra? What
would have happened if on approaching Tarutino, Napoleon had attacked
the Russians with but a tenth of the energy he had shown when he
attacked them at Smolensk? What would have happened had the French moved
on Petersburg?... In any of these eventualities the flank march that
brought salvation might have proved disastrous.
The third and most incomprehensible thing is that people studying
history deliberately avoid seeing that this flank march cannot be
attributed to any one man, that no one ever foresaw it, and that in
reality, like the retreat from Fili, it did not suggest itself to anyone
in its entirety, but resulted - moment by moment, step by step, event by
event - from an endless number of most diverse circumstances and was only
seen in its entirety when it had been accomplished and belonged to the
past.
At the council at Fili the prevailing thought in the minds of the
Russian commanders was the one naturally suggesting itself, namely, a
direct retreat by the Nizhni road. In proof of this there is the fact
that the majority of the council voted for such a retreat, and above
all there is the well-known conversation after the council, between the
commander in chief and Lanskoy, who was in charge of the commissariat
department. Lanskoy informed the commander in chief that the army
supplies were for the most part stored along the Oka in the Tula and
Ryazan provinces, and that if they retreated on Nizhni the army would
be separated from its supplies by the broad river Oka, which cannot be
crossed early in winter. This was the first indication of the necessity
of deviating from what had previously seemed the most natural course - a
direct retreat on Nizhni-Novgorod. The army turned more to the south,
along the Ryazan road and nearer to its supplies. Subsequently the
inactivity of the French (who even lost sight of the Russian army),
concern for the safety of the arsenal at Tula, and especially the
advantages of drawing nearer to its supplies caused the army to turn
still further south to the Tula road. Having crossed over, by a forced
march, to the Tula road beyond the Pakhra, the Russian commanders
intended to remain at Podolsk and had no thought of the Tarutino
position; but innumerable circumstances and the reappearance of French
troops who had for a time lost touch with the Russians, and projects
of giving battle, and above all the abundance of provisions in Kaluga
province, obliged our army to turn still more to the south and to cross
from the Tula to the Kaluga road and go to Tarutino, which was between
the roads along which those supplies lay. Just as it is impossible to
say when it was decided to abandon Moscow, so it is impossible to say
precisely when, or by whom, it was decided to move to Tarutino. Only
when the army had got there, as the result of innumerable and varying
forces, did people begin to assure themselves that they had desired this
movement and long ago foreseen its result.
CHAPTER II
The famous flank movement merely consisted in this: after the advance
of the French had ceased, the Russian army, which had been continually
retreating straight back from the invaders, deviated from that direct
course and, not finding itself pursued, was naturally drawn toward the
district where supplies were abundant.
If instead of imagining to ourselves commanders of genius leading the
Russian army, we picture that army without any leaders, it could not
have done anything but make a return movement toward Moscow, describing
an arc in the direction where most provisions were to be found and where
the country was richest.
That movement from the Nizhni to the Ryazan, Tula, and Kaluga roads was
so natural that even the Russian marauders moved in that direction, and
demands were sent from Petersburg for Kutuzov to take his army that
way. At Tarutino Kutuzov received what was almost a reprimand from
the Emperor for having moved his army along the Ryazan road, and the
Emperor’s letter indicated to him the very position he had already
occupied near Kaluga.
Having rolled like a ball in the direction of the impetus given by the
whole campaign and by the battle of Borodino, the Russian army - when
the strength of that impetus was exhausted and no fresh push was
received - assumed the position natural to it.
Kutuzov’s merit lay, not in any strategic maneuver of genius, as it is
called, but in the fact that he alone understood the significance of
what had happened. He alone then understood the meaning of the French
army’s inactivity, he alone continued to assert that the battle of
Borodino had been a victory, he alone - who as commander in chief might
have been expected to be eager to attack - employed his whole strength to
restrain the Russian army from useless engagements.
The beast wounded at Borodino was lying where the fleeing hunter had
left him; but whether he was still alive, whether he was strong and
merely lying low, the hunter did not know. Suddenly the beast was heard
to moan.
The moan of that wounded beast (the French army) which betrayed its
calamitous condition was the sending of Lauriston to Kutuzov’s camp with
overtures for peace.
Napoleon, with his usual assurance that whatever entered his head was
right, wrote to Kutuzov the first words that occurred to him, though
they were meaningless.
MONSIEUR LE PRINCE KOUTOUZOV: I am sending one of my adjutants-general
to discuss several interesting questions with you. I beg your Highness
to credit what he says to you, especially when he expresses the
sentiment of esteem and special regard I have long entertained for your
person. This letter having no other object, I pray God, monsieur le
prince Koutouzov, to keep you in His holy and gracious protection!
NAPOLEON
MOSCOW, OCTOBER 30, 1812
Kutuzov replied: "I should be cursed by posterity were I looked on as
the initiator of a settlement of any sort. Such is the present spirit
of my nation." But he continued to exert all his powers to restrain his
troops from attacking.
During the month that the French troops were pillaging in Moscow and
the Russian troops were quietly encamped at Tarutino, a change had taken
place in the relative strength of the two armies - both in spirit and in
number - as a result of which the superiority had passed to the Russian
side. Though the condition and numbers of the French army were unknown
to the Russians, as soon as that change occurred the need of attacking
at once showed itself by countless signs. These signs were: Lauriston’s
mission; the abundance of provisions at Tarutino; the reports coming in
from all sides of the inactivity and disorder of the French; the flow of
recruits to our regiments; the fine weather; the long rest the Russian
soldiers had enjoyed, and the impatience to do what they had been
assembled for, which usually shows itself in an army that has been
resting; curiosity as to what the French army, so long lost sight of,
was doing; the boldness with which our outposts now scouted close up to
the French stationed at Tarutino; the news of easy successes gained by
peasants and guerrilla troops over the French, the envy aroused by this;
the desire for revenge that lay in the heart of every Russian as long as
the French were in Moscow, and (above all) a dim consciousness in every
soldier’s mind that the relative strength of the armies had changed and
that the advantage was now on our side. There was a substantial change
in the relative strength, and an advance had become inevitable. And at
once, as a clock begins to strike and chime as soon as the minute hand
has completed a full circle, this change was shown by an increased
activity, whirring, and chiming in the higher spheres.
CHAPTER III
The Russian army was commanded by Kutuzov and his staff, and also by the
Emperor from Petersburg. Before the news of the abandonment of Moscow
had been received in Petersburg, a detailed plan of the whole campaign
had been drawn up and sent to Kutuzov for his guidance. Though this plan
had been drawn up on the supposition that Moscow was still in our hands,
it was approved by the staff and accepted as a basis for action.
Kutuzov only replied that movements arranged from a distance were always
difficult to execute. So fresh instructions were sent for the solution
of difficulties that might be encountered, as well as fresh people who
were to watch Kutuzov’s actions and report upon them.
Besides this, the whole staff of the Russian army was now reorganized.
The posts left vacant by Bagration, who had been killed, and by
Barclay, who had gone away in dudgeon, had to be filled. Very serious
consideration was given to the question whether it would be better to
put A in B’s place and B in D’s, or on the contrary to put D in A’s
place, and so on - as if anything more than A’s or B’s satisfaction
depended on this.
As a result of the hostility between Kutuzov and Bennigsen, his Chief of
Staff, the presence of confidential representatives of the Emperor, and
these transfers, a more than usually complicated play of parties
was going on among the staff of the army. A was undermining B, D was
undermining C, and so on in all possible combinations and permutations.
In all these plottings the subject of intrigue was generally the conduct
of the war, which all these men believed they were directing; but this
affair of the war went on independently of them, as it had to go:
that is, never in the way people devised, but flowing always from the
essential attitude of the masses. Only in the highest spheres did
all these schemes, crossings, and interminglings appear to be a true
reflection of what had to happen.
Prince Michael Ilarionovich! (wrote the Emperor on the second of October
in a letter that reached Kutuzov after the battle at Tarutino) Since
September 2 Moscow has been in the hands of the enemy. Your last reports
were written on the twentieth, and during all this time not only has
no action been taken against the enemy or for the relief of the ancient
capital, but according to your last report you have even retreated
farther. Serpukhov is already occupied by an enemy detachment and Tula
with its famous arsenal so indispensable to the army, is in danger.
From General Wintzingerode’s reports, I see that an enemy corps of ten
thousand men is moving on the Petersburg road. Another corps of several
thousand men is moving on Dmitrov. A third has advanced along the
Vladimir road, and a fourth, rather considerable detachment is stationed
between Ruza and Mozhaysk. Napoleon himself was in Moscow as late as
the twenty-fifth. In view of all this information, when the enemy has
scattered his forces in large detachments, and with Napoleon and his
Guards in Moscow, is it possible that the enemy’s forces confronting you
are so considerable as not to allow of your taking the offensive? On the
contrary, he is probably pursuing you with detachments, or at most with
an army corps much weaker than the army entrusted to you. It would seem
that, availing yourself of these circumstances, you might advantageously
attack a weaker one and annihilate him, or at least oblige him to
retreat, retaining in our hands an important part of the provinces now
occupied by the enemy, and thereby averting danger from Tula and other
towns in the interior. You will be responsible if the enemy is able to
direct a force of any size against Petersburg to threaten this capital
in which it has not been possible to retain many troops; for with the
army entrusted to you, and acting with resolution and energy, you have
ample means to avert this fresh calamity. Remember that you have still
to answer to our offended country for the loss of Moscow. You have
experienced my readiness to reward you. That readiness will not weaken
in me, but I and Russia have a right to expect from you all the zeal,
firmness, and success which your intellect, military talent, and the
courage of the troops you command justify us in expecting.
But by the time this letter, which proved that the real relation of
the forces had already made itself felt in Petersburg, was dispatched,
Kutuzov had found himself unable any longer to restrain the army he
commanded from attacking and a battle had taken place.
On the second of October a Cossack, Shapovalov, who was out scouting,
killed one hare and wounded another. Following the wounded hare he made
his way far into the forest and came upon the left flank of Murat’s
army, encamped there without any precautions. The Cossack laughingly
told his comrades how he had almost fallen into the hands of the French.
A cornet, hearing the story, informed his commander.
The Cossack was sent for and questioned. The Cossack officers wished
to take advantage of this chance to capture some horses, but one of
the superior officers, who was acquainted with the higher authorities,
reported the incident to a general on the staff. The state of things on
the staff had of late been exceedingly strained. Ermolov had been to
see Bennigsen a few days previously and had entreated him to use
his influence with the commander in chief to induce him to take the
offensive.
"If I did not know you I should think you did not want what you are
asking for. I need only advise anything and his Highness is sure to do
the opposite," replied Bennigsen.
The Cossack’s report, confirmed by horse patrols who were sent out, was
the final proof that events had matured. The tightly coiled spring was
released, the clock began to whirr and the chimes to play. Despite all
his supposed power, his intellect, his experience, and his knowledge
of men, Kutuzov - having taken into consideration the Cossack’s report, a
note from Bennigsen who sent personal reports to the Emperor, the wishes
he supposed the Emperor to hold, and the fact that all the generals
expressed the same wish - could no longer check the inevitable movement,
and gave the order to do what he regarded as useless and harmful - gave
his approval, that is, to the accomplished fact.
CHAPTER IV
Bennigsen’s note and the Cossack’s information that the left flank
of the French was unguarded were merely final indications that it was
necessary to order an attack, and it was fixed for the fifth of October.
On the morning of the fourth of October Kutuzov signed the dispositions.
Toll read them to Ermolov, asking him to attend to the further
arrangements.
"All right - all right. I haven’t time just now," replied Ermolov, and
left the hut.
The dispositions drawn up by Toll were very good. As in the Austerlitz
dispositions, it was written - though not in German this time:
"The First Column will march here and here," "the Second Column will
march there and there," and so on; and on paper, all these columns
arrived at their places at the appointed time and destroyed the enemy.
Everything had been admirably thought out as is usual in dispositions,
and as is always the case, not a single column reached its place at the
appointed time.
When the necessary number of copies of the dispositions had been
prepared, an officer was summoned and sent to deliver them to Ermolov
to deal with. A young officer of the Horse Guards, Kutuzov’s orderly,
pleased at the importance of the mission entrusted to him, went to
Ermolov’s quarters.
"Gone away," said Ermolov’s orderly.
The officer of the Horse Guards went to a general with whom Ermolov was
often to be found.
"No, and the general’s out too."
The officer, mounting his horse, rode off to someone else.
"No, he’s gone out."
"If only they don’t make me responsible for this delay! What a nuisance
it is!" thought the officer, and he rode round the whole camp. One man
said he had seen Ermolov ride past with some other generals, others said
he must have returned home. The officer searched till six o’clock in the
evening without even stopping to eat. Ermolov was nowhere to be found
and no one knew where he was. The officer snatched a little food at
a comrade’s, and rode again to the vanguard to find Miloradovich.
Miloradovich too was away, but here he was told that he had gone to a
ball at General Kikin’s and that Ermolov was probably there too.
"But where is it?"
"Why, there, over at Echkino," said a Cossack officer, pointing to a
country house in the far distance.
"What, outside our line?"
"They’ve put two regiments as outposts, and they’re having such a spree
there, it’s awful! Two bands and three sets of singers!"
The officer rode out beyond our lines to Echkino. While still at a
distance he heard as he rode the merry sounds of a soldier’s dance song
proceeding from the house.
"In the meadows... in the meadows!" he heard, accompanied by whistling
and the sound of a torban, drowned every now and then by shouts. These
sounds made his spirits rise, but at the same time he was afraid that
he would be blamed for not having executed sooner the important order
entrusted to him. It was already past eight o’clock. He dismounted
and went up into the porch of a large country house which had remained
intact between the Russian and French forces. In the refreshment room
and the hall, footmen were bustling about with wine and viands. Groups
of singers stood outside the windows. The officer was admitted and
immediately saw all the chief generals of the army together, and among
them Ermolov’s big imposing figure. They all had their coats unbuttoned
and were standing in a semicircle with flushed and animated faces,
laughing loudly. In the middle of the room a short handsome general with
a red face was dancing the trepak with much spirit and agility.
"Ha, ha, ha! Bravo, Nicholas Ivanych! Ha, ha, ha!"
The officer felt that by arriving with important orders at such a moment
he was doubly to blame, and he would have preferred to wait; but one of
the generals espied him and, hearing what he had come about, informed
Ermolov.
Ermolov came forward with a frown on his face and, hearing what the
officer had to say, took the papers from him without a word.
"You think he went off just by chance?" said a comrade, who was on the
staff that evening, to the officer of the Horse Guards, referring to
Ermolov. "It was a trick. It was done on purpose to get Konovnitsyn into
trouble. You’ll see what a mess there’ll be tomorrow."
CHAPTER V
Next day the decrepit Kutuzov, having given orders to be called early,
said his prayers, dressed, and, with an unpleasant consciousness of
having to direct a battle he did not approve of, got into his caleche
and drove from Letashovka (a village three and a half miles from
Tarutino) to the place where the attacking columns were to meet. He sat
in the caleche, dozing and waking up by turns, and listening for any
sound of firing on the right as an indication that the action had begun.
But all was still quiet. A damp dull autumn morning was just dawning. On
approaching Tarutino Kutuzov noticed cavalrymen leading their horses to
water across the road along which he was driving. Kutuzov looked at
them searchingly, stopped his carriage, and inquired what regiment they
belonged to. They belonged to a column that should have been far in
front and in ambush long before then. "It may be a mistake," thought
the old commander in chief. But a little further on he saw infantry
regiments with their arms piled and the soldiers, only partly dressed,
eating their rye porridge and carrying fuel. He sent for an officer. The
officer reported that no order to advance had been received.
"How! Not rec..." Kutuzov began, but checked himself immediately and
sent for a senior officer. Getting out of his caleche, he waited with
drooping head and breathing heavily, pacing silently up and down. When
Eykhen, the officer of the general staff whom he had summoned, appeared,
Kutuzov went purple in the face, not because that officer was to blame
for the mistake, but because he was an object of sufficient importance
for him to vent his wrath on. Trembling and panting the old man fell
into that state of fury in which he sometimes used to roll on the
ground, and he fell upon Eykhen, threatening him with his hands,
shouting and loading him with gross abuse. Another man, Captain Brozin,
who happened to turn up and who was not at all to blame, suffered the
same fate.
"What sort of another blackguard are you? I’ll have you shot!
Scoundrels!" yelled Kutuzov in a hoarse voice, waving his arms and
reeling.
He was suffering physically. He, the commander in chief, a Serene
Highness who everybody said possessed powers such as no man had ever had
in Russia, to be placed in this position - made the laughingstock of the
whole army! "I needn’t have been in such a hurry to pray about today,
or have kept awake thinking everything over all night," thought he to
himself. "When I was a chit of an officer no one would have dared to
mock me so... and now!" He was in a state of physical suffering as if
from corporal punishment, and could not avoid expressing it by cries of
anger and distress. But his strength soon began to fail him, and looking
about him, conscious of having said much that was amiss, he again got
into his caleche and drove back in silence.
His wrath, once expended, did not return, and blinking feebly he
listened to excuses and self-justifications (Ermolov did not come to see
him till the next day) and to the insistence of Bennigsen, Konovnitsyn,
and Toll that the movement that had miscarried should be executed next
day. And once more Kutuzov had to consent.
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494
495
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.
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.
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496
497
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498
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499
500
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501
502
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504
505
,
506
;
507
508
509
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510
511
512
513
514
515
:
516
517
518
519
520
521
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,
524
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.
525
526
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527
:
528
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!
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(
529
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530
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531
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532
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533
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534
535
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536
537
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538
539
540
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544
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564
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570
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572
573
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575
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576
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577
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578
579
580
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581
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582
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583
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584
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585
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586
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587
588
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589
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.
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590
.
591
592
593
594
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595
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596
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598
599
.
600
601
602
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603
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604
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605
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607
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608
609
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610
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612
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(
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621
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622
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629
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632
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711
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821
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871
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877
878
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880
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,
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882
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,
.
884
,
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.
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886
.
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.
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892
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893
894
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,
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.
896
897
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,
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898
899
"
’
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,
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901
902
.
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904
.
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906
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,
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.
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.
913
,
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,
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,
918
.
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.
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921
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923
924
,
;
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,
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926
.
927
928
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931
932
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.
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936
937
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.
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.
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.
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.
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956
.
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,
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.
.
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.
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961
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.
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.
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964
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,
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,
967
.
968
969
,
,
,
970
.
,
,
971
,
972
.
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974
"
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975
!
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,
976
.
977
978
.
,
,
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980
,
-
981
!
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,
982
,
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983
.
"
984
.
.
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985
,
986
.
,
987
,
,
988
.
989
990
,
,
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-
(
992
)
,
,
993
994
.
.
995
996
997
998
999
1000