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Updated: June 7, 2025
"What do you want, your honor?" asked an artilleryman, standing close by, who heard him muttering. "Nothing... only a shell..." he answered. "Come along, our Matvevna!" he said to himself. "Matvevna" * was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns seemed to him like ants.
Breathing again, breathing!" he muttered to himself. He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands. "Now then, Matvevna, dear old lady, don't let me down!" he was saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called above his head: "Captain Tushin! Captain!" Tushin turned round in dismay.
With one hand he supported the other; he was pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on "Matvevna," the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his breeches and arm. "What, are you wounded, my lad?" said Tushin, approaching the gun on which Rostov sat. "No, it's a sprain."
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