An interesting route around the Politekhnicheskaya and Akademicheskaya stations. Station "Polytechnicheskaya"

An excerpt characterizing Politekhnicheskaya (metro station)

Rostov, with his keen hunting eye, was one of the first to see these blue French dragoons pursuing our lancers. Closer and closer the lancers and the French dragoons pursuing them moved in frustrated crowds. One could already see how these people, who seemed small under the mountain, collided, overtook each other and waved their arms or sabers.
Rostov looked at what was happening in front of him as if he were being persecuted. He instinctively felt that if he now attacked the French dragoons with the hussars, they would not resist; but if you hit, you had to do it now, this minute, otherwise it will be too late. He looked around him. The captain, standing next to him, did not take his eyes off the cavalry below in the same way.
“Andrei Sevastyanich,” said Rostov, “we will doubt them...
“It would be a dashing thing,” said the captain, “but in fact...
Rostov, without listening to him, pushed his horse, galloped ahead of the squadron, and before he had time to command the movement, the entire squadron, experiencing the same thing as him, set off after him. Rostov himself did not know how and why he did it. He did all this, as he did on the hunt, without thinking, without thinking. He saw that the dragoons were close, that they were galloping, upset; he knew that they could not stand it, he knew that there was only one minute that would not return if he missed it. The bullets screeched and whistled around him so excitedly, the horse begged forward so eagerly that he could not stand it. He touched his horse, gave the command, and at the same moment, hearing behind him the sound of the stomping of his deployed squadron, at full trot, he began to descend towards the dragoons down the mountain. As soon as they went downhill, their trot gait involuntarily turned into a gallop, which became faster and faster as they approached their lancers and the French dragoons galloping behind them. The dragoons were close. The front ones, seeing the hussars, began to turn back, the rear ones stopped. With the feeling with which he rushed across the wolf, Rostov, releasing his bottom at full speed, galloped across the frustrated ranks of the French dragoons. One lancer stopped, one foot fell to the ground so as not to be crushed, one riderless horse got mixed up with the hussars. Almost all the French dragoons galloped back. Rostov, having chosen one of them on a gray horse, set off after him. On the way he ran into a bush; a good horse carried him over, and, barely able to cope in the saddle, Nikolai saw that in a few moments he would catch up with the enemy whom he had chosen as his target. This Frenchman was probably an officer - judging by his uniform, he was bent over and galloping on his gray horse, urging it on with a saber. A moment later, Rostov’s horse hit the rear of the officer’s horse with its chest, almost knocking it down, and at the same moment Rostov, without knowing why, raised his saber and hit the Frenchman with it.
The instant he did this, all the animation in Rostov suddenly disappeared. The officer fell not so much from the blow of the saber, which only slightly cut his arm above the elbow, but from the push of the horse and from fear. Rostov, holding back his horse, looked for his enemy with his eyes to see whom he had defeated. The French dragoon officer was jumping on the ground with one foot, the other was caught in the stirrup. He, squinting in fear, as if expecting a new blow every second, wrinkled his face and looked up at Rostov with an expression of horror. His face, pale and spattered with dirt, blond, young, with a hole in the chin and light hair blue eyes, it was not for the battlefield, not an enemy face, but a simple indoor face. Even before Rostov decided what he would do with him, the officer shouted: “Je me rends!” [I give up!] In a hurry, he wanted and could not untangle his leg from the stirrup and, without taking his frightened blue eyes off, looked at Rostov. The hussars jumped up and freed his leg and put him on the saddle. Hussars with different sides they fiddled with the dragoons: one was wounded, but, with his face covered in blood, did not give up his horse; the other, hugging the hussar, sat on the croup of his horse; the third, supported by a hussar, climbed onto his horse. The French infantry ran ahead, shooting. The hussars hastily galloped back with their prisoners. Rostov galloped back with the others, experiencing some kind of unpleasant feeling that squeezed his heart. Something unclear, confusing, which he could not explain to himself, was revealed to him by the capture of this officer and the blow he dealt him.
Count Osterman Tolstoy met the returning hussars, called Rostov, thanked him and said that he would present to the sovereign about his brave deed and would ask for him St. George's Cross. When Rostov was demanded to appear before Count Osterman, he, remembering that his attack had been launched without orders, was fully convinced that the boss was demanding him in order to punish him for his unauthorized act. Therefore, Osterman’s flattering words and the promise of a reward should have struck Rostov all the more joyfully; but the same unpleasant, unclear feeling sickened him morally. “What the hell is tormenting me? – he asked himself, driving away from the general. - Ilyin? No, he's intact. Have I embarrassed myself in any way? No. Everything is wrong! “Something else tormented him, like repentance.” - Yes, yes, this French officer with a hole. And I remember well how my hand stopped when I raised it.”
Rostov saw the prisoners being taken away and galloped after them to see his Frenchman with a hole in his chin. He, in his strange uniform, sat on a winding hussar horse and restlessly looked around him. The wound on his hand was almost not a wound. He feigned a smile at Rostov and waved his hand as a greeting. Rostov still felt awkward and ashamed of something.
All this day and the next, Rostov's friends and comrades noticed that he was not boring, not angry, but silent, thoughtful and concentrated. He drank reluctantly, tried to remain alone and kept thinking about something.
Rostov kept thinking about this brilliant feat of his, which, to his surprise, bought him the St. George Cross and even made him a reputation as a brave man - and he just couldn’t understand something. “So they are even more afraid of us! - he thought. – So that’s all there is to it, what’s called heroism? And did I do this for the fatherland? And what is he to blame with his hole and blue eyes? And how scared he was! He thought I would kill him. Why should I kill him? My hand trembled. And they gave me the St. George Cross. Nothing, I don’t understand anything!”
But while Nikolai was processing these questions within himself and still did not give himself a clear account of what had so confused him, the wheel of happiness in his career, as often happens, turned in his favor. He was pushed forward after the Ostrovnensky affair, they gave him a battalion of hussars and, when it was necessary to use a brave officer, they gave him instructions.

Having received the news of Natasha’s illness, the Countess, still not entirely healthy and weak, came to Moscow with Petya and the whole house, and the entire Rostov family moved from Marya Dmitrievna to their own house and completely settled in Moscow.
Natasha’s illness was so serious that, to her happiness and to the happiness of her family, the thought of everything that was the cause of her illness, her action and the break with her fiancé became secondary. She was so sick that it was impossible to think about how much she was to blame for everything that happened, while she did not eat, did not sleep, was noticeably losing weight, was coughing and was, as the doctors made her feel, in danger. All I had to think about was helping her. The doctors visited Natasha both separately and in consultations, spoke a lot of French, German and Latin, condemned each other, prescribed a wide variety of medicines for all the diseases known to them; but not one of them had the simple thought that they could not know the disease that Natasha suffered, just as no disease that plagues a living person could be known: for every living person has his own characteristics and always has a special and its own new, complex, unknown to medicine disease, not a disease of the lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, etc., recorded in medicine, but a disease consisting of one of the countless compounds in the suffering of these organs. This simple thought could not occur to doctors (just as the thought that he cannot cast magic cannot occur to a sorcerer) because their life’s work was to heal, because they received money for this, and because they spent on this matter best years own life. But the main thing is that this thought could not occur to the doctors because they saw that they were undoubtedly useful, and were truly useful for all the Rostovs at home. They were useful not because they forced the patient to swallow for the most part harmful substances(this harm was little sensitive, because harmful substances were given in small quantities), but they were useful, necessary, inevitable (the reason is why there are and will always be imaginary healers, fortune tellers, homeopaths and allopaths) because they satisfied the moral needs of the patient and people who love the patient. They satisfied that eternal human need hopes for relief, needs for sympathy and activity that a person experiences during suffering. They satisfied that eternal, human - noticeable in a child in the most primitive form - need to rub the place that is bruised. The child is killed and immediately runs into the arms of the mother, the nanny, so that they can kiss and rub the sore spot, and it becomes easier for him when the sore spot is rubbed or kissed. The child does not believe that his strongest and wisest do not have the means to help his pain. And the hope of relief and expressions of sympathy while his mother rubs his lump comfort him. The doctors were useful to Natasha because they kissed and rubbed the bobo, assuring that it would pass now if the coachman went to the Arbat pharmacy and took seven hryvnia worth of powders and pills in a nice box for a ruble, and if these powders would certainly be in two hours, no more and no less, the patient will take it in boiled water.
What would Sonya, the count and countess do, how would they look at the weak, melting Natasha, doing nothing, if there weren’t these pills by the hour, drinking something warm, a chicken cutlet and all the details of life prescribed by the doctor, which were the task of observing? and comfort for others? The stricter and more complex these rules were, the more comforting it was for those around them. How would the count bear the illness of his beloved daughter if he did not know that Natasha’s illness cost him thousands of rubles and that he would not spare thousands more to do her good: if he did not know that if she did not recover, he would not he will spare thousands more and take her abroad and hold consultations there; if he had not had the opportunity to tell details about how Metivier and Feller did not understand, but Frieze understood, and Mudrov defined the disease even better? What would the Countess do if she could not sometimes quarrel with the sick Natasha because she did not fully comply with the doctor’s instructions?
“You’ll never get well,” she said, forgetting her grief out of frustration, “if you don’t listen to the doctor and take your medicine at the wrong time!” After all, you can’t joke about it when you could get pneumonia,” said the countess, and in the pronunciation of this word, which was incomprehensible to more than one word, she already found great consolation. What would Sonya do if she did not have the joyful knowledge that she did not undress for three nights at first in order to be ready to carry out exactly all the doctor’s orders, and that she now does not sleep at night in order not to miss the clock , in which you should give low-harm pills from a golden box? Even Natasha herself, who, although she said that no medicine would cure her and that all this was nonsense, was happy to see that they made so many donations for her that she needed famous watches take medications, and even she was happy that, by neglecting to follow the prescribed instructions, she could show that she did not believe in treatment and did not value her life.