战争与和平(上)-第98章

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r　they　wouldn’t　soon　forget。
Denisov　spoke　in　this　careless　way　of　the　whole　affair。　But　Rostov　knew　him　too　well　not　to　detect　that　in　his　heart　（though　he　hid　it　from　others）　he　was　afraid　of　a　court…martial；　and　was　worrying　over　the　matter；　which　was　obviously　certain　to　have　disastrous　consequences。　Documents　began　to　come　every　day；　and　notices　from　the　court；　and　Denisov　received　a　summons　to　put　his　squadron　under　the　command　of　the　officer　next　in　seniority；　and　on　the　first　of　May　to　appear　before　the　staff　of　the　division　for　an　investigation　into　the　row　in　the　commissariat　office。　On　the　previous　day　Platov　undertook　a　reconnaissance　of　the　enemy　with　two　regiments　of　Cossacks　and　two　squadrons　of　hussars。　Denisov；　with　his　usual　swaggering　gallantry；　rode　in　the　front　of　the　line。　One　of　the　bullets　fired　by　the　French　sharpshooters　struck　him　in　the　fleshy　upper　part　of　the　leg。　Possibly　at　any　other　time　Denisov　would　not　have　left　the　regiment　for　so　slight　a　wound；　but　now　he　took　advantage　of　it　to　excuse　himself　from　appearing　before　the　staff；　and　went　into　the　hospital。


Chapter　17
IN　THE　MONTH　of　June　was　fought　the　battle　of　Friedland；　in　which　the　Pavlograd　hussars　did　not　take　part。　It　was　followed　by　a　truce。　Rostov；　who　sorely　felt　his　friend’s　absence；　and　had　had　no　news　of　him　since　he　left；　was　uneasy　about　his　wound　and　the　course　his　difficulties　might　be　taking；　and　he　took　advantage　of　the　truce　to　get　leave　to　visit　Denisov　at　the　hospital。
The　hospital　was　in　a　little　Prussian　town；　which　had　twice　been　sacked　by　Russian　and　French　troops。　In　the　summer　weather；　when　the　country　looked　so　pleasant；　this　little　town　presented　a　strikingly　melancholy　contrast；　with　its　broken　roofs　and　fences；　its　foul　streets　and　ragged　inhabitants；　and　the　sick　and　drunken　soldiers　wandering　about　it。
The　hospital　was　a　stone　house　with　remnants　of　fence　torn　up　in　the　yard；　and　window　frames　and　panes　partly　broken。　Several　soldiers　bandaged　up；　and　with　pale　and　swollen　faces；　were　walking　or　sitting　in　the　sunshine　in　the　yard。
As　soon　as　Rostov　went　in　at　the　door；　he　was　conscious　of　the　stench　of　hospital　and　putrefying　flesh　all　about　him。　On　the　stairs　he　met　a　Russian　army　doctor　with　a　cigar　in　his　mouth。　He　was　followed　by　a　Russian　trained　assistant。
“I　can’t　be　everywhere　at　once；”　the　doctor　was　saying；　“come　in　the　evening　to　Makar　Alexyevitch’s；　I　shall　be　there。”　The　assistant　asked　some　further　question。　“Oh！　do　as　you　think　best！　What　difference　will　it　make？”
The　doctor　caught　sight　of　Rostov　mounting　the　stairs。
“What　are　you　here　for；　your　honour？”　said　the　doctor。　“What　are　you　here　for？　Couldn’t　you　meet　with　a　bullet　that　you　want　to　pick　up　typhus？　This　is　a　pest…house；　my　good　sir。”
“How　so？”　asked　Rostov。
“Typhus；　sir。　It’s　death　to　any　one　to　go　in。　It’s　only　we　two；　Makeev　and　I”　（he　pointed　to　the　assistant）　“who　are　still　afoot　here。　Five　of　us；　doctors；　have　died　here　already。　As　soon　as　a　new　one　comes；　he’s　done　for　in　a　week；”　said　the　doctor　with　evident　satisfaction。　“They　have　sent　for　Prussian　doctors；　but　our　allies　aren’t　fond　of　the　job。”
Rostov　explained　that　he　wanted　to　see　Major　Denisov　of　the　hussars；　who　was　lying　wounded　here。
“I　don’t　know；　can’t　tell　you；　my　good　sir。　Only　think；　I　have　three　hospitals　to　look　after　alone—over　four　hundred　patients。　It’s　a　good　thing　the　Prussian　charitable　ladies　send　us　coffee　and　lint—two　pounds　a　month—or　we　should　be　lost。”　He　laughed。　“Four　hundred；　sir；　and　they　keep　sending　me　in　fresh　cases。　It　is　four　hundred；　isn’t　it？　Eh？”　He　turned　to　the　assistant。
The　assistant　looked　worried。　He　was　unmistakably　in　a　hurry　for　the　talkative　doctor　to　be　gone；　and　was　waiting　with　vexation。
“Major　Denisov；”　repeated　Rostov；　“he　was　wounded　at　Moliten。”
“I　believe　he’s　dead。　Eh；　Makeev？”　the　doctor　queried　of　the　assistant　carelessly。
The　assistant　did　not；　however；　confirm　the　doctor’s　words。
“Is　he　a　long；　red…haired　man？”　asked　the　doctor。
Rostov　described　Denisov’s　appearance。
“He　was　here；　he　was；”　the　doctor　declared；　with　a　sort　of　glee。　“He　must　be　dead；　but　still　I’ll　see。　I　have　lists。　Have　you　got　them；　Makeev？”
“The　lists　are　at　Makar　Alexyevitch’s；”　said　the　assistant。　“But　go　to　the　officers’　ward；　there　you’ll　see　for　yourself；”　he　added；　turning　to　Rostov。
“Ah；　you’d　better　not；　sir！”　said　the　doctor；　“or　you　may　have　to　stay　here　yourself。”　But　Rostov　bowed　himself　away　from　the　doctor；　and　asked　the　assistant　to　show　him　the　way。
“Don’t　blame　me　afterwards；　mind！”　the　doctor　shouted　up　from　the　stairs　below。
Rostov　and　the　assistant　went　into　the　corridor。　The　hospital　stench　was　so　strong　in　that　dark　corridor　that　Rostov　held　his　nose；　and　was　obliged　to　pause　to　recover　his　energy　to　go　on。　A　door　was　opened　on　the　right；　and　there　limped　out　on　crutches　a　thin　yellow　man　with　bare　feet；　and　nothing　on　but　his　underlinen。　Leaning　against　the　doorpost；　he　gazed　with　glittering；　anxious　eyes　at　the　persons　approaching。　Rostov　glanced　in　at　the　door　and　saw　that　the　sick　and　wounded　were　lying　there　on　the　floor；　on　straw　and　on　overcoats。
“Can　one　go　in　and　look？”　asked　Rostov。
“What　is　there　to　look　at？”　said　the　assistant。　But　just　because　the　assistant　was　obviously　disinclined　to　let　him　go　in；　Rostov　went　into　the　soldiers’　ward。　The　stench；　to　which　he　had　grown　used　a　little　in　the　corridor；　was　stronger　here。　Here　the　stench　was　different；　it　was　more　intense；　and　one　could　smell　that　it　was　from　here　that　it　came。　In　the　long　room；　brightly　lighted　by　the　sun　in　the　big　window；　lay　the　sick　and　wounded　in　two　rows　with　their　heads　to　the　wall；　leaving　a　passage　down　the　middle。　The　greater　number　of　them　were　unconscious；　and　took　no　notice　of　the　entrance　of　outsiders。　Those　who　were　conscious　got　up　or　raised　their　thin；　yellow　faces；　and　all　gazed　intently　at　Rostov；　with　the　same　expression　of　hope　of　help；　of　reproach；　and　envy　of　another　man’s　health。　Rostov　went　into　the　middle　of　the　room；　glanced　in　at　the　open　doors　of　adjoining　rooms；　and　on　both　sides　saw　the　same　thing。　He　stood　still；　looking　round　him　speechless。　He　had　never　expected　to　see　anything　like　this。　Just　before　him　lay　right　across　the　empty　space　down　the　middle；　on　the　bare　floor；　a　sick　man；　probably　a　Cossack；　for　his　hair　was　cut　round　in　basin　shape。　This　Cossack　lay　on　his　back；　his　huge　arms　and　legs　outstretched。　His　face　was　of　a　purple　red；　his　eyes　were　quite　sunk　in　his　head　so　that　only　the　whites　could　be　seen；　and　on　his　legs　and　on　his　hands；　which　were　still　red；　the　veins　stood　out　like　cords。　He　was　knocking　his　head　against　the　floor；　and　he　uttered　some　word　and　kept　repeating　it。　Rostov　listened　to　what　he　was　saying；　and　distinguished　the　word　he　kept　repeating。　That　word　was　“drink—drink—drink！”　Rostov　looked　about　for　some　one　who　could　lay　the　sick　man　in　his　place　and　give　him　water。
“Who　looks　after　the　patients　here？”　he　asked　the　assistant。　At　that　moment　a　commissariat　soldier；　a　hospital　orderly；　came　in　from　the　adjoining　room；　and；　marching　in　drill　step；　drew　himself　up　before　him。
“Good　day；　your　honour！”　bawled　this　soldier；　rolling　his　eyes　at　Rostov；　and　obviously　mistaking　him　for　one　in　authority。
“Take　him　away；　give　him　water；”　said　Rostov；　indicating　the　Cossack。
“Certainly；　your　honour；”　the　soldier　replied　complacently；　rolling　his　eyes　more　strenuously　than　ever。　and　drawing　himself　up；　but　not　budging　to　do　so。
“No；　there’s　no　doing　anything　here；”　thought　Rostov；　dropping　his　eyes；　and　he　wanted　to　get　away；　but　he　was　aware　of　a　significant　look　bent　upon　him　from　the　right　side；　and　he　looked　round　at　it。　Almost　in　the　corner　there　was；　sitting　on　a　military　overcoat；　an　old　soldier　with　a　stern　yellow　face；　thin　as　a　skeleton’s；　and　an　unshaved　grey　beard。　He　was　looking　persistently　at　Rostov。　The　man　next　the　old　soldier　was　whispering　something　to　him；　pointing　to　Rostov。　Rostov　saw　the　old　man　wanted　to　ask　him　something。　He　went　closer　and　saw　that　the　old　man　had　only　one　leg　bent　under　him；　the　other　had　been　cut　off　above　the　knee。　On　the　other　side　of　the　old　man；　at　some　distance　from　him；　there　lay　with　head　thrown　back　the　motionless　figure　of　a　young　soldier　with　a　waxen　pallor　on　his　snub…nosed　and　still　freckled　face；　and　eyes　sunken　under　the　lids。　Rostov　looked　at　the　snub…nosed　soldier　and　a　shiver　ran　down　his　back。
“Why；　that　one　seems　to　be　…”　he　said　to　the　assistant。
“We’ve　begged　and　begged；　your　honour；”　said　the　old　soldier　with　a　quiver　in　his　lower　jaw。　“He　died　early　in　the　morning。　We’re　men；　too；　not　dogs。…”
“I’ll　see　to　it　directly；　they　shall　take　him；　they　shall　take　him　away；”　said　the　assistant　hurriedly。　“Come；　your　honour。”
“Let　us　go；　let　us　go；”　said　Rostov　hastily；　and　dropping　his　eyes　and　shrinking　together；　trying　to　pass　unnoticed　through　the　lines　of　those　reproachful　and　envious　eyes　fastened　upon　him；　he　went　out　of　the　room。


Chapter　18
THE　ASSISTANT　walked　along　the　corridor　and　led　Rostov　to　the　officers’　wards；　three　rooms　with　doors　opening　between　them。　In　these　rooms　there　were　bedsteads；　the　officers　were　sitting　and　lying　upon　them。　Some　were　walking　about　the　room　in　hospital　dressing…gowns。　The　first　person　who　met　Rostov　in　the　officers’　ward　was　a　thin　little　man　who　had　lost　one　arm。　He　was　walking　about　the　first　room　in　a　nightcap　and　hospital　dressing…gown；　with　a　short　pipe　between　his　teeth。　Rostov；　looking　intently　at　him；　tried　to　recall　where　he　had　seen　him。
“See　where　it　was　God’s　will　for　us　to　meet　again；”　said　the　little　man。　“Tushin；　Tushin；　do　you　remember　I　brought　you　along　after　Sch？ngraben？　They　have　sliced　a　bit　off　me；　see；…”　said　he　smiling；　and　showing　the　empty　sleeve　of　his　dressing…gown。　“Is　it　Vassily　Dmitryevitch　Denisov　you　are　looking　for—a　fellow…lodger　here？”　he　said；　hearing　who　it　was　Rostov　wanted。　“Here；　here；”　and　he　led　him　into　the　next　room；　from　which　there　came　the　sound　of　several　men　laughing。　“How　can　they　live　in　this　place　even；　much　less　laugh？”　thought　Rostov；　still　aware　of　that　corpse…like　smell　that　had　been　so　overpowering　in　the　soldiers’　ward；　and　still　seeing　around　him　those　envious　eyes　following　him　on　both　sides；　and　the　face　of　that　young　soldier　with　the　sunken　eyes。
Denisov；　covered　up　to　his　head　with　the　quilt；　was　still　in　bed；　though　it　was　twelve　o’clock　in　the　day。
“Ah；　Rostov！　How　are　you；　how　are　you？”　he　shouted；　still　in　the　same　voice　as　in　the　regiment。　But　Rostov　noticed　with　grief；　behind　this　habitual　briskness　and　swagger；　some　new；　sinister；　smothered　feeling　that　peeped　out　in　the　words　and　intonations　and　the　expression　of　the　face　of　Denisov。
His　wound；　trifling　as　it　was；　had　still　not　healed；　though　six　weeks　had　passed　since　he　was　wounded。　His　face　had　the　same　swollen　pallor　as　all　the　faces　in　the　hospital。　But　that　was　not　what　struck　Rostov：　what　struck　him　was　that　Denisov　did　not　seem　pleased　to　see　him；　and　his　smile　was　forced。　Denisov　asked　him　nothing　either　of　the　regiment　or　of　the　general　progress　of　the　war。　When　Rostov　talked　of　it；　Denisov　did　not　listen。