Book Five: 1806-07 - Chapter XVII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　In June the battle of Friedland was fought, in which thePavlograds did not take part, and after that an armistice wasproclaimed. Rostov, who felt his friend's absence very much, having nonews of him since he left and feeling very anxious about his wound andthe progress of his affairs, took advantage of the armistice to getleave to visit Denisov in hospital.

　　The hospital was in a small Prussian town that had been twicedevastated by Russian and French troops. Because it was summer, whenit is so beautiful out in the fields, the little town presented aparticularly dismal appearance with its broken roofs and fences, itsfoul streets, tattered inhabitants, and the sick and drunkensoldiers wandering about.

　　The hospital was in a brick building with some of the windowframes and panes broken and a courtyard surrounded by the remains of awooden fence that had been pulled to pieces. Several bandagedsoldiers, with pale swollen faces, were sitting or walking about inthe sunshine in the yard.

　　Directly Rostov entered the door he was enveloped by a smell ofputrefaction and hospital air. On the stairs he met a Russian armydoctor smoking a cigar. The doctor was followed by a Russianassistant.

　　"I can't tear myself to pieces," the doctor was saying. "Come toMakar Alexeevich in the evening. I shall be there."

　　The assistant asked some further questions.

　　"Oh, do the best you can! Isn't it all the same?" The doctor noticedRostov coming upstairs.

　　"What do you want, sir?" said the doctor. "What do you want? Thebullets having spared you, do you want to try typhus? This is apesthouse, sir."

　　"How so?" asked Rostov.

　　"Typhus, sir. It's death to go in. Only we two, Makeev and I" (hepointed to the assistant), "keep on here. Some five of us doctors havedied in this place.... When a new one comes he is done for in a week,"said the doctor with evident satisfaction. "Prussian doctors have beeninvited here, but our allies don't like it at all."

　　Rostov explained that he wanted to see Major Denisov of the hussars,who was wounded.

　　"I don't know. I can't tell you, sir. Only think! I am alone incharge of three hospitals with more than four hundred patients! It'swell that the charitable Prussian ladies send us two pounds ofcoffee and some lint each month or we should be lost!" he laughed."Four hundred, sir, and they're always sending me fresh ones. Thereare four hundred? Eh?" he asked, turning to the assistant.

　　The assistant looked fagged out. He was evidently vexed andimpatient for the talkative doctor to go.

　　"Major Denisov," Rostov said again. "He was wounded at Molliten."

　　"Dead, I fancy. Eh, Makeev?" queried the doctor, in a tone ofindifference.

　　The assistant, however, did not confirm the doctor's words.

　　"Is he tall and with reddish hair?" asked the doctor.

　　Rostov described Denisov's appearance.

　　"There was one like that," said the doctor, as if pleased. "That oneis dead, I fancy. However, I'll look up our list. We had a list.Have you got it, Makeev?"

　　"Makar Alexeevich has the list," answered the assistant. "But ifyou'll step into the officers' wards you'll see for yourself," headded, turning to Rostov.

　　"Ah, you'd better not go, sir," said the doctor, "or you may have tostay here yourself."

　　But Rostov bowed himself away from the doctor and asked theassistant to show him the way.

　　"Only don't blame me!" the doctor shouted up after him.

　　Rostov and the assistant went into the dark corridor. The smellwas so strong there that Rostov held his nose and had to pause andcollect his strength before he could go on. A door opened to theright, and an emaciated sallow man on crutches, barefoot and inunderclothing, limped out and, leaning against the doorpost, lookedwith glittering envious eyes at those who were passing. Glancing in atthe door, Rostov saw that the sick and wounded were lying on the flooron straw and overcoats.

　　"May I go in and look?"

　　"What is there to see?" said the assistant.

　　But, just because the assistant evidently did not want him to go in,Rostov entered the soldiers' ward. The foul air, to which he hadalready begun to get used in the corridor, was still stronger here. Itwas a little different, more pungent, and one felt that this was whereit originated.

　　In the long room, brightly lit up by the sun through the largewindows, the sick and wounded lay in two rows with their heads tothe walls, and leaving a passage in the middle. Most of them wereunconscious and paid no attention to the newcomers. Those who wereconscious raised themselves or lifted their thin yellow faces, and alllooked intently at Rostov with the same expression of hope, of relief,reproach, and envy of another's health. Rostov went to the middle ofthe room and looking through the open doors into the two adjoiningrooms saw the same thing there. He stood still, looking silentlyaround. He had not at all expected such a sight. Just before him,almost across the middle of the passage on the bare floor, lay asick man, probably a Cossack to judge by the cut of his hair. Theman lay on his back, his huge arms and legs outstretched. His face waspurple, his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites were seen,and on his bare legs and arms which were still red, the veins stoodout like cords. He was knocking the back of his head against thefloor, hoarsely uttering some word which he kept repeating. Rostovlistened and made out the word. It was "drink, drink, a drink!" Rostovglanced round, looking for someone who would put this man back inhis place and bring him water.

　　"Who looks after the sick here?" he asked the assistant.

　　Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in fromthe next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostov.

　　"Good day, your honor!" he shouted, rolling his eyes at Rostov andevidently mistaking him for one of the hospital authorities.

　　"Get him to his place and give him some water," said Rostov,pointing to the Cossack.

　　"Yes, your honor," the soldier replied complacently, and rolling hiseyes more than ever he drew himself up still straighter, but did notmove.

　　"No, it's impossible to do anything here," thought Rostov,lowering his eyes, and he was going out, but became aware of anintense look fixed on him on his right, and he turned. Close to thecorner, on an overcoat, sat an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldieras thin as a skeleton, with a stern sallow face and eyes intentlyfixed on Rostov. The man's neighbor on one side whispered something tohim, pointing at Rostov, who noticed that the old man wanted tospeak to him. He drew nearer and saw that the old man had only one legbent under him, the other had been amputated above the knee. Hisneighbor on the other side, who lay motionless some distance fromhim with his head thrown back, was a young soldier with a snub nose.His pale waxen face was still freckled and his eyes were rolledback. Rostov looked at the young soldier and a cold chill ran down hisback.

　　"Why, this one seems..." he began, turning to the assistant.

　　"And how we've been begging, your honor," said the old soldier,his jaw quivering. "He's been dead since morning. After all we're men,not dogs."

　　"I'll send someone at once. He shall be taken away- taken away atonce," said the assistant hurriedly. "Let us go, your honor."

　　"Yes, yes, let us go," said Rostov hastily, and lowering his eyesand shrinking, he tried to pass unnoticed between the rows ofreproachful envious eyes that were fixed upon him, and went out of theroom.