Chapter Chapter 102 · 第102章

Going along the corridor, the assistant led Rostóv to the officers’

wards, consisting of three rooms, the doors of which stood open. There

were beds in these rooms and the sick and wounded officers were lying or

sitting on them. Some were walking about the rooms in hospital dressing

gowns. The first person Rostóv met in the officers’ ward was a thin

little man with one arm, who was walking about the first room in a

nightcap and hospital dressing gown, with a pipe between his teeth.

Rostóv looked at him, trying to remember where he had seen him before.

“See where we’ve met again!” said the little man. “Túshin,

Túshin, don’t you remember, who gave you a lift at Schön Grabern?

And I’ve had a bit cut off, you see...” he went on with a smile,

pointing to the empty sleeve of his dressing gown. “Looking for

Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov? My neighbor,” he added, when he heard

who Rostóv wanted. “Here, here,” and Túshin led him into the next

room, from whence came sounds of several laughing voices.

“How can they laugh, or even live at all here?” thought Rostóv,

still aware of that smell of decomposing flesh that had been so strong

in the soldiers’ ward, and still seeming to see fixed on him those

envious looks which had followed him out from both sides, and the face

of that young soldier with eyes rolled back.

Denísov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though

it was nearly noon.

“Ah, Wostóv? How are you, how are you?” he called out, still in the

same voice as in the regiment, but Rostóv noticed sadly that under this

habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed

itself in the expression of Denísov’s face and the intonations of his

voice.

His wound, though a slight one, had not yet healed even now, six weeks

after he had been hit. His face had the same swollen pallor as the faces

of the other hospital patients, but it was not this that struck Rostóv.

What struck him was that Denísov did not seem glad to see him, and

smiled at him unnaturally. He did not ask about the regiment, nor about

the general state of affairs, and when Rostóv spoke of these matters

did not listen.

Rostóv even noticed that Denísov did not like to be reminded of the

regiment, or in general of that other free life which was going on

outside the hospital. He seemed to try to forget that old life and

was only interested in the affair with the commissariat officers. On

Rostóv’s inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from

under his pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the

rough draft of his answer to it. He became animated when he began

reading his paper and specially drew Rostóv’s attention to the

stinging rejoinders he made to his enemies. His hospital companions,

who had gathered round Rostóv—a fresh arrival from the world

outside—gradually began to disperse as soon as Denísov began reading

his answer. Rostóv noticed by their faces that all those gentlemen had

already heard that story more than once and were tired of it. Only the

man who had the next bed, a stout Uhlan, continued to sit on his bed,

gloomily frowning and smoking a pipe, and little one-armed Túshin still

listened, shaking his head disapprovingly. In the middle of the reading,

the Uhlan interrupted Denísov.

“But what I say is,” he said, turning to Rostóv, “it would be

best simply to petition the Emperor for pardon. They say great rewards

will now be distributed, and surely a pardon would be granted....”

“Me petition the Empewo’!” exclaimed Denísov, in a voice to which

he tried hard to give the old energy and fire, but which sounded like

an expression of irritable impotence. “What for? If I were a wobber I

would ask mercy, but I’m being court-martialed for bwinging wobbers

to book. Let them twy me, I’m not afwaid of anyone. I’ve served

the Tsar and my countwy honowably and have not stolen! And am I to be

degwaded?... Listen, I’m w’iting to them stwaight. This is what I

say: ‘If I had wobbed the Tweasuwy...’”

“It’s certainly well written,” said Túshin, “but that’s not

the point, Vasíli Dmítrich,” and he also turned to Rostóv. “One

has to submit, and Vasíli Dmítrich doesn’t want to. You know the

auditor told you it was a bad business.”

“Well, let it be bad,” said Denísov.

“The auditor wrote out a petition for you,” continued Túshin,

“and you ought to sign it and ask this gentleman to take it. No doubt

he” (indicating Rostóv) “has connections on the staff. You won’t

find a better opportunity.”

“Haven’t I said I’m not going to gwovel?” Denísov interrupted

him, went on reading his paper.

Rostóv had not the courage to persuade Denísov, though he

instinctively felt that the way advised by Túshin and the other

officers was the safest, and though he would have been glad to be of

service to Denísov. He knew his stubborn will and straightforward hasty

temper.

When the reading of Denísov’s virulent reply, which took more than an

hour, was over, Rostóv said nothing, and he spent the rest of the day

in a most dejected state of mind amid Denísov’s hospital comrades,

who had gathered round him, telling them what he knew and listening to

their stories. Denísov was moodily silent all the evening.

Late in the evening, when Rostóv was about to leave, he asked Denísov

whether he had no commission for him.

“Yes, wait a bit,” said Denísov, glancing round at the officers,

and taking his papers from under his pillow he went to the window, where

he had an inkpot, and sat down to write.

“It seems it’s no use knocking one’s head against a wall!” he

said, coming from the window and giving Rostóv a large envelope. In

it was the petition to the Emperor drawn up by the auditor, in

which Denísov, without alluding to the offenses of the commissariat

officials, simply asked for pardon.

“Hand it in. It seems...”

He did not finish, but gave a painfully unnatural smile.