The stretcher was on the move again. At every jolt he was racked with unbearable pain. His temperature rose and soon he was delirious. Images of his father, his wife, his sister and his unborn son, the tenderness he had felt on the eve of battle, the petty little figure of Napoleon, and above all the lofty sky – these were the essential ideas in his raving mind. He dreamt of a quiet life and peaceful family happiness at Bald Hills. He was settling down to enjoy this happiness when suddenly that little man Napoleon turned up with his callous, shrivelled look of someone revelling in the misery of others, and then came doubts and more agony, with only the sky promising peace. By morning all his dreams had merged and melted away into the chaos and darkness of unconsciousness and oblivion, with death, according to Napoleon’s surgeon, Dr Larrey, a much more likely prospect than recovery.
‘He’s a bad patient, all nerves and bile,’ said Larrey. ‘He’s not going to recover.’
Prince Andrey, with all the other hopeless cases, was left behind in the care of the local inhabitants.
VOLUME II
PART I
CHAPTER 1
It was 1806, early in the year, and Nikolay Rostov was going home on leave. So was Denisov, and since he lived in Voronezh Rostov persuaded him to call in at Moscow, break his journey and stay with them. Denisov met his comrade at the last posting station but one, and drank three bottles of wine with him, after which not even the potholes on the Moscow road could keep him awake, slumped as he was at the bottom of the sledge beside Rostov, who was getting more and more impatient the nearer they came to Moscow.
‘Oh, how much further is it? How much further? Oh, these awful streets, shops, bakers’ signs, street lamps, sledges!’ thought Rostov, when they had signed in at the city gates and entered the outskirts of Moscow.
‘Denisov, we’re here! Still asleep!’ he kept saying, urging his body forward as though that might make the sledge go faster. Denisov made no response.
‘This is the crossroads corner where Zakhar used to wait with his sledge. There he is – that’s Zakhar! Still the same horse. Oh, we used to buy cakes at that little shop. Oh, do get a move on! Please!’
‘Which house is it?’ asked the driver.
‘That one at the end, the big one. Are you blind? That’s our house,’ Rostov kept saying. ‘Oh yes, that’s our house.’
‘Denisov! Denisov! We’re nearly there!’
Denisov glanced up, cleared his throat and said nothing.
‘Dmitry,’ said Rostov to his valet on the box, ‘the lights are still on at home, aren’t they?’
‘They certainly are. There’s even a light in your papa’s study.’
‘They haven’t gone to bed yet, have they?’
‘Make sure you get my new tunic out straightaway,’ he added, fingering his newly grown moustache. ‘Will you get a move on!’ he yelled at the driver. ‘Come on, do wake up, Vaska,’ he said to Denisov, whose head had drooped again. ‘Oh, do get a move on! I’ll give you a tip, three roubles, if you’ll only
Old Mikhaylo was lying on his wooden chest fast asleep, but the footman, Prokofy, a man strong enough to lift the back of a carriage right off the ground, was sitting there busily making peasant shoes out of strips of selvage. He glanced towards the door as it was flung open and his expression of dozy indifference changed instantly to a mixture of joy and alarm.
‘Merciful heavens! If it’s not the young master!’ he cried, recognizing the young count. ‘It can’t be! My dear, dear boy!’ And Prokofy, shaking with emotion, leapt for the drawing-room door, probably wanting to announce him, but then thought better of it, came back and fell on his young master’s shoulder.
‘Is everyone well?’ asked Rostov, withdrawing his arm.
‘Yes, thank God! They’re all well, thank God! Just finished supper! Oh, let me have a good look at you, your Excellency!’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh yes, thank God. Thank God!’
