‘I can’t be everywhere at once,’ the doctor was saying. ‘Come and see me tonight. I’ll be at Makar Alexeich’s.’ The assistant wanted to ask more questions. ‘Oh, just do the best you can! What difference will it make?’
The doctor caught sight of Rostov coming up the stairs.
‘What are you doing here, sir?’ asked the doctor. ‘What are you doing here? If you’ve missed all the bullets why would you want to catch typhus? This, sir, is a leper colony.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rostov.
‘Typhus, sir. Go in there and you’re a dead man. There’s only the two of us still on our feet, Makeyev and me.’ (He pointed to the assistant.) ‘Five or six of us doctors have gone down. A new one comes in, give him a week and he’s had it,’ said the doctor with evident satisfaction. ‘We’ve sent for some Prussian doctors, but our allies don’t seem too keen to come.’
Rostov explained that he wanted to see one of the patients, Major Denisov of the hussars.
‘I can’t help you, my good sir. I don’t know who’s who. Listen, I’m on my own, looking after three hospitals, well over four hundred patients. It’s a good job the Prussian charitable ladies send us a couple of pounds of coffee and some lint every month or we’d be lost.’ He laughed. ‘Four hundred, sir, and new ones every day. It is four hundred, isn’t it?’ He turned to the assistant.
The assistant looked worn out. It was all too obvious that he was squirming with irritation, just wanting the garrulous doctor to go away.
‘Major Denisov,’ repeated Rostov. ‘He was wounded at Moliten.’
‘Oh, I think he’s dead. That’s right, isn’t it, Makeyev?’ the doctor asked casually.
But the assistant did not confirm what the doctor had said.
‘Long sort of fellow. Red-haired,’ suggested the doctor.
Rostov described Denisov’s appearance.
‘Yes, there was someone like that,’ the doctor declared with some delight. ‘Must be dead by now, but I’ll have a look. I used to have some lists. Have you got them, Makeyev?’
‘They’ve gone to Makar Alexeich,’ said the assistant. ‘But if you’d like to go along to the officers’ wards you can see for yourself,’ he added, turning to Rostov.
‘Ah, better not, sir!’ said the doctor. ‘You might end up staying here yourself.’ But Rostov said goodbye to the doctor with a polite bow and asked the assistant to show him the way.
‘Don’t blame me!’ the doctor shouted up the stairwell.
Rostov and the assistant turned into a dark corridor. The hospital stench was so strong there that Rostov held his nose and had to stop and pull himself together before going on. A door opened on the right, and out came a sallow, emaciated man limping along on crutches, dressed in his underclothes and with nothing on his feet. He leant against the door jamb and watched them as they approached, his eyes gleaming with envy. Rostov glanced in through the door and saw sick and wounded men lying about everywhere on the floor, on straw and greatcoats.
‘What’s in here?’ asked Rostov.
‘It’s the privates’ ward,’ said the assistant. ‘What can I do?’ he added almost apologetically.
‘Can I go in and have a look round?’ asked Rostov.
‘What is there to look at?’ said the assistant. But the assistant’s obvious desire to keep him out made Rostov all the more determined to go in, and he did so. Out in the corridor he had just about got used to the stench, but it was even stronger in here. It was different, more pungent, and you could tell that this was where it was coming from. In the long room, which was brilliantly lit by sunshine streaming in through big windows, lay two rows of sick and wounded men with their heads to the wall, leaving an aisle down the middle. Most of them were unconscious, oblivious to the arrival of any outsiders. The conscious ones perked up, or at least lifted their sallow, emaciated faces, and every one of them stared closely at Rostov, all with the same expression, a silent and hopeful call for help mingled with resentment and envy of another man’s health. Rostov went in as far as the middle of the room and then walked out, only to glance in through the open doors of the next two rooms, where he saw the same thing on both sides. He stood still, looking around. It was beyond words. He had never expected to see anything like this. Right in front of him sprawling across the empty central aisle on the bare floor was a sick man, probably a Cossack, to judge by the cut of his hair. He lay on his back, with his huge arms and legs outstretched. His face was a purply red, his eyes had rolled up leaving only the whites visible, and on his bare legs and arms, which were still red, the veins stood out like cords. He was banging his head on the floor, trying to say something in a hoarse whisper and repeating it over and over again. Rostov listened hard and at last he made out the one word that was being repeated. That word was, ‘drink-a drink-drink!’ Rostov looked round for anyone who might be able to move this sick man back into his place and give him water.
