But at midday the adjutant of the regiment came with a grave and gloomy face to the hut shared by Denisov and Rostov, and regretfully showed them a formal communication to Major Denisov from the colonel, in which inquiries were made about the incidents of the previous day. The adjutant informed them that the affair seemed likely to take a very disastrous turn; that a court-martial was to be held; and that, with the strictness now prevailing as regards pillaging and breach of discipline, it would be a lucky chance if it ended in being degraded to the ranks.
The case, as presented by the offended parties, was that Major Denisov, after carrying off the transports, had without any provocation come in a drunken condition to the chief commissioner of the commissariat, had called him a thief, threatened to beat him; and, when he was led out, had rushed into the office, attacked two officials, and sprained the arm of one of them.
In response to further inquiries from Rostov, Denisov said, laughing, that it did seem certainly as though some other fellow had been mixed up in it, but that it was all stuff and nonsense; that he would never dream of being afraid of courts of any sort, and that if the scoundrels dared to pick a quarrel with him, he would give them an answer 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 hus-
sars. 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.
XVII
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. I11 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) ‘w'ho 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.
