'Who looks after the patients in here?' he asked the assistant. At that moment a commissariat soldier working in the hospital as an orderly came in from the adjoining room, marched up, stamped and came to attention.
'Good day to you, sah!' bawled this soldier, goggling at Rostov and obviously mistaking him for some medical authority.
'Move that man. Give him some water,' said Rostov, pointing to the Cossack.
'Sah!' the soldier replied most obligingly, goggling harder than ever, still standing rigidly at attention and not offering to move away.
'No, nothing can be done here,' thought Rostov, looking down, and he was just about to walk away when he became aware of someone to his right giving him a special kind of look and he turned to see who it was. An old veteran sat there on a greatcoat, almost hidden in the corner, his harsh face all yellow, emaciated and cadaverous, his grey beard unshaven. He was staring closely at Rostov. The man next to him was whispering something and pointing to Rostov. Rostov could see that the old man wanted to ask him something. He went up closer and saw that the old veteran had only one leg bent under him, the other having been cut off above the knee. On the other side of the old man, a short distance away, lay a young private with his head thrown back, a waxen pallor on his snub-nosed, freckled face and his eyes rolled up under their lids. Rostov looked at this snub-nosed soldier and a chill ran down his spine.
'Hey, that one seems to be . . .' he said to the assistant.
'We've begged and begged, your Honour,' said the old soldier with a trembling jaw. 'He died early this morning. We're men, too, we're not dogs . . .'
'I'll see to it immediately. He'll be taken away, yes, er, taken away,' said the assistant hurriedly. 'This way, sir.'
'Come on, let's go,' said Rostov hastily, looking down, shrinking into himself and trying to pass unnoticed down the lines of those resentful and envious eyes which remained glued on him as he walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 18
The assistant walked down the corridor and led Rostov to the officers' wards, three rooms with doors opening between them. These rooms contained beds, and the sick or wounded officers were sitting or lying on them. Some were walking from one room to another in hospital dressing-gowns. The first person to meet Rostov in the officers' ward was a thin little man who had lost an arm. He was sucking on a stumpy pipe as he walked about the first room wearing a hospital dressing-gown and a night-cap. Rostov looked at him closely, trying to remember where he had seen him before.
'We meet again - by God's will - and what a place!' said the little man. 'Tushin, Tushin. You remember. I gave you a lift after Schongrabern? Look, I've had a bit chopped off . . .' he said with a broad grin, showing the empty sleeve of his dressing-gown. 'Oh, you're looking for Vasily Denisov, are you? He's one of our room-mates,' he said, when he heard who Rostov wanted. 'Come through here,' and he led him into the next room, from which he could hear the sound of voices and several men laughing.
'How can they even live in this place, never mind laugh?' thought Rostov, with that stench of dead flesh from the privates' ward still in his nose. He had not yet escaped from those envious eyes following him on both sides, and the face of that young soldier with the eyes rolled upwards.
Denisov was asleep on his bed, with a quilt pulled up over his head, even though it was nearly midday.
'Hello, Wostov! How are you, how are you?' called the old familiar voice. But Rostov noticed with great sadness that behind this habitual show of breeziness lurked a new, secret and sinister feeling, just discernible in what Denisov said, the way he said it and the look on his face.
His wound was nothing much, but six weeks after the incident it still hadn't healed. His face was puffy and pallid like all the other hospital faces. But Rostov was struck by something else - Denisov didn't seem pleased to see him, and his smile was forced. He asked not a single question about the regiment or how the war was going, and when Rostov talked about these things Denisov wasn't listening.
Rostov even noticed that Denisov looked uncomfortable whenever he was reminded of the regiment, or of that other life of freedom outside the hospital. He seemed to be trying to forget the old life, as if he wanted to concentrate solely on his dealings with the commissariat officials. When Rostov asked how things were going in this direction, Denisov felt under his pillow and quickly pulled out a document which had recently come from the commission, and a first draft of his response to it. He got more and more excited as he read through his reply and he was particularly keen to emphasize for Rostov's benefit one or two clever barbs launched against his adversaries. Denisov's hospital companions, who had gathered round Rostov when they spotted a new arrival from the freedom of the outside world, began to drift away one by one as soon as Denisov started to read his text. Rostov guessed from the looks on their faces that all these gentlemen had heard the story many times before and they were getting bored with it. The only exceptions were his nearest neighbour, a fat Uhlan, who sat there on his bunk scowling darkly and smoking his pipe, and little one-armed Tushin, who never stopped listening, though he showed disapproval by shaking his head. The Uhlan interrupted Denisov in mid-flow.
'As far as I'm concerned,' he said, turning to Rostov, 'he ought to go straight to the Emperor and ask for a pardon. Everybody says there are big rewards on offer just now, and he'll get a pardon for sure . . .'
'What, me wequest a pardon fwom the Empewor!' said Denisov in a voice which he tried to invest with all his old energy and ardour, though there was a sense of impotence behind all the irritation. 'Why should I? If I was a wobber I'd ask for mercy, but hewe I am on a charge for twying to show who the wobbers are. Let them twy me. Nobody can fwighten me. I have twuly served my Tsar and my country, and I'm not a thief! They can weduce me to the wanks, and . . . Well anyway, this is stwaight talking. You listen to what I've witten: "If I had wobbed the government . . ." '
'That's well put, no doubt about it,' said Tushin. 'But it's not the point, Vasily,' he turned to Rostov, 'you have to give in to them, and Vasily won't do it. You know the auditor said it doesn't look good.'
'So what?' said Denisov.
'The auditor wrote out a petition for you,' Tushin went on. 'All you have to do is sign it and send it off. This gentleman will take it. He' (Rostov was indicated) 'probably has influence up at HQ. This is your best chance.'
'I've told you I'm not gwovelling to anybody,' said Denisov, cutting in, and he went on reading his reply.
Rostov didn't dare argue with Denisov, though he felt instinctively that the course proposed by Tushin and the other officers was the safest. He would have been only too happy to help Denisov, but he knew all about his obstinacy and his hot-tempered self-righteousness.
Denisov's vitriolic outpouring lasted more than an hour, and when it was over Rostov said nothing. He spent the rest of the day, deeply dispirited, in the company of Denisov's new friends, who had gathered round him again, telling them everything he knew and listening to other people's stories. Denisov looked on gloomily and said not a word as the evening went on.
Late in the evening when Rostov was about to leave, he asked Denisov if he had any jobs for him to do.
'Yes, hang on,' said Denisov. He looked round at the officers, took his papers out from under the pillow and went over to the window where there was an inkstand. He sat down to write.
'I can see it's no good knocking my head against a bwick wall,' he said, coming away from the window and handing Rostov a large envelope. It was the petition addressed to the Emperor which the auditor had drawn up for him, and in it Denisov avoided references to any wrong doing by officials in the commissariat, and simply asked for a pardon. 'Please hand it in. I think . . .' He stopped short and smiled a forced and sickly smile.
CHAPTER 19
Rostov returned to the regiment, reported to the commander on the progress of Denisov's case and then rode on to Tilsit with the letter to the Emperor.
On the 13th of June the French and Russian Emperors m
et at Tilsit. Boris Drubetskoy had asked the dignitary for whom he worked to include him in the entourage appointed for Tilsit.
'I'd like to see the great man,' he said, meaning Napoleon, having hitherto called him Bonaparte like everybody else.
'Do you mean Bonaparte?' said the general with a smile.
Boris looked quizzically at his general, but soon spotted that this was a little test in the form of a joke.
'I am speaking, sir, of the Emperor Napoleon,' he replied. The general smiled again and clapped him on the shoulder.
'You'll go far,' he said, and took him with him. Boris was one of the few people present at the Niemen on the day the two Emperors met. He saw the rafts decorated with royal monograms, watched Napoleon drive past the French guards on the far bank, saw the Emperor Alexander looking very pensive as he sat silent in the inn on the bank of the Niemen waiting for Napoleon's arrival. He watched as both Emperors got into boats, and saw Napoleon reach the raft first and walk forward rapidly to meet Alexander and shake him by the hand, whereupon both Emperors disappeared into a pavilion. Ever since he had begun to move in the highest circles, Boris had formed the habit of keenly observing everything that went on around him and writing it all down. During the meeting of the Emperors at Tilsit, he asked the names of the persons accompanying Napoleon, inquired about the uniforms they were wearing, and listened carefully to every word uttered by any person of consequence. At the precise moment the Emperors went into the pavilion he looked at his watch, and he didn't forget to look at it again the moment Alexander came out. The meeting had lasted one hour and fifty-three minutes, and he made a note of this that evening along with other details that he considered to be of historical importance. Since the imperial entourage was not very large, just to be present at Tilsit at the meeting of the two Emperors was a matter of real significance for a man who set so much store by succeeding in the service, and now that he had managed to get himself there Boris felt that henceforth his position was totally secure. He had not simply made himself known, he was now getting noticed and becoming a familiar figure. On two occasions he had been on assignments to the Emperor himself, so that the Emperor knew him by sight, and the people at court no longer kept him at arm's length, as they had done at first when they saw him as an upstart. Now, if he wasn't there people would be surprised.
Boris was lodging with another adjutant, a Polish count by the name of Zhilinsky. Educated in Paris, he was a wealthy man and a devoted Francophile, and while they were in Tilsit French guards officers and members of the French General Staff came round to lunch or dinner with Zhilinsky and Boris almost every day.
On the 24th of June Zhilinsky arranged a supper for his French acquaintances. Among the diners were one of Napoleon's aides - he was the guest of honour - several French guards officers, and a young boy of an old and aristocratic French line, a page of Napoleon's. That same evening Rostov took advantage of the darkness to avoid being recognized, came to Tilsit in civilian clothing and turned up at the quarters of Zhilinsky and Boris.
In one respect Rostov was like the whole army that he had just left behind - he was a long way from accepting the volte-face which had taken place at headquarters and in Boris concerning Napoleon and the French, suddenly transforming them from enemies into friends. In the army everyone still felt the same mixture of malevolence, fear and contempt for Bonaparte and the French. Only recently Rostov had been in an argument with one of Platov's Cossack officers over how Napoleon should be treated if ever he were taken prisoner - as an emperor or a criminal? And again quite recently Rostov had met a wounded French colonel on the road and had told him in no uncertain terms that peace could never be concluded between a legitimate emperor and a criminal like Bonaparte. So it seemed very odd to Rostov that there should be French officers in Boris's quarters wearing uniforms that he was used to looking at from a very different perspective on patrol out on the flank. He took one look at a French officer who happened to stick his head out of the door and was immediately seized by the feeling of warlike hostility that always came over him at the sight of the enemy. He stood there at the door and asked in Russian whether Boris Drubetskoy was a lodger here. Boris was in the ante-room and when he heard a strange voice he came out to see who it was. When he recognized Rostov, his face fell.
'Oh, it's you. Nice to see you, very nice,' he managed to say, and he smiled as he made a movement towards him. But Rostov had seen his first reaction.
'I seem to have come at a bad time,' he said. 'I wouldn't have come at all, but it's something important,' he said coldly.
'No, I was just a bit surprised to see you away from the regiment . . . I'll be with you in a minute!' he added in French for the benefit of someone who had called to him.
'I can see I've come at a bad time,' repeated Rostov.
Any trace of annoyance had vanished from Boris's face. Having apparently weighed things up and decided how to proceed, he took him by both hands and led him into the next room with studied composure. Boris's eyes, gazing serenely but sharply at Rostov, seemed to have disappeared behind some sort of veil or screen. It was as if he had donned the sunglasses of their earlier life spent together - or so it seemed to Rostov.
'Nonsense, you couldn't come at a bad time,' said Boris. Boris led him into a room where supper was laid, introduced him to the guests by name, explaining that he was not a civilian, but an officer in the hussars, and an old friend of his. He named the other guests: 'Count Zhilinsky, and from France Count N. N. and Captain S. S. . . .' Rostov scowled at the Frenchmen, gave a grudging bow and said nothing.
Zhilinsky was by no means pleased to receive this unknown Russian intruder, but he said nothing to Rostov. Boris seemed oblivious to any embarrassment caused by the new arrival, and he made an attempt to liven up the conversation with the same easy friendliness and the veiled look that had come into his eyes when he had welcomed Rostov. With typical French courtesy one of the French officers turned to Rostov, as he sat there in grim silence, and said to him that he must surely have come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.
'No, I came on business,' was Rostov's terse reply. Rostov had been in a bad mood since the moment he had spotted the displeasure on Boris's face, and like all people in bad moods, he imagined himself surrounded by hostile glares and he felt de trop. Indeed, he was de trop, and the only person to stay out of the general conversation, which now took off again. 'What's he doing here?' was the question posed by the eyes of the guests as they turned towards him. He got up and went over to Boris.
'Listen, I'm getting in your way,' he whispered. 'If we could just have a quick talk . . . I'll just go away.'
'No, no, you're not,' said Boris. 'But if you're feeling tired, come and lie down and have a rest in my room.'
'No but really . . .'
They went into the little room where Boris slept. Rostov declined to sit down and without further ado he launched into his business with every appearance of being annoyed and somehow blaming it on Boris. He told him about Denisov and asked whether he could and would prevail on his general to intercede with the Emperor on Denisov's behalf and get the letter presented. When they were alone together Rostov became acutely aware for the first time that he felt embarrassed to look Boris in the eye. Boris crossed one leg over the other, and stroked the slender fingers of his right hand with his left as he listened to Rostov, rather like a general listening to a report from a subordinate, one minute glancing away and the next looking Rostov straight in the face with the same cloudiness in his eyes. And every time this happened Rostov felt awkward and looked down.
'I've heard of cases like this, and I know the Emperor is very strict about these things. I think it might be better not to take this sort of thing to his Majesty. To my mind, you'd be better off applying straight to the corps commander . . . But my general view is . . .'
'You won't do it, will you?' Rostov almost shouted, avoiding Boris's eyes.
Boris smiled.
'On the contrary, I'll do what I can. It's jus
t that . . .'
At that moment Zhilinsky's voice came through the door, calling Boris.
'Well, go on. Go on in,' said Rostov. He refused supper and stayed there on his own in the little room, pacing up and down for quite some time and listening to the cheery French chatter coming from the next room.
CHAPTER 20
Rostov had arrived in Tilsit on the worst possible day for appealing on Denisov's behalf. He could not go in person to see the general in attendance, because he was not in uniform, and besides, he had come to Tilsit without official permission, and Boris, even had he wanted to, could not have gone the day after Rostov's visit. That was the day (the 27th of June) when the preliminaries of peace were signed. The Emperors exchanged decorations, Alexander receiving the Legion of Honour, and Napoleon the Order of St Andrew (First Degree), and it was also the day fixed for a banquet given by a battalion of the French guards for the Preobrazhensky battalion, with both Emperors due to attend.
Rostov felt so awkward and embarrassed with his old friend that when Boris peeped in at him after supper he pretended to be asleep, and next morning he left early to avoid seeing him. In tail-coat and round hat Nikolay strolled round the town, staring at the French and their uniforms, and taking in the streets and the houses where the Russian and the French Emperors were staying. In the town square he watched as people began setting up tables and preparing for the banquet; he saw banners draped across the streets showing the Russian and French colours, and the letters A and N in huge monograms. There were flags and monograms in all the windows too.
'Boris isn't keen to help, and I don't want him to. That's settled then,' thought Nikolay. 'We're finished, but I'm not leaving here without doing everything I can for Denisov, and above all getting this letter through to the Emperor. The Emperor? . . . He's here!' thought Rostov, who had unconsciously found his way back to the house where Alexander was staying.