CHAPTER XVIII

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.