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“Is he a long； red…haired man？” asked the doctor。
Rostov described Denisov’s appearance。
“He was here； he was；” the doctor declared； with a sort of glee。 “He must be dead； but still I’ll see。 I have lists。 Have you got them； Makeev？”
“The lists are at Makar Alexyevitch’s；” said the assistant。 “But go to the officers’ ward； there you’ll see for yourself；” he added； turning to Rostov。
“Ah； you’d better not； sir！” said the doctor； “or you may have to stay here yourself。” But Rostov bowed himself away from the doctor； and asked the assistant to show him the way。
“Don’t blame me afterwards； mind！” the doctor shouted up from the stairs below。
Rostov and the assistant went into the corridor。 The hospital stench was so strong in that dark corridor that Rostov held his nose； and was obliged to pause to recover his energy to go on。 A door was opened on the right； and there limped out on crutches a thin yellow man with bare feet； and nothing on but his underlinen。 Leaning against the doorpost； he gazed with glittering； anxious eyes at the persons approaching。 Rostov glanced in at the door and saw that the sick and wounded were lying there on the floor； on straw and on overcoats。
“Can one go in and look？” asked Rostov。
“What is there to look at？” said the assistant。 But just because the assistant was obviously disinclined to let him go in； Rostov went into the soldiers’ ward。 The stench； to which he had grown used a little in the corridor； was stronger here。 Here the stench was different； it was more intense； and one could smell that it was from here that it came。 In the long room； brightly lighted by the sun in the big window； lay the sick and wounded in two rows with their heads to the wall； leaving a passage down the middle。 The greater number of them were unconscious； and took no notice of the entrance of outsiders。 Those who were conscious got up or raised their thin； yellow faces； and all gazed intently at Rostov； with the same expression of hope of help； of reproach； and envy of another man’s health。 Rostov went into the middle of the room； glanced in at the open doors of adjoining rooms； and on both sides saw the same thing。 He stood still； looking round him speechless。 He had never expected to see anything like this。 Just before him lay right across the empty space down the middle； on the bare floor； a sick man； probably a Cossack； for his hair was cut round in basin shape。 This Cossack lay on his back； his huge arms and legs outstretched。 His face was of a purple red； his eyes were quite sunk in his head so that only the whites could be seen； and on his legs and on his hands； which were still red； the veins stood out like cords。 He was knocking his head against the floor； and he uttered some word and kept repeating it。 Rostov listened to what he was saying； and distinguished the word he kept repeating。 That word was “drink—drink—drink！” Rostov looked about for some one who could lay the sick man in his place and give him water。
“Who looks after the patients here？” he asked the assistant。 At that moment a commissariat soldier； a hospital orderly； came in from the adjoining room； and； marching in drill step； drew himself up before him。
“Good day； your honour！” bawled this soldier； rolling his eyes at Rostov； and obviously mistaking him for one in authority。
“Take him away； give him water；” said Rostov； indicating the Cossack。
“Certainly； your honour；” the soldier replied complacently； rolling his eyes more strenuously than ever。 and drawing himself up； but not budging to do so。
“No； there’s no doing anything here；” thought Rostov； dropping his eyes； and he wanted to get away； but he was aware of a significant look bent upon him from the right side； and he looked round at it。 Almost in the corner there was； sitting on a military overcoat； an old soldier with a stern yellow face； thin as a skeleton’s； and an unshaved grey beard。 He was looking persistently at Rostov。 The man next the old soldier was whispering something to him； pointing to Rostov。 Rostov saw the old man wanted to ask him something。 He went closer and saw that the old man had only one leg bent under him； the other had been cut off above the knee。 On the other side of the old man； at some distance from him； there lay with head thrown back the motionless figure of a young soldier with a waxen pallor on his snub…nosed and still freckled face； and eyes sunken under the lids。 Rostov looked at the snub…nosed soldier and a shiver ran down his back。
“Why； that one seems to be …” he said to the assistant。
“We’ve begged and begged； your honour；” said the old soldier with a quiver in his lower jaw。 “He died early in the morning。 We’re men； too； not dogs。…”
“I’ll see to it directly； they shall take him； they shall take him away；” said the assistant hurriedly。 “Come； your honour。”
“Let us go； let us go；” said Rostov hastily； and dropping his eyes and shrinking together； trying to pass unnoticed through the lines of those reproachful and envious eyes fastened upon him； he went out of the room。
Chapter 18
THE ASSISTANT walked along the corridor and led Rostov to the officers’ wards； three rooms with doors opening between them。 In these rooms there were bedsteads； the officers were sitting and lying upon them。 Some were walking about the room in hospital dressing…gowns。 The first person who met Rostov in the officers’ ward was a thin little man who had lost one arm。 He was walking about the first room in a nightcap and hospital dressing…gown； with a short pipe between his teeth。 Rostov； looking intently at him； tried to recall where he had seen him。
“See where it was God’s will for us to meet again；” said the little man。 “Tushin； Tushin； do you remember I brought you along after Sch？ngraben？ They have sliced a bit off me； see；…” said he smiling； and showing the empty sleeve of his dressing…gown。 “Is it Vassily Dmitryevitch Denisov you are looking for—a fellow…lodger here？” he said； hearing who it was Rostov wanted。 “Here； here；” and he led him into the next room； from which there came the sound of several men laughing。 “How can they live in this place even； much less laugh？” thought Rostov； still aware of that corpse…like smell that had been so overpowering in the soldiers’ ward； and still seeing around him those envious eyes following him on both sides； and the face of that young soldier with the sunken eyes。
Denisov； covered up to his head with the quilt； was still in bed； though it was twelve o’clock in the day。
“Ah； Rostov！ How are you； how are you？” he shouted； still in the same voice as in the regiment。 But Rostov noticed with grief； behind this habitual briskness and swagger； some new； sinister； smothered feeling that peeped out in the words and intonations and the expression of the face of Denisov。
His wound； trifling as it was； had still not healed； though six weeks had passed since he was wounded。 His face had the same swollen pallor as all the faces in the hospital。 But that was not what struck Rostov： what struck him was that Denisov did not seem pleased to see him； and his smile was forced。 Denisov asked him nothing either of the regiment or of the general progress of