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. In 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) “who 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.
The assistant looked worried. He was unmistakably in a hurry for the talkative doctor to be gone, and was waiting with vexation.
“Major Denisov,” repeated Rostov; “he was wounded at Moliten.”
“I believe he's dead. Eh, Makeev?” the doctor queried of the assistant carelessly.
The assistant did not, however, confirm the doctor's words.
“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.
六月份，弗里德兰爆发了一场战斗，保罗格勒兵团没有参与这次战役，紧接着宣布休战。罗斯托夫因为朋友不在身边而觉得难受，自从他走后没有接到他的任何消息，对他的案件的进程和伤势感到担心，于是他就利用休战的机会请假到医院去探望杰尼索夫。
医院位于普鲁士的一个小镇，这个小镇有两次遭到俄军和法军的摧毁。正因时值夏季，田野里十分爽适，而这个小镇上到处都是残垣断壁、毁坏的屋顶、污秽的街道、鹑衣百结的居民、流落于街头的醉醺醺的、病魔缠身的士兵，这就构成了分外阴暗的景象。
医院里一栋砖石结构的房子，庭院里可以看见拆掉的围墙的残迹，门窗与玻璃部分地遭受摧毁。有几个绑着绷带、脸色惨白、遍身浮肿的士兵时而踱来踱去，时而坐在庭院中晒晒太阳。
罗斯托夫刚刚走进屋门，就有一股腐烂的肉体和医院的气味向他袭来。他在楼梯上遇见一个叨着雪茄烟的俄国军医。
俄国医士跟在他后面。
“我不会分身似的同时抓许多事，”医生说道，“你晚上到马卡尔·阿列克谢耶维奇那里去，我也到那里去。”医士还向他问了什么话。
“咳！你知道怎么办，就怎么办吧！岂不都是一样的吗？”
医生看见走上楼来的罗斯托夫。
“大人，您干嘛要来？”医生说道，“您干嘛要来？也许子弹没有打中您，您要传染上伤寒吗？老兄，这里是麻风病院。
“为什么不能来呢？”罗斯托夫问道。
“伤寒病，老兄。无论是谁走进来，只有死路一条。唯有我和马克耶夫（他指指医士）在这儿拖着干活儿。我们医生兄弟在这里莫约死了五个了。新来的人隔了一个星期就要完蛋的，”医生显然觉得高兴地说，“有人延请普鲁士医师，可是我们的盟友都不喜欢到这里来。”
罗斯托夫向他说明，他想探视住在这里的骠骑兵少校杰尼索夫。
“老兄，不晓得，不知道，您想想吧，我一个人干三家医院的工作，四百多个病号！还好，行善的普鲁士太太每月给我们寄送两俄磅咖啡和两俄磅绒布，不然的话，真会完蛋的。”他笑了起来。“老兄，四百病人，还经常给我送来新的哩。有没有四百呢？嗯？”他问医士。
医士现出疲惫不堪的样子。显然他在懊恼地等待聊得太久的医生赶快走开。
“杰尼索夫少校，”罗斯托夫重复地说，“他是在莫利坦负伤的。”
“他好像死了。是吗？马克耶夫，”医生冷淡地问医士。
但这名医士并没有证实医士的话。
“他是啥样子，高高的个子、棕红头发的吗？”医生问。
罗斯托夫描述了杰尼索夫的外表。
“有过，有过这样的人”这位医生仿佛挺高兴地说，“这个人也许死了，不过我来查一下，我这儿有名单。马克耶夫，你有名单吗？”
“名单在马卡尔·阿列克谢耶维奇那里，”医生说，“请您到军官病房里去吧，在那儿您能亲眼看见的。”他把脸转向罗斯托夫，补充地说了一句话。
“咳，老兄，最好不要去！”医生说，“要不然，好像您自己也会留在那里的。”但是罗斯托夫向医师鞠了一个躬，告辞之后就请医士领他去。
“一言为定，甭埋怨我吧。”医生从楼梯下面大声喊道。
罗斯托夫和医土走进了走廊。在这个昏暗的走廊里，医院的气味十分浓，以致罗斯托夫捂住自己的鼻子，不得不停步，好鼓足劲来往前走。右边的房门打开了，一个面黄肌瘦的人拄着双拐杖、赤着脚、穿一套内衣从那里探出身子来。他依靠着门楣，用妒嫉的、炯炯发亮的眼睛不时地望望从身旁走过去的人们。罗斯托夫朝门里一瞧，瞧见了那些病号和伤员都躺在铺了一层干草和军大衣的地板上。
“可以进去看看吗？”罗斯托夫问道。
“究竟要看什么呀？”医士说。但是正因为医士显然不愿意让他走进病房，罗斯托夫硬要走进士兵的病房。他已经闻惯了走廊里的气味，这里的气味更浓。这里的气味稍微有点不同，更令人觉得冲鼻子。可以敏锐地感到，走廊的气味正是从这里发散出去的。
太阳透过大窗户把长长的房间照得很明亮，在这个房间里头，病号和伤员把头靠着墙分成二排躺着，房中间留了一条过道。他们大部分人昏迷不醒，都没有注意走进来的人。那些神志清醒的人欠起身子，或则抬起他们那消瘦的发黄的脸，目不转睛地望着罗斯托夫，个个都流露出同样的表情——指望帮助、责备和嫉妒他人的健康。罗斯托夫走到这个病房中间，望望隔壁的房门口（几扇门都是敞开的），他从房间的两边看见了同样的情景。他停步了，默默不语地环顾四周。他决没有料到会目睹这种情状。就在他面前，有一个病人横卧在过道中间的光地板上，大概是个哥萨克，剪了一个童化头。这个哥萨克伸开粗大的手脚，仰卧着。他的脸色赤红，两只眼睛往上翻，只能看见眼白了，他的赤脚上，发红的手上，一条条青筋像细绳似的绷得紧紧的。他的后脑勺碰了碰地板，嗓音嘶哑地说了一句什么话，又开始重复说出这句话。罗斯托夫仔细地听他说话，听清了他重复说的这句话。这句话是：喝点水，喝水，喝点水啊！罗斯托夫向四周环视，想找人帮忙，让这个病号躺好，让他喝点水。
“谁在这里照顾病人呢？”他问医士。这时有个辎重兵，医院的工友从隔壁房里走出来，他退后一步，直挺挺地站在罗斯托夫面前。
“您好，大人！”这个士兵瞪大眼睛望着罗斯托夫，喊道，他显然是把他看作医院的首长。
“要他躺好，让他喝点水。”罗斯托夫指着哥萨克兵，说道。
“大人，是。”这名士兵蛮高兴地说，他把眼睛瞪得更大，身子也挺得更直，可是还呆在原地不动。
“不，这里毫无办法，”罗斯托夫想了想，垂下眼睛，希望走出去，但是他觉得有一种意味深长的目光从右边向他凝视，他于是回头望望。差不多紧靠屋角，有个老兵坐在军大衣上面，露出一副骷髅般瘦黄的、严肃的面孔、没有剃过的苍白的髯须，他目不转睛地望着罗斯托夫。坐在老兵身旁的人从一边指着罗斯托夫，对他低声地说了些什么。罗斯托夫明白，老年人想向他提出什么请求。他向这位老人近旁走去，看见他只弯着一条腿，另一条腿从膝头以上完全没有了。老头子身旁的另一个人离得相当远，他头往后仰，一动不动地躺着，这是个年轻的士兵，翘起鼻子，苍白如蜡的脸上长满了雀斑，翻着白眼，罗斯托夫望了望这个翘鼻子的士兵，一阵寒凉掠过他的脊背。
“瞧，这个士兵看来是……”他把脸对着医士说。
“大人，我们请求过了，”老兵的下颏颤栗着说，“早上就有个人死了。要知道，我们也是人，而不是狗……”
“我马上派人把他抬走，抬走，”医士连忙说，“大人，我请您离开这里。”
“我们走吧，我们走吧。”罗斯托夫连忙说，他垂下眼睛，缩成一团，极力不让人发现，从这排向他凝视的、责备而嫉妒的目光中穿过去，他走出这间屋子。
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