"Armless!" thought I; "I was pretty tired of life before this, and am utterly4 useless now. Would that the shot had struck me in a more vital place, and finished me--polished me off at once! That old staff sawbones should have left me to my fate; should have let mortification5, gangrene, and all the rest of it, do their worst, and I might have gone quietly to sleep where so many lay, under the crocuses and caper-bushes at Sebastopol."
"After life's fitful fever" men sleep well; and so, I hoped, should I.
Such reflections were, I own, ungrateful and bitter; but suffering, disappointment, and more than all, the great loss of blood I had suffered, had sorely weakened me; and yet, on looking about me, and seeing the calamities7 of others, I felt that the simple loss of an arm was indeed but a minor8 affair.
Close by me, on the hospital pallets, I saw men expiring fast, and borne forth9 to the dead-pits only to make room for others; I saw the poor human frame, so delicate, so wondrous10, and so divine in its organisation11, cut, stabbed, bruised12, crushed, and battered13, in every imaginable way, and yet with life clinging to it, when life had become worthless. From wounds, and operations upon wounds, there was blood--blood everywhere; on the pallets, the straw, the earthen floor, the canvas of the tents, in buckets and basins, on sponges and towels, and on the hands of the attendants. Incessantly14 there were moans and cries of anguish15, and, ever and anon, that terrible sound in the throat known as the death-rattle.
Sergeant16 Rhuddlan, Dicky Roll the drummer (the little keeper of the regimental goat), and many rank and file of the old 23rd--relics of the Redan--were there, and some lay near me. The sergeant was mortally wounded, and soon passed away; the poor boy was horribly mutilated, a grape shot having torn off his lower jaw17, and he survived, to have perhaps a long life of misery18 and penury19 before him; and will it be believed that, through red-tapery and wretched Whig parsimony20, two hours before the attack on the Redan, the senior surgeon in the Quarries21 was "run out" of lint22, plasters, bandages, and every other appliance for stanching23 blood?
I heard some of our wounded, in their triumph at the general success of the past day, attempting feebly and in quavering tones to sing "Cheer, boys, cheer;" while others, in the bitterness of their hearts, or amid the pain they endured, were occasionally consigning24 the eyes, limbs, and souls of the Ruskies to a very warm place indeed. Estelle's ring, which I had still worn, was gone with my unfortunate arm, and was now the prize, no doubt, of some hospital orderly. Next day, as the wounded were pouring in as fast as the dripping stretchers and ambulances could bring them, I was sent to the monastery25 of St. George, which had been turned into a convalescent hospital. The removal occasioned fever, and I lay long there hovering26 between life and death; and I remember how, as portions of a seeming phantasmagoria, the faces of the one-eyed corporal who attended me, and of the staff doctors Gage27 and Jones, became drearily28 familiar.
This monastery is situated29 about five miles from Balaclava and six from Sebastopol, near Cape6 Fiolente, and consists of two long ranges of buildings, two stories in height, with corridors off which the cells of the religious open. The chapel30, full of hospital pallets, there faces the sea, and the view in that direction is both charming and picturesque31. A zigzag32 pathway leads down from the rocks of red marble, past beautiful terraces clothed with vines and flowering shrubs33, to a tiny bay, so sheltered that there the ocean barely ripples34 on the snow-white sand. But then the Greek monks35, in their dark-brown gowns, their hair plaited in two tails down their back, their flowing beards, with rosary and crucifix and square black cap, had given place to convalescents of all corps36, Guardsmen, Riflemen, Dragoons, and Linesmen, who cooked and smoked, laughed and sang, patched their clothes and pipe-clayed their belts, where whilom mass was said and vespers chanted. Others were hopping37 about on crutches38, or, propped39 by sticks, dozed40 dreamily in the sunshine under shelter of the wall that faced the sparkling sea--the blessed high road to old England.
My room, a monk's cell, was whitewashed41, and on the walls were hung several gaudy42 prints of Russian saints and Madonnas with oval shining metal halos round their faces; but most of these the soldiers, with an eye to improvement in art, had garnished43 with short pipes, moustaches, and eyeglasses; and with scissors and paste-pot Corporal Mulligan added other decorations from the pages of Punch.
Sebastopol had fallen; "Redan Windham," as we named him, then a Brigadier-general, was its governor; and by the Allies the place had been plundered44 of all the flames had spared (not much certainly), even to the cannon45 and church bells; and now peace was at hand. But many a day I sighed and tossed wearily on my hard bed, and more wearily still in the long nights of winter, when the bleak46 wind from the Euxine howled round the monastery and the rain lashed47 its walls, though Corporal Mulligan would wink48 his solitary49 eye, and seek to console me by saying,
"Your honour's in luck--there is no trinch-guard to-night, thank God!"
"Nor will there ever be again for me," I would reply.
The inspector50 of hospitals had informed me that, so soon as I could travel, sick leave would be granted me, that I might proceed to England; but I heard him with somewhat of indifference51. Would Valerie join her brother Volhonski at Lewes in Sussex, was, however, my first thought; she would be free to do as she pleased now that the odious52 Tolstoff--But was he killed by Rhuddlan's bullet, or merely wounded, with the pleasure of having Valerie, perhaps, for a nurse? He certainly seemed to fall from the parapet as if he were shot dead. Why had I not gone back and inspected the slain53 in the ditch of the Redan, to see if he lay there? But I had other thoughts then, and so the opportunity--even could I have availed myself of it--was gone for ever. These calculations and surmises54 may seem very cool now; but to us then human life, and human suffering, too, were but of small account indeed.
One evening the fat little staff surgeon came to me with a cheerful expression on his usually cross face, and two packets in his hand.
"Well, doctor," said I, with a sickly smile, but unable to lift my head; "so I didn't die, after all."
"No; close shave though. Wish you joy, Captain Hardinge."
"Joy--armless!"
"Tut; I took the two legs off a rifleman the other day close to the tibia--ticklish operation, very, but beautifully done--and he'll toddle55 about in a bowl or on a board, and be as jolly as a sand-boy. Suppose your case had been his?"
"When may I leave this?"
"Can't say yet awhile. You don't want to rejoin, I presume?"
"Would to God that I could! but the day is past now When I do leave, it will be by ship or steamer."
"Unless you prefer a balloon. Well, it was of these I came to wish you joy," said he, placing before me, and opening it (for I was unable to do so, single-handed), the packet, which contained two medals; one for the Crimea, with its somewhat unbecoming ribbon, and two clasps for "Inkermann" and "Sebastopol."
"They are deuced like labels for wine-bottles," said the little doctor; "but a fine thing for you to have, and likely to catch the eyes of the girls in England."
"And this other medal with the pink ribbon?"
"Is the Sardinian one, given by Victor Emanuel; and more welcome than these perhaps, here is a letter from home--from England--for you; which, if you wish, I shall open" (every moment I was some way thus reminded, even kindly56, of my own helplessness), "and leave you to peruse57. Good evening; I've got some prime cigars at your service, if you'll send Mulligan to me."
"Thanks, doctor."
And he rolled away out of the cell, to visit some other unfortunate fellow. The medals were, of course, a source of keen satisfaction to me; but as I toyed with them and inspected them again and again, they woke an old train of thought; for there was one, who had no longer perhaps an interest in me (if a woman ever ceases to have an interest in the man who has loved her), and who was another's now, in whose white hands I should once with honest pride have laid them. Viewed through that medium, they seemed almost valueless for a time; though there was to come a day when I was alike vain of them--ay, and of my empty sleeve--as became one who had been at the fall of Sebastopol, the queen of the Euxine.
"I fear I am a very discontented dog," thought I, while turning to the letter, which proved to be from kind old Sir Madoc Lloyd.
For months no letters had reached me, and for the same period I had been unable to write home; so in all that time I had heard nothing from my friends in England--who were dead, who alive; who marrying, or being given in marriage. Sir Madoc's missive was full of kind thoughts and expressions, of warm wishes and offers of service, that came to me as balm, especially at such a time and in such a place. Poor Phil Caradoc, and many others, were sorrowfully and enthusiastically referred to. Sir Watkins Vaughan was still hovering about the girls, "but with remarkable58 indecision apparently59." The tall Plunger with the parted hair had proposed to Dora, and been declined; for no very visible reason, as he was a pleasant fellow with a handsome fortune.
On an evening early in September, the very day that a telegram announcing the fall of the Redan reached Craigaderyn, they were dressing61 for a county ball at Chester--a long-looked-for and most brilliant affair--when their sensibility, and fear that I might have been engaged, made them relinquish62 all ideas of pleasure, and countermand63 the carriage, to the intense chagrin64 of Sir Watkins and also of the Plunger, who had come from town expressly to attend it. Two day afterwards the lists were published, and the account of the slaughter65 of our troops, and the death of so many dear friends, had made Winifred positively66 ill, so change of air was recommended for her, at Ventnor or some such place.
A postscript67 to this, in Dora's rapid hand, and written evidently surreptitiously (perhaps while Sir Madoc had left his desk for a moment), added the somewhat significant intelligence, that "Winny had wept very much indeed on reading the account of that horrible Redan" (for Phil's death, thought I; if so, she mourns him too late!) "and now declares that she will die an old maid." (It is so!) "When that interesting period of a lady's life begins," continued Dora, "I know not; if unmarried, before thirty, I suppose; thus I am eleven years off that awful period yet, and have a decidedly vulgar prejudice against ever permitting myself to become one. Papa writes that Sir Watkins is undecided; but I may add that I, for one, know that he is not. Our best love to you, dear old Harry68; but O, I can't fancy you without an arm!"
I was in a fair way of recovery now. The state I had been in so long, within the four walls of that quaint69 little chamber--a state that hovered70 between sense and insensibility, between sleeping and waking, time and eternity--had passed away; and, after all I had undergone, it had seemed as if
"Thrice the double twilight71 rose and fell,
About a land where nothing seemed the same,
At morn or eve, as in the days gone by."
This had all passed and gone; but I was weak as a child, and worn to a shadow; and by neglect had become invested with hirsute72 appendages73 of the most ample proportions.
And so, without the then hackneyed excuse of "urgent private affairs," on an evening in summer, when the last rays of the sun shone redly on the marble bluffs74 and copper-coloured rocks of Cape Khersonese--the last point of that fatal peninsula towards the distant Bosphorus--and when the hills that look down on the lovely Pass of Baidar and the grave-studded valley of Inkermann were growing dim and blue, I found myself again at sea, on board the Kangaroo--a crowded transport (or rather a floating hospital)--speeding homeward, and bidding "a long good-night to the Crimea," to the land of glory and endurance.
Sebastopol seemed a dream now, but a memory of the past; and a dream, too, seemed my new life when I lay on my couch at the open port, and saw the crested75 waves flying past, as we sped through them under sail and steam.
Onward76, onward, three hundred miles and more across the Euxine, to where the green range of the Balkan looks down upon its waters, and where the lighthouses of Anatolia on one side, and those of Roumelia on the other, guide to the long narrow channel of Stamboul; but ere the latter was reached--and on our starboard bow we saw the white waves curling over the blue Cyanean rocks, where Jason steered77 the Argonauts--we had to deposit many a poor fellow in the deep; for we had four hundred convalescent and helpless men on board, and only one surgeon, with scarcely any medicines or comforts for them, as John Bull, if he likes glory, likes to obtain it cheap. It was another case of Whig parsimony; so every other hour an emaciated78 corpse79, rolled in a mud-stained greatcoat or well-worn blanket, without prayer or ceremony of any kind, was quietly dropped to leeward80, the 32-pound shot at its heels making a dull plunge60 in that huge grave, the world of water, which leaves no mark behind.
I gladly left the Kangaroo at Pera, and, establishing myself at the H?tel d'Angleterre, wrote from thence to Sir Madoc that I should take one of the London liners at Malta for England, and to write me to the United Service Club in London; that all my plans for the future were vague and quite undecided; but I was not without hope of getting some military employment at home. The Frankish hotel was crowded by wounded officers, also en route for England or France, all in sorely faded uniforms, on which the new Crimean medals glittered brightly. As all the world travels nowadays, I am not going to "talk guide-book," or break into ecstasies81 about the glories of Stamboul as viewed from a distance, and not when floundering mid-leg deep in the mud of its picturesque but rickety old thoroughfares; yet certainly the daily scene before the hotel windows was a singular one; for there were stalwart Turkish porters, veritable sons of Anak; stagey-looking dragomen, with brass82 pistols and enormous sabres in wooden sheaths; the Turk of the old school in turban, beard, slippers83, and flowing garments; the Turk of the new, whom he despised, close shaven, with red fez and glazed84 boots; water-carriers; Osmanli infantry85, solemn, brutal86, and sensual, jostled by rollicking British tars87 and merry little French Zouaves; and for a background, the city of the Sultans, with all its casements88, domes89, and minarets90 glittering in the unclouded sunshine.
Two light cavalry91 subs, who had ridden in the death ride at Balaclava, and bore some cuts and slashes92 won therein, three others of the Light Division, and myself, agreed to travel homeward together; and pleasant days we had of it while skirting the mountainous isles93 of Greece, Byron's
"Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung,"
and the tints94 of which seemed all brown or gray as we saw them through the vapour exhaled95 in summer from the ?gean Sea, with their little white villages shadowed by trees, their rocks like sea-walls, crowned here and there by the columns, solitary and desolate96, of some temple devoted97 to the gods of other days--"a country rich in historic reminiscence, but poor as Sahara in everything else."
And so on by Malta and old Gib; and exactly fourteen days after leaving the former we were cleaving98 the muddy bosom99 of Father Thames; and that night saw me in my old room at "the Rag," with the dull roar of mighty100 London in my ears; and after the rapid travelling I went to sleep, as addled101 as a fly could be in a drum.
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1
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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shudderingly
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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9
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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stanching
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的现在分词 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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56
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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countermand
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| v.撤回(命令)，取消(订货) | |
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64
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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65
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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80
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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81
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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82
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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tars
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| 焦油，沥青，柏油( tar的名词复数 ) | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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99
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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