As they entered the first room, surrounded with cots on which lay the
wounded, and permeated with that frightful and disgusting hospital
odor, they met two Sisters of Mercy, who were coming to meet them.
One woman, of fifty, with black eyes, and a stern expression of
countenance, was carrying bandages and lint, and was giving strict
orders to a young fellow, an assistant surgeon, who was following her;
the other, a very pretty girl of twenty, with a pale and delicate
little fair face, gazed in an amiably helpless way from beneath her
white cap, held her hands in the pockets of her apron, as she walked
beside the elder woman, and seemed to be afraid to quit her side.
Kozeltzoff addressed to them the question whether they knew where
Martzoff was—the man whose leg had been torn off on the day before.
“He belonged to the P—— regiment, did he not?” inquired the elder. “Is
he a relative of yours?”
“No, a comrade.”
“Show them the way,” said she, in French, to the young sister. “Here,
this way,” and she approached a wounded man, in company with the
assistant.
“Come along; what are you staring at?” said Kozeltzoff to Volodya,
who, with uplifted eyebrows and somewhat suffering expression of
countenance, could not tear himself away, but continued to stare at the
wounded. “Come, let us go.”
Volodya went off with his brother, still continuing to gaze about him,
however, and repeating unconsciously:—
“Ah, my God! Ah, my God!”
“He has probably not been here long?” inquired the sister of
Kozeltzoff, pointing at Volodya, who, groaning and sighing, followed
them through the corridor.
“He has but just arrived.”
The pretty little sister glanced at Volodya, and suddenly burst out
crying. “My God! my God! when will there be an end to all this?”
she said, with the accents of despair. They entered the officer's
hut. Martzoff was lying on his back, with his muscular arms, bare
to the elbow, thrown over his head, and with the expression on his
yellow face of a man who is clenching his teeth in order to keep from
shrieking with pain. His whole leg, in its stocking, was thrust outside
the coverlet, and it could be seen how he was twitching his toes
convulsively inside it.
“Well, how goes it, how do you feel?” asked the sister, raising his
bald head with her slender, delicate fingers, on one of which Volodya
noticed a gold ring, and arranging his pillow. “Here are some of your
comrades come to inquire after you.”
“Badly, of course,” he answered, angrily. “Let me alone! it's all
right,”—the toes in his stocking moved more rapidly than ever.
“How do you do? What is your name? Excuse me,” he said, turning to
Kozeltzoff.... “Ah, yes, I beg your pardon! one forgets everything
here,” he said, when the latter had mentioned his name. “You and
I lived together,” he added, without the slightest expression of
pleasure, glancing interrogatively at Volodya.
“This is my brother, who has just arrived from Petersburg to-day.”
“Hm! Here I have finished my service,” he said, with a frown. “Ah, how
painful it is!... The best thing would be a speedy end.”
He drew up his leg, and covered his face with his hands, continuing to
move his toes with redoubled swiftness.
“You must leave him,” said the sister, in a whisper, while the tears
stood in her eyes; “he is in a very bad state.”
The brothers had already decided on the north side to go to the fifth
bastion; but, on emerging from the Nikolaevsky battery, they seemed
to have come to a tacit understanding not to subject themselves
to unnecessary danger, and, without discussing the subject, they
determined to go their ways separately.
“Only, how are you to find your way, Volodya?” said the elder.
“However, Nikolaeff will conduct you to the Korabelnaya, and I will go
my way alone, and will be with you to-morrow.”
Nothing more was said at this last leave-taking between the brothers.