________________________________________________
_ One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron,
holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his
small bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head
and looked about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He
evidently wanted a little respite. After turning his head from right
to left for some time, he sighed and looked down.
"All right, immediately," he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince
Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent.
Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting.
"It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have
a chance!" remarked one.
Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only
just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince
Andrew could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The
pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh,
stomach, and back distracted him. All he saw about him merged into a
general impression of naked, bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill
the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks previously, on that hot
August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond beside the
Smolensk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same chair a canon, the
sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a
presentiment.
There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied,
and on the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he
was left alone and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on
the other two tables. On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a
Cossack, judging by the uniform thrown down beside him. Four
soldiers were holding him, and a spectacled doctor was cutting into
his muscular brown back.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh!" grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his
swarthy snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white
teeth, he began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing,
ringing, and prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many
people were crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his
head thrown back. His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head
seemed strangely familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were
pressing on his chest to hold him down. One large, white, plump leg
twitched rapidly all the time with a feverish tremor. The man was
sobbing and choking convulsively. Two doctors- one of whom was pale
and trembling- were silently doing something to this man's other, gory
leg. When he had finished with the Tartar, whom they covered with an
overcoat, the spectacled doctor came up to Prince Andrew, wiping his
hands.
He glanced at Prince Andrew's face and quickly turned away.
"Undress him! What are you waiting for?" he cried angrily to the
dressers.
His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to
Prince Andrew's mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began
hastily to undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The
doctor bent down over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he
made a sign to someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused
Prince Andrew to lose consciousness. When he came to himself the
splintered portions of his thighbone had been extracted, the torn
flesh cut away, and the wound bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on
his face. As soon as Prince Andrew opened his eyes, the doctor bent
over, kissed him silently on the lips, and hurried away.
After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a
blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All
the best and happiest moments of his life- especially his earliest
childhood, when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when
leaning over him his nurse sang him to sleep and he, burying his
head in the pillow, felt happy in the mere consciousness of life-
returned to his memory, not merely as something past but as
something present.
The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of
whose head seemed familiar to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him
up and trying to quiet him.
"Show it to me.... Oh, ooh... Oh! Oh, ooh!" his frightened moans
could be heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs.
Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted Andrew wanted to weep.
Whether because he was dying without glory, or because he was sorry to
part with life, or because of those memories of a childhood that could
not return, or because he was suffering and others were suffering
and that man near him was groaning so piteously- he felt like
weeping childlike, kindly, and almost happy tears.
The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted
blood and with the boot still on.
"Oh! Oh, ooh!" he sobbed, like a woman.
The doctor who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince
Andrew from seeing his face, moved away.
"My God! What is this? Why is he here?" said Prince Andrew to
himself.
In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been
amputated, he recognized Anatole Kuragin. Men were supporting him in
their arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling,
swollen lips could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully.
"Yes, it is he! Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully
connected with me," thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping
what he saw before him. "What is the connection of that man with my
childhood and life?" he asked himself without finding an answer. And
suddenly a new unexpected memory from that realm of pure and loving
childhood presented itself to him. He remembered Natasha as he had
seen her for the first time at the ball in 1810, with her slender neck
and arms and with a frightened happy face ready for rapture, and
love and tenderness for her, stronger and more vivid than ever,
awoke in his soul. He now remembered the connection that existed
between himself and this man who was dimly gazing at him through tears
that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered everything, and ecstatic
pity and love for that man overflowed his happy heart.
Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender
loving tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and
their errors.
"Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for
those who hate us, love of our enemies; yes, that love which God
preached on earth and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not
understand- that is what made me sorry to part with life, that is what
remained for me had I lived. But now it is too late. I know it!" _
Read next: Book Ten: 1812: Chapter 38
Read previous: Book Ten: 1812: Chapter 36
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