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The
pain
in
his
arm
became
more
and
more
intense
.
Irresistible
drowsiness
overpowered
him
,
red
rings
danced
before
his
eyes
,
and
the
impression
of
those
voices
and
faces
and
a
sense
of
loneliness
merged
with
the
physical
pain
.
It
was
they
,
these
soldiers
--
wounded
and
unwounded
--
it
was
they
who
were
crushing
,
weighing
down
,
and
twisting
the
sinews
and
scorching
the
flesh
of
his
sprained
arm
and
shoulder
.
To
rid
himself
of
them
he
closed
his
eyes
.
For
a
moment
he
dozed
,
but
in
that
short
interval
innumerable
things
appeared
to
him
in
a
dream
:
his
mother
and
her
large
white
hand
,
Sónya
's
thin
little
shoulders
,
Natásha
's
eyes
and
laughter
,
Denísov
with
his
voice
and
mustache
,
and
Telyánin
and
all
that
affair
with
Telyánin
and
Bogdánich
.
That
affair
was
the
same
thing
as
this
soldier
with
the
harsh
voice
,
and
it
was
that
affair
and
this
soldier
that
were
so
agonizingly
,
incessantly
pulling
and
pressing
his
arm
and
always
dragging
it
in
one
direction
.
He
tried
to
get
away
from
them
,
but
they
would
not
for
an
instant
let
his
shoulder
move
a
hair
's
breadth
.
It
would
not
ache
--
it
would
be
well
--
if
only
they
did
not
pull
it
,
but
it
was
impossible
to
get
rid
of
them
.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
looked
up
.
The
black
canopy
of
night
hung
less
than
a
yard
above
the
glow
of
the
charcoal
.
Flakes
of
falling
snow
were
fluttering
in
that
light
.
Túshin
had
not
returned
,
the
doctor
had
not
come
.
He
was
alone
now
,
except
for
a
soldier
who
was
sitting
naked
at
the
other
side
of
the
fire
,
warming
his
thin
yellow
body
.
"
Nobody
wants
me
!
"
thought
Rostóv
.
"
There
is
no
one
to
help
me
or
pity
me
Yet
I
was
once
at
home
,
strong
,
happy
,
and
loved
.
"
He
sighed
and
,
doing
so
,
groaned
involuntarily
.
"
Eh
,
is
anything
hurting
you
?
"
asked
the
soldier
,
shaking
his
shirt
out
over
the
fire
,
and
not
waiting
for
an
answer
he
gave
a
grunt
and
added
:
"
What
a
lot
of
men
have
been
crippled
today
--
frightful
!
"
Rostóv
did
not
listen
to
the
soldier
.
He
looked
at
the
snowflakes
fluttering
above
the
fire
and
remembered
a
Russian
winter
at
his
warm
,
bright
home
,
his
fluffy
fur
coat
,
his
quickly
gliding
sleigh
,
his
healthy
body
,
and
all
the
affection
and
care
of
his
family
.
"
And
why
did
I
come
here
?
"
he
wondered
.
Next
day
the
French
army
did
not
renew
their
attack
,
and
the
remnant
of
Bagratión
's
detachment
was
reunited
to
Kutúzov
's
army
.
Prince
Vasíli
was
not
a
man
who
deliberately
thought
out
his
plans
.
Still
less
did
he
think
of
injuring
anyone
for
his
own
advantage
.
He
was
merely
a
man
of
the
world
who
had
got
on
and
to
whom
getting
on
had
become
a
habit
.
Schemes
and
devices
for
which
he
never
rightly
accounted
to
himself
,
but
which
formed
the
whole
interest
of
his
life
,
were
constantly
shaping
themselves
in
his
mind
,
arising
from
the
circumstances
and
persons
he
met
.
Of
these
plans
he
had
not
merely
one
or
two
in
his
head
but
dozens
,
some
only
beginning
to
form
themselves
,
some
approaching
achievement
,
and
some
in
course
of
disintegration
.
He
did
not
,
for
instance
,
say
to
himself
:
"
This
man
now
has
influence
,
I
must
gain
his
confidence
and
friendship
and
through
him
obtain
a
special
grant
.
"
Nor
did
he
say
to
himself
:
"
Pierre
is
a
rich
man
,
I
must
entice
him
to
marry
my
daughter
and
lend
me
the
forty
thousand
rubles
I
need
.
"
But
when
he
came
across
a
man
of
position
his
instinct
immediately
told
him
that
this
man
could
be
useful
,
and
without
any
premeditation
Prince
Vasíli
took
the
first
opportunity
to
gain
his
confidence
,
flatter
him
,
become
intimate
with
him
,
and
finally
make
his
request
.
He
had
Pierre
at
hand
in
Moscow
and
procured
for
him
an
appointment
as
Gentleman
of
the
Bedchamber
,
which
at
that
time
conferred
the
status
of
Councilor
of
State
,
and
insisted
on
the
young
man
accompanying
him
to
Petersburg
and
staying
at
his
house
.
With
apparent
absent-mindedness
,
yet
with
unhesitating
assurance
that
he
was
doing
the
right
thing
,
Prince
Vasíli
did
everything
to
get
Pierre
to
marry
his
daughter
.
