War and Peace
against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natásha guessed what
he meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly
knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now
with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him,
and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if
he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath,
and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected
steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her
chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natásha
did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement,
smiling as if she did not recognize him.
“What does this mean?” she brought out.
Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone
was delighted with Denísov’s skill, he was asked again and again as
a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the
good old days. Denísov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself
with his handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for
the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER XIII
For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at
Dólokhov’s home: on the third day he received a note from him:
As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know
of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper
tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel.
About ten o’clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the
theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov. He was at once
shown to the best room, which Dólokhov had taken for that evening. Some
twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dólokhov sat between
two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he
was keeping the bank. Rostóv had not seen him since his proposal and
Sónya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they
would meet.
Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the
door, as though he had long expected him.
“It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming.
I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his
chorus.”
“I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening.
Dólokhov made no reply.
“You may punt,” he said.
Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had
with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov
had then said.
“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if
guessing Rostóv’s thought.
Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club
dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt
a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with
which to reply to Dólokhov’s words. But before he had thought of
anything, Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and
deliberately so that everyone could hear:
“Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who
trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try.”
“To try his luck or the certainty?” Rostóv asked himself.
“Well, you’d better not play,” Dólokhov added, and springing a
new pack of cards said: “Bank, gentlemen!”
Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostóv sat down by his
side and at first did not play. Dólokhov kept glancing at him.
“Why don’t you play?” he asked.
And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a
card, putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play.
“I have no money with me,” he said.
“I’ll trust you.”
Rostóv staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again
lost. Dólokhov “killed,” that is, beat, ten cards of Rostóv’s
running.
“Gentlemen,” said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time.
“Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the
reckoning.”
One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted.
“Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I
ask you to put the money on your cards,” replied Dólokhov. “Don’t
stint yourself, we’ll settle afterwards,” he added, turning to
Rostóv.
The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne.
All Rostóv’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored
up against him. He wrote “800 rubles” on a card, but while the
waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual
stake of twenty rubles.
“Leave it,” said Dólokhov, though he did not seem to be even
looking at Rostóv, “you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to
the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?” he asked again.
Rostóv submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven
of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He
well remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts,
on which with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles” in
clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was
handed him, smiled at Dólokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart,
waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dólokhov’s hands which held
the pack. Much depended on Rostóv’s winning or losing on that seven
of hearts. On the previous Sunday the old count had given his son
two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money
difficulties had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have
till May, and asked him to be more economical this time. Nicholas had
replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his
word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve
hundred rubles was left of that money, so that this seven of hearts
meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles, but the
necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart he watched
Dólokhov’s hands and thought, “Now then, make haste and let me have
this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denísov,
Natásha, and Sónya, and will certainly never touch a card again.” At
that moment his home life, jokes with Pétya, talks with Sónya, duets
with Natásha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed
in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness,
clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and
unappreciated bliss, long past. He could not conceive that a stupid
chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left,
might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly
illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined
misery. That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the
movement of Dólokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy
wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took
up a glass and a pipe that were handed him.
“So you are not afraid to play with me?” repeated Dólokhov, and as
if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his
chair, and began deliberately with a smile:
“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow
that I’m a sharper, so I advise you to be careful.”
“Come now, deal!” exclaimed Rostóv.
“Oh, those Moscow gossips!” said Dólokhov, and he took up the cards
with a smile.
“Aah!” Rostóv almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The
seven he needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had
lost more than he could pay.
“Still, don’t ruin yourself!” said Dólokhov with a side glance at
Rostóv as he continued to deal.
CHAPTER XIV
An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested
in their own play.
The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv. Instead of sixteen
hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him,
which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely
supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already
exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dólokhov was no longer listening to
stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Rostóv’s
hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him. He had
decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand. He
had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and
Sónya’s joint ages. Rostóv, leaning his head on both hands, sat at
the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine,
and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him:
that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from
under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him
in their power.
“Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back’s
impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or
quits... it can’t be!... And why is he doing this to me?” Rostóv
pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to
accept it and fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at
one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge
over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand
from the crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the
cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the
total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other
players, or peered at the now cold face of Dólokhov and tried to read
what was passing in his mind.
“He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my
ruin. Wasn’t he my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his
fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck?... And it’s not my fault
either,” he thought to himself, “I have done nothing wrong. Have I
killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible
misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to
this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that
casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home. I was so happy, so
free, so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did
that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What
marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table,
chose and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the
same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong
and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it
will all end in nothing!”
He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot.
His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless
efforts to seem calm.
The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand.
Rostóv had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he
meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when
Dólokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began
rapidly adding up the total of Rostóv’s debt, breaking the chalk as
he marked the figures in his clear, bold hand.
“Supper, it’s time for supper! And here are the gypsies!”
Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside
and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it
was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone:
“Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,” as if it
were the fun of the game which interested him most.
“It’s all up! I’m lost!” thought he. “Now a bullet through my
brain—that’s all that’s left me!” And at the same time he said
in a cheerful voice:
“Come now, just this one more little card!”
“All right!” said Dólokhov, having finished the addition. “All