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War and Peace
CHAPTER IX
It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a
cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending
to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more
he felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was
light enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed
more like morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered
that Anatole Kuragin was expecting the usual set for cards that
evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout, finishing
with visits of a kind Pierre was very fond of.
"I should like to go to Kuragin's," thought he.
But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go
there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so
passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed
to that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that
his promise to Prince Andrew was of no account, because before he gave
it he had already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering;
"besides," thought he, "all such 'words of honor' are conventional
things with no definite meaning, especially if one considers that by
tomorrow one may be dead, or something so extraordinary may happen to
one that honor and dishonor will be all the same!" Pierre often
indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying all his decisions and
intentions. He went to Kuragin's.
Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards' barracks, in which
Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs,
and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty
bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of
alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance.
Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed.
Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were
the remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was
drinking on the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room
came sounds of laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling
of a bear, and general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were
crowding anxiously round an open window. Three others were romping
with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and trying to set him
at the others.
"I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.
"Mind, no holding on!" cried another.
"I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our hands."
"There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."
"At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.
"Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow who
stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine
linen shirt unfastened in front. "Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is
Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing Pierre.
Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes,
particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober
ring, cried from the window: "Come here; part the bets!" This was
Dolokhov, an officer of the Semenov regiment, a notorious gambler and
duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him
merrily.
"I don't understand. What's it all about?"
"Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here," said Anatole, taking
a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.
"First of all you must drink!"
Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at
the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and
listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre's glass
while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with Stevens, an English
naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the
outer ledge of the third floor window with his legs hanging out.
"Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre the last
glass, "or I won't let you go!"
"No, I won't," said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to
the window.
Dolokhov was holding the Englishman's hand and clearly and distinctly
repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to
Anatole and Pierre.
Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He
was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache,
so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly
seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The
middle of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the
firm lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played
continually round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with
the resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect
which made it impossible not to notice his face. Dolokhov was a man of
small means and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of
thousands of rubles, Dolokhov lived with him and had placed himself on
such a footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself,
respected him more than they did Anatole. Dolokhov could play all
games and nearly always won. However much he drank, he never lost his
clearheadedness. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were at that time notorious
among the rakes and scapegraces of Petersburg.
The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone
from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen,
who were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and
shouts of the gentlemen around.
Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to
smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but
could not move it. He smashed a pane.
"You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre.
Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out
with a crash.
"Take it right out, or they'll think I'm holding on," said Dolokhov.
"Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?" said Anatole.
"First-rate," said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who with a bottle of
rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of
the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.
Dolokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window
sill. "Listen!" cried he, standing there and addressing those in the
room. All were silent.
"I bet fifty imperials"--he spoke French that the Englishman might
understand him, but he did, not speak it very well--"I bet fifty
imperials... or do you wish to make it a hundred?" added he,
addressing the Englishman.
"No, fifty," replied the latter.
"All right. Fifty imperials... that I will drink a whole bottle of rum
without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this
spot" (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window)
"and without holding on to anything. Is that right?"
"Quite right," said the Englishman.
Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons
of his coat and looking down at him--the Englishman was short- began
repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.
"Wait!" cried Dolokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill
to attract attention. "Wait a bit, Kuragin. Listen! If anyone else
does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?"
The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to
accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though
he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on
translating Dolokhov's words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar
of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the
window sill, leaned over, and looked down.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" he muttered, looking down from the window at the stones
of the pavement.
"Shut up!" cried Dolokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad
jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.
Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily,
Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered
his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted
himself on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right
and then to the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two
candles and placed them on the window sill, though it was already
quite light. Dolokhov's back in his white shirt, and his curly head,
were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the
Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older
than the others present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and
angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dolokhov's shirt.
"I say, this is folly! He'll be killed," said this more sensible man.
Anatole stopped him.
"Don't touch him! You'll startle him and then he'll be killed. Eh?...
What then?... Eh?"
Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged
himself on his seat.
"If anyone comes meddling again," said he, emitting the words
separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will throw him down
there. Now then!"
Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle
and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free
hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up
some broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes
from the window and from Dolokhov's back. Anatole stood erect with
staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips.
The man who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room
and threw himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his
face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now
expressed horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from
his eyes. Dolokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was
thrown further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and
the hand holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled
with the effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still
higher and his head tilting yet further back. "Why is it so long?"
thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had
elapsed. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement with his spine,
and his arm trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole
body to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping
down, his head and arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand
moved as if to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it.
Pierre again covered his eyes and thought he would never never them
again. Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around. He looked up:
Dolokhov was standing on the window sill, with a pale but radiant
face.
"It's empty."
He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolokhov
jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.
"Well done!... Fine fellow!... There's a bet for you!... Devil take
you!" came from different sides.
The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money.
Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the
window sill.
"Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same thing!" he
suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a
bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"
"Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.
"What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go
giddy even on a staircase," exclaimed several voices.
"I'll drink it! Let's have a bottle of rum!" shouted Pierre, banging
the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb
out of the window.
They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who
touched him was sent flying.
"No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole. "Wait a bit and
I'll get round him.... Listen! I'll take your bet tomorrow, but now we
are all going to ----'s."
"Come on then," cried Pierre. "Come on!... And we'll take Bruin with
us."
And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the
ground, and began dancing round the room with it.