War and Peace

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....