War and Peace

or 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.