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Updated: May 24, 2025
Oh, how Rostov detested at that moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists, which held him in their power.... The ten fell to him. "You owe forty-three thousand, Count," said Dolokhov, and stretching himself he rose from the table. "One does get tired sitting so long," he added. "Yes, I'm tired too," said Rostov.
Dolokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French drummer boy. "Have you had that youngster with you long?" he asked Denisov. "He was taken today but he knows nothing. I'm keeping him with me." "Yes, and where do you put the others?" inquired Dolokhov. "Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them," shouted Denisov, suddenly flushing.
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-o-o!" muttered Dolokhov through his teeth, "no, it's not over." And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the saber, he sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowning face was pallid and quivered. "Plea..." began Dolokhov, but could not at first pronounce the word. "Please," he uttered with an effort.
In their rear, more than a mile from Mikulino where the forest came right up to the road, six Cossacks were posted to report if any fresh columns of French should show themselves. Beyond Shamshevo, Dolokhov was to observe the road in the same way, to find out at what distance there were other French troops. They reckoned that the convoy had fifteen hundred men.
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?"
But here was none of all that turmoil of the world at large, where he did not know his right place and took mistaken decisions; here was no Sonya with whom he ought, or ought not, to have an explanation; here was no possibility of going there or not going there; here there were not twenty-four hours in the day which could be spent in such a variety of ways; there was not that innumerable crowd of people of whom not one was nearer to him or farther from him than another; there were none of those uncertain and undefined money relations with his father, and nothing to recall that terrible loss to Dolokhov.
"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.
He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to escape it all, and felt that Dolokhov knew that he could save him from all this shame and sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does with a mouse. "Your cousin..." Dolokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted him.
So here are our accounts all settled," said Dolokhov, showing him the memorandum. "Is that right?" "Yes, of course," returned Anatole, evidently not listening to Dolokhov and looking straight before him with a smile that did not leave his face. Dolokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an ironic smile: "Do you know? You'd really better drop it all. There's still time!"
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