| 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.
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