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An hour and a half later most of the players were but little
interested in their own play.
The whole interest was concentrated on Rostov. Instead of
sixteen hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored
against him, which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that
now, as he vaguely supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand.
In reality it already exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dolokhov
was no longer listening to stories or telling them, but followed
every movement of Rostov's hands and occasionally ran his eyes
over the score against him. He had decided to play until that
score reached forty-three thousand. He had fixed on that number
because forty-three was the sum of his and Sonya's joint ages.
Rostov, leaning his head on both hands, sat at the table which
was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine, and littered
with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him: that
those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from
under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated,
held him in their power.
"Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning
it back's impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The
knave, double or quits... it can't be!... And why is he doing
this to me?" Rostov pondered. Sometimes he staked a large
sum, but Dolokhov refused to accept it and fixed the stake himself.
Nicholas submitted to him, and at one moment prayed to God as
he had done on the battlefield at the bridge over the Enns, and
then guessed that the card that came first to hand from the crumpled
heap under the table would save him, now counted the cords on
his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the
total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the
other players, or peered at the now cold face of Dolokhov and
tried to read what was passing in his mind.
"He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can't
want my ruin. Wasn't he my friend? Wasn't I fond of him? But it's
not his fault. What's he to do if he has such luck?... And it's
not my fault either," he thought to himself, "I have
done nothing wrong. Have I killed anyone, or insulted or wished
harm to anyone? Why such a terrible misfortune? And when did it
begin? Such a little while ago I came to this table with the thought
of winning a hundred rubles to buy that casket for Mamma's name
day and then going home. I was so happy, so free, so lighthearted!
And I did not realize how happy I was! When did that end and when
did this new, terrible state of things begin? What marked the
change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table, chose
and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in
the same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well
and strong and still the same and in the same place. No, it can't
be! Surely it will all end in nothing!"
He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room
was not hot. His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially
from its helpless efforts to seem calm.
The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three
thousand. Rostov had just prepared a card, by bending the corner
of which he meant to double the three thousand just put down to
his score, when Dolokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put
it aside and began rapidly adding up the total of Rostov's debt,
breaking the chalk as he marked the figures in his clear, bold
hand.
"Supper, it's time for supper! And here are the gypsies!"
Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold
outside and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas
understood that it was all over; but he said in an indifferent
tone:
"Well, won't you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,"
as if it were the fun of the game which interested him most.
"It's all up! I'm lost!" thought he. "Now a
bullet through my brain- that's all that's left me! " And
at the same time he said in a cheerful voice:
"Come now, just this one more little card!"
"All right!" said Dolokhov, having finished the
addition. "All right! Twenty-one rubles," he said, pointing
to the figure twenty-one by which the total exceeded the round
sum of forty-three thousand; and taking up a pack he prepared
to deal. Rostov submissively unbent the corner of his card and,
instead of the six thousand he had intended, carefully wrote twenty-one.
"It's all the same to me," he said. "I only
want to see whether you will let me win this ten, or beat it."
Dolokhov began to deal seriously. 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 cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not
for him to jest.
"When am I to receive the money, Count?"
Rostov, flushing, drew Dolokhov into the next room.
"I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?"
he said.
"I say, Rostov," said Dolokhov clearly, smiling
and looking Nicholas straight in the eyes, "you know the
saying, 'Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.' Your cousin is in love
with you, I know."
"Oh, it's terrible to feel oneself so in this man's power,"
thought Rostov. 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.
"My cousin has nothing to do with this and it's not necessary
to mention her!" he exclaimed fiercely.
"Then when am I to have it?"
"Tomorrow," replied Rostov and left the room.
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