战争与和平(上)-第113章

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a　card；　but　Dolohov　refused　it　and　fixed　the　stake　himself。　Nikolay　submitted　to　him；　and　at　one　moment　he　was　praying　to　God；　as　he　had　prayed　under　fire　on　the　bridge　of　Amschteten；　at　the　next　he　tried　his　fortune　on　the　chance　that　the　card　that　he　would　first　pick　up　among　the　heap　of　crumpled　ones　under　the　table　would　save　him；　then　he　reckoned　up　the　rows　of　braidings　on　his　coat；　and　tried　staking　the　whole　amount　of　his　losses　on　a　card　of　that　number；　then　he　looked　round　for　help　to　the　others　playing；　or　stared　into　Dolohov’s　face；　which　looked　quite　cold　now；　and　tried　to　penetrate　into　what　was　passing　within　him。
“He　knows；　of　course；　what　this　loss　means　to　me。　Surely　he　can’t　want　me　to　be　ruined？　Why；　he　was　my　friend。　I　loved　him。…　But；　indeed；　it’s　not　his　fault；　what’s　he　to　do；　if　he　has　all　the　luck？　And　it’s　not　my　fault；”　he　kept　saying　to　himself。　“I　have　done　nothing　wrong。　I　haven’t　murdered　or　hurt　any　one；　or　wished　any　one　harm；　have　I？　What　is　this　awful　calamity　for？　And　when　did　it　begin？　Such　a　little　while　ago　I　came　to　this　table　with　the　idea　of　winning　a　hundred　roubles；　and　buying　mamma　that　little　casket　for　her　name…day；　and　going　home。　I　was　so　happy；　so　free；　so　light…hearted。　And　I　didn’t　even　know　then　how　happy　I　was。　When　did　all　that　end；　and　when　did　this　new　awful　state　of　things　begin？　What　was　the　outward　token　of　that　change？　I　still　went　on　sitting　in　the　same　place　at　this　table；　and　in　the　same　way　picking　out　cards　and　putting　them　forward；　and　watching　those　deft；　broad…boned　hands。　When　did　it　come　to　pass；　and　what　has　come　to　pass？　I　am　strong　and　well；　and　still　the　same；　and　still　in　the　same　place。　No；　it　cannot　be。　It　will　all　be　sure　to　end　in　nothing。”
He　was　all　red　and　in　a　sweat　though　the　room　was　not　hot。　And　his　face　was　painful　and　piteous　to　see；　particularly　from　its　helpless　efforts　to　seem　calm。
The　score　reached　the　fateful　number　of　forty…three　thousand　roubles。　Rostov　already　had　the　card　ready　which　he　meant　to　stake　for　double　or　quits　on　the　three　thousand；　that　had　just　been　put　down　to　his　score；　when　Dolohov　slapped　the　pack　of　cards　down　on　the　table；　pushed　it　away；　and　taking　the　chalk　began　rapidly　in　his　clear；　strong　hand；　writing　down　the　total　of　Rostov’s　losses；　breaking　the　chalk　as　he　did　so。
“Supper；　supper…time。　And　here　are　the　gypsies。”　And　some　swarthy　men　and　women　did　in　fact　come　in　from　the　cold　outside；　saying　something　with　their　gypsy　accent。　Nikolay　grasped　that　it　was　all　over；　but　he　said　in　an　indifferent　voice：
“What；　won’t　you　go　on？　And　I　have　such　a　nice　little　card　all　ready。”　As　though　what　chiefly　interested　him　was　the　game　itself。
“It’s　all　over；　I’m　done　for；”　he　thought。　“Now　a　bullet　through　the　head’s　the　only　thing　left　for　me；”　and　at　the　same　time　he　was　saying　in　a　cheerful　voice：
“Come；　just　one　more　card。”
“Very　good；”　answered　Dolohov；　finishing　his　addition。　“Very　good。　Twenty…one　roubles…done；”　he　said；　pointing　to　the　figure　21；　over　and　above　the　round　sum　of　forty…three　thousand；　and　taking　a　pack；　he　made　ready　to　deal；　Rostov　submissively　turned　down　the　corner；　and　instead　of　the　8000　he　had　meant　to　write；　noted　down　21。
“It’s　all　the　same　to　me；”　he　said；　“only　it’s　interesting　to　me　to　know　whether　you　will　win　on　that　ten　or　let　me　have　it。”
Dolohov　began　seriously　dealing。　Oh；　how　Rostov　hated　at　that　moment　those　reddish　hands；　with　their　short　fingers　and　the　hairs　visible　under　the　shirt　sleeves；　those　hands　that　held　him　in　their　clutches。…The　ten　was　not　beaten。　“Forty…three　thousand　to　your　score；　count；”　said　Dolohov；　and　he　got　up　from　the　table　stretching。　“One　does　get　tired　sitting　so　long；”　he　said。
“Yes；　I’m　tired　too；”　said　Rostov。
Dolohov　cut　him　short；　as　though　to　warn　him　it　was　not　for　him　to　take　a　light　tone。
“When　am　I　to　receive　the　money；　count？”
Rostov　flushing　hotly　drew　Dolohov　away　into　the　other　room。
“I　can’t　pay　it　all　at　once；　you　must　take　an　I。O。U。；”　said　he
“Listen；　Rostov；”　said　Dolohov；　smiling　brightly；　and　looking　straight　into　Nikolay’s　eyes；　“you　know　the　saying：　‘Lucky　in　love；　unlucky　at　cards。’　Your　cousin　is　in　love　with　you。　I　know　it。”
“Oh！　this　is　awful　to　feel　oneself　in　this　man’s　power　like　this；”　thought　Rostov。　He　knew　the　shock　the　news　of　this　loss　would　be　to　his　father　and　mother；　he　knew　what　happiness　it　would　be　to　be　free　of　it　all；　and　felt　that　Dolohov　knew　that　he　could　set　him　free　from　this　shame　and　grief；　and　wanted　now　to　play　cat　and　mouse　with　him。
“Your　cousin…”　Dolohov　would　have　said；　but　Nikolay　cut　him　short。
“My　cousin　has　nothing　to　do　with　the　matter；　and　there　is　no　need　to　mention　her！”　he　cried；　with　fury。
“Then；　when　am　I　to　receive　it？”　asked　Dolohov。
“To…morrow；”　said　Rostov；　and　went　out　of　the　room。


Chapter　15
TO　SAY　“TO…MORROW；”　and　maintain　the　right　tone　was　not　difficult；　but　to　arrive　home　alone；　to　see　his　sisters　and　brother；　his　mother　and　father；　to　confess　and　beg　for　money　to　which　he　had　no　right　after　giving　his　word　of　honour；　was　terrible。
At　home　they　had　not　yet　gone　to　bed。　The　younger　members　of　the　family　after　coming　home　from　the　theatre　had　had　supper；　and　were　now　in　a　group　about　the　clavichord。　As　soon　as　Nikolay　entered　the　hall；　he　felt　himself　enfolded　in　the　poetic　atmosphere　of　love　which　dominated　their　household　that　winter；　and　now；　since　Dolohov’s　proposal　and　Iogel’s　ball；　seemed　to　have　grown　thicker　about　Sonya　and　Natasha；　like　the　air　before　a　storm。　Sonya　and　Natasha；　wearing　the　light　blue　dresses　they　had　put　on　for　the　theatre；　stood　at　the　clavichord；　pretty　and　conscious　of　being　so；　happy　and　smiling。　Vera　was　playing　draughts　with　Shinshin　in　the　drawing…room。　The　old　countess；　waiting　for　her　son　and　her　husband　to　come　in；　was　playing　patience　with　an　old　gentlewoman；　who　was　one　of　their　household。　Denisov；　with　shining　eyes　and　ruffled　hair；　was　sitting　with　one　leg　behind　him　at　the　clavichord。　He　was　striking　chords　with　his　short　fingers；　and　rolling　his　eyes；　as　he　sang　in　his　small；　husky；　but　true　voice　a　poem　of　his　own　composition；　“The　Enchantress；”　to　which　he　was　trying　to　fit　music。
“Enchantress；　say　what　hidden　fire
Draws　me　to　my　forsaken　lyre？
What　rapture　thrills　my　fingers　slow；
What　passion　sets　my　heart　aglow？”
he　sang　in　his　passionate　voice；　his　black；　agate　eyes　gleaming　at　the　frightened　and　delighted　Natasha。
“Splendid；　capital！”　Natasha　cried。　“Another　couplet；”　she　said；　not　noticing　Nikolay。
“Everything’s　just　the　same　with　them；”　thought　Nikolay；　peeping　into　the　drawing…room；　where　he　saw　Vera　and　his　mother　and　the　old　lady　playing　patience　with　her。
“Ah；　and　here’s　Nikolenka。”　Natasha　ran　up　to　him。　“Is　papa　at　home？”　he　asked。
“How　glad　I　am　that　you　have　come；”　said　Natasha；　not　answering　his　question；　“we　are　having　such　fun。　Vassily　Dmitritch　is　staying　a　day　longer　for　me；　do　you　know？”
“No；　papa　has　not　come　in　yet；”　answered　Sonya。
“Kolya；　you　there？　Come　to　me；　darling；”　said　the　voice　of　the　countess　from　the　drawing…room。　Nikolay　went　up　to　his　mother；　kissed　her　hand；　and　sitting　down　by　her　table；　began　silently　watching　her　hands　as　they　dealt　the　cards。　From　the　hall　he　kept　hearing　the　sound　of　laughter　and　merry　voices；　persuading　Natasha　to　do　something。
“Oh；　very　well；　very　well！”　Denisov　cried；　“now　it’s　no　use　crying　off；　it’s　your　turn　to　sing　the　barcarolle；　I　entreat　you。”
The　countess　looked　round　at　her　silent　son。
“What’s　the　matter？”　his　mother　asked　Nikolay。
“Oh；　nothing；”　he　said；　as　though　sick　of　being　continually　asked　the　same　question：　“Will　papa　soon　be　in？”
“I　expect　so。”
“Everything’s　the　same　with　them。　They　know　nothing　about　it。　What　am　I　to　do　with　myself？”　thought　Nikolay；　and　he　went　back　to　the　hall；　where　the　clavichord　was。
Sonya　was　sitting　at　the　clavichord；　playing　the　prelude　of　the　barcarolle　that　Denisov　particularly　liked。　Natasha　was　preparing　to　sing。　Denisov　was　watching　her　with　impassioned　eyes。
Nikolay　began　walking　to　and　fro　in　the　room。
“What　can　induce　her　to　want　to　sing？　What　can　she　sing？　And　th