War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [25]
“I’m for Dolokhov!” cried a third. “Break the grip, Kuragin.”23
“Let Bruin be, we’re making a bet.”
“At one go, otherwise you lose,” shouted a fourth.
“Yakov! Let’s have a bottle, Yakov!” shouted the host himself, a tall, handsome man, who was standing in the midst of the crowd in nothing but a fine shirt open on his chest. “Wait, gentlemen. Here’s Petrusha, my dear friend,” he turned to Pierre.
Another voice, that of a not very tall man with clear blue eyes, especially striking amidst all these drunken voices by its sober expression, shouted from the window: “Come here—break the grip!” This was Dolokhov, an officer of the Semyonovsky regiment, a notorious gambler and duellist, who lived with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking around merrily.
“I don’t understand a thing. What’s up?” he asked.
“Wait, he’s not drunk. Give me a bottle,” said Anatole, and taking a glass from the table, he went up to Pierre.
“First of all, drink.”
Pierre started drinking glass after glass, looking from under his brows at the drunken guests, who again crowded by the window, and listening to their talk. Anatole poured the wine for him and told him that Dolokhov was making a bet with the Englishman Stevens, a sailor who was there, that he, Dolokhov, could drink a bottle of rum sitting in the third-floor window with his legs hanging out.
“Well, drink it all,” said Anatole, handing Pierre the last glass, “otherwise I won’t let you go!”
“No, I don’t want to,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole away, and he went over to the window.
Dolokhov was holding the Englishman by the hand and clearly, distinctly articulating the terms of the bet, mainly addressing Anatole and Pierre.
Dolokhov was a man of medium height, curly-haired and with light blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers, he wore no mustache, and his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was entirely visible. The lines of his mouth were remarkably finely curved. In the middle, the upper lip came down energetically on the sturdy lower lip in a sharp wedge, and at the corners something like two smiles were constantly formed, one on each side; and all of that together, especially combined with a firm, insolent, intelligent gaze, made up such an expression that it was impossible not to notice this face. Dolokhov was not a rich man and had no connections. And though Anatole ran through tens of thousands, Dolokhov lived with him and managed to place himself so that Anatole and all those who knew them respected Dolokhov more than Anatole. Dolokhov gambled at all games and almost always won. No matter how much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. Kuragin and Dolokhov were both celebrities at that time in the world of Petersburg scapegraces and carousers.
A bottle of rum was brought. Two lackeys were tearing out the frame that prevented one from sitting on the outer ledge of the window; they were obviously hurrying and intimidated by the orders and shouts of the surrounding gentlemen.
Anatole went up to the window with his victorious look. He wanted to break something. He pushed the lackeys away and pulled at the frame, but the frame did not yield. He smashed a pane.
“You next, strongman,” he turned to Pierre.
Pierre took hold of the crosspieces, pulled, and, with a crash, here broke and there ripped out the oak frame.
“Away with all of it, otherwise they’ll think I’m holding on,” said Dolokhov.
“The Englishman’s boasting…eh?…all right?…” said Anatole.
“All right,” said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who, holding the bottle of rum in his hand, was approaching the window, through which the light of the sky could be seen and the glow of morning and evening merging in it.
Dolokhov jumped up into the window with the bottle of rum in his hand.
“Listen!” he shouted, standing on the windowsill and turning to the room. Everyone fell silent.
“I put down” (he spoke in French so that the Englishman would understand him, and he did not speak the language all that well), “I put down fifty imperials—want to make it a hundred?