War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [26]
“No, fifty,” said the Englishman.
“Very well, fifty imperials, that I will drink a whole bottle of rum, without taking it from my lips, drink it sitting outside the window, on this place” (he bent down and indicated the sloping ledge outside the window), “and without holding on to anything…Right?…”
“Very good,” said the Englishman.
Anatole turned to the Englishman and, taking him by the button of his tailcoat and looking at him from above (the Englishman was short), began repeating the terms of the bet to him in English.
“Wait,” cried Dolokhov, tapping the bottle against the window to attract attention. “Wait, Kuragin; listen. If anybody else does the same, I’ll pay him a hundred imperials. Understood?”
The Englishman nodded his head, in no way making clear whether he did or did not accept this new bet. Anatole did not let go of the Englishman, and though he had nodded to show he had understood everything, Anatole translated Dolokhov’s words into English for him. A young, lean boy, a life-hussar, who had gambled away everything that evening, climbed up on the window, stuck his head out, and looked down.
“Oooh!” he said, looking out the window at the stone of the pavement.
“Attention!” cried Dolokhov and pulled the officer from the window. Getting tangled in his spurs, the boy jumped down awkwardly into the room.
After placing the bottle on the windowsill to have it conveniently at hand, Dolokhov slowly and carefully climbed into the window. Lowering his legs and spreading both hands against the sides of the window, he tried his position, settled himself, let go with his hands, shifted a little to the right, to the left, and took the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and set them on the windowsill, though it was already quite light. Dolokhov’s back in its white shirt and his curly head were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded by the window. The Englishman stood in front. Pierre smiled and said nothing. One of those present, older than the others, with a frightened and angry face, suddenly moved forward and was about to seize Dolokhov by the shirt.
“Gentlemen, this is stupid; he’ll kill himself,” said this more reasonable man.
Anatole stopped him.
“Don’t touch, you’ll frighten him, and he’ll be killed. Eh?…What then?…Eh?…”
Dolokhov turned, adjusting his position, and again spreading his hands.
“If anybody else tries to get at me,” he said, slowly forcing the words through his compressed and thin lips, “I’ll chuck him down from here right now. So!…”
Having said “So!” he turned back again, let go with his hands, took the bottle and put it to his lips, threw his head back, and thrust his free arm up for balance. One of the lackeys, who had begun picking up the glass, stopped in a bent position, not taking his eyes from the window and Dolokhov’s back. Anatole stood erect, his eyes gaping. The Englishman, his lips thrust out, watched from the side. The man who had tried to stop them rushed to the corner of the room and lay down on a sofa, face to the wall. Pierre covered his face, and a faint smile remained forgotten on it, though it now expressed terror and fear. Everyone was silent. Pierre took his hands away from his eyes. Dolokhov was sitting in the same position, only his head was thrown far back, so that the curly hair of his nape touched the collar of his shirt, and the hand holding the bottle rose higher and higher, trembling and making an effort. The bottle was apparently emptying and rising at the same time, pushing the head back. “Why is it taking so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had gone by. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement, and his arm trembled nervously; this shudder was enough to shift his whole body, which was sitting on the sloping ledge. He shifted completely, and his arm and head trembled still more from the effort. One arm rose to take hold of the windowsill, but lowered itself again. Pierre again shut his eyes and said to himself that he was never going to open them. Suddenly he felt everything around