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?” he added, addressing the Englishman.
“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 him stirring. He looked: Dolokhov was standing on the windowsill, his face pale and merry.
“Empty!”
He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who deftly caught it. Dolokhov jumped down from the window. He smelled strongly of rum.
“Excellent! Good boy! There’s a bet for you! Devil take you all!” they cried on all sides.
The Englishman, having produced his purse, counted out the money. Dolokhov frowned and said nothing. Pierre climbed into the window.
“Gentlemen! Who wants to make a bet with me? I’ll do the same thing,” he suddenly shouted. “And there’s no need for a bet, that’s what. Tell them to bring a bottle. I’ll do it…tell them.”
“Let him, let him!” said Dolokhov, smiling.
“What, have you lost your mind? Who’d let you? You get dizzy on the stairs,” came from various sides.
“I’ll drink it, give me a bottle of rum!” Pierre cried, pounding the table with a determined and drunken gesture, and he climbed into the window.
They seized him by the arms; but he was so strong that he pushed those who came near him far away.
“No, you won’t get anywhere with him that way,” said Anatole. “Wait, I’ll trick him. Listen, I’ll make a bet with you, but tomorrow, and now let’s all go to the * * *.”
“Let’s go,” cried Pierre, “let’s go!…And we’ll take Bruin with us…”
And he seized the bear and, hugging him and lifting him up, began waltzing around the room with him.
VII
Prince Vassily fulfilled the promise he had given at Anna Pavlovna’s soirée to Princess Drubetskoy, who had solicited him for her only son Boris. A report on him was made to the sovereign, and, unlike others, he was transferred to the Semyonovsky guards regiment as an ensign. But Boris was not to be appointed adjutant or attaché to Kutuzov, despite all Anna Mikhailovna’s soliciting and scheming. Soon after Anna Pavlovna’s soirée, Anna Mikhailovna returned to Moscow, straight to her rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed in Moscow, and with whom her adored Borenka, just made an ensign in the army and transferred to the guards, had been brought up and had lived for years. The guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow to equip himself, was to catch up with them on the way to Radzivilov.