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"
Come
now
,
deal
!
"
exclaimed
Rostóv
"
Oh
,
those
Moscow
gossips
!
"
said
Dólokhov
,
and
he
took
up
the
cards
with
a
smile
.
"
Aah
!
"
Rostóv
almost
screamed
lifting
both
hands
to
his
head
.
The
seven
he
needed
was
lying
uppermost
,
the
first
card
in
the
pack
.
He
had
lost
more
than
he
could
pay
.
"
Still
,
do
n't
ruin
yourself
!
"
said
Dólokhov
with
a
side
glance
at
Rostóv
as
he
continued
to
deal
.
An
hour
and
a
half
later
most
of
the
players
were
but
little
interested
in
their
own
play
.
The
whole
interest
was
concentrated
on
Rostóv
.
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
.
Dólokhov
was
no
longer
listening
to
stories
or
telling
them
,
but
followed
every
movement
of
Rostóv
'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
Sónya
's
joint
ages
.
Rostóv
,
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
ca
n't
be
!
...
And
why
is
he
doing
this
to
me
?
"
Rostóv
pondered
.
Sometimes
he
staked
a
large
sum
,
but
Dólokhov
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
Dólokhov
and
tried
to
read
what
was
passing
in
his
mind
.
"
He
knows
of
course
what
this
loss
means
to
me
.
He
ca
n't
want
my
ruin
.
Was
n't
he
my
friend
?
Was
n'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
ca
n't
be
!
Surely
it
will
all
end
in
nothing
!
"
He
was
flushed
and
bathed
in
perspiration
,
though
the
room
was
not
hot
.
