WITHIN AN HOUR AND A HALF the greater number of the players were no longer seriously interested in their own play.

The whole interest of the game was concentrated on Rostov. Instead of a mere loss of sixteen hundred roubles he had by now scored against him a long column of figures, which he had added up to the tenth thousand, though he vaguely supposed that by now it had risen to fifteen thousand. In reality the score already exceeded twenty thousand roubles. Dolohov was not now listening to stories, or telling them, he followed every movement of Rostov's hands, and from time to time took a cursory survey of his score with him. He had resolved to keep the play up till that score had reached forty-three thousand. He had fixed on that number because it represented the sum of his and Sonya's ages. Rostov sat with his head propped in both hands, before the wine-stained table scrawled over with scorings and littered with cards. One torturing sensation never left him; those broad-boned, reddish hands, with the hairs visible under the shirt-cuffs, those hands which he loved and hated, held him in their power.

“Six hundred roubles, ace, corner, nine; winning it back's out of the question!…And how happy I should be at home.…The knave double or quits, it can't be!…And why is he doing this to me?…” Rostov pondered and thought. Sometimes he put a higher stake on 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.

过了一个半钟头，多数赌徒都在开玩笑地瞧着自己的牌儿。

赌局的焦点凝聚在罗斯托夫一个人身上。他欠的帐上写下了一长列数字，而不是一千六百卢布，他数数，计有上万卢布了，可是到目前他模糊地意识到，这个数目字已经高达一万五千卢布。而实际上他所欠的赌帐已经超过两万了。多洛霍夫不去听、也不去讲故事了，他注意罗斯托夫两只手的每个动作，有时候迅速地回头望望他欠的赌帐。他坚决地继续赌下去，直到这笔欠帐增加到四万三千卢布。他选定这个数目，是因为“四十三”正是他的年龄和索尼娅的年龄的总和。罗斯托夫把两只手托着头，坐在那写满数字、溅满葡萄酒、堆满纸牌的桌前。一种令人痛苦的印象保留在他的脑际：这两只骨骼大的、有点发红的、从衬衣袖筒下面露出来的长满汗毛的手，这两只他既爱且恨的手支配着他。“六百卢布、爱司、角、九点……赢回钱来是不可能的！……呆在家里多么愉快啊……杰克上要加倍下赌注……这是不可能的啊！……他干嘛硬要这样对待我呢？……”罗斯托夫一面想着，一面回忆着。他有时候押下一笔大赌注，可是多洛霍夫拒绝吃他的牌，并且给他定赌注。尼古拉屈从于他，他时而祷告上帝，如同他在战场上，在阿姆施特滕桥上祷告一般；他时而猜想，桌子底下的一堆折坏的纸牌中随便一张落到他手上，就可以救他一把，他时而算算，他穿的制服上有几根绦带，试图把全部输掉的钱都押在和绦带总数相同的纸牌上，他时而环顾其他的赌徒，向他们求救，时而睇睇多洛霍夫那副现在变得冷漠的面孔，极力地想弄明白，他在搞什么名堂。

“他不是不晓得，赌博输钱对我意味着什么。他不会希望我趋于毁灭吧？要知道，他是我的朋友。要知道我疼爱过他……但是他没有过错，在他走运的时候，有什么办法呢？我也是没有过失的，”他自言自语地说，“我没有做出什么害人的事。我难道杀了什么人？难道侮辱了什么人？想要危害什么人？为什么竟会面临这种可怕的灾难？这是在什么时候开始的？就是在不久以前，当我走到这张牌桌面前的时候，我想赢它一百卢布，够买一个首饰匣送给我妈妈过命名日，然后就回家去。我那时多么幸福，多么自由，多么快活啊！那时候我也不明白我怎么竟会那样幸福啊！这是在什么时候结束的？而这种前所未有的可怕的处境是在什么时候开始出现的？这种变化是以什么作为标志的？我还是这样坐在这个地方，坐在这张牌桌旁边，还是这样选牌和出牌，而且还望着这双骨骼大的灵巧的手。这究竟是在什么时候发生的？发生了一件什么事？我身强体壮，还是那个样子，还呆在这个地方。不，这是不可能的！结局想必不会有什么事的。”

虽然这个房间里不太炎热，但是他满面通红，浑身出汗，他的面孔显得可怕而且可怜；尤其是力不从心，想装出沉着的样子，那就更加可怕，而且可怜了。

欠帐已高达四万三千这个命中注定不祥的数目。罗斯托夫刚刚输掉三千卢布，他挑选一张牌，折上纸牌的一角，再下四分之一的赌注，这时多洛霍夫把纸牌往桌上一磕，挪到一边，拿起一根粉笔把它摁断，用那容易辨认的雄健的笔迹开始给罗斯托夫结帐。

“该吃晚饭了，该吃晚饭了！你看，茨冈人来了！”几个面目黧黑的男女真从寒冷的户外走进来，带着茨冈人的口音说话。尼古拉明白，一切都完了，可是他冷漠地说：

“怎么，你不再赌了？我选好了一张好牌。”好像赌博这一娱乐使他最感兴趣似的。

“一切都完了，我完蛋了！”他想道，“现在只有一条路，对准额头开一枪自杀吧。”同时他又愉快地说。

“喂，再来一张牌吧。”

“很好，”多洛霍夫结完帐，说道，“很好！押二十一卢布的赌注，”他指着四万三千一笔整数的零头“二十一”这个数字说，他拿起一副纸牌，准备发牌。罗斯托夫顺从地折上纸牌的一角，用心地写上二十一，以取代原来准备押的六千。

“我横竖一样，”他说道，“我很想知道的只是，你要把这个十点‘吃'掉，还是让给我。”

多洛霍夫开始认真地发牌。哦，罗斯托夫这时分多么痛恨那双支配他的手，那双稍微发红的、从衬衣袖筒下面露出来的、指头短短的、长满汗毛的手……十点赢了。

“您欠四万三千，伯爵，”多洛霍夫从桌后站起来，伸伸懒腰时说道，“不过，坐得太久了，会疲倦的。”他说道。

“是的，我也疲倦了。”罗斯托夫说。

多洛霍夫打断他的话，好像在提醒他，开玩笑对他是不体面的。

“什么时候叫我来拿钱，伯爵？”

罗斯托夫面红耳赤，把多洛霍夫喊到另一间房里。

“我不能马上全数偿付，你可以拿张期票。”他说道。

“罗斯托夫，请你听听，”多洛霍夫说，明显地露出微笑，不住地盯着尼古拉的眼睛，“你知道有句俗话：‘在恋爱中走运，在赌博中就倒霉。'你的表妹爱上你了。我知道。”

“噢！我觉得自己受到这个人的支配，这多么可怕。”罗斯托夫想。罗斯托夫明白，公开说出这次输钱的事，会使他父母遭受到多么大的打击，他明白，摆脱这一切是多么幸运，他也明白，多洛霍夫知道，他能够使他摆脱这种耻辱和痛苦，而他现在像猫儿玩弄耗子那样，竟想玩弄他。

“你的表妹……”多洛霍夫想说一句话，可是尼古拉打断他的话。

“我的表妹与此事毫不相干，用不着谈论她！”他疯狂地喊道。

“那末什么时候可以拿到钱？”多洛霍夫问道。

“明天。”罗斯托夫说完这句话，便从房里走出去了。