War And Peace

‘Ugh!’ he said, staring down at the pavement.

‘Atten-shun!’ cried Dolokhov, yanking him back in, so that he tripped over his spurs and came tumbling down awkwardly into the room.

Standing the bottle on the sill to keep it within easy reach, Dolokhov climbed slowly and deliberately out through the window and let his legs dangle down outside. Bracing himself with both hands against the sides of the frame, he settled himself, sat down, let go with his hands, shuffled slightly to the right, then to the left, and reached for the bottle. Anatole brought two candles, and put them on the window-ledge, even though it was quite light. Dolokhov’s back with his white shirt and his curly head were lit up from both sides. Everybody swarmed round the window, the English sailor at the front. Pierre smiled, and said nothing. One of the party, a bit older than the rest, suddenly pushed his way through with a scared and angry face, and tried to grab at Dolokhov’s shirt.

‘Gentlemen, this is crazy. He’ll get killed,’ said this more sensible man.

Anatole stopped him.

‘Don’t touch him. You’ll put him off, and then he will get killed. Eh? What about that?’

Dolokhov looked round, shifting his position, still supporting himself with both hands.

‘If anybody tries to get hold of me again,’ he said, forcing out his words one by one through tight thin lips, ‘I’ll chuck him down there . . . Right then!’

Whereupon he turned round again to face the outside, took his hands away, picked up the bottle and put it to his mouth, bent his head back and held his free hand up in the air to balance himself. One of the servants, who had begun clearing up the broken glass, stood transfixed in a stooping posture, his eyes glued on the window and Dolokhov’s back. Anatole stood erect, staring. The Englishman winced as he watched from one side. The man who had tried to stop it all had rushed across into a corner and now lay on the sofa facing the wall. Pierre covered his eyes, a feeble, forgotten smile lingered on his lips, and his face was now full of fear and horror. Nobody spoke. Pierre took his hands away from his eyes; there was Dolokhov still sitting in the same position, only his head was bent so far back that the curls on his neck touched his shirt collar, and the hand with the bottle rose higher and higher, trembling with the effort. The bottle was draining nicely, and went higher as it did so, bending the head further back. ‘Why is it taking so long?’ thought Pierre. More than half an hour seemed to have passed. Suddenly Dolokhov’s spine jerked back, and his arm trembled nervously, enough to shift his whole body as he sat on the sloping ledge. He slipped, and his arm and head shook even more violently as he struggled. One hand rose to clutch at the window-sill, but fell back again. Pierre shut his eyes again, and swore he would never open them. Then suddenly he was aware of things beginning to move round about him. He glanced up. There was Dolokhov standing on the window-ledge, his pale face full of delight.

‘All gone!’

He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolokhov jumped down from the window stinking of rum.

‘Well done! Bravo! That’s a real bet! You’re a right devil, you are!’ came the shouts from all sides.

The Englishman took out his purse and counted out the money. Dolokhov stood there frowning and silent. Pierre leapt up on to the window-sill.

‘Gentlemen! Anybody betting? I can do that!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘I don’t even need a bet. No, I don’t. Tell them to get me a bottle. I’ll do it . . . Just get me a bottle . . .’

‘Go on! Let him do it!’ said Dolokhov with a grin.

‘What, are you mad? No one will let you. You get dizzy walking downstairs,’ came the various protests.

‘I’ll drink it. Give me that bottle of rum,’ roared Pierre, thumping the table with a deliberate, drunken gesture, and he climbed up into the well of the window. People snatched at his arms, but he was so strong he sent them flying if they came anywhere near.

‘No, you’ll never talk him out of it like that,’ said Anatole. ‘Hang on. I know how to fool him . . . Listen, Pierre, I accept your bet, but for tomorrow night. Right now we’re all going on to you know where.’

‘Right, let’s go!’ yelled Pierre. ‘Let’s go! We can take Bruin with us . . .’

And he grabbed the bear, hugged it, lifted it right off the floor and took it waltzing round the room.

CHAPTER 7