‘Oh, Countess, weally and twuly, I . . .’ Denisov was saying.
‘Come off it, Vaska,’ said Nikolay.
‘They’re stwoking me like a kitten,’ said Denisov with great good humour.
‘I’ll sing for you – all night!’ said Natasha.
‘Little sorsowess, she’s got me wapped awound her little finger!’ said Denisov, unbuckling his sabre. He came out from behind the chairs, took his partner firmly by the hand, tilted his head back and put one foot forward, waiting for the beat. Denisov’s short stature went unnoticed only when he was on horseback or dancing the mazurka; then he looked every inch the dashing hero he always felt himself to be. When the beat came round he gave a smile of triumph, took a sideways glance at his partner, suddenly stamped his foot and leapt off the floor like a rubber ball, soaring away and whirling his partner round with him. He swooped silently half-way across the room on one foot, heading straight for some chairs which he didn’t seem to have seen, only to stop dead suddenly, spurs jingling, legs apart, down on his heels, holding it there for a second, then off again, stamping both feet, jangling his spurs, spinning round dizzily, clicking his heels, swooping off into another turn. Instinctively aware of what he was going to do next, Natasha abandoned herself and followed his lead quite unconsciously. He whirled her round on his right arm, then on his left, dropped down on one knee and guided her round, then leapt up again and galloped away madly as if he intended sweeping through every room in the palace without stopping for breath. But then – a sudden stop, a pause, and off again into some new and adventurous steps. With a final swirling flourish he swung his partner back into her place, halted smartly with jingling spurs and bowed to her, but Natasha didn’t even curtsey in return. She was staring at him quizzically with a smile on her puzzled face, as if she didn’t know him.
‘What was that all about?’ she said.
Although Iogel refused to accept this kind of dancing as a proper mazurka, everyone was delighted with Denisov’s performance, and he was in great demand as a partner. Meanwhile old gentlemen smiled the time away, going on about Poland and the good old days, and as for Denisov, red in the face from his exertions in the mazurka and mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he sat down next to Natasha and never left her side for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 13
For the next two days Rostov did not see Dolokhov at his own home, nor did he catch him in when he called. On the third day he received a note from him.
Since I have no intention of visiting your house again for reasons which are well known to you, and I am going back to join the regiment soon, I am giving a farewell supper tonight for my friends. Come to the English Hotel.
Shortly before ten o’clock that evening Rostov went on to the English Hotel from the theatre where he had been with his family and Denisov. He was taken straight to the best room in the hotel, which Dolokhov had hired for the night.
A couple of dozen young men were gathered around a table where Dolokhov was sitting between two candles. There were gold coins and banknotes on the table, and Dolokhov was keeping the bank. Nikolay had not seen him since his proposal and Sonya’s refusal, and he felt some embarrassment at the thought of meeting him again.
Dolokhov’s clear, cold eyes met Rostov even as he came in through the door, as if he had long been waiting for him.
‘We haven’t met for some time,’ he said. ‘Thanks for coming. Just let me finish dealing – and Ilyushka will soon be here with his singers.’
‘I called on you several times,’ said Rostov, reddening.
Dolokhov didn’t respond.
‘You can place your bet now,’ he said.
Rostov instantly recalled a curious conversation he had once had with Dolokhov, who had said to him, ‘Relying on luck’s a fool’s game.’
‘Unless you’re too scared to bet against me?’ Dolokhov said now, as if he could guess what was going through Rostov’s mind, and he smiled. Rostov could see lurking behind that smile the same mood that had settled on him at the club dinner, and on other occasions when Dolokhov had seemed to be tired of life with its dull routine and desperate to escape from it by doing something reckless and usually cruel.
Rostov felt uneasy. He racked his brains for some flippant response to Dolokhov’s words, but couldn’t think of anything. And while he was gathering his thoughts Dolokhov looked him straight in the face and said with slow deliberation for all to hear, ‘Remember what we used to say about relying on luck? . . . It’s a fool’s game. You should play safe, and I’d like to have a go.’
‘What at – relying on luck or playing safe?’ wondered Rostov. ‘No, you’d better stay out of it,’ Dolokhov added. Snapping down a newly opened pack, he said, ‘Gentlemen, the bank!’
Pushing some money forward, Dolokhov started to deal.
Rostov sat down next to him. At first he held back. Dolokhov kept glancing at him.
