《War And Peace》 Book4 CHAPTER V
by Leo Tolstoy
“WELL, let us begin,” said Dolohov.
“To be sure,” said Pierre, still with the same smile.
A feeling of dread was in the air. It was obvious that the affair that had
begun so lightly could not now be in any way turned back, that it was going
forward of itself, independently of men's will, and must run its course. Denisov
was the first to come forward to the barrier and pronounce the words:
“Since the antagonists refuse all reconciliation, would it not be as well to
begin? Take your pistols, and at the word ‘three' begin to advance together. O …
one! Two! Three! …” Denisov shouted angrily, and he walked away from the
barrier. Both walked along the trodden tracks closer and closer together,
beginning to recognise one another in the mist. The combatants had the right to
fire when they chose as they approached the barrier. Dolohov walked slowly, not
lifting his pistol, and looking intently with his clear, shining eyes into the
face of his antagonist. His mouth wore, as always, the semblance of a
smile.
“So when I like, I can fire,” said Pierre, and at the word three, he
walked with rapid steps forward, straying off the beaten track and stepping over
the untrodden snow. Pierre held his pistol at full length in his right hand,
obviously afraid of killing himself with that pistol. His left arm he studiously
held behind him, because he felt inclined to use it to support his right arm,
and he knew that was not allowed. After advancing six paces, and getting off the
track into the snow, Pierre looked about under his feet, glancing rapidly again
at Dolohov, and stretching out his finger, as he had been shown, fired. Not at
all expecting so loud a report, Pierre started at his own shot, then smiled at
his own sensation and stood still. The smoke, which was made thicker by the fog,
hindered him from seeing for the first moment; but the other shot that he was
expecting did not follow. All that could be heard were Dolohov's rapid
footsteps, and his figure came into view through the smoke. With one hand he was
clutching at his left side, the other was clenched on the lower pistol. His face
was pale. Rostov was running up and saying something to him.
“N…no,” Dolohov muttered through his teeth, “no, it's not over”; and
struggling on a few sinking, staggering steps up to the sword, he sank on to the
snow beside it. His left hand was covered with blood, he rubbed it on his coat
and leaned upon it. His face was pale, frowning and trembling.
“Co…” Dolohov began, but he could not at once articulate the words: “come
up,” he said, with an effort. Pierre, hardly able to restrain his sobs, ran
towards Dolohov, and would have crossed the space that separated the barriers,
when Dolohov cried: “To the barrier!” and Pierre, grasping what was wanted,
stood still just at the sword. Only ten paces divided them. Dolohov putting his
head down, GREedily bit at the snow, lifted his head again, sat up, tried to get
on his legs and sat down, trying to find a secure centre of gravity. He took a
mouthful of the cold snow, and sucked it; his lips quivered, but still he
smiled; his eyes glittered with the strain and exasperation of the struggle with
his failing forces. He raised the pistol and began taking aim.
“Sideways, don't expose yourself to the pistol,” said Nesvitsky.
name=Marker10>“Don't face it!” Denisov could not help shouting, though it was to an
antagonist.
With his gentle smile of sympathy and remorse, Pierre stood with his legs and
arms straddling helplessly, and his broad chest directly facing Dolohov, and
looked at him mournfully. Denisov, Rostov, and Nesvitsky screwed up their eyes.
At the same instant they heard a shot and Dolohov's wrathful cry.
“Missed!” shouted Dolohov, and he dropped helplessly, face downwards, in the
snow. Pierre clutched at his head, and turning back, walked into the wood, off
the path in the snow, muttering aloud incoherent words.
“Stupid…stupid! Death…lies…” he kept repeating, scowling. Nesvitsky stopped
him and took him home.
Rostov and Denisov got the wounded Dolohov away.
Dolohov lay in the sledge with closed eyes, in silence, and uttered not a
word in reply to questions addressed to him. But as they were driving into
Moscow, he suddenly came to himself, and lifting his head with an effort, he
took the hand of Rostov, who was sitting near him. Rostov was struck by the
utterly transformed and unexpectedly passionately tender expression on Dolohov's
face.
“Well? How do you feel?” asked Rostov.
“Bad! but that's not the point. My friend,” said Dolohov, in a breaking
voice, “where are we? We are in Moscow, I know. I don't matter, but I have
killed her, killed her.…She won't get over this. She can't bear…”
“Who?” asked Rostov.
“My mother. My mother, my angel, my adored angel, my mother,” and squeezing
Rostov's hand, Dolohov burst into tears. When he was a little calmer, he
explained to Rostov that he was living with his mother, that if his mother were
to see him dying, she would not get over the shock. He besought Rostov to go to
her and prepare her.
Rostov drove on ahead to carry out his wish, and to his immense astonishment
he learned that Dolohov, this bully, this noted duellist Dolohov, lived at
Moscow with his old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the tenderest son and
brother.
