Book Four: 1806 - Chapter V

by Leo Tolstoy

　　"Well begin!" said Dolokhov.

　　"All right," said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feelingof dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightlybegun could no longer be averted but was taking its courseindependently of men's will.

　　Denisov first went to the barrier and announced: "As the adve'sawieshave wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your pistols,and at the word thwee begin to advance.

　　"O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!" he shouted angrily and stepped aside.

　　The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer andnearer to one another, beginning to see one another through themist. They had the right to fire when they liked as they approachedthe barrier. Dolokhov walked slowly without raising his pistol,looking intently with his bright, sparkling blue eyes into hisantagonist's face. His mouth wore its usual semblance of a smile.

　　"So I can fire when I like!" said Pierre, and at the word "three,"he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping intothe deep snow. He held the pistol in his right hand at arm's length,apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left hand he heldcarefully back, because he wished to support his right hand with itand knew he must not do so. Having advanced six paces and strayedoff the track into the snow, Pierre looked down at his feet, thenquickly glanced at Dolokhov and, bending his finger as he had beenshown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierreshuddered at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations,stood still. The smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented himfrom seeing anything for an instant, but there was no second report ashe had expected. He only heard Dolokhov's hurried steps, and hisfigure came in view through the smoke. He was pressing one hand to hisleft side, while the other clutched his drooping pistol. His facewas pale. Rostov ran toward him and said something.

　　"No-o-o!" muttered Dolokhov through his teeth, "no, it's notover." And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to thesaber, he sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; hewiped it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowningface was pallid and quivered.

　　"Plea..." began Dolokhov, but could not at first pronounce the word.

　　"Please," he uttered with an effort.

　　Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dolokhovand was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dolokhovcried:

　　"To your barrier!" and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped byhis saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dolokhov lowered his head tothe snow, greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself,drew in his legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. Hesucked and sucked and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered buthis eyes, still smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation ashe mustered his remaining strength. He raised his pistol and aimed.

　　"Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!" ejaculated Nesvitski.

　　"Cover yourself!" even Denisov cried to his adversary.

　　Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legshelplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facingDolokhov looked sorrowfully at him. Denisov, Rostov, and Nesvitskiclosed their eyes. At the same instant they heard a report andDolokhov's angry cry.

　　"Missed!" shouted Dolokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards onthe snow.

　　Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest,trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:

　　"Folly... folly! Death... lies..." he repeated, puckering his face.

　　Nesvitski stopped him and took him home.

　　Rostov and Denisov drove away with the wounded Dolokhov.

　　The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did notanswer a word to the questions addressed to him. But on enteringMoscow he suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort,took Rostov, who was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostov wasstruck by the totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tenderexpression on Dolokhov's face.

　　"Well? How do you feel?" he asked.

　　"Bad! But it's not that, my friend-" said Dolokhov with a gaspingvoice. "Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don't matter, but I havekilled her, killed... She won't get over it! She won't survive...."

　　"Who?" asked Rostov.

　　"My mother! My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother," andDolokhov pressed Rostov's hand and burst into tears.

　　When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostov thathe was living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying, would notsurvive it. He implored Rostov to go on and prepare her.

　　Rostov went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surpriselearned that Dolokhov the brawler, Dolokhov the bully, lived in Moscowwith an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the mostaffectionate of sons and brothers.