War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [206]
“N-no,” Dolokhov said through his teeth, “no, it’s not over,” and, taking several more dipping, hobbling steps to the sword, he fell on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and propped himself up with it. His face was pale, frowning, and trembled.
“Kind…” Dolokhov began but could not get the word out, “kindly,” he finished with effort. Pierre, barely holding back his sobs, ran towards Dolokhov and was about to cross the space separating the barriers when Dolokhov cried: “To the barrier!” And Pierre, realizing what it was about, stopped at his sword. Only ten paces separated them. Dolokhov lowered his head to the snow, bit at it greedily, raised his head again, pulled himself together, tucked his legs under, and sat up, trying to find a steady point of balance. He filled his mouth with cold snow and sucked on it; his lips trembled, but went on smiling; his eyes glittered with the effort and the anger of a last summoning of strength. He raised his pistol and began to take aim.
“Turn, cover yourself with the pistol,” said Nesvitsky.
“Cover yourself!” even Denisov could not help crying to his adversary.
Pierre, with a meek smile of pity and regret, his legs and arms spread helplessly, his broad chest exposed, stood before Dolokhov and looked at him sorrowfully. Denisov, Rostov, and Nesvitsky closed their eyes. The shot and Dolokhov’s angry cry came simultaneously.
“Missed!” cried Dolokhov, and, strengthless, he sprawled face down on the snow. Pierre clutched his head and, turning around, walked off towards the woods, treading on the untouched snow and mouthing incoherent words aloud.
“Stupid…stupid! Death…lies…,” he repeated, wincing. Nesvitsky stopped him and took him home.
Rostov and Denisov drove off with the wounded Dolokhov.
Dolokhov, silent, his eyes closed, lay in the sleigh and did not answer a word to the questions they put to him; but as they entered Moscow, he suddenly came to and, raising his head with difficulty, took the hand of Rostov, who was sitting next to him. Rostov was struck by the totally altered, unexpectedly and rapturously tender expression on Dolokhov’s face.
“Well, so? how do you feel?” asked Rostov.
“Rotten! but that’s not the point. My friend,” said Dolokhov in a halting voice, “where are we? We’re in Moscow, I know. Never mind me, but I’ve killed her, killed…She won’t survive it. She won’t survive…”
“Who?” asked Rostov.
“My mother. My mother, my angel, my adored angel, my mother.” And Dolokhov wept, pressing Rostov’s hand. When he had calmed down a little, he explained to Rostov that he lived with his mother, that if his mother saw him dying, she wouldn’t survive it. He begged Rostov to go and prepare her.
Rostov went on ahead to carry out his errand, and, to his great surprise, discovered that Dolokhov, this rowdy duellist, lived in Moscow with his old mother and hunchbacked sister, and was a most affectionate son and brother.
VI
Of late Pierre had rarely seen his wife alone. Both in Petersburg and in Moscow, their house was constantly full of guests. The night after the duel, he did not go to his bedroom, but remained, as he often did, in his father’s enormous study, the same in which old Count Bezukhov had died. Tormenting as the inner work of the previous sleepless night had been, still more tormenting work was beginning now.
He lay down on the sofa and wanted to fall asleep in order to forget all that had happened to him, but he could not do it. Such a storm of feelings,