按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
o 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。
“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。
Chapter 6
PIERRE had of late rarely seen his wife alone。 Both at Petersburg and at Moscow their house had been constantly full of guests。 On the night following the duel he did not go to his bedroom； but spent the night； as he often did； in his huge study； formerly his father’s room； the very room indeed in which Count Bezuhov had died。
He lay down on the couch and tried to go to sleep； so as to forget all that had happened to him； but he could not do so。 Such a tempest of feelings； thoughts； and reminiscences suddenly arose in his soul； that； far from going to sleep； he could not even sit still in one place； and was forced to leap up from the couch and pace with rapid steps about the room。 At one moment he had a vision of his wife； as she was in the first days after their marriage； with her bare shoulders； and languid； passionate eyes； and then immediately by her side he saw the handsome； impudent； hard； and ironical face of Dolohov； as he had seen it at the banquet； and again the same face of Dolohov； pale； quivering； in agony； as it had been when he turned and sank in the snow。
“What has happened？” he asked himself； “I have killed her lover； yes； killed the lover of my wife。 Yes； that has happened。 Why was it？ How have I come to this？” “Because you married her；” answered an inner voice。
“But how am I to blame？” he asked。 “For marrying without loving her； for deceiving yourself and her。” And vividly he recalled that minute after supper at Prince Vassily’s when he had said those words he found so difficult to utter： “I love you。” “It has all come from that。 Even then I felt it；” he thought； “I felt at the time that it wasn’t the right thing； that I had no right to do it。 And so it has turned out。” He recalled the honeymoon； and blushed at the recollection of it。 Particularly vivid； humiliating； and shameful was the memory of how one day soon after his marriage he had come in his silk dressing…gown out of his bedroom into his study at twelve o’clock in the day； and in his study had found his head steward； who had bowed deferentially； and looking at Pierre’s face and his dressing…gown； had faintly smiled； as though to express by that smile his respectful sympathy with his patron’s happiness。 “And how often I have been proud of her； proud of her majestic beauty； her social tact；” he thought； “proud of my house； in which she received all Petersburg； proud of her unapproachability and beauty。 So this was what I prided myself on。 I used to think then that I did not understand her。 How often； reflecting on her character； I have told myself that I was to blame； that I did not understand her； did not understand that everlasting composure and complacency； and the absence of all preferences and desires； and the solution of the whole riddle lay in that fearful word； that she is a dissolute woman； I have found that fearful word； and all has become clear。
“Anatole used to come to borrow money of her； and used to kiss her on her bare shoulders。 She didn’t give him money； but she let herself be kissed。 Her father used to try in joke to rouse her jealousy； with a serene smile she used to say she was not fool enough to be jealous。 Let him do as he likes； she used to say about me。 I asked her once if she felt no symptoms of pregnancy。 She laughed contemptuously； and said she was not such a fool as to want children； and that she would never have a child by me。”
Then he thought of the coarseness； the bluntness of her ideas； and the vulgarity of the expressions that were characteristic of her； although she had been brought up in the highest aristocratic circles。 “Not quite such a fool…you just try it on…you clear out of this；” she would say。 Often； watching the favourable impression she made on young and old； on men and women； Pierre could not understand why it was he did not love her。 “Yes； I never loved her；” Pierre said to himself； “I knew she was a dissolute woman；” he repeated to himself； “but I did not dare own it to myself。
“And now Dolohov： there he sits in the snow and forces himself to smile； and dies with maybe some swaggering affectation on his lips in answer to my remorse。”
Pierre was one of those people who in spite