战争与和平(上)-第105章

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f　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。
“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