Fear was building up. It was now obvious to all that the affair that had begun so lightly could not now be averted, it had its own momentum nothing to do with anyone’s will, and it would have to run its course. Denisov was the first to come forward to the barrier and once there he made his announcement: ‘Since the adversawies wefuse all weconciliation we may as well pwoceed. Take your pistols, and at the word “fwee” you may begin to advance . . . O-ne! Tw-o! Fwee! . . .’ Denisov roared furiously, and then strode away. The two contestants walked forward over the tracks trodden down for them, coming closer and closer, picking each other out through the mist. They had the right to fire at any point as they approached the barrier. Dolokhov was walking slowly, not raising his pistol, and looking his antagonist straight in the face with his clear, shining blue eyes. His mouth wore its usual hint of a smile.
After the count of three Pierre walked forward quickly, stumbled off the beaten track and had to go on through untrodden snow. He was holding his pistol at arm’s length in his right hand, obviously scared of shooting himself with his own weapon. His left arm was deliberately thrust back behind him, because he was tempted to use it to support his right arm, and he knew that this was against the rules. After advancing half-a-dozen paces off the track and into the snow, Pierre glanced down at his feet, looked up at Dolokhov again very quickly, then crooked his finger as he had been told, and fired. Shocked by the loudness of the bang, Pierre jumped at his own shot and came to a halt, grinning at all that was happening to him. The smoke was thicker than it might have been because of the fog and for a moment he could see nothing. The anticipated return shot did not come. All he heard were some rapid footsteps, Dolokhov’s, as the figure of his opponent emerged from the smoke, with one hand clutching at his left side and his lowered pistol gripped in the other. His face had gone pale. Rostov ran up and said something to him.
‘No-o!’ Dolokhov muttered through clenched teeth. ‘No, it’s not over . . .’ He struggled forward a few steps, stumbling and staggering as far as the sabre, where he flopped down in the snow. He rubbed his bloodstained left hand on his coat and propped himself up on it. There was a dark frown on his trembling pale face.
‘P-p-p . . .’ Dolokhov began, hardly able to speak, but then with a great effort he managed one word: ‘Please . . .’
Pierre could hardly to restrain his sobs as ran towards Dolokhov, and he would have crossed the space between the barriers if Dolokhov had not cried out, ‘Your barrier!’ Realizing what was required of him, Pierre stopped right next to his sabre. They were only ten paces apart. Dolokhov dropped his head down into the snow and had a good bite at it, looked up again, struggled up into a sitting position, wobbling as he searched for a good centre of gravity. He swallowed, sucking down the cold snow, while his trembling lips were still smiling and his hate-filled eyes glinted from the effort as his strength ebbed away. He raised his pistol and took aim.
‘Sideways on! Use the pistol for cover!’ said Nesvitsky.
‘Covah!’ yelled Denisov instinctively even though he was supposed to be on Dolokhov’s side.
Full of sympathy and remorse, Pierre stood gently smiling, with legs and arms helplessly outstretched and his broad chest fully open to Dolokhov. He looked down at him in great sadness. Denisov, Rostov and Nesvitsky all winced. At that instant they heard a bang followed by an angry shout from Dolokhov.
‘Missed!’ Dolokhov cried, flopping down helplessly face-down in the snow. Pierre clutched at his head, turning aside, and stumbled off into the wood, away from the path into deep snow, muttering incoherently.
‘Stupid . . . stupid! Death . . . all lies . . .’ he kept repeating, scowling. Nesvitsky stopped him and took him home.
Rostov and Denisov drove away with the wounded Dolokhov.
Dolokhov lay still in the sledge with his eyes closed and in complete silence, refusing to utter a word in response to any questions put to him. But as they were driving into Moscow, he suddenly recovered, made an effort to raise his head and took hold of Rostov’s hand. Rostov, sitting next to him, was struck by the complete change that had come over Dolokhov’s face, which had suddenly melted into a kind of rapturous gentleness.
‘Well? How do you feel?’ asked Rostov.
‘Terrible! But that doesn’t matter. Listen, my friend,’ said Dolokhov, in a shaky voice. ‘Where are we? . . . I know we’re in Moscow . . . I’m not important, but this will kill her,
‘Who?’ asked Rostov.
