|
Pierre sat opposite Dolokhov and Nicholas Rostov. As usual,
he ate and drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately
noticed that some great change had come over him that day. He
was silent all through dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling,
or, with fixed eyes and a look of complete absent-mindedness,
kept rubbing the bridge of his nose. His face was depressed and
gloomy. He seemed to see and hear nothing of what was going on
around him and to be absorbed by some depressing and unsolved
problem.
The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints
given by the princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dolokhov's
intimacy with his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received
that morning, which in the mean jocular way common to anonymous
letters said that he saw badly through his spectacles, but that
his wife's connection with Dolokhov was a secret to no one but
himself. Pierre absolutely disbelieved both the princess' hints
and the letter, but he feared now to look at Dolokhov, who was
sitting opposite him. Every time he chanced to meet Dolokhov's
handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt something terrible and monstrous
rising in his soul and turned quickly away. Involuntarily recalling
his wife's past and her relations with Dolokhov, Pierre saw clearly
that what was said in the letter might be true, or might at least
seem to be true had it not referred to his wife. He involuntarily
remembered how Dolokhov, who had fully recovered his former position
after the campaign, had returned to Petersburg and come to him.
Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon
companion, Dolokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre
had put him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Helene
had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dolokhov's living at their
house, and how cynically Dolokhov had praised his wife's beauty
to him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not left
them for a day.
"Yes, he is very handsome," thought Pierre, "and
I know him. It would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor
my name and ridicule me, just because I have exerted myself on
his behalf, befriended him, and helped him. I know and understand
what a spice that would add to the pleasure of deceiving me, if
it really were true. Yes, if it were true, but I do not believe
it. I have no right to, and can't, believe it." He remembered
the expression Dolokhov's face assumed in his moments of cruelty,
as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them into
the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any reason,
or shot a post-boy's horse with a pistol. That expression was
often on Dolokhov's face when looking at him. "Yes, he is
a bully," thought Pierre, "to kill a man means nothing
to him. It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and
that must please him. He must think that I, too, am afraid of
him- and in fact I am afraid of him," he thought, and again
he felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul. Dolokhov,
Denisov, and Rostov were now sitting opposite Pierre and seemed
very gay. Rostov was talking
merrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and
the other a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then
he glanced ironically at Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded,
and massive figure was a very noticeable one at the dinner. Rostov
looked inimically at Pierre, first because Pierre appeared to
his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the husband of a beauty, and
in a word- an old woman; and secondly because Pierre in his preoccupation
and absent-mindedness had not recognized Rostov and had not responded
to his greeting. When the Emperor's health was drunk, Pierre,
lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass.
"What are you about?" shouted Rostov, looking at
him in an ecstasy of exasperation. "Don't you hear it's His
Majesty the Emperor's health?"
Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and,
waiting till all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile
to Rostov.
"Why, I didn't recognize you!" he said. But Rostov
was otherwise engaged; he was shouting "Hurrah!"
"Why don't you renew the acquaintance?" said Dolokhov
to Rostov.
"Confound him, he's a fool!" said Rostov.
"One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,"
said Denisov.
Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they
were talking about him. He reddened and turned away.
"Well, now to the health of handsome women!" said
Dolokhov, and with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking
at the corners of his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre.
"Here's to the health of lovely women, Peterkin- and
their lovers!" he added.
Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without
looking at Dolokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing
leaflets with Kutuzov's cantata, laid one before Pierre as one
of the principal guests. He was just going to take it when Dolokhov,
leaning across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it.
Pierre looked at Dolokhov and his eyes dropped, the something
terrible and monstrous that had tormented him all dinnertime rose
and took possession of him. He leaned his whole massive body across
the table.
"How dare you take it?" he shouted.
Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvitski
and the neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezukhov.
"Don't! Don't! What are you about?" whispered their
frightened voices.
Dolokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes,
and that smile of his which seemed to say, "Ah! This is what
I like!"
"You shan't have it!" he said distinctly.
Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.
"You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!" he
ejaculated, and, pushing back his chair, he rose from the table.
At the very instant he did this and uttered those words, Pierre
felt that the question of his wife's guilt which had been tormenting
him the whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the
affirmative. He hated her and was forever sundered from her. Despite
Denisov's request that he would take no part in the matter, Rostov
agreed to be Dolokhov's second, and after dinner he discussed
the arrangements for the duel with Nesvitski, Bezukhov's second.
Pierre went home, but Rostov with Dolokhov and Denisov stayed
on at the Club till late, listening to the gypsies and other singers.
"Well then, till tomorrow at Sokolniki,"said Dolokhov,
as he took leave of Rostov in the Club porch.
"And do you feel quite calm?" Rostov asked.
Dolokhov paused.
"Well, you see, I'll tell you the whole secret of dueling
in two words. If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a
will and write affectionate letters to your parents, and if you
think you may be killed, you are a fool and are lost for certain.
But go with the firm intention of killing your man as quickly
and surely as possible, and then all will be right, as our bear
huntsman at Kostroma used to tell me. 'Everyone fears a bear,'
he says, 'but when you see one your fear's all gone, and your
only thought is not to let him get away!' And that's how it is
with me. A demain, mon cher."*
*Till tomorrow, my dear fellow.
Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvitski drove
to the Sokolniki forest and found Dolokhov, Denisov, and Rostov
already there. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations
which had no connection with the matter in hand. His haggard face
was yellow. He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about
distractedly and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun.
He was entirely absorbed by two considerations: his wife's guilt,
of which after his sleepless night he had not the slightest doubt,
and the guiltlessness of Dolokhov, who had no reason to preserve
the honor of a man who was nothing to him.... "I should perhaps
have done the same thing in his place," thought Pierre. "It's
even certain that I should have done the same, then why this duel,
this murder? Either I shall kill him, or he will hit me in the
head, or elbow, or knee. Can't I go away from here, run away,
bury myself somewhere?" passed through his mind. But just
at moments when such thoughts occurred to him, he would ask in
a particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the
respect of the onlookers, "Will it be long? Are things ready?"
When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the
barriers, and the pistols loaded, Nesvitski went up to Pierre.
"I should not be doing my duty, Count," he said
in timid tones, "and should not justify your confidence and
the honor you have done me in choosing me for your second, if
at this grave, this very grave, moment I did not tell you the
whole truth. I think there is no sufficient ground for this affair,
or for blood to be shed over it.... You were not right, not quite
in the right, you were impetuous..."
"Oh yes, it is horribly stupid," said Pierre.
"Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure
your opponent will accept them," said Nesvitski (who like
the others concerned in the affair, and like everyone in similar
cases, did not yet believe that the affair had come to an actual
duel). "You know, Count, it is much more honorable to admit
one's mistake than to let matters become irreparable. There was
no insult on either side. Allow me to convey...."
"No! What is there to talk about?" said Pierre.
"It's all the same.... Is everything ready?" he added.
"Only tell me where to go and where to shoot," he said
with an unnaturally gentle smile.
He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the
working of the trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in
his hand- a fact that he did not to confess.
"Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot," said
he.
"No apologies, none whatever," said Dolokhov to
Denisov (who on his side had been attempting a reconciliation),
and he also went up to the appointed place.
The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the
road, where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in
the pine forest covered with melting snow, the frost having begun
to break up during the last few days. The antagonists stood forty
paces apart at the farther edge of the clearing. The seconds,
measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep wet snow between
the place where they had been standing and Nesvitski's and Dolokhov's
sabers, which were stuck intothe ground ten paces apart to mark
the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at forty paces' distance
nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had been ready, but
they still delayed and all were silent.
|
