第172章

第172章pierre,withdowncasteyes,sippedhisglass,withoutlookingatdolohovoransweringhim.thefootman,distributingcopiesofkutuzov’scantata,laidacopybypierre,asoneofthemorehonouredguests.hewouldhavetakenit,butdolohovbentforward,snatchedthepaperoutofhishandsandbeganreadingit.pierreglancedatdolohov,andhiseyesdropped;somethingterribleandhideous,thathadbeentorturinghimallthroughthedinner,roseupandtookpossessionofhim.hebentthewholeofhisungainlypersonacrossthetable.“don’tyoudaretotakeit！”heshouted.

hearingthatshoutandseeingtowhomitwasaddressed,nesvitskyandhisneighbourontherightsideturnedinhasteandalarmtobezuhov.

“hush,hush,whatareyouabout？”whisperedpanic-strickenvoices.dolohovlookedatpierrewithhisclear,mirthful,crueleyes,stillwiththesamesmile,asthoughheweresaying：“comenow,thisiswhatilike.”

“iwon’tgiveitup,”hesaiddistinctly.

paleandwithquiveringlips,pierresnatchedthecopy.

“you…you…blackguard！…ichallengeyou,”hesaid,andmovingbackhischair,hegotupfromthetable.atthesecondpierredidthisandutteredthesewordshefeltthatthequestionofhiswife’sguilt,thathadbeentorturinghimforthelastfourandtwentyhours,wasfinallyandincontestablyansweredintheaffirmative.hehatedherandwasseveredfromherforever.inspiteofdenisov’sentreatiesthatrostovwouldhavenothingtodowiththeaffair,rostovagreedtobedolohov’ssecond,andafterdinnerhediscussedwithnesvitsky,bezuhov’ssecond,thearrangementsfortheduel.pierrehadgonehome,butrostovwithdolohovanddenisovstayedonattheclublisteningtothegypsiesandthesingerstilllateintheevening.

“sogood-byetillto-morrow,atsokolniky,”saiddolohov,ashepartedfromrostovattheclubsteps.

“anddoyoufeelquitecalm？”askedrostov.

dolohovstopped.

“well,doyousee,inacoupleofwordsi’llletyouintothewholesecretofduelling.if,whenyougotoaduel,youmakeyourwillandwritelongletterstoyourparents,ifyouthinkthatyoumaybekilled,you’reafoolandcertaintobedonefor.butgowiththefirmintentionofkillingyourman,asquicklyandassurelyasmaybe,theneverythingwillbeallright.asourbear-killerfromkostromausedtosaytome：‘abear,’he’dsay,‘why,who’snotafraidofone？butcometoseeoneandyourfear’sallgone,allyouhopeishewon’tgetaway！’well,that’sjusthowifeel.ademain,moncher.”

nextdayateighto’clockinthemorning,pierreandnesvitskyreachedthesokolnikycopse,andfounddolohov,denisov,androstovalreadythere.pierrehadtheairofamanabsorbedinreflectionsinnowayconnectedwiththematterinhand.hisfacelookedhollowandyellow.hehadnotsleptallnight.helookedabouthimabsent-mindedly,andscreweduphiseyes,asthoughinglaringsunshine.hewasexclusivelyabsorbedbytwoconsiderations：theguiltofhiswife,ofwhichafterasleeplessnighthehadnotavestigeofdoubt,andtheguiltlessnessofdolohov,whowasinnowayboundtoguardthehonourofaman,whowasnothingtohim.“maybeishouldhavedonethesameinhisplace,”thoughtpierre.“forcertain,indeed,ishouldhavedonethesame;thenwhythisduel,thismurder？eitherishallkillhim,orhewillshootmeinthehead,intheelbow,ortheknee.togetawayfromhere,torun,toburymyselfsomewhere,”wasthelongingthatcameintohismind.butpreciselyatthemomentswhensuchideaswereinhismind,hewouldturnwithapeculiarlycalmandunconcernedface,whichinspiredrespectinthesecondslookingathim,andask：“willitbesoon？”or“aren’tweready？”

wheneverythingwasready,theswordsstuckinthesnowtomarkthebarrier,andthepistolsloaded,nesvitskywentuptopierre.

“ishouldnotbedoingmyduty,count,”hesaidinatimidvoice,“norjustifyingtheconfidenceandthehonouryouhavedonemeinchoosingmeforyoursecond,ifatthisgravemoment,thisverygravemoment,ididnotspeakthewholetruthtoyou.iconsiderthatthequarrelhasnotsufficientgroundsandisnotworthsheddingbloodover.…youwerenotright,notquiteintheright;youlostyourtemper.…”

“oh,yes,itwasawfullystupid,”saidpierre.

“thenallowmetoexpressyourregret,andiamconvincedthatouropponentswillagreetoacceptyourapology,”saidnesvitsky（who,liketheothersassistingintheaffair,andeveryoneatsuchaffairs,wasunabletobelievethatthequarrelwouldcometoanactualduel）.“youknow,count,itisfarnoblertoacknowledgeone’smistakethantopushthingstotheirrevocable.therewasnogreatoffenceoneitherside.permitmetoconvey…”

“no,whatareyoutalkingabout？”saidpierre;“itdoesn’tmatter.…readythen？”headded.“onlytellmehowandwhereiamtogo,andwhattoshootat？”hesaidwithasmileunnaturallygentle.hetookupapistol,andbeganinquiringhowtoletitoff,ashehadneverhadapistolinhishandbefore,afacthedidnotcaretoconfess.“oh,yes,ofcourse,iknow,ihadonlyforgotten,”hesaid.

“noapologies,absolutelynothing,”dolohovwassayingtodenisov,whoforhispartwasalsomakinganattemptatreconciliation,andhetoowentuptotheappointedspot.

theplacechosenfortheduelwassomeeightypacesfromtheroad,onwhichtheirsledgeshadbeenleft,inasmallclearinginthepinewood,coveredwithsnowthathadthawedinthewarmerweatherofthelastfewdays.theantagonistsstoodfortypacesfromeachotheratthefurtheredgeoftheclearing.theseconds,inmeasuringthepaces,lefttracksinthedeep,wetsnowfromthespotwheretheyhadbeenstandingtotheswordsofnesvitskyanddenisov,whichhadbeenthrustinthegroundtenpacesfromoneanothertomarkthebarrier.thethawandmistpersisted;fortypacesawaynothingcouldbeseen.inthreeminuteseverythingwasready,butstilltheydelayedbeginning.everyonewassilent.