The Duel's Aftermath — War and Peace

"Well, begin!" says Dólokhov. Pierre still smiles in the same way. A feeling of dread is in the air: the affair so lightly begun can no longer be averted; it is taking its course independently of men's will. Denísov goes to the barrier and announces that as the adversaries have refused a reconciliation they may proceed: pistols, and at the word three begin to advance. "O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!" He steps aside, angry. They come nearer along the trodden tracks, beginning to see one another through the mist, with the right to fire when they like as they approach the barrier. Dólokhov walks slowly without raising his pistol, bright blue eyes on Pierre's face, the usual semblance of a smile. Pierre, at the word three, goes quickly forward, misses the path, and steps into deep snow. He holds the pistol at arm's length, apparently afraid of shooting himself, left hand carefully back because he must not support the right. After six paces he looks down at his feet, glances at Dólokhov, bends his finger as he was shown, and fires. He shudders at the report, then smiles at his own sensations. Smoke, denser in the mist, hides everything. There is no second shot. He hears hurried steps: Dólokhov pressing one hand to his left side, the other clutching a drooping pistol, face pale. Rostóv runs to him. "No-o-o! It's not over." He stumbles to the saber and sinks on the snow. His left hand is bloody; he wipes it on his coat. "Please," he utters with an effort.

Pierre, hardly restraining sobs, starts toward him. "To your barrier!" Pierre stops by his saber. Only ten paces divide them. Dólokhov lowers his head to the snow, greedily bites it, sits up seeking a firm centre of gravity, sucks the cold snow, lips quivering, eyes still smiling with effort and exasperation. He raises the pistol. "Sideways! Cover yourself!" Nesvítski and even Denísov cry. Pierre stands with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, arms and legs helplessly spread, broad chest facing the aim. Denísov, Rostóv, and Nesvítski close their eyes. A report; Dólokhov's angry cry: "Missed!" He lies face downwards, helpless. Pierre clutches his temples and goes into the forest, trampling deep snow, muttering, "Folly... folly! Death... lies..." Nesvítski stops him and takes him home.

Rostóv and Denísov drive away with the wounded man. Dólokhov lies silent with closed eyes and answers nothing. On entering Moscow he suddenly comes to, takes Rostóv's hand, and his face is rapturous and tender, totally altered. He feels bad, but that is not it: he has killed her, she will not survive. Who? "My mother! My angel, my adored angel mother." He bursts into tears. When quieter, he explains that he lives with her, and if she saw him dying she would not survive it. He implores Rostóv to go on and prepare her. Rostóv goes ahead, and to his great surprise learns that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lives in Moscow with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and is the most affectionate of sons and brothers.