“WELL, let us begin,” said Dolohov.

“To be sure,” said Pierre, still with the same smile.

A feeling of dread was in the air. It was obvious that the affair that had begun so lightly could not now be in any way turned back, that it was going forward of itself, independently of men's will, and must run its course. Denisov was the first to come forward to the barrier and pronounce the words:

“Since the antagonists refuse all reconciliation, would it not be as well to begin? Take your pistols, and at the word ‘three' begin to advance together. O … one! Two! Three! …” Denisov shouted angrily, and he walked away from the barrier. Both walked along the trodden tracks closer and closer together, beginning to recognise one another in the mist. The combatants had the right to fire when they chose as they approached the barrier. Dolohov walked slowly, not lifting his pistol, and looking intently with his clear, shining eyes into the face of his antagonist. His mouth wore, as always, the semblance of a smile.

“So when I like, I can fire,” said Pierre, and at the word three, he walked with rapid steps forward, straying off the beaten track and stepping over the untrodden snow. Pierre held his pistol at full length in his right hand, obviously afraid of killing himself 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.

“喂，开始吧！”多洛霍夫说。

“也好。”皮埃尔说，仍然面露微笑。

那情景逐渐令人觉得可怕。很明显，极为容易就着手做的事情，已经无法加以遏止了，它不以人们的意志为转移，自然正在持续进行，而且要干到底才好。杰尼索夫头一人走到界线面前，他宣布：

“因为敌手们拒绝调停，所以就开始，行不行，拿起手枪，听到喊‘三'时，就向决斗地点开始前进。”

“一！二！三！……”杰尼索夫恼怒地高呼，之后他就走开了。二人都沿着踩出来的小路越走越近，在那雾霭中渐渐地认清自己的敌手。两个敌手在走到决斗的界线前面的时候，假如有一方愿意，就有权开枪射击。多洛霍夫并没有举起手枪，走得很慢，他用那闪闪发亮的蓝眼睛盯着敌手的面孔。他的嘴角边一如平日带有近似微笑的表情。

皮埃尔听见喊“三”时，就迈开脚步，飞快地往前走去，他离开踩出的小径，沿着没有人走过的雪地大踏步前进。皮埃尔握着手枪，向前伸出自己的右手，显然他害怕他会用这支手枪打死他自己。他极力地把左手向后伸出一些，因为他想用它来托住右手，同时他也晓得这样做是不行的。皮埃尔大约走了六步路，就离开小径，向那雪地里走去。皮埃尔望望脚下，又飞快地瞟了多洛霍夫一眼，便像人家教他那样用指头勾了一下扳机，开了一枪。皮埃尔无论怎样都不会料到枪声竟有这么响亮，他听见自己的枪声时哆嗦了一下，这之后便对自己的这一印象微微一笑，他停住了。在雾气中，硝烟分外浓，起初一刹那妨碍他看东西，但是他所等待的另一声回击，并没有继之而至。仅仅听见多洛霍夫的急促的脚步声，他的身形从烟雾中显露出来。他用一只手按着左边的肋部，用另一只手紧紧地握着垂下的手枪。他脸色惨白。罗斯托夫向他跟前跑去，对他道出一句话。

“不……”多洛霍夫透过牙缝说，“不，还没有完，”他跌跌撞撞，一瘸一拐地走了几步，走到一柄马刀前面，就倒在马刀旁边的雪地上。他的左手沾满了鲜血，他在常礼服上揩了揩手，用那只手支撑着身体。他脸色惨白，蹙着额角，不住地颤栗。

“请……”多洛霍夫开了腔，但是不能一下子把话说出来……“请吧，”他费劲地说完了这句话。皮埃尔好容易才忍住，没有大哭起来，他向多洛霍夫面前跑去，已经要越过界线之间的空地了，多洛霍夫喊了一声：“回到决斗时设定双方距离的界线上去！”皮埃尔明了是怎么回事，就在自己的马刀旁边停步了……他们之间的间隔只有十步路之遥。多洛霍夫低下头，靠在雪地上，贪婪地吃了几口雪，又抬起头来，抖擞一下精神，蜷曲起两腿，寻找稳定的身体重心，坐了起来。他大口大口地吞咽冰冷的雪，吸吮雪水，他的嘴唇不住的颤栗，但仍旧面露微笑，他鼓足最后的力气，眼睛里闪烁出拼搏和凶恶的光泽。他举起手枪，开始瞄准了。

“侧着身子，用手枪挡住身体。”涅斯维茨基说道。

“您挡住吧，”甚至连杰尼索夫也忍耐不住了，他向自己的敌手喊了一声。

皮埃尔面露遗憾、后悔和温顺的微笑，束手无策地叉开两腿，张开两臂，挺起宽阔的胸膛，笔直地站在多洛霍夫面前，忧郁地望着他。杰尼索夫、罗斯托夫和涅斯维茨基眯缝起眼睛。与此同时，他们听见了枪声和多洛霍夫的凶恶的喊声。

“没有射中！”多洛霍夫喊了一声，软弱无力地俯卧在雪上。皮埃尔猛然抱住自己的脑袋，向后转，踩着深雪往森林里走去，大声说出令人不懂的话。

“糊里糊涂……糊里糊涂……！死亡，……与谎言……”他皱着眉头重复地说。涅斯维茨基叫他停住，把他送回家去。

罗斯托夫和杰尼索夫把负伤的多洛霍夫送走了。

多洛霍夫合上眼睛，默不作声地躺在雪橇中，对人家所提出的问题，他一言不答；但是驶入莫斯科后，他忽然苏醒过来，很费劲地微微抬起了头，一把抓住坐在他身旁的罗斯托夫的手。多洛霍夫那完全改变了的、突然显得非常兴奋而温和的面部表情使罗斯托夫大吃一惊。

“嘿，怎么啦？你觉得身上怎样？”罗斯托夫问道。

“很糟！可是问题不在那里。我的朋友，”多洛霍夫用若断若续的嗓音说道。“我们在哪儿？我们在莫斯科，我知道。我没有什么，不过我把她害死了，害死了……这一点她经受不了。她经受不了……”

“是谁呢？”罗斯托夫问。

“我的母亲。我的母亲，我的天使，我所崇拜的天使，母亲。”多洛霍夫紧紧地握住罗斯托夫的手，哭起来了。当他稍微安静后，他对罗斯托夫详细说，他和母亲住在一起，如果母亲看见他死在旦夕，她是受不了的。他恳求罗斯托夫到她那里去，叫她思想上有所准备。

罗斯托夫先一步去履行他所接受的委托，使他大为惊讶的是，他了解到多洛霍夫这个好惹事的人，多洛霍夫这个决斗家在莫斯科和他的老母与那个佝偻的姐姐一同居住，他是个非常和顺的儿子和弟弟。