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    The Shot

    by Alexander Pushkin
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    CHAPTER I.


    We were stationed in the little town of N--. The life of an officer in
    the army is well known. In the morning, drill and the riding-school;
    dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening, punch
    and cards. In N--- there was not one open house, not a single
    marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other's rooms, where, except
    our uniforms, we never saw anything.

    One civilian only was admitted into our society. He was about thirty-
    five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old fellow.
    His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his habitual
    taciturnity, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a deep
    impression upon our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his existence;
    he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a foreign one.
    He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with distinction. Nobody knew
    the cause that had induced him to retire from the service and settle in
    a wretched little village, where he lived poorly and, at the same time,
    extravagantly. He always went on foot, and constantly wore a shabby
    black overcoat, but the officers of our regiment were ever welcome at
    his table. His dinners, it is true, never consisted of more than two or
    three dishes, prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed
    like water. Nobody knew what his circumstances were, or what his income
    was, and nobody dared to question him about them. He had a collection of
    books, consisting chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels.
    He willingly lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on
    the other hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent
    to him. His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of
    his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a
    honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the
    humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his
    favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to shoot a
    pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have
    hesitated to place the object upon his head.

    Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio--so I will call him--
    never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he dryly replied
    that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was evident that
    such questions were not to his liking. We came to the conclusion that he
    had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy victim of his
    terrible skill. Moreover, it never entered into the head of any of us to
    suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are persons whose mere
    look is sufficient to repel such a suspicion. But an unexpected incident
    occurred which astounded us all.

    One day, about ten of our officers dined with Silvio. They drank as
    usual, that is to say, a great deal. After dinner we asked our host to
    hold the bank for a game at faro. For a long time he refused, for he
    hardly ever played, but at last he ordered cards to be brought, placed
    half a hundred ducats upon the table, and sat down to deal. We took our
    places round him, and the play began. It was Silvio's custom to preserve
    a complete silence when playing. He never disputed, and never entered
    into explanations. If the punter made a mistake in calculating, he
    immediately paid him the difference or noted down the surplus. We were
    acquainted with this habit of his, and we always allowed him to have his
    own way; but among us on this occasion was an officer who had only
    recently been transferred to our regiment. During the course of the
    game, this officer absently scored one point too many. Silvio took the
    chalk and noted down the correct account according to his usual custom.
    The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, began to enter into
    explanations. Silvio continued dealing in silence. The officer, losing
    patience, took the brush and rubbed out what he considered was wrong.
    Silvio took the chalk and corrected the score again. The officer, heated
    with wine, play, and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself
    grossly insulted, and in his rage he seized a brass candlestick from the
    table, and hurled it at Silvio, who barely succeeded in avoiding the
    missile. We were filled with consternation. Silvio rose, white with
    rage, and with gleaming eyes, said:

    "My dear sir, have the goodness to withdraw, and thank God that this has
    happened in my house."

    None of us entertained the slightest doubt as to what the result would
    be, and we already looked upon our new comrade as a dead man. The
    officer withdrew, saying that he was ready to answer for his offence in
    whatever way the banker liked. The play went on for a few minutes
    longer, but feeling that our host was no longer interested in the game,
    we withdrew one after the other, and repaired to our respective
    quarters, after having exchanged a few words upon the probability of
    there soon being a vacancy in the regiment.

    The next day, at the riding-school, we were already asking each other if
    the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among us.
    We put the same question to him, and he replied that he had not yet
    heard from Silvio. This astonished us. We went to Silvio's house and
    found him in the courtyard shooting bullet after bullet into an ace
    pasted upon the gate. He received us as usual, but did not utter a word
    about the event of the previous evening. Three days passed, and the
    lieutenant was still alive. We asked each other in astonishment: "Can it
    be possible that Silvio is not going to fight?"

    Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very lame explanation, and
    became reconciled to his assailant.

    This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young fellows. Want
    of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who usually
    look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the excuse for
    every possible fault. But, by degrees, everything became forgotten, and
    Silvio regained his former influence.

    I alone could not approach him on the old footing. Being endowed by
    nature with a romantic imagination, I had become attached more than all
    the others to the man whose life was an enigma, and who seemed to me the
    hero of some mysterious drama. He was fond of me; at least, with me
    alone did he drop his customary sarcastic tone, and converse on
    different subjects in a simple and unusually agreeable manner. But after
    this unlucky evening, the thought that his honor had been tarnished, and
    that the stain had been allowed to remain upon it in accordance with his
    own wish, was ever present in my mind, and prevented me treating him as
    before. I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too intelligent and
    experienced not to observe this and guess the cause of it. This seemed
    to vex him; at least I observed once or twice a desire on his part to
    enter into an explanation with me, but I avoided such opportunities, and
    Silvio gave up the attempt. From that time forward I saw him only in the
    presence of my comrades, and our confidential conversations came to an
    end.

    The inhabitants of the capital, with minds occupied by so many matters
    of business and pleasure, have no idea of the many sensations so
    familiar to the inhabitants of villages and small towns, as, for
    instance, the awaiting the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays and Fridays
    our regimental bureau used to be filled with officers: some expecting
    money, some letters, and others newspapers. The packets were usually
    opened on the spot, items of news were communicated from one to another,
    and the bureau used to present a very animated picture. Silvio used to
    have his letters addressed to our regiment, and he was generally there
    to receive them.

    One day he received a letter, the seal of which he broke with a look of
    great impatience. As he read the contents, his eyes sparkled. The
    officers, each occupied with his own letters, did not observe anything.

    "Gentlemen," said Silvio, "circumstances demand my immediate departure;
    I leave to-night. I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for
    the last time. I shall expect you, too," he added, turning towards me.
    "I shall expect you without fail."

    With these words he hastily departed, and we, after agreeing to meet at
    Silvio's, dispersed to our various quarters.

    I arrived at Silvio's house at the appointed time, and found nearly the
    whole regiment there. All his things were already packed; nothing
    remained but the bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down to table. Our
    host was in an excellent humor, and his gayety was quickly communicated
    to the rest. Corks popped every moment, glasses foamed incessantly, and,
    with the utmost warmth, we wished our departing friend a pleasant
    journey and every happiness. When we rose from the table it was already
    late in the evening. After having wished everybody good-bye, Silvio took
    me by the hand and detained me just at the moment when I was preparing
    to depart.

    "I want to speak to you," he said in a low voice.

    I stopped behind.

    The guests had departed, and we two were left alone. Sitting down
    opposite each other, we silently lit our pipes. Silvio seemed greatly
    troubled; not a trace remained of his former convulsive gayety. The
    intense pallor of his face, his sparkling eyes, and the thick smoke
    issuing from his mouth, gave him a truly diabolical appearance. Several
    minutes elapsed, and then Silvio broke the silence.

    "Perhaps we shall never see each other again," said he; "before we part,
    I should like to have an explanation with you. You may have observed
    that I care very little for the opinion of other people, but I like you,
    and I feel that it would be painful to me to leave you with a wrong
    impression upon your mind."

    He paused, and began to knock the ashes out of his pipe. I sat gazing
    silently at the ground.

    "You thought it strange," he continued, "that I did not demand
    satisfaction from that drunken idiot R---. You will admit, however, that
    having the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my own was
    in no great danger. I could ascribe my forbearance to generosity alone,
    but I will not tell a lie. If I could have chastised R--- without the
    least risk to my own life, I should never have pardoned him."

    I looked at Silvio with astonishment. Such a confession completely
    astounded me. Silvio continued:

    "Exactly so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I
    received a slap in the face, and my enemy still lives."

    My curiosity was greatly excited.

    "Did you not fight with him?" I asked. "Circumstances probably separated
    you."

    "I did fight with him," replied Silvio; "and here is a souvenir of our
    duel."

    Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel
    and embroidery (what the French call a bonnet de police); he put it on--
    a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead.

    "You know," continued Silvio, "that I served in one of the Hussar
    regiments. My character is well known to you: I am accustomed to taking
    the lead. From my youth this has been my passion. In our time
    dissoluteness was the fashion, and I was the most outrageous man in the
    army. We used to boast of our drunkenness; I beat in a drinking bout the
    famous Bourtsoff [Footnote: A cavalry officer, notorious for his drunken
    escapades], of whom Denis Davidoff [Footnote: A military poet who
    flourished in the reign of Alexander I] has sung. Duels in our regiment
    were constantly taking place, and in all of them I was either second or
    principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental commanders, who
    were constantly being changed, looked upon me as a necessary evil.

    "I was calmly enjoying my reputation, when a young man belonging to a
    wealthy and distinguished family--I will not mention his name--joined
    our regiment. Never in my life have I met with such a fortunate fellow!
    Imagine to yourself youth, wit, beauty, unbounded gayety, the most
    reckless bravery, a famous name, untold wealth--imagine all these, and
    you can form some idea of the effect that he would be sure to produce
    among us. My supremacy was shaken. Dazzled by my reputation, he began to
    seek my friendship, but I received him coldly, and without the least
    regret he held aloof from me. I took a hatred to him. His success in the
    regiment and in the society of ladies brought me to the verge of
    despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; to my epigrams he replied
    with epigrams which always seemed to me more spontaneous and more
    cutting than mine, and which were decidedly more amusing, for he joked
    while I fumed. At last, at a ball given by a Polish landed proprietor,
    seeing him the object of the attention of all the ladies, and especially
    of the mistress of the house, with whom I was upon very good terms, I
    whispered some grossly insulting remark in his ear. He flamed up and
    gave me a slap in the face. We grasped our swords; the ladies fainted;
    we were separated; and that same night we set out to fight.

    "The dawn was just breaking. I was standing at the appointed place with
    my three seconds. With inexplicable impatience I awaited my opponent.
    The spring sun rose, and it was already growing hot. I saw him coming in
    the distance. He was walking on foot, accompanied by one second. We
    advanced to meet him. He approached, holding his cap filled with black
    cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I had to fire first,
    but my agitation was so great, that I could not depend upon the
    steadiness of my hand; and in order to give myself time to become calm,
    I ceded to him the first shot. My adversary would not agree to this. It
    was decided that we should cast lots. The first number fell to him, the
    constant favorite of fortune. He took aim, and his bullet went through
    my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands; I looked
    at him eagerly, endeavoring to detect if only the faintest shadow of
    uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol, picking out the ripest
    cherries from his cap and spitting out the stones, which flew almost as
    far as my feet. His indifference annoyed me beyond measure. 'What is the
    use,' thought I, 'of depriving him of life, when he attaches no value
    whatever to it?' A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I lowered
    my pistol.

    "'You don't seem to be ready for death just at present,' I said to him:
    'you wish to have your breakfast; I do not wish to hinder you.'

    "'You are not hindering me in the least,' replied he. 'Have the goodness
    to fire, or just as you please--the shot remains yours; I shall always
    be ready at your service.'

    "I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of
    firing that day, and with that the duel came to an end.

    "I resigned my commission and retired to this little place. Since then
    not a day has passed that I have not thought of revenge. And now my hour
    has arrived."

    Silvio took from his pocket the letter that he had received that
    morning, and gave it to me to read. Some one (it seemed to be his
    business agent) wrote to him from Moscow, that a CERTAIN PERSON was
    going to be married to a young and beautiful girl.

    "You can guess," said Silvio, "who the certain person is. I am going to
    Moscow. We shall see if he will look death in the face with as much
    indifference now, when he is on the eve of being married, as he did once
    with his cherries!"

    With these words, Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began
    pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I had listened to
    him in silence; strange conflicting feelings agitated me.

    The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio
    grasped my hand tightly, and we embraced each other. He seated himself
    in his telega, in which lay two trunks, one containing his pistols, the
    other his effects. We said good-bye once more, and the horses galloped
    off.


    CHAPTER II.


    Several years passed, and family circumstances compelled me to settle in
    the poor little village of M---. Occupied with agricultural pursuits, I
    ceased not to sigh in secret for my former noisy and careless life. The
    most difficult thing of all was having to accustom myself to passing the
    spring and winter evenings in perfect solitude. Until the hour for
    dinner I managed to pass away the time somehow or other, talking with
    the bailiff, riding about to inspect the work, or going round to look at
    the new buildings; but as soon as it began to get dark, I positively did
    not know what to do with myself. The few books that I had found in the
    cupboards and storerooms I already knew by heart. All the stories that
    my housekeeper Kirilovna could remember I had heard over and over again.
    The songs of the peasant women made me feel depressed. I tried drinking
    spirits, but it made my head ache; and moreover, I confess I was afraid
    of becoming a drunkard from mere chagrin, that is to say, the saddest
    kind of drunkard, of which I had seen many examples in our district.

    I had no near neighbors, except two or three topers, whose conversation
    consisted for the most part of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was
    preferable to their society. At last I decided to go to bed as early as
    possible, and to dine as late as possible; in this way I shortened the
    evening and lengthened out the day, and I found that the plan answered
    very well.

    Four versts from my house was a rich estate belonging to the Countess
    B---; but nobody lived there except the steward. The Countess had only
    visited her estate once, in the first year of her married life, and then
    she had remained there no longer than a month. But in the second spring
    of my hermitical life a report was circulated that the Countess, with
    her husband, was coming to spend the summer on her estate. The report
    turned out to be true, for they arrived at the beginning of June.

    The arrival of a rich neighbor is an important event in the lives of
    country people. The landed proprietors and the people of their
    households talk about it for two months beforehand and for three years
    afterwards. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of a
    young and beautiful neighbor affected me strongly. I burned with
    impatience to see her, and the first Sunday after her arrival I set out
    after dinner for the village of A---, to pay my respects to the Countess
    and her husband, as their nearest neighbor and most humble servant. A
    lackey conducted me into the Count's study, and then went to announce
    me. The spacious apartment was furnished with every possible luxury.
    Around the walls were cases filled with books and surmounted by bronze
    busts; over the marble mantelpiece was a large mirror; on the floor was
    a green cloth covered with carpets. Unaccustomed to luxury in my own
    poor corner, and not having seen the wealth of other people for a long
    time, I awaited the appearance of the Count with some little
    trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces awaits the arrival of the
    minister. The door opened, and a handsome-looking man, of about thirty-
    two years of age, entered the room. The Count approached me with a frank
    and friendly air; I endeavored to be self-possessed and began to
    introduce myself, but he anticipated me. We sat down. His conversation,
    which was easy and agreeable, soon dissipated my awkward bashfulness;
    and I was already beginning to recover my usual composure, when the
    Countess suddenly entered, and I became more confused than ever. She was
    indeed beautiful. The Count presented me. I wished to appear at ease,
    but the more I tried to assume an air of unconstraint, the more awkward
    I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover myself and to become
    accustomed to my new acquaintances, began to talk to each other,
    treating me as a good neighbor, and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I
    walked about the room, examining the books and pictures. I am no judge
    of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention. It represented some
    view in Switzerland, but it was not the painting that struck me, but the
    circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two bullets, one
    planted just above the other.

    "A good shot that!" said I, turning to the Count.

    "Yes," replied he, "a very remarkable shot. . . . Do you shoot well?" he
    continued.

    "Tolerably," replied I, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at
    last upon a subject that was familiar to me. "At thirty paces I can
    manage to hit a card without fail,--I mean, of course, with a pistol
    that I am used to."

    "Really?" said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest. "And
    you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"

    "Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my time I did not shoot
    badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol."

    "Oh!" I observed, "in that case, I don't mind laying a wager that Your
    Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces; the pistol demands
    practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was
    reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not touch a
    pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and would you
    believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot again, I
    missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces. Our captain, a
    witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he said to me:
    'It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift itself against
    the bottle.' No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect to practise, or
    your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot that I ever met used
    to shoot at least three times every day before dinner. It was as much
    his custom to do this as it was to drink his daily glass of brandy."

    The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.

    "And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.

    "Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly settle
    on the wall--you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the truth--
    if he saw a fly, he would call out: 'Kouzka, my pistol!' Kouzka would
    bring him a loaded pistol--bang! and the fly would be crushed against
    the wall."

    "Wonderful!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"

    "Silvio, Your Excellency."

    "Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting up. "Did you know Silvio?"

    "How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency: we were intimate
    friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it
    is now five years since I had any tidings of him. Then Your Excellency
    also knew him?"

    "Oh, yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you of one very strange
    incident in his life?"

    "Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received
    from some blackguard at a ball?"

    "Did he tell you the name of this blackguard?"

    "No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name, . . . Ah! Your
    Excellency!" I continued, guessing the truth: "pardon me . . . I did not
    know . . . could it really have been you?"

    "Yes, I myself," replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary
    agitation; "and that bullet-pierced picture is a memento of our last
    meeting."

    "Ah, my dear," said the Countess, "for Heaven's sake, do not speak about
    that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to."

    "No," replied the Count: "I will relate everything. He knows how I
    insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should know how Silvio
    revenged himself."

    The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I
    listened to the following story:

    "Five years ago I got married. The first month--the honeymoon--I spent
    here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the happiest
    moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful recollections.

    "One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback. My wife's
    horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and
    returned home on foot. I rode on before. In the courtyard I saw a
    travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for me
    a man, who would not give his name, but who merely said that he had
    business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man,
    covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days' growth. He was
    standing there, near the fireplace. I approached him, trying to remember
    his features.

    "'You do not recognize me, Count?' said he, in a quivering voice.

    "'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had suddenly
    stood on end.

    "'Exactly,' continued he. 'There is a shot due to me, and I have come to
    discharge my pistol. Are you ready?'

    "His pistol protruded from a side pocket. I measured twelve paces and
    took my stand there in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before
    my wife arrived. He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were
    brought in. I closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter,
    and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim. . . .
    I counted the seconds. . . . I thought of her. . . . A terrible minute
    passed! Silvio lowered his hand.

    "'I regret,' said he, 'that the pistol is not loaded with cherry-
    stones . . . the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel,
    but a murder. I am not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us
    begin all over again; we will cast lots as to who shall fire first.'

    "My head went round. . . . I think I raised some objection. . . . At last
    we loaded another pistol, and rolled up two pieces of paper. He placed
    these latter in his cap--the same through which I had once sent a
    bullet--and again I drew the first number.

    "'You are devilish lucky, Count,' said he, with a smile that I shall
    never forget.

    "I don't know what was the matter with me, or how it was that he managed
    to make me do it . . . but I fired and hit that picture."

    The Count pointed with his finger to the perforated picture; his face
    glowed like fire; the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief; and
    I could not restrain an exclamation.

    "I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed my aim. Then
    Silvio . . . at that moment he was really terrible . . . Silvio raised his
    hand to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opens, Masha rushes into the
    room, and with a loud shriek throws herself upon my neck. Her presence
    restored to me all my courage.

    "'My dear,' said I to her, 'don't you see that we are joking? How
    frightened you are! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back to
    us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'

    "Masha still doubted.

    "'Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?' said she, turning to the
    terrible Silvio: 'is it true that you are only joking?'

    "'He is always joking, Countess,' replied Silvio: 'once he gave me a
    slap in the face in a joke; on another occasion he sent a bullet through
    my cap in a joke; and just now, when he fired at me and missed me, it
    was all in a joke. And now I feel inclined for a joke.'

    "With these words he raised his pistol to take aim at me--right before
    her! Masha threw herself at his feet.

    "'Rise, Masha; are you not ashamed!' I cried in a rage: 'and you, sir,
    will you cease to make fun of a poor woman? Will you fire or not?'

    "'I will not,' replied Silvio: 'I am satisfied. I have seen your
    confusion, your alarm. I forced you to fire at me. That is sufficient.
    You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'

    "Then he turned to go, but pausing in the doorway, and looking at the
    picture that my shot had passed through, he fired at it almost without
    taking aim, and disappeared. My wife had fainted away; the servants did
    not venture to stop him, the mere look of him filled them with terror.
    He went out upon the steps, called his coachman, and drove off before I
    could recover myself."

    The Count was silent. In this way I learned the end of the story, whose
    beginning had once made such a deep impression upon me. The hero of it I
    never saw again. It is said that Silvio commanded a detachment of
    Hetairists during the revolt under Alexander Ipsilanti, and that he was
    killed in the battle of Skoulana.
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