The Shot

by Alexander Pushkin


Chapter 1

We were staying in the little town of N. The life of an officer in the army is well known. In the morning, exercise and the riding school; dinner with the Colonel or at a restaurant; and in the evening, cards. In N, there was not one marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other's rooms and never saw anything.

Only one civilian was allowed in. He was about thirty-five years of age and, therefore, we looked on him as an old man. His experience gave him a great advantage over us and his usual silence, strict behaviour and acid tongue deeply impressed our young minds. He was a mystery to us: for instance, he looked like a Russian, although his name was a foreign one. Before, he had served very bravely in the army and nobody knew why he retired and settled in a miserable little village, where he lived poorly and, at the same time, extravagantly.

He always went around on foot and constantly wore a shabby black overcoat, but the officers of our regiment were always welcome at his table. His dinners, it is true, were never more than two or three dishes, prepared by a retired soldier, but they were expensive and delicious. Nobody knew what his income was and nobody dared to question him about it. He had a collection of books chiefly on military topics but also including a few novels. He happily lent them to us and never asked for them back; on the other hand, he never returned the books that were lent to him.

His main enjoyment was pistol shooting. The walls of his room were covered with bullet holes. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the humble cottage where he lived. His skill with his favourite weapon was simply incredible: if he had offered to shoot an apple off somebody's head, no-one would have hesitated.

Our conversation was often about duels. Silvio - I will call him that - never joined in. When asked if he had ever fought, he quietly replied that he had, but he gave no details and it was clear that he did not like such questions. We decided that he was sorry for an unhappy victim of his terrible skill. It never entered our heads to suspect him of cowardice. His look was enough to make that impossible. But an unexpected incident occurred which astonished us all.

One day, about ten of our officers had dinner with Silvio. After eating we asked our host for a game of cards. For a long time he refused because he almost never played but at last he got the cards and sat down to deal. We took our places round him and the game began. It was Silvio's habit to have complete silence when playing. He never argued and never explained. We were used to this habit of his and we always allowed him to have his own way; but this time there was an officer with us who had only recently joined our regiment.

During the game, this officer carelessly scored one point too many. Silvio took the pen and noted the correct number according to his usual habit. The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, began to explain. Silvio continued dealing in silence. The officer, becoming impatient, took the pen and crossed out what he considered was wrong. Silvio took the pen and corrected the score again. The officer, excited about the game and angry at the laughter of his friends, thought he had been insulted and, in his anger, he took a plate from the table and threw it at Silvio and nearly hit him. Silvio got up, white with anger, and said:

"Sir, please leave. You are fortunate that this has happened in my house."

None of us doubted what the result would be and we already looked upon our new colleague as a dead man. The officer left, saying that he was ready to answer for his rudeness any way Silvio liked. The game went on for a few minutes longer, but feeling that our host was no longer interested in the game, we soon left one after the other, and returned to our homes, after a few words about a likely vacancy in the regiment.

The next day at the riding school, we were already asking each other if the poor officer was still alive when he arrived. We asked him the same question 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 garden shooting bullet after bullet into a card on the gate. He welcomed us as usual, but did not say a word about the previous evening. Three days passed and the lieutenant was still alive. We asked each other: "Can it be possible that Silvio is not going to fight?"

Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very weak explanation and became friends again with his attacker.

This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young men. Lack of courage is the last thing to be forgiven by young men, who usually look on bravery as the best of all human characteristics and the excuse for every possible fault. But, slowly, everything was forgotten and Silvio regained his influence.

Only I could not see him in the same way. Having a romantic imagination, I became fonder than all the others of the man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me a hero. He liked me; at least, I was the only one he dropped his usual sarcastic tone with. He talked with me about different subjects in a simple and unusually agreeable way. But after this unlucky evening, the thought that he had blackened his honour, was ever present in my mind and prevented me treating him as I had 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 annoy him; at least I noticed once or twice that he wanted to explain himself to me, but I avoided such opportunities and Silvio gave up trying. From that time, I saw him only when my colleagues were with me and our confidential conversations came to an end.

Inhabitants of the capital, their minds busy with so many matters of business and pleasure, have no idea of the many feelings of those of us living in villages and small towns, such as waiting for the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays and Fridays our regimental office used to be full of officers, some expecting money, some letters and others newspapers. The packets were usually opened there and then, pieces of news were communicated from one to another and the office showed 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 which he opened with a look of great impatience. As he read it, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with their own letters, did not notice anything.

"Gentlemen," said Silvio, "I need to leave tonight. 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 left hurriedly and we all went to our different rooms, after agreeing to meet at Silvio's that night.

I arrived at Silvio's house at the agreed time and found nearly the whole regiment already there. All his things were packed; nothing remained except the bare, bullet-holed walls. We sat down to table. Our host was in an excellent mood and his happiness was quickly communicated to the rest. With the greatest warmth, we wished our friend a pleasant journey and every happiness. When we got up 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 leave.

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

I stayed behind.

The guests had left and we two were left alone. Silvio seemed disturbed; nothing remained of his happy mood. The extreme paleness of his face and his sparkling eyes gave him an otherworldly appearance. Several minutes went by and then Silvio broke the silence.

"Perhaps we shall never see each other again," he said. "Before we part, I would like to explain myself to you. You may have noticed that I care very little about the opinion of other people, but I like you and it would be painful to me to leave you with a wrong impression of me."

He paused. I sat gazing silently at the ground.

"You thought it strange," he continued, "that I did not duel with that drunken idiot, R. You will agree, however, that as I had the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my own was in no great danger. I could put my behaviour down to generosity, but I will not tell a lie. If I could have punished R without the least risk to my own life, I would never have forgiven him."

His confession completely astounded me. Silvio continued:

"Exactly. I have no right to risk my life. Six years ago I was slapped in the face and my enemy still lives."

I was really curious.

"Didn't you fight him?" I asked. "Circumstances probably separated you."

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

Silvio got up and took a red cap from a box; he put it on - a bullet had passed through it about a centimetre above the forehead.

"You know," continued Silvio, "that I served in a regiment. You know my character well. I am used to being the leader. This has always been my character. I was the most outrageous man in the army. We used to boast of the risks we took. Duels in our regiment were constantly taking place and I was involved in all of them. My colleagues loved me, while my commanders saw 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. I have never met such a fortunate man in all my life! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, happiness, bravery, a famous name, huge wealth - imagine all these and you have some idea of the effect that he made on us.

"My leading role in the regiment was now in doubt. He wanted to be friends with me, but I behaved coldly to him and, without the least regret, he started to avoid me. I began to hate him. His success in the regiment and with ladies made me desperate. I began to try to quarrel with him. At last, at a party given by a Polish aristocrat, seeing him the centre of attention of all the ladies and especially of the hostess (with whom I was very friendly), I whispered some insulting remark in his ear. He was extremely angry and slapped my face. We grabbed our swords and that same night we set off to fight.

"It was only just dawn. I was standing at the place we had arranged. I waited impatiently for my opponent. The spring sun rose and it was already getting warm. I saw him coming in the distance. He was walking. I went forward to meet him. He approached, holding his cap filled with black cherries. I had to fire first, but I was so excited that I could not depend on my hand staying still. To give myself time to calm down, I gave him the first shot. My opponent would not agree to this. It was decided that we should toss a coin. The first try was his. He aimed and his bullet went through my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands; I looked at him, trying to find signs of uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol, picking the best cherries from his cap and spitting the stones, which flew almost as far as my feet. 'What is the use,' I thought, 'of killing him, when he sees life as unimportant?' I lowered my pistol.

"'You don't seem to be ready for death just at present,' I said to him. 'You want to have your breakfast. I don't wish to stop you.'

"'You are not stopping me,' he replied. 'Fire or not - the shot is yours.'

"I had no intention of firing that day and so the duel came to an end."

"I resigned from the army 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 he had received that morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (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'll see if he will look death in the face with as much indifference now, when he is about to get married, as he did once with his cherries!"

With these words, Silvio got up, threw his cap on the floor, and began walking up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I had listened to him in silence.

The servant entered and said that the horses were ready. Silvio held my hand tightly and we hugged each other. We said good-bye once more and he left.

Chapter 2

Several years passed and family difficulties forced me to settle in the poor little village of M. Although I was busy farming, I missed my noisy and careless life as a soldier. The most difficult thing of all was getting used to spending the spring and winter evenings completely on my own. Until dinner, I managed to pass the time somehow or other, 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 did not know what to do with myself. The few books that I had found in the cupboards 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 had no neighbours nearby. At last I decided to dine late and go to bed as early as possible. In this way, I shortened the evening and lengthened the day and I found the plan worked very well.

Not far from my house was a rich estate belonging to the Countess B, but nobody lived there except a servant. 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 lonely life a report went round 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 neighbour is an important event in the lives of country people. The landowners talk about it for two months beforehand and for three years afterwards. As for me, the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbour changed my life. I was very impatient to see her and the first Sunday after her arrival I set off after dinner for the village of A, to introduce myself to the Countess and her husband, as their nearest neighbour.

A servant took me into the Count's study and then went to inform his employers of my arrival. The spacious room had every possible luxury. Around the walls, there were cases filled with books. Over the fireplace was a large mirror and the floor was covered with carpets. Unused to luxury in my own poor home, and not having seen the wealth of other people for a long time, I waited for the Count with a little concern. The door opened and a handsome man of about thirty- two years of age entered the room. The Count came up to me with a frank and friendly look. We sat down. His conversation, which was easy and agreeable, soon made me feel at home but, when the Countess suddenly entered, I became shyer than ever.

She was very beautiful. The Count introduced me. I wanted to seem at ease, but the more I tried, the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and to get used to my new acquaintances, they began to talk to each other, treating me like a good neighbour. Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and the art. I am no judge of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention. It showed a view in Switzerland but it was not the painting that attracted me but the fact that it was shot through by two bullets, one above the other.

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

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

"Quite well," I replied, happy that the conversation had turned at last to a subject that I knew about. "At thirty paces I can hit a card. I mean, of course, with a pistol I'm used to."

"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of 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 commented, "in that case, I bet you can't hit a card at twenty paces; the pistol needs practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was one of the best shots. But it once happened that I didn't touch a pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended and, would you believe it, the first time I began to shoot again, I missed a bottle four times at twenty paces. No, sir, you must practise or your hand will soon forget its skill. The best shot I ever met used to shoot at least three times every day before dinner. It was as much his habit to do this as it was to eat his breakfast in the morning."

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

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

"Well, if he saw a fly on the wall - you smile, Countess, but it's the truth - if he saw a fly, he would call out: 'Kouzka, my pistol!' Kouzka would bring it - bang! and the fly would be dead against the wall."

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

"Silvio, sir."

"Silvio!" shouted the Count, surprised. "Did you know Silvio?"

"Of course, sir, we were close friends. He was like a brother officer in our regiment, but it is now five years since I had any news of him. Did you also know him?"

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

"Do you mean the slap that he got at a party?"

"Did he tell you the name of the man who slapped him?"

"No, sir, he never mentioned his name, ... Ah! Sir!" I continued, guessing the truth, "forgive me... I did not know... could it really have been you?"

"Yes, me," replied the Count, with a look of great concern, "and that picture is a memento of our last meeting."

"Ah, my dear," said the Countess, "don't speak about that. It is too terrible for me to listen to."

"No," replied the Count: "I'll tell you everything. He knows how I insulted his friend and it's only right that he should know how Silvio got his revenge."

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

"Five years ago I got married. The first month - the honeymoon - I spent here, in this village. I have had the happiest moments of my life in this house as well as one of my most painful memories.

"One evening we went out together for a ride. My wife's horse became restless. She grew frightened and returned home on foot. I rode. In the garden, I saw a carriage and I was told that a man sat waiting for me, who would not give his name but who said that he had business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man, with a beard of days' growth. He was standing there, near the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to remember his features.

"'You don't recognize me, Count?' he asked.

"'Silvio!' I cried.

"'Exactly,' he continued. 'There is a shot owing to me and I have come to take it. Are you ready?'

"His pistol was in his side pocket. I took twelve steps and stood there in that corner, asking 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 asked him to fire. He pulled 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 full of cherry stones... the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel, but a murder. I am not used to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us begin all over again; we will toss a coin to see who fires first.'

"My head went round... At last we loaded another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. He put these in his cap - the same I had once hit with a bullet - and again I got the first number.

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

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

The Count pointed with his finger to the picture. His face burnt like fire and the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief.

"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed. Then Silvio... at that moment, he was really terrible... Silvio raised his hand to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opened, Masha rushed into the room, and with a scream ran and hugged me. All my courage rushed back.

"'My dear,' I said to her, 'don't you see 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.'

"Masha still had her doubts.

"'Tell me, is my husband telling the truth?' she asked, turning to Silvio: 'Is it true you are only joking?'

"'He is always joking, Countess,' replied Silvio. 'Once he slapped my face as a joke. Another time he shot a bullet through my cap. And just now, when he fired and missed me, it was all a joke. Now I feel ready for a joke.'

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

"'Get up, Masha; aren't you ashamed!' I cried in rage. 'And you, sir, will you stop making fun of a poor woman? Will you fire or not?'

"'I will not,' replied Silvio: 'I am satisfied. I have seen your alarm. I forced you to fire at me. That's enough. 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 hit, he fired at it almost without taking aim and disappeared. The servants did not try to stop him, just the look of him filled them with terror. He went out on the steps, called his carriage and drove off before I could recover."

The Count was silent. In this way I learnt the end of the story, whose beginning had made a deep impression on me. I never saw him again.