We shot.
Baratynsky
I vowed to shoot him by right of duel (he still had my shot behind him).
Evening at the bivouac
We were standing in a place ***. The life of an army officer is well known. In the morning, training, arena; lunch at the regimental commander's or in the Jewish tavern; evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's place, where, apart from our uniforms, we saw nothing.
Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; moreover, his usual sullenness, tough disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but bore a foreign name. Once he served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to retire and settle in a poor place where he lived together and was poor and wasteful: he always walked in a worn black coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned the book he had occupied to the owner. His main exercise consisted of pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all battered by bullets, all in the holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art to which he had achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off anyone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to turn their heads over to him. The conversation between us often concerned duels; Silvio (as I’ll call him) never interfered with him. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly, what happened, but did not enter the details, and it was evident that such questions were unpleasant to him. We assumed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never entered our heads to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The unexpected incident amazed us all.
One day about ten of our officers were dining at Silvio's. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; after dinner we began to persuade the owner to sell us the bank. For a long time he refused, for he almost never played; at last he ordered the cards to be served, poured fifty ducats on the table and sat down to toss. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio was in the habit of keeping perfect silence during the game, never arguing or explaining himself. If the punter happened to miscalculate, then he immediately either paid extra, or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not interfere with his own management; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, playing right there, absent-mindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized as usual. The officer, thinking that he was mistaken, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued to throw silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what he thought had been written in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, flushed with wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a frenzy, grabbing a copper shandal from the table, let it go at Silvio, who barely had time to deflect the blow. We were embarrassed. Silvio got up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: "Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house."
We had no doubts about the consequences and assumed the new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as the mister banker liked. The game went on for a few more minutes; but feeling that the owner was not up to the game, we fell behind one after the other and scattered around the apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.
The next day in the arena we asked if the poor lieutenant was still alive, how he himself appeared between us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet heard of Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, putting a bullet on a bullet in an ace glued to the gate. He received us as usual, not saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in surprise: will Silvio not fight? Silvio did not fight. He was content with a very easy explanation and made up.
The story of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin
Mrs. Prostakova.
Then, my father, he is still a hunter to stories.
Skotinin.
Mitrofan for me.
Undergrowth
From the publisher
Having undertaken to bother to publish the Tales of I.P. Belkin, now offered to the public, we wanted to add to them at least a brief biography of the late author and thus partly satisfy the fair curiosity of lovers of Russian literature. For this we turned to Marya Alekseevna Trafilina, the closest relative and heiress of Ivan Petrovich Belkin; but, unfortunately, it was impossible for her to get us any news about him, for the deceased was not at all familiar to her. She advised us to refer on this subject to a respectable husband, a former friend of Ivan Petrovich. We followed this advice, and to our letter we received the following desired answer. We place it without any changes or comments, as a precious monument of a noble way of opinion and touching friendship, and at the same time, as a very sufficient biographical news.
My dear sir ****!
Your esteemed letter of the 15th of this month I had the honor to receive on the 23rd of this month, in which you express to me your desire to have detailed information about the time of birth and death, about the service, about domestic circumstances, as well as about the occupations and disposition of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, my former sincere friend and neighbor on the estates. It is with my great pleasure that I fulfill this desire of yours and I forward to you, my dear sir, everything that I can remember from his conversations, as well as from my own observations.
Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born of honest and noble parents in 1798 in the village of Goryukhin. His late father, Major Seconds Pyotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to a girl named Pelageya Gavrilovna from the Trafilins' house. He was not a wealthy man, but moderate, and in terms of the economy he was very smart. Their son received his primary education from the village sexton. It was to this venerable husband that he was, it seems, indebted to his desire to read and study Russian literature. In 1815, he entered service in the infantry jaeger regiment (I don’t remember the number), in which he was until 1823. The death of his parents, which happened almost at the same time, forced him to resign and come to the village of Goryukhino, his fatherland.
Having entered the administration of the estate, Ivan Petrovich, due to his inexperience and kindness, soon launched the economy and weakened the strict order established by his late parent. Having replaced the serviceable and efficient headman, with whom his peasants (according to their habit) were dissatisfied, he entrusted the management of the village to his old housekeeper, who acquired his power of attorney by the art of telling stories. This stupid old woman never knew how to distinguish a twenty-five-ruble banknote from a fifty-ruble note; the peasants, whom she was everyone's godfather, were not at all afraid of her; the headman they had chosen so indulged them, cheating at the same time, that Ivan Petrovich was forced to abolish the corvee and institute a very moderate quitrent; but even here the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, in the first year begged for themselves a deliberate privilege, and in the next more than two-thirds of the quitrent they paid in nuts, lingonberries and the like; and there were arrears.
Having been a friend of Ivan Petrovich's late parent, I considered it my duty to offer my son my advice, and I repeatedly volunteered to restore the old order he had missed. For this, having come to him one day, I demanded business books, summoned the rogue headman and, in the presence of Ivan Petrovich, began to examine them. The young master first began to follow me with all sorts of attention and diligence; but as it turned out that in the last two years the number of peasants had increased, while the number of farm birds and livestock had deliberately decreased, Ivan Petrovich was content with this first information and did not listen to me further, and at the very moment when I, with my investigations and strict By interrogating the rogue, the elder was extremely confused and forced into complete silence, with my great annoyance I heard Ivan Petrovich snoring fast in his chair. Since then, I stopped interfering in his economic orders and gave his affairs (like himself) to the order of the Almighty.
This, however, did not upset our friendly relations in the least; for I sympathized with his weakness and pernicious neglect, common to our young nobles, I sincerely loved Ivan Petrovich; and it was impossible not to love a young man so meek and honest. For his part, Ivan Petrovich showed respect for my years and was cordially committed to me. Until his death, he saw me almost every day, treasured by my simple conversation, although for the most part we did not resemble each other in our habits, in the way of thinking, or in our disposition.
Ivan Petrovich led a very moderate life, avoiding all kinds of excesses; I never happened to see him drunk (which in our land can be honored for an unheard of miracle); he had a great penchant for the female sex, but his modesty was truly girlish.
In addition to the novellas, which you would like to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left many manuscripts, which in part I have, in part used by his housekeeper for various household needs. Thus, last winter, all the windows of her outbuilding were sealed up as the first part of the novel, which he did not finish. The above stories were, it seems, his first experience. They, as Ivan Petrovich said, are for the most part fair and have been heard by him from various persons. However, the names in them are almost all invented by him, and the names of villages and villages are borrowed from our district, which is why my village is mentioned somewhere. This did not come from any evil intention, but solely from a lack of imagination.
In the fall of 1828, Ivan Petrovich fell ill with a cold fever, which turned into a fever, and died, despite the vigilant efforts of our district doctor, a very skillful person, especially in the treatment of ingrained diseases such as corns and the like. He died in my arms in the thirtieth year from birth and is buried in the church of the village of Goryukhin near his deceased parents.
Ivan Petrovich was of average height, had gray eyes, fair hair, a straight nose; face was white and thin.
This, my dear sir, is all that I could remember about the way of life, occupation, disposition and appearance of my late neighbor and friend of mine. But if you wish to make any use of this letter of mine, I humbly beg you not to mention my name in any way; for although I greatly respect and love writers, I consider it unnecessary to enter into this title, and indecent in my years. With my true respect, and so on.
1830 year. November 16.Nenaradovo village
Considering it our duty to respect the will of our venerable friend of our author, we bring him our deepest gratitude for the news delivered to us and hope that the public will appreciate their sincerity and good nature.
We shot.
Baratynsky
I vowed to shoot him by right of duel (he still had my shot behind him).
Evening at the bivouac
We were standing in a place ***. The life of an army officer is well known. In the morning, training, arena; lunch at the regimental commander's or in the Jewish tavern; evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's place, where, apart from our uniforms, we saw nothing.
Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; moreover, his usual sullenness, tough disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but bore a foreign name. Once he served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to retire and settle in a poor place where he lived together and was poor and wasteful: he always walked in a worn black coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned the book he had occupied to the owner. His main exercise consisted of pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all battered by bullets, all in the holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art to which he had achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off anyone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to turn their heads over to him. The conversation between us often concerned duels; Silvio (as I’ll call him) never interfered with him. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly, what happened, but did not enter the details, and it was evident that such questions were unpleasant to him. We assumed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never entered our heads to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The unexpected incident amazed us all.
SHOT
We shot. Baratynsky. I vowed to shoot him by right of duel (he still had my shot behind him). Evening at the bivouac.
We were standing in a place ***. The life of an army officer is well known. In the morning, training, arena; lunch at the regimental commander's or in the Jewish tavern; evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's place, where, apart from our uniforms, we saw nothing.
Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; moreover, his ordinary sullenness, tough disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but bore a foreign name. Once he served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to retire and settle in a poor place where he lived together and was poor and wasteful: he always walked, in a worn black sert, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned the book he had occupied to the owner. His main exercise consisted of pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all battered by bullets, all in the holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art to which he had achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off anyone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to turn their heads over to him. The conversation between us often concerned duels; Silvio (as I’ll call him) never interfered with him. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly, what happened, but did not enter the details, and it was evident that such questions were unpleasant to him. We assumed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never entered our heads to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The unexpected incident amazed us all.
One day about ten of our officers were dining at Silvio's. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; after dinner we began to persuade the owner to sell us the bank. For a long time he refused, for he had never played mail †; at last he ordered the cards to be served, poured fifty ducats on the table and sat down to toss. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio was in the habit of keeping perfect silence during the game, never arguing or explaining himself. If the ponter happened to miscalculate, then he immediately either paid extra or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not interfere with his own management; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, playing right there, absent-mindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized as usual. The officer, thinking that he was mistaken, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued to throw silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what he thought had been written in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, flushed with wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a frenzy, grabbing a copper shandal from the table, let it go at Silvio, who barely had time to deflect the blow. We were embarrassed. Silvio got up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: "Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house."
We had no doubts about the consequences and assumed the new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as the mister banker liked. The game continued for a few more minutes, but feeling that the owner was not up to the game, we fell behind one by one and scattered around the apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.
The next day in the arena we asked if the poor lieutenant was still alive, how he himself appeared between us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet heard of Silvio. This surprised usђ We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, putting a bullet on a bullet in an ace glued to the gate. He received us as usual, not saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in surprise: will Silvio not fight? Silvio did not fight. He was content with a very easy explanation and made up.
This was extremely damaging to him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all excused by young people, who usually see in courage the height of human dignity and an excuse for all kinds of vices. However, little by little, everything was forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.
Alone I could no longer approach him. Having by nature a romantic imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he left his usual harsh slanderousness and spoke about various subjects with innocence and extraordinary pleasantness. But after the unfortunate evening, the thought that his honor had been soiled and not washed away through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reason for it. It seemed to upset him; at least I noticed once or twice in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio gave up on me. Since then I have only seen him in front of my comrades, and our previous frank conversations have ceased.
The scattered inhabitants of the capital have no idea about many of the impressions so well known to the inhabitants of villages or towns, for example, about waiting for the postal day: on Tuesday and Friday our regimental office was full of officers: some waiting for money, some letters, some newspapers. The packages were usually immediately printed, the news was reported, and the office presented the most lively picture. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment, and usually was there. One day they handed him a package, from which he tore the seal with an air of great impatience. Running through the letter, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with his own letters, noticed nothing. “Gentlemen,” Silvio told them, “circumstances demand my immediate absence; I'm going tonight; I hope you will not mind having dinner with me one last time. I am waiting for you too, "he continued, turning to me," I am certainly waiting. " With this word he hurried out; and we, agreeing to unite at Silvio, went our separate ways.
I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the whole regiment with him. All his goods were already packed; only bare, bullet-through walls remained. We sat down at the table; the owner was exceedingly in good spirits, and soon his gaiety became general; the corks popped every minute, the glasses froth and hissed incessantly, and we wished the departing one a good journey and all the best with all possible zeal. We got up from the table late in the evening. While disassembling the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took my hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I stayed.
The guests have left; we were left alone, sat down opposite each other and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no longer a trace of his convulsive gaiety. A gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes and thick smoke coming out of his mouth gave him the appearance of a real devil. Several minutes passed, and Silvio broke the silence.
Maybe we'll never see each other again, ”he told me; - before parting, I wanted to explain to you. You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinion; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me to leave an unfair impression in your mind.
He stopped and began to fill his burnt-out pipe; I was silent, dropping my eyes.
It was strange for you, - he continued, - that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madcap R ***. You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe ‡ I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I do not want to lie. If I could punish R *** without exposing my life at all, then I would never forgive him.
I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession completely confused me. Silvio continued.
That's right: I have no right to subject myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.
My curiosity was greatly aroused.
You didn't fight him? - I asked. - Circumstances, right, you separated?
I fought with him, - answered Silvio, - and here is a monument to our fight.
Silvio got up and took out from the cardboard a red cap with a gold tassel, with a galloon (what the French call the bonnet de police<см. перевод>); he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead.
You know, - continued Silvio, - that I served in the *** hussar regiment. You know my character: I am used to excellence, but from my youth it was a passion in me. In our time, riot was in vogue: I was the first brawler in the army. We boasted of drunkenness: I drank the glorious Burtsov, sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or an actor at all. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, who were constantly being replaced, looked at me as a necessary evil.
I calmly (or restlessly) enjoyed my glory, as a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him) was determined to us. I have never met a lucky man so brilliant! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, the most frantic gaiety, the most carefree courage, a big name, money with which he did not know the account and which he never transferred, and imagine what action he had to perform between us. My primacy was shaken. Deceived by my glory, he began to seek my friendship; but I received him coldly, and he departed from me without any regret. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the company of women led me to utter despair. I began to seek quarrels with him; he replied to my epigrams with epigrams, which always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine, and which, of course, were more fun than an example: he joked, and I was spiteful. Finally, one day at a ball with a Polish landowner, seeing him as the object of the attention of all the ladies, and especially the hostess herself, who was in touch with me, I said in his ear some kind of flat rudeness. He flushed and slapped me in the face. We rushed to the sabers; the ladies fainted; we were taken away, and that very night we went to fight.
It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. I awaited my opponent with inexplicable impatience. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already ripening. I saw him from afar. He walked on foot, with a uniform on a saber, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured twelve steps for us. I should have fired first, but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the loyalty of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool, conceded the first shot to him: my opponent did not agree. They decided to draw lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot me through his cap. It was my turn. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him eagerly, trying to catch at least one shadow of uneasiness ... He stood under the pistol, picking ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the bones that reached me. His indifference infuriated me. What good is it to me, I thought, to take his life when he doesn't value it at all? A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I put my gun down. “It seems that now you are not up to death,” I said to him, “you deign to have breakfast; I don’t want to interfere with you. ”-“ You are not interfering with me in the least, ”he objected,“ if you please yourself, shoot as you please; your shot is yours; I am always ready for your service. "
I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot today, and that was the end of the fight.
I retired and retired to this place. Since then, not a single day has passed without me thinking of revenge. Now my hour has come ...
Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed his attorney for affairs) wrote to him from Moscow that famous person soon she should enter into legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl.
You guess, - said Silvio, - who this famous person... I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death with such indifference before his wedding, as he once waited for her for cherries!
At these words, Silvio got up, threw his cap on the floor, and began to pace up and down the room like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings agitated me.
A servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly; we kissed. He sat down in a trolley with two suitcases, one with pistols, the other with his belongings. We parted once more, and the horses galloped off.
Several years passed, and domestic circumstances forced me to settle in a poor village in H ** county. Taking care of the house, I did not stop sighing softly about my previous noisy and carefree life. The hardest thing for me was to get used to spending the autumn and winter evenings in complete seclusion. Until lunchtime I somehow still held out for the time, talking with the headman, driving around to work or visiting new establishments; but as soon as it was getting dark, I had absolutely no idea where to go. A small number of books that I found under the cupboards and in the pantry were confirmed by me by heart. All the tales that Kirilovna's housekeeper could remember were retold to me; the songs of the women made me sad. I started to drink unsweetened liqueur, but it gave me a headache; yes, I confess, I was afraid to become drunk with grief, i.e., the most bitter drunkard, of which I saw many examples in our district.
There were no close neighbors near me, except for two or three bitter, of which the conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. The solitude was more bearable.
Four versts from me was a rich estate owned by Countess B ***; but only the steward lived in it, and the countess visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and lived there for no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my retreat, a rumor spread that the Countess and her husband would come to their village for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June.
The arrival of a wealthy neighbor is an important era for the villagers. The landlords and their courtyard people talk about it two months before and three years later. As for me, I confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I was eager to see her, and therefore on the first Sunday after her arrival I went after dinner to the village *** to be recommended to their excellencies, as the closest neighbor and most humble servant.
A footman ushered me into the count's office, and he himself went to report me. The expansive study was cleaned with all sorts of luxury; there were bookcases near the walls, and above each there was a bronze bust; there was a wide mirror over the marble fireplace; the floor was upholstered with green cloth and carpeted. Having lost the habit of luxury in my poor corner and having not seen the wealth of others for a long time, I felt intimidated and waited for the count with some trepidation, like a petitioner from the provinces waiting for the minister to leave. The doors opened, and a handsome man of about thirty-two entered. The count approached me with an open and friendly air; I tried to cheer up and started to recommend myself, but he warned me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to enter into my usual position, when suddenly the countess entered, and embarrassment seized me more than ever. Indeed, she was a beauty. The Count introduced me; I wanted to appear cheeky, but the more I tried to take on the look of ease, the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and get used to a new acquaintance, they began to talk among themselves, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I began to walk up and down, examining books and paintings. I'm not an expert in paintings, but one caught my attention. She was portraying a view from Switzerland; but it was not the painting that struck me in it, but the fact that the painting was shot through by two bullets stuck one on top of the other.
Here's a good shot, ”I said, addressing the count.
Yes, - he answered, - a very wonderful shot. Are you good at shooting? he continued.
Fairly, - I answered, delighted that the conversation had finally touched an object close to me. - In thirty paces I won't miss the map, of course, from the familiar pistols.
Right? - said the countess, with an air of great attentiveness; - and you, my friend, will you get into the map at thirty paces?
Someday, - answered the count, - we will try. At one time I did not shoot badly; but for four years now I have not taken a pistol in my hands.
Oh, ”I remarked,“ in that case, I bet your Excellency will not hit the map even twenty paces away: the pistol requires daily exercise. This I know from experience. In our regiment, I was considered one of the best shooters. Once it happened to me not to take a pistol for a whole month: mine were being repaired; what do you think, your lordship? The first time, as I began to shoot later, I gave a row of four misses on the bottle in twenty-five steps. We had a captain, a wit, an amusement; he happened here and said to me: know you, brother, your hand does not rise on the bottle. No, Your Excellency, this exercise should not be neglected, otherwise you will just get out of the habit. The best shooter I have met shot every day, at least three times before dinner. It was like a glass of vodka.
The Count and Countess were glad that I had begun to talk.
And how did he shoot? the count asked me.
Yes, that's how, your Excellency: it happened, when he saw, a fly landed on the wall: are you laughing, Countess? Honestly, really. Sometimes he saw a fly and shouted: Kuzka, a pistol! Kuzka carries him a loaded pistol. It will bang and push the fly into the wall!
It is amazing! - said the count; - what was his name?
Silvio, Your Excellency.
Silvio! cried the count, jumping up from his seat; - did you know Silvio?
How not to know, Your Excellency; we were friends with him; he was received in our regiment as his brother, a comrade; yes, for five years now, I have no news of him. So your Excellency, therefore, knew him?
I knew, I knew very much. Didn't he tell you ... but no; do not think; did he tell you one very strange incident?
Wasn't it a slap in the face, Your Excellency, he received at the ball from some rake?
Did he tell you the name of this rake?
No, Your Excellency, I didn’t say ... Ah! Your Excellency, - I went on, guessing about the truth, - excuse me ... I didn’t know ... didn’t you? ..
I myself, - answered the count, looking extremely upset, - and the shot-through painting is a monument to our last meeting ...
Oh, my dear, - said the countess, - for God's sake, don't tell; I will be scared to listen.
No, - objected the count, - I will tell everything; he knows how I offended his friend: let him know how Silvio took revenge on me.
The Count pushed my armchairs over to me, and I heard the following story with lively curiosity.
“I got married five years ago.” - First month, the honey-moon<см. перевод>, I spent here in this village. I owe this house the best moments of my life and one of the most painful memories.
We rode together one evening; the wife's horse was stubborn; she got scared, gave me the reins and walked home; I went ahead. In the yard I saw a traveling cart; I was told that there was a man in my office who did not want to announce his name, but who simply said that he cares about me. I entered this room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and overgrown with a beard; he was standing here by the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to remember his features. "You didn't recognize me, Count?" He said in a trembling voice., Silvio! " - I shouted, and I confess, I felt the hairs suddenly stood on end on me. "That's right," he continued, "the shot is behind me; I have come to unload my pistol; are you ready?" His pistol was sticking out of a side pocket. I measured out twelve paces and stood there in the corner, asking him to shoot as soon as possible, before my wife came back. He hesitated - he asked for fire. Candles were brought in. I locked the doors, did not order anyone to enter, and again asked him to shoot. He took out his pistol and aimed ... I was counting the seconds ... I was thinking about her ... A terrible minute passed! Silvio dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that the pistol is not loaded with cherry pits ... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we are not having a duel, but a murder: I am not used to aiming at an unarmed one. Let's start over again; let’s throw lots, who will shoot first. ”My head was spinning ... I think I didn’t agree ... Finally we loaded another pistol; rolled two tickets; he put them in his cap, which I had once shot through; I took out the first number again. You, Count, are devilishly happy, "he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don't understand what happened to me and how he could have forced me to do this ... but - I fired, and got into this picture. (The count pointed with his finger at the shot through the picture; his face burned like fire; the countess was paler than her handkerchief: I could not refrain from exclamation.)
I fired, ”the count continued,“ and, thank God, I missed; then Silvio ... (at that moment he was, really, terrible) Silvio began to aim at me. Suddenly the doors opened, Masha runs in and throws herself on my neck with a squeal. Her presence gave me back all my cheerfulness. “Honey,” I said to her, “can't you see that we are joking? Masha still couldn't believe it. “Tell me, is your husband telling the truth?” She said, addressing the formidable Silvio, “is it true that both of you are joking?” “He’s always joking, Countess,” Silvio answered her; me here this cap, jokingly gave me a miss; now I wanted to joke too ... "With this word he wanted to aim at me ... in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet." Get up, Masha, it's a shame! - I shouted in fury; - and you, sir, will you stop mocking the poor woman? Will you shoot or not? "-" I will not, - answered Silvio, - I am pleased: I saw your confusion, your timidity; I made you shoot at me, that's enough for me. You will remember me. I betray you to your conscience. " Then he was about to leave, but stopped in the doorway, looked back at the picture I had shot through, fired at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. The wife was lying in a swoon; people did not dare to stop him and looked at him with horror; he went out onto the porch, called the driver and left before I had time to recover. "
The count fell silent. Thus, I learned the end of the story, whose beginning once so amazed me. With this hero I have not met. They say that Silvio, during the outrage of Alexander Ypsilanti, led a detachment of etheterists and was killed in the battle near Skuliany.
Translations of foreign language texts
- bonnet de police - "police hat" (officer's cap form garrison cap). (Franz.)
- honey-moon - honeymoon. (English)
Notes (edit)
- The story originally consisted of one first chapter. Having finished it on October 12, 1830, Pushkin added: "The ending is lost," thereby, as it were, abandoning the intention to continue the story. In this form, the story was autobiographical: it contained a description of Pushkin's own duel in Kishinev (June 1822) with officer Zubov. They say about this duel: “Pushkin came to a duel with Zubov with cherries and ate them while he was shooting. Zubov fired first and missed. " Pushkin left without shooting, but not reconciling with Zubov. Two days later, on October 14, Pushkin added the second to the first chapter. When publishing the story, Pushkin did not make any significant changes to the text.
- First epigraph- from Baratynsky's poem "Ball" (1828).
- Second epigraph- from the story of A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky ‡ "Evening at the bivouac" (1822). Initially, Pushkin intended to give the epigraph from Eugene Onegin to "Shot": "Now come together" (Ch. 6, stanza 30). See letter to Pletnev around August 15, 1831.
- Burtsov- Alexander Petrovich (died in 1813), hussar, a famous reveler in his time; sung by Denis Davydov in three of his poems in 1804.
- “The solitude was more bearable.” - In the first edition, it followed: “Finally, I decided to go to bed as early as possible and dine as late as possible; in this way I stole the evening and added the length of days, and I gained what this good is. " It is possible that these words, parodying the biblical style, were eliminated by the censorship.
- Battle of Skuliany- June 17, 1821; see "Kirdjali"
The story of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin
We shot.
Baratynsky
I
We were standing in a place ***. The life of an army officer is well known. In the morning, training, arena; lunch at the regimental commander's or in the Jewish tavern; evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's place, where, apart from our uniforms, we saw nothing.
Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; moreover, his usual sullenness, tough disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but bore a foreign name. Once he served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to retire and settle in a poor place where he lived together and was poor and wasteful: he always walked, in a worn-out black sert, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned the book he had occupied to the owner. His main exercise consisted of pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all battered by bullets, all in the holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art to which he had achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off anyone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to turn their heads over to him. The conversation between us often concerned duels; Silvio (as I’ll call him) never interfered with him. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly, what happened, but did not enter the details, and it was evident that such questions were unpleasant to him. We assumed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never occurred to us to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The unexpected incident amazed us all.
One day about ten of our officers were dining at Silvio's. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; after dinner we began to persuade the owner to sell us the bank. For a long time he refused, for he almost never played; at last he ordered the cards to be served, poured fifty ducats on the table and sat down to toss. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio was in the habit of keeping perfect silence during the game, never arguing or explaining himself. If the ponter happened to miscalculate, then he immediately either paid extra or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not interfere with his own management; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, playing right there, absent-mindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized as usual. The officer, thinking that he was mistaken, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued to throw silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what seemed to him in vain to write down. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, flushed with wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a frenzy, grabbing a copper shandal from the table, let it into Silvio, who barely had time to deviate from the blow. We were embarrassed. Silvio got up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: "Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house."
We had no doubts about the consequences and assumed the new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as the banker liked. The game continued for a few more minutes; but, feeling that the owner was not up to the game, we fell behind one after the other and scattered around the apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.
The next day in the arena we asked if the poor lieutenant was still alive, how he himself appeared between us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet had any news of Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, putting a bullet on a bullet in an ace glued to the gate. He received us as usual, not saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in surprise: will Silvio not fight? Silvio did not fight. He was content with a very easy explanation and made up.
This was extremely damaging to him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all apologized for by young people, who usually see in courage the height of human dignity and an excuse for all kinds of vices. However, little by little, everything was forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.
Alone I could no longer approach him. Having by nature a romantic imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he left his usual harsh slanderousness and spoke about various subjects with innocence and extraordinary pleasantness. But after the unfortunate evening, the thought that his honor had been soiled and not washed away through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reason for it. It seemed to upset him; at least I noticed once or twice in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio gave up on me. Since then I have only seen him in front of my comrades, and our previous frank conversations have ceased.
The scattered inhabitants of the capital have no idea about many of the impressions so well known to the inhabitants of villages or towns, for example, about waiting for the postal day: on Tuesday and Friday, our regimental office was full of officers: some waiting for money, some letters, some newspapers. The packages were usually immediately printed, the news was reported, and the office presented the most lively picture. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment, and usually was there. One day they handed him a package, from which he tore the seal with an air of great impatience. Running through the letter, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with his own letters, noticed nothing. “Gentlemen,” Silvio told them, “circumstances demand my immediate absence; I'm going tonight; I hope you will not mind having dinner with me one last time. I am waiting for you too, "he continued, turning to me," I am certainly waiting. " With this word he hurried out; and we, agreeing to unite at Silvio, went our separate ways.
I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the entire regiment with him. All his goods were already packed; only bare, bullet-through walls remained. We sat down at the table; the owner was exceedingly in spirit, and soon his gaiety became common; the corks popped every minute, the glasses froth and hissed incessantly, and we wished the departing one a good journey and all the best with all possible zeal. We got up from the table late in the evening. While disassembling the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took my hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I stayed.
The guests have left; we were left alone, sat down opposite each other and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no longer a trace of his convulsive gaiety. A gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes and thick smoke coming out of his mouth gave him the appearance of a real devil. Several minutes passed, and Silvio broke the silence.
Maybe we will never see each other again, - he told me, - before parting, I wanted to explain to you. You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinion; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me to leave an unfair impression in your mind.
He stopped and began to fill his burnt-out pipe; I was silent, dropping my eyes.
It was strange for you, - he continued, - that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madcap R ***. You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe: I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I do not want to lie. If I could punish R *** without exposing my life at all, then I would never forgive him.
I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession completely confused me. Silvio continued.
That's right: I have no right to subject myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.
My curiosity was greatly aroused.
You didn't fight him? - I asked. - Circumstances, right, you separated?
I fought with him, - answered Silvio, - and here is a monument to our fight.
Silvio got up and took out from the cardboard a red hat with a gold tassel, with a galloon (what the French call bonnet de police); he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead.
You know, - continued Silvio, - that I served in the *** hussar regiment. You know my character: I am used to excellence, but from my youth it was a passion in me. In our time, riot was in vogue: I was the first brawler in the army. We boasted of drunkenness: I drank the glorious Burtsev, sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or an actor at all. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, who were constantly being replaced, looked at me as a necessary evil.
I calmly (or restlessly) enjoyed my glory, as a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him) was determined to us. I have never met a lucky man so brilliant! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, the most frantic gaiety, the most carefree courage, a big name, money with which he did not know the account and which he never transferred, and imagine what action he had to perform between us. My primacy was shaken. Deceived by my glory, he began to seek my friendship; but I received him coldly, and he departed from me without any regret. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the company of women led me to utter despair. I began to seek quarrels with him; he replied to my epigrams with epigrams, which always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine, and which, of course, were more fun than an example: he joked, and I was spiteful. Finally, one day at a ball with a Polish landowner, seeing him as the object of the attention of all the ladies, and especially the hostess herself, who was in touch with me, I said in his ear some kind of flat rudeness. He flushed and slapped me in the face. We rushed to the sabers; the ladies fainted; we were taken away, and that very night we went to fight.
It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. I awaited my opponent with inexplicable impatience. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already ripening. I saw him from afar. He walked on foot with a uniform on a saber, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured twelve steps for us. I should have fired first, but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the loyalty of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool, conceded the first shot to him: my opponent did not agree. They decided to draw lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot me through his cap. It was my turn. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him eagerly, trying to catch at least one shadow of anxiety ... He stood under the pistol, picking ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the bones that reached me. His indifference infuriated me. What good is it to me, I thought, to take his life when he doesn't value it at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I put my gun down. “It seems that now you are not up to death,” I said to him, “you deign to have breakfast; I don’t want to disturb you. ” “You are not hindering me in the least,” he objected, “if you please yourself to shoot, but as you please; your shot is yours; I am always ready for your service. " I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot today, and that was the end of the fight.
I retired and retired to this place. Since then, not a single day has passed without me thinking of revenge. Now my hour has come ...
Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed, his attorney for affairs) wrote to him from Moscow that a famous person should soon enter into legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl.
You guess, - said Silvio, - who this famous person is. I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death as indifferently before his wedding, as he once waited for her for cherries!
At these words, Silvio got up, threw his cap on the floor and began to walk up and down the room like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings agitated me.
A servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly; we kissed. He sat down in a trolley with two suitcases, one with pistols, the other with his belongings. We parted again and the horses galloped off.
II
Several years passed, and domestic circumstances forced me to settle in a poor village in the N ** county. Taking care of the house, I did not stop sighing softly about my previous noisy and carefree life. The hardest thing for me was to get used to spending the autumn and winter evenings in complete seclusion. Until lunchtime, I somehow still held out for the time, talking with the headman, driving around to work or bypassing new establishments; but as soon as it was getting dark, I had absolutely no idea where to go. A small number of books that I found under the cupboards and in the pantry were confirmed by me by heart. All the tales that Kirilovna's housekeeper could remember were retold to me; the songs of the women made me sad. I started to drink unsweetened liqueur, but it gave me a headache; yes, I confess, I was afraid to become a drunkard out of grief, that is, the most bitter drunkard, of which I saw many examples in our district. There were no close neighbors around me, except for two or three bitter ones, of whom the conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. The solitude was more bearable.
Four versts from me was a rich estate owned by Countess B ***; but only the steward lived in it, and the countess visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and then she lived there for no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my retreat, a rumor spread that the Countess and her husband would come to their village for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June.
The arrival of a wealthy neighbor is an important era for the villagers. The landlords and their courtyard people talk about it two months before and three years later. As for me, I confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I was eager to see her, and therefore on the first Sunday after her arrival I went after lunch to the village *** to be recommended to their excellencies, as the closest neighbor and most humble servant.
A footman led me into the count's office, and he himself went to report me. The expansive study was cleaned with all sorts of luxury; there were bookcases near the walls, and above each there was a bronze bust; there was a wide mirror over the marble fireplace; the floor was upholstered with green cloth and carpeted. Having lost the habit of luxury in my poor corner and having not seen the wealth of others for a long time, I felt intimidated and waited for the count with some trepidation, like a petitioner from the provinces awaiting the minister's exit. The doors opened, and a handsome man of about thirty-two entered. The count approached me with an open and friendly air; I tried to cheer up and started to recommend myself, but he warned me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to enter into my usual position, when suddenly the Countess entered, and embarrassment seized me more than ever. Indeed, she was a beauty. The Count introduced me; I wanted to appear cheeky, but the more I tried to take on the look of ease, the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and get used to a new acquaintance, they began to talk among themselves, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I began to walk up and down, examining books and paintings. I'm not an expert in paintings, but one caught my attention. She was portraying a view from Switzerland; but it was not the painting that struck me in it, but the fact that the painting was shot through by two bullets stuck one on top of the other.
Here's a good shot, ”I said, addressing the count.
Yes, - he answered, - a very wonderful shot. Are you good at shooting? he continued.
Fairly, - I answered, delighted that the conversation had finally touched an object close to me. - In thirty paces I won't miss the map, of course, from the familiar pistols.
Right? - said the countess, with an air of great attentiveness, - and you, my friend, will you get into the map at thirty paces?
Someday, - answered the count, - we will try. At one time I did not shoot badly; but for four years now I have not taken a pistol in my hands.
Oh, ”I said,“ in that case, I bet your Excellency will not get into the map even in twenty paces: the pistol requires daily exercise. This I know from experience. In our regiment, I was considered one of the best shooters. Once it happened to me not to take a pistol for a whole month: mine were being repaired; what do you think, your lordship? The first time, as I began to shoot later, I gave a row of four misses on the bottle in twenty-five steps. We had a captain, a wit, an amusement; he happened here and said to me: know, you, brother, do not raise your hand on the bottle. No, Your Excellency, this exercise should not be neglected, otherwise you will just get out of the habit. The best shooter I have met shot every day, at least three times before dinner. It was like a glass of vodka.
The Count and Countess were glad that I had begun to talk.
And how did he shoot? the count asked me.
Yes, that's how, your Excellency: it happened, when he saw, a fly landed on the wall: are you laughing, Countess? Honestly, really. Sometimes he saw a fly and shouted: Kuzka, a pistol! Kuzka and brings him a loaded pistol. It will bang and push the fly into the wall!
It is amazing! - said the count, - and what was his name?
Silvio, Your Excellency.
Silvio! cried the count, jumping up from his seat, "did you know Silvio?"
How not to know, Your Excellency; we were friends with him; he was received in our regiment as his brother, a comrade; yes, for five years now, I have no news of him. So your Excellency, therefore, knew him?
I knew, I knew very much. Didn't he tell you ... but no; do not think; did he tell you one very strange incident?
Wasn't it a slap in the face, Your Excellency, that he received at the ball from some rake?
Did he tell you the name of this rake?
No, Your Excellency, I didn’t say ... Ah! Your Excellency, - I continued, guessing about the truth, - I'm sorry ... I didn't know ... didn't you? ..
I myself, - answered the count, looking extremely upset, - and the shot-through painting is a monument to our last meeting ...
Oh, my dear, - said the countess, - for God's sake don't tell; I will be scared to listen.
No, - objected the count, - I will tell everything; he knows how I offended his friend: let him know how Silvio took revenge on me.
The Count pushed my armchairs over to me, and I heard the following story with lively curiosity.
“Five years ago I got married. - The first month, the honey-moon, I spent here in this village. I owe this house the best moments of my life and one of the most difficult memories.
We rode together one evening; the wife's horse was stubborn; she got scared, gave me the reins and walked home: I went ahead. In the yard I saw a traveling cart; I was told that there was a man in my office who did not want to announce his name, but who simply said that he cares about me. I entered this room and saw in the darkness a man dusty and overgrown with a beard; he was standing here by the fireplace. I walked over to him, trying to remember his features. "You did not recognize me, Count?" he said in a trembling voice. "Silvio!" - I shouted, and I confess, I felt the hairs suddenly stood on end on me, “That's right,” he continued, “the shot is behind me; I have come to unload my pistol; are you ready? " His pistol was sticking out of a side pocket. I measured out twelve paces and stood there in the corner, asking him to shoot as soon as possible, before my wife came back. He hesitated - he asked for fire. Candles were brought in. I locked the doors, did not order anyone to enter, and again asked him to shoot. He took out his pistol and aimed ... I was counting the seconds ... I was thinking about her ... A terrible minute passed! Silvio dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that the pistol is not loaded with cherry pits ... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we are not having a duel, but a murder: I am not used to aiming at an unarmed one. Let's start over again; let us cast lots, who will shoot first ”. My head was spinning ... It seems I did not agree ... Finally we loaded another pistol; rolled off two tickets; he put them in his cap, which I had once shot through; I took out the first number again. “You are devilishly happy, Count,” he said with a grin I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he could force me to do this ... but - I fired, and got into this picture. (The count pointed with his finger at the shot through the picture; his face burned like fire; the countess was paler than her handkerchief: I could not refrain from exclamation.)
I fired, ”the count continued,“ and, thank God, I missed; then Silvio ... (at that moment he was, really, terrible) Silvio began to aim at me. Suddenly the doors opened, Masha runs in and throws herself on my neck with a squeal. Her presence returned all my cheerfulness. “Honey,” I said to her, “can't you see we're joking? How scared you are! go, drink a glass of water and come to us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade. " Masha still couldn't believe it. “Tell me, is your husband telling the truth? - she said, addressing the formidable Silvio, - is it true that both of you are joking? " “He always jokes, Countess,” Silvio answered her, “he once jokingly gave me a slap in the face, jokingly shot me through this cap, jokingly gave me a miss; now the desire has come to me to joke ... "With this word he wanted to aim at me ... in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet. “Get up, Masha, it's a shame! - I shouted in fury, - and you, sir, will you stop mocking the poor woman? Will you shoot or not? " “I won’t,” Silvio answered, “I am pleased: I saw your confusion, your timidity; I made you shoot me, I've had enough. You will remember me. I betray you to your conscience. " Then he was about to leave, but stopped in the doorway, looked back at the picture I had shot through, shot at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. The wife was lying in a swoon; people did not dare to stop him and looked at him with horror; he went out onto the porch, called the driver and left before I had time to recover. "
The count fell silent. Thus, I learned the end of the story, whose beginning once so amazed me. With this hero I have not met. They say that Silvio, during the outrage of Alexander Ypsilanti, led a detachment of etheterists and was killed in the battle near Skuliany.
... I swore to shoot him by right of duel ...- From the story of A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky "Evening at the bivouac".
... bonnet de police ...- police hat (fr.).
... the honey-moon ...- honeymoon (eng.).
... in the battle near Skuliany ...- June 17, 1821