Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Read online

  ‘Dawn was breaking. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. With indescribable impatience I awaited my opponent. The spring sun had risen and the heat was making itself felt. I saw him in the distance. He was on foot, his jacket draped over his sabre, and he was accompanied by one second. We went to meet him. He approached, carrying his cap which was filled with cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I was to fire first, but so violent was my feeling of anger that I could not hope to depend on a steady hand, and in order to give myself time to cool down I allowed him first shot. But my opponent would not agree to this. So we decided to cast lots. The winning number fell to him, that eternal favourite of fortune. He took aim and sent a bullet through my cap. Now it was my turn. At last his life was in my hands. I looked at him, eagerly trying to detect the faintest sign of nervousness… But he stood there facing my pistol, picking the ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the stones, which flew to where I was standing. His nonchalance maddened me. What is the use of depriving him of life, I thought, when he holds it so cheap? A spiteful thought flashed through my mind. I lowered my pistol. “You don’t appear to be in the mood for death just now,” I told him. “You want to have your breakfast; I have no wish to disturb you.”

  ‘“You’re not disturbing me in the least,” he retorted. “Please go ahead and shoot – or do as you please. The next shot is yours. I shall always be at your service.”

  ‘I turned to my seconds, announcing that I had no intention of firing that day, and with that the duel was over.

  ‘I resigned my commission and retired to this small town. Since that time not a day has passed without my contemplating revenge. Now my time has come…’

  Silvio took from his pocket the letter he had received that morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (apparently his business agent) had written to him from Moscow that a certain individual was shortly going to marry a young and beautiful girl.

  ‘You can guess who this certain individual is,’ Silvio said. ‘I am going to Moscow. We shall see if he accepts death now, on his wedding eve, just as nonchalantly as he once waited for it while eating cherries!’

  With these words Silvio stood up, threw his cap on the floor and started pacing the room like a tiger in its cage. I listened without moving an inch; strange, conflicting emotions agitated me.

  A servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio grasped my hand firmly and we embraced. He climbed into his carriage where two suitcases were lying, one with his pistols, the other with his personal effects. We bade each other farewell once again and the horses galloped off.

  II

  Several years passed and domestic circumstances forced me to settle in a poor little village in N ** district. Although busy with farming, I never ceased to sigh for my former boisterous and carefree life. Most difficult of all was having to get used to spending autumn and winter evenings in complete solitude. I somehow managed to drag out the time until dinner, chatting with the village elder, driving around to inspect work in progress or visiting new projects; but the moment dusk began to fall I just did not know what to do with myself. The few books that I had found in cupboards or in the storeroom I already knew by heart. All the tales that my housekeeper, Kirilovna, could remember had been recounted time and time again; the peasant women’s singing utterly depressed me. I almost took to drinking unsweetened liqueurs, but they made my head ache. And indeed I must confess that I was scared of becoming one who drinks to drown his sorrows, that is, the saddest type of drunkard, of whom our district provided plenty of examples. I had no close neighbours, except for two or three hardened drinkers, whose conversation consisted chiefly of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was preferable to their company.

  About two miles away was a rich estate belonging to a Countess B **, but only the manager lived there. The countess had visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and she stayed less than a month. However, in the second spring of my seclusion the rumour circulated that the countess and her husband were coming to spend the summer there. And in fact they arrived at the beginning of June.

  The arrival of a rich neighbour is an important event in the lives of country-dwellers. Landowners and their servants talk about it for two months beforehand and for three years afterwards. For my part I do confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbour affected me deeply. I was burning with impatience to see her, and so, on the very first Sunday after their arrival, I set off after dinner for the village of * * * to introduce myself to their Excellencies as their nearest neighbour and most humble servant.

  A footman showed me into the count’s study and then went off to announce me. The spacious study was furnished with every possible luxury; bookcases lined the walls and on the top of each one stood a bronze bust; above the marble fireplace was a wide mirror; the floor was covered with a green cloth, with carpets scattered over it. Unaccustomed to luxury in my own humble abode and not having seen other people’s wealth for a long time, I began to feel nervous and awaited the count with some trepidation, just as a provincial petitioner awaits the entrance of a minister. The doors were opened and a handsome man of about thirty-two entered. The count approached me with an open, friendly air. I tried to regain my composure and was about to introduce myself when he anticipated me. We sat down. His easy, friendly conversation soon dispelled my sullen bashfulness. I was just beginning to feel myself again, when suddenly the countess entered and I became more embarrassed than ever. She was indeed beautiful. I wanted to appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume a relaxed air the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and become used to my new acquaintances they started talking to each other, treating me as if I were a good neighbour and without any formality. Meanwhile I started pacing up and down the study, examining the books and paintings. I am no expert on paintings, but one caught my attention. It depicted a Swiss scene; however, it was not the painting that struck me, but the fact that there were two bullet holes in the canvas, one right next to the other.

  ‘That was a good shot,’ I said, turning to the count.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘a most remarkable shot. Are you a good marksman?’ he continued.

  ‘Fairly good,’ I replied, delighted that the conversation had at last touched upon a subject that was dear to my heart. ‘I can hit a card at thirty paces without fail – that is, of course, using a pistol I’m familiar with.’

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

  ‘Some day I’ll try. In my time I wasn’t a bad shot, but it’s four years since I handled a pistol.’

  ‘Oh,’ I remarked. ‘In that case I’ll wager that your Excellency couldn’t hit a card at twenty paces: pistol-shooting calls for daily practice. That I know from my own experience. I was considered one of the finest shots in the regiment. Once it so happened that I didn’t touch a pistol for a whole month – mine were being repaired. And what do you think, your Excellency? The first time I started shooting again I missed a bottle four times in a row – at twenty-five paces! We had a cavalry captain, a witty and amusing fellow; he happened to be nearby and he told me, “It is clear, my friend, that your hand refuses to attack a bottle!” No, your Excellency, you must not neglect to practise or you’ll soon lose the knack. The best marksman I ever met used to shoot every day, at least three times before dinner. It was as much a part of his daily routine as a glass of vodka.’

  The count and countess were pleased that I had found my tongue.

  ‘And what kind of a shot was he?’ the count asked.

  ‘Let me tell you, your Excellency. If he saw a fly on the wall – you laugh, Countess? I swear it’s true. If he spotted a fly he’d shout, “Hey, Kuzka, my pistol!” Kuzka would bring him a loaded pistol. Bang! – and he’d flatten the fly against the wall.’

  ‘Amazing!’ said the count. ‘And what was his name?’

  ‘Silvio,
your Excellency.’

  ‘Silvio,’ cried the count, leaping up. ‘You knew Silvio?’

  ‘How could I help knowing him? We were friends: he was accepted in the regiment as one of us. But it’s five years since I had any news of him. So your Excellency knew him too?’

  ‘Yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you about… no, I don’t think he could have. Did he ever tell you about one very strange incident?’

  ‘The slap in the face he received, your Excellency, from some madcap at a ball?’

  ‘Did he ever tell you the name of that madcap?’

  ‘No, your Excellency, he never mentioned it,’ I continued, realizing the truth. ‘Forgive me… I didn’t know… could it have been you?’

  ‘Yes, it was I,’ replied the count with a look of the utmost distress. ‘And that picture with the bullet hole is a memento of our last meeting…’

  ‘Ah, my dear,’ said the countess, ‘for heaven’s sake don’t tell him about it. It would be too awful for me to listen to.’

  ‘No,’ retorted the count, ‘I shall tell everything. He knows how I insulted his friend, so let him know how Silvio took his revenge on me.’

  The count drew up an armchair for me, and with the liveliest curiosity I listened to the following story.

  ‘Five years ago I got married. The first month, the honeymoon,4 we spent here, on this estate. To this house I owe the happiest moments of my life – as well as one of its most painful memories.

  ‘One evening we went riding together. For some reason my wife’s horse suddenly turned obstinate. She became frightened, handed me the reins and returned home on foot. I rode on ahead. In the courtyard I saw a wagon and was told that sitting in my study was a man who did not want to give his name but who simply said that he had business with me. I came into this room, and in the darkness I could see a man covered in dust and with a thick growth of beard; he was standing here, by the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to recall those features.

  ‘“You do not recognize me, Count?” he asked in a trembling voice.

  ‘“Silvio!” I cried, and I confess I felt my hair was standing on end.

  ‘“Exactly,” he went on. “I’m due one shot and I’ve come to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?”

  ‘A pistol was protruding from one of his side pockets. I measured out twelve paces and stood in the corner, over there, imploring him to hurry up and shoot before my wife returned. He took his time and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I closed the door, gave instructions that no one was to enter and again begged him to fire. He drew his pistol and took aim… I counted the seconds… I thought of her… A terrible minute went by! Then Silvio lowered his arm.

  ‘“I’m sorry,” he said, “that my pistol is not loaded with cherry stones… bullets are so heavy. It strikes me, however, that this is not a duel, but murder: I am not accustomed to aiming at unarmed men. Let us begin all over again. We shall cast lots as to who fires first.”

  ‘My head was spinning… I think that I objected… Finally we loaded another pistol; we folded two pieces of paper; he put them in that very same cap through which I had once fired; again I drew the lucky number.

  ‘ “You have the luck of the devil, Count,” he said with a grin that I shall never forget. I don’t understand what came over me or how he could have forced me into it… but I fired and hit that picture over there.” (The count pointed at the perforated picture; his face was burning like fire; the countess was paler than her own handkerchief. I could not help crying out.)

  ‘“I fired,” continued the count, and “thank God I missed; then Silvio… (at that moment he was terrible to look at) Silvio began to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opened, Masha rushed in and with a scream threw her arms around my neck. Her presence restored all my courage.

  ‘“My dear,” I told her, “can’t you see we’re joking? How frightened you look! Go and drink some water and then come back. I shall introduce you to an old friend and comrade.”

  ‘But Masha still did not believe me.

  ‘“Tell me, is my husband telling the truth?” she asked, turning to the menacing Silvio. “Is it true that you are both joking?”

  ‘“He is always joking, Countess,” Silvio replied. “Once he slapped me on the face for a joke, fired a bullet through this cap for a joke and just now he missed – for a joke. Now I feel the urge to have a little joke…”

  ‘With these words he started to take aim… in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet.

  ‘“Get up, Masha, aren’t you ashamed!” I shouted furiously. “And will you, Sir, will you stop mocking a poor woman? Are you going to fire or not?”

  ‘“No, I am not,” Silvio replied. “I am satisfied: I have witnessed your dismay, your loss of nerve. I have forced you to fire at me and that is enough. You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.”

  ‘At this point he turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway, looked back at the picture through which my bullet had passed and fired at it, almost without aiming, after which he vanished. My wife lay in a faint; the servants did not dare stop him and looked at him in horror; he went out on to the front steps, summoned his coachman and drove off before I had time to collect myself.’

  The count fell silent. Thus I came to hear the end of that story whose beginning had once made such a deep impression on me. I never met its hero again. Rumour has it that Silvio was killed at the Battle of Skulyani, during the uprising under Alexander Ypsilanti, while commanding a detachment of Hetairists.5

  THE BLIZZARD

  Trampling the snow in drifts so deep,

  The horses race in headlong flight,

  And as across the slopes they sweep

  A lonely church comes into sight

  A great blizzard suddenly flings

  Tufted flakes along the way;

  A black raven with whistling wings

  Hovers over the sleigh.

  Its woeful cry forebodes but doom;

  With manes upraised the steeds make haste

  Peering into the distant gloom,

  As they cross the snowy waste…

  Zhukovsky1

  At the end of 1811, during an epoch so memorable for us, there lived on his estate at Nenaradovo the worthy Gavrila Gavrilovich R**. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and cordiality. His neighbours were constantly visiting him, either to eat or drink, or to play Boston2 at five copecks a hand with his wife; but there were some who came to look at their daughter Marya Gavrilovna, a pale, slim girl of seventeen. She was considered a wealthy match and many intended her for themselves or their sons.

  Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels and consequently was in love. Her chosen one was a poor ensign who was then on leave in his village. There is no need to say that the young man was burning with equal passion and that the parents of his beloved, having observed their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter even to consider him and gave him a worse reception than if he were a retired court assessor.

  Our lovers wrote to each other and every day met secretly in the pine grove or near the old chapel. There they vowed eternal love to each other, bemoaned their cruel lot and made various plans. Corresponding and conversing in this way they (very naturally) came to the following conclusion: since we cannot live without each other and the will of our hard-hearted parents is barring our happiness, then why can we not ignore it.

  Of course, there is no need to mention that it was to the young man that this happy thought first occurred and that it was intensely gratifying to Marya Gavrilovna’s romantic imagination.

  Winter came and put an end to their meetings; but their correspondence became all the more lively. In every letter Vladimir Nikolayevich implored her to entrust herself to him, to marry him secretly, to stay in hiding with him for a while, after which they would throw themselves at the feet of her parents who, quite naturally, would at last be moved by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers and would be
bound to tell them: ‘Children! Let us embrace you.’

  Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for some time; she rejected most of the plans for the elopement. Finally she agreed to the following: on the appointed day she would excuse herself from supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache. Her maid was party to the plot; both of them were to go by the back stairs out into the garden, at the bottom of which they would find a sleigh waiting for them, get into it and drive the three miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church there, where Vladimir would be waiting for them.

  On the eve of the decisive day Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep the whole night. She spent the time packing, tied up some of her linen and dresses, wrote a long letter to a sentimental lady-friend and another to her parents. She bade them farewell in the most touching terms, excused her actions, which were governed by the invincible power of passion, and concluded with the remark that she would consider it the happiest moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents. After sealing both letters with a Tula3 seal, on which were engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw herself on her bed just before dawn and fell into a light slumber. But terrible dreams constantly aroused her. First she dreamt that, at the very moment when she seated herself in the sleigh to drive off to be married, her father stopped her, dragged her over the snow with agonizing speed and cast her into a dark, bottomless dungeon… and she flew headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and bloody. As he died he implored her in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him… and a succession of hideous, absurd visions drifted past. Finally she rose from her bed, paler than usual – and with a genuine headache. Her mother and father noticed her uneasiness; their tender solicitude and incessant enquiries: ‘What’s wrong, Masha? Are you ill, Masha? rent her heart. She endeavoured to reassure them and look cheerful, but she could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last day she would be spending with her family lay heavily on her heart. She felt barely alive; secretly she bade farewell to everyone, to all the objects that surrounded her.