The Queen of Spades, and other stories
refuses to raise itself against the bottle! No, Count, you must not
neglect to practise, or you will soon lose all skill. The best shot I
ever knew used to shoot every day, and at least three times every day,
before dinner. This was as much his habit as the preliminary glass of
vodka."
The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.
"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.
"This sort, Count. If he saw a fly settle on the wall--you smile,
Countess, but I assure you it is a fact. When he saw the fly, he would
call out, 'Kuska, my pistol!' Kuska brought him the loaded pistol. A
crack, and the fly was crushed into the wall!"
"That is astonishing!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"
"Silvio was his name."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting from his seat. "_You_ knew
Silvio?"
"How could I fail to know him? We were comrades; he was received at our
mess like a brother officer. It is now about five years since I last
had tidings of him. Then you, Count, also knew him?"
"I knew him very well. Did he never tell you of one very extraordinary
incident in his life?"
"Do you mean the slap in the face, Count, that he received from
a blackguard at a ball?" "He did not tell you the name of this
blackguard?"
"No, Count, he did not. Forgive me," I added, guessing the truth,
"forgive me--I did not--could it really have been you?"
"It was myself," replied the Count, greatly agitated. "And the shots in
the picture are a memento of our last meeting."
"Oh, my dear," said the Countess, "for God's sake do not relate it! It
frightens me to think of it."
"No," replied the Count; "I must tell him all. He knows how I insulted
his friend. He shall also know how Silvio revenged himself."
The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I
listened to the following story:--
"Five years ago," began the Count, "I got married. The honeymoon I
spent here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the
happiest moments of my life, and for one of its saddest remembrances.
"One afternoon we went out riding together. My wife's horse became
restive. She was frightened, got off the horse, handed the reins over
to me; and walked home. I rode on before her. In the yard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat a man who
would not give his name, but simply said that he wanted to see me on
business. I entered the study, and saw in the darkness a man, dusty and
unshaven. He stood there, by the fireplace. I approached him, trying to
recollect his face.
"'You don't remember me, Count?' he said, in a tremulous voice.
"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess I felt that my hair was standing on
end.
"'Exactly so,' he added. 'You owe me a shot; I have come to claim it.
Are you ready?'
"A pistol protruded from his side pocket.
"I measured twelve paces, and stood there in that corner, begging him
to fire quickly, before my wife came in.
"He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I locked
the doors, gave orders that no one should enter, and again called upon
him to fire. He took out his pistol and aimed.
"I counted the seconds.... I thought of her ... A terrible moment
passed! Then Silvio lowered his hand.
"'I only regret,' he said, that the pistol is not loaded with
cherry-stones. My bullet is heavy; and it always seems to me that an
affair of this kind is net a duel, but a murder. I am not accustomed
to aim at unarmed men. Let us begin again from the beginning. Let us
cast lots as to who shall fire first.'
"My head went round. I think I objected. Finally, however, we loaded
another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. These he placed
inside his cap; the one through which, at our first meeting, I had put
the bullet. I again drew the lucky number.
"'Count, you have the devil's luck,' he said, with a smile which I
shall never forget.
"I don't know what I was about, or how it happened that he succeeded in
inducing me. But I fired and hit that picture."
The Count pointed with his finger to the picture with the shot-marks
His face had become red with agitation. The Countess was whiter than
her own handkerchief; and I could not restrain an exclamation.
"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed. Then
Silvio--at this moment he was really terrible--then Silvio raised his
pistol to take aim at me.
"Suddenly the door flew open, Masha rushed into the room. She threw
herself upon my neck with a loud shriek. Her presence restored to
me-all my courage.
"'My dear,' I said to her, 'don't you see that we are only joking? How
frightened you look! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back;
I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'
Masha was still in doubt.
"'Tell me; is my husband speaking the truth?' she asked, turning to the
terrible Silvio. 'Is it true that you are only joking?'
"'He is always joking. Countess,' Silvio replied. 'He once in a joke
gave me a slap in the face; in joke he put a bullet through this cap
while I was wearing it; and in joke, too, he missed me when he fired
just now. And now _I_ have a fancy for a joke.'
"With these words he raised his pistol as if to shoot me down before
her eyes."
Masha threw herself at his feet.
'Rise, Masha! For shame!' I cried, in my passion. 'And you, sir, cease
to amuse yourself at the expense of an unhappy woman. Will you fire or
not?'
"'I will not,' replied Silvio. 'I am satisfied. I have witnessed your
agitation--your terror. I forced you to fire at me. That is enough; you
will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'
"He was now about to go; but he stopped at the door, looked round
at the picture which my shot had passed through, fired at it almost
without taking aim, and disappeared.
"My wife had sunk down fainting. The servants had not ventured to stop
Silvio, whom they looked upon with terror. He passed out to the steps,
called his coachman, and before I could collect myself drove off."
The Count was silent. I had now heard the end of the story of which
the beginning had long before surprised me. The hero of it I never saw
again. I heard, however, that Silvio, during the rising of Alexander
Ipsilanti, commanded a detach of insurgents and was killed in action.
THE SNOWSTORM.
Towards the end of 1811, at a memorable period for Russians, lived
on his own domain of Nenaradova the kind-hearted Gravril R. He was
celebrated in the whole district for his hospitality and his genial
character. Neighbours constantly visited him to have something to eat
and drink, and to play at five-copeck boston with his wife, Praskovia.
Some, too, went to have a look at their daughter, Maria; a tall pale
girl of seventeen. She was an heiress, and they desired her either for
themselves or for their sons.
Maria had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in
love. The object of her affection was a poor ensign in the army, who
was now at home in his small village on leave of absence. As a matter
of course, the young man reciprocated Maria's passion. But the parents
of his beloved, noticing their mutual attachment, forbade their
daughter even to think of him, while they received him worse than an
ex-assize judge.
Our lovers corresponded, and met alone daily in the pine wood or by
the old roadway chapel. There they vowed everlasting love, inveighed
against fate, and exchanged various suggestions. Writing and talking in
this way, they quite naturally reached the following conclusion:--
If we cannot exist apart from each other, and if the tyranny of
hard-hearted parents throws obstacles in the way of our happiness, then
can we not manage without them?
Of course, this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man; but
it pleased the romantic imagination of Maria immensely.
Winter set in and put a stop to their meetings. But their
correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir begged Maria in
every letter to give herself up to him that they might get married
secretly, hide for a while, and then throw themselves at the feet of
the parents, who would of course in the end be touched by their heroic
constancy and say to them, "Children, come to our arms!"
Maria hesitated a long while, and out of many different plans proposed,
that of flight was for a time rejected. At last, however, she
consented. On the appointed day she was to decline supper, and retire
to her room under the plea of a headache. She and her maid, who was in
the secret, were then to go out into the garden by the back stairs,
and beyond the garden they would find a sledge ready for them, would
get into it and drive a distance of five miles from Nenaradova, to the
village of Jadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be
waiting for them.
On the eve of the decisive day, Maria did not sleep all night; she was
packing and tying up linen and dresses. She wrote, moreover, a long
letter to a friend of hers, a sentimental young lady; and another to
her parents. Of the latter, she took leave in the most touching terms.
She excused the step she was taking by reason of the unconquerable
power of love, and wound up by declaring that she should consider it
the happiest moment of her life when she was allowed to throw herself
at the feet of her dearest parents. Sealing both letters with a Toula
seal, on which were engraven two flaming hearts with an appropriate
inscription, she at last threw herself upon her bed before daybreak
and dozed off, though even then she was awake tied from one moment
to another by terrible thoughts. First it seemed to her that at the
moment of entering the sledge in order to go and get married her father
stopped her, and with cruel rapidity dragged her over the snow and
threw her into a dark bottomless cellar, down which she fell headlong
with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir,
lying on the grass, pale and bleeding; with his dying breath he
implored her to make haste and marry him. Other hideous and senseless
visions floated before her one after another. Finally she rose paler
than usual, and with, a real headache.
Both her father and her mother remarked her indisposition. Their
tender anxiety and constant inquiries, "What is the matter with you,
Masha--are you ill?" cut her to the heart. She tried to pacify them and
to appear cheerful; but she could not. Evening set in. The idea that
she was passing the day for the last time in the midst of her family
oppressed her. In her secret heart she took leave of everybody, of
everything which surrounded her.
Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she
declared that she did not want any supper, and wished her father and
mother good-night. They kissed her, and as usual blessed her; and she
nearly wept.
Reaching her own room she threw herself into an easy chair and burst
into tears. Her maid begged her to be calm and take courage. Everything
was ready. In half-an-hour Masha would leave for ever her parents'
house, her own room, her peaceful life as a young girl.
Out of doors the snow was falling, the wind howling. The shutters
rattled and shook. In everything she seemed to recognise omens and
threats.
Soon the whole home was quiet and asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a
shawl, put on a warm cloak, and with a box in her hand passed out on
to the back staircase. The maid carried two bundles after her. They
descended into the garden. The snowstorm raged: a strong wind blew
against them as if trying to stop the young culprit. With difficulty