LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 146, 21 November 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE PISTOL SHOT. Translated prom the Russian*. (From the St Paul's Magazine.) ( Concluded-') ' I quitted the service, and retired to this place. But not a day has since passed without a thought of vengeance. Now my time has come. * * * *' Silvio drew out of his pocket the letter lie had that morning received, and handed it to me. Somebody (probably the person entrusted with the care of his business matters) wrote word to him from Moscow, that a certain individual was soon about to be united in | lawful wedlock to a young and beautiful girl. 'You guess,' said Silvio, 'who is meant by this certain individual. Igo to Moscow. We shall see whether he will meet death as coolly on the eve of his marriage as he once awaited it at his meal of cherries !' Silvio rose at these words, threw his cap upon the door, and paced the room to and fro like a tiger 'in his cage. I had listened to him in silence ; strange and conflicting feelings had taken possession of me. The servant walked in, and reported the horses ready. Silvio pressed my hand warmly ;we embraced each other. He took his place in the telega, wherein lay two boxes, one containing his pistols, the other his necessaries. We bade each other goodbye once more, and the horses were off. Chapter 11. Several years had elapsed, and my private affairs necessitated my settling in a povertystriken little village in the district of N . Though occupied with the duties of landlord, I could not help silently sighing after my former rackety and reckless existence. I found it so difficult to get accustomed to spend the long dismal spring and winter evenings in} such complete seclusion. By chatting with the mayor, or going over new buildings in progress, I managed somehow to drag through the day, up to the dinner hour; but 1 literally knew not what to do with myself at dusk. 1 had road the limited number of books which I had found on the bookshelves and in the lumber room until I knew them by heart. All the stories which the housekeeper Kirilovna knew had been told me over and over again. I grew weary of listening to the peasant women's songs, and might have had recourse to sweet liqueurs, but that they made my head ache ; and I confess that I feared I might become a drunkard from a feeling of wretchedness, that is to say the most wretched of drunkards, of which I saw a number of instances in our district.

I had no near neighbours, if I except two or three of these wretched fellows, whose conversation consisted chielly of hiccoughs and sighs. .Solitude was more endurable. At last I decided upon going to bed as early as possible, and upon dining as late as possible ; in this way I contrived to shorten the evenings and add to the length of the days, which I. spent in useful occupations. Four versts from me lay a very valuable estate belonging to the Countess B——; it was occupied by the agent only ; the Countess had visited it but once, and that in the first year of her marriage, when she had not stayed over a month. During the second year of my seclusion, rumours were current that the Countess and her husband were coming to spend the summer. They really did arrive at the beginning of June. The appearance of a well-to-do neighbour is an important event to rustics. Landlords and tenants speak of it for two months pre viously and for three months subsequently. I confess that, so far as I was concerned, the presence of a young and beautiful neighbour seemed a matter of considerable importance to me. 1 burned with impatience to see her, and betook myself therefore after dinner, the first Sunday subsequently to their arrival, to pay my respects to their excellencies, aa their nearest neighbour and most devoted of servants.

A footman showed me into the Count's library and went to announce me. The spacious apartment was furnished with the greatest possible luxury; the walls were lined with bookcases, each of which was surmounted by a bronze bust; over the marble chimney piece was placed a large mirror ; the floor was covered with green cloth and spread with carpets. Having lost all habits of luxury in my poor retreat, and having long since ceased to be familiar with the effects produced by the riches of others, 1 became timid, and awaited the Count with a certain trepidation, like a provincial petitioner expecting the approach of a minister. The doors opened, and a handsome man of two-and-thirty came in. The Count approached me with frankness and friendliness. I endeavoured to muster courage and to explain the object of my call : but he anticipated inc. We sat down. His easy and agreeable conversation soon dispelled my awkward shyness ; I had already resumed my usual manner, when suddenly the Countess entered, and my perturbation became greater than before. She was beautiful indeed. The Count introduced me; 1 wished to seem to be at my ease, but the more I tried the more awkward did 1 feel. My new acquaintances wishing to give me time to recover, and to feel myself more at home, conversed together, dispensing with all etiquette, thus treating me like an old friend. I had risen from my seat in the meanwhile, and was pacing the room inspecting the books and pictures. 1 am no judge of paintings, but one there was which specially attracted my attention. It represented a landscape in Switzerland ; biit 1 was struck, not by the beauty of the artist's touch, but because it "was perforated by two bullets, one hole being just above the other. 'This is a good shot," said i, turning to the Count. 'Yes,' said he ; ' a very lcuarkable shot. Do you'shoot well !' he went on. 'Pretty well,' I replied, overjoyed that the conversation had turned upon a subject of interest. ' I mean I could not miss a card at thirty paces ; of course, when 1 know the pistols.' ' Indeed,' said the Countess, with a look ot great attention; ' and you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty'paces ?' 'Some day,' answered the Count, 'we shall try. I was not a bad shot in my time, but it is now four years s'nee I held a pistol.' . ' ()h,' remarked I, " that being the case, 1 do not mind betting that your excellency will not be able to hit a card at twenty paces even ; pistol shooting requires daily practice. 1 know this by experience. I used to be considered one of the best shots in our | regiment. It so happened once that I had

not touched a pistol for a whole month : my own were undergoing repair, and will your excellency believe it, when I took to shooting again, I missed a bottle four successive times at twenty paces ? Our riding-master, a sharp, amusing fellow, happening to be present, cried out : ' I say, old boy, thou canst not lift thy hand against the bottle, oh '.'' No, your excellency, it is a practice that ought not to be neglected, if one does not wish to become rusty at it. The best shot I ever happened to come across practised every day, and would lire at least three times before dinner. This was a rule with him, as was his glass of vodka.' The Count and Countess appeared pleased at my having become talkative. ' And what kind of shot was he !' asked the Count.

■ Of that sort, your excellency, that if he happened to see a fly on the wall . . . You are smiling, Countess. But it is true, indeed . . . When he chanced to see a fly, he would call out, " Kooska, my pistols!" Kooska brings him a loaded pistol. Bang ! and there is the fly, flattened to the wall!' ' That was wonderful,' said the Count. ' What was his name ? '

' Silvio, your excellency."' ' Silvio !' exclaimed he, jumping up ; ' you knew Silvio ? ' ' Knew him ? Of course, your excellency. We were friends ; he was considered by the regiment as being quite one of ourselves ; but it is now five years since 1 heard anything of him. Your excellency appears also to have known him ? '

' I knew him —knew him very well. Did he ever relate a Aery strange occurrence to you •'.' ' Your excellency cannot possibly mean a box on the ear, which some young scamp gave him at a ball ?' • And did he name that scamp to you ? ' ' No, your excellency, he did not; but—your excellency,' continued I, the truth beginning to dawn upon me,—' I beg your pardon—l was not aware —can it be yourstlf ?'

'I, myself,' answered the Count, with an exceedingly perturbed countenance, "and the perforated picture is the reminiscence of our last meeting.' 'Oh! pray, dear,' said the Countess, ' pray do not speak of it. I dread hearing the story.' ' No,' replied he, ' I shall relate the whole of it. He knows how I offended his friend, let him now know how Silvio took his re venge.' The Count bade me be seated, and I listened with the liveliest curiosity to the following recital : ' I was married five years ago. The first month, the honeymoon, was spent in this village. It is to this house that lam indebted for the happiest, as also for one of the saddest moments of my life. 'We were out riding one evening; my wife's horse became unmanageable ; she got frightened, gave me her bridle, and set out homewards on foot. T saw upon entering the stable-yard a travelling telega, and was informed that a gentleman, who had refused to give his name, and had simply said that he had some business to transact, was waiting for me in the library. I entered this room, and in the twilight saw a man covered with dust and wearing a long beard. He was standing by the fire-place. I approached him, trying to recall to mind his features. ' Thou dost not recognise me, Count,' said he, with trembling voice. * Silvio !' exclaimed I; and I confess I felt my hair stand on end !' ' Yes, it is I,' he continued, 'the shot remained with me; I have come to discharge my pistol; art thou ready ?' The pistol protruded out of his side pocket. I measured twelve paces, and stood there, in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before my wife returned. He hestitated, he asked for lights. Candles were brought in. I shut the door, gave orders that no one should come in, and again begged him to fire. He took out his pistol, and proceeded to take aim. . . . I was counting the seconds. . . I thought of her. . . One dreadful minute passed ! Silvio let his arm drop. ' I regret,' said he, ' that my pistol is not loaded with cherry stones. . . The bullet is heavy. Thi« appears to me not a duel, but murder : I am not accustomed to aim at an unarmed man : let us begin anew ; let us draw lots who is to have the first fire.' My head swam. . .

I suppose I was not consenting. . , . At last another pistol was loaded ; two bits of paper were rolled up ; he placed them in the cap I had once shot through ; 1 again drew the winning number. 'Thou art devilish lucky, Count,' said he, with an ironical smile I can never forget. I do not understand what possessed me, and by what means he forced me to it. . , but 1 fired—and hit that picture there.' The Count pointed to the perforated picture ; his face was crimson ; the Countess had become whiter than her handkerchief ; I could not suppress an exclamation. ' 1 tired,' the Count went on : ' and, thank God, missed. Then Silvio * * * * (he looked really dreadful at this moment) Silvio aimed at me. Suddenly the doors opened, Masha rushed in, and with a scream threw herself on my neck. Her presence restored to me all my courage. 'Darling,' said 1, ' don't you see that we are joking ? How frightened you are! Go and take a glass of water and come back to us ; I shall introduce an old friend and comrade to you.' Masha still doubted. 'Tell me, is what my husband says true ?' said she, turning to the sombre Silvio, 'is it true that you are both in fun?' 'He is always in fun, Countess,' replied Silvio. ' Once upon a time he gave me a box on the ear, in fun ; in fun, he shot through this cap ; in fun, he just now missed me : now 1 have a fancy to be in fun also.' So saying, he was about to take aim * * * before her ! Masha threw herself at his feet. ' Get up, Masha, for shame ! 1 exclaimed, enraged ; ' and you, sir, will you cease jeering at a poor woman? Are you, or are you not, going to lire 'C '1 am not going to,' answered Silvio. '1 am content. 1 have seen your hesitation, your timidity. __ I made you nre at me. lam satisfied. You will remember me. 1 leave you to your conscience !' Here he was about to take his departure, but stopping in the doorway, he looked at the perforated picture, fired his pistol at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. My wife had fainted ; the servants dared not stop him, and looked at him with terror; he walked out, called the iamshtckik and drove off, before I had even time to recover myself.' The Count concluded. Thus did I learn the ending of a story which had so interested me at its commenctment. I did not again meet its hero. It was said that at the time of the revolt under Alexander Ypsilanti, Silvio commanded a detachment of the Hetant', and was killed in the combat before Skullcfli.