part, I should like to have an explanation with you. You may have
observed that I care very little for the opinion of other people, but I
like you, and I feel that it would be painful to me to leave you with a
wrong impression upon your mind."
He paused, and began to knock the ashes out of his pipe. I sat gazing
silently at the ground.
"You thought it strange," he continued, "that I did not demand
satisfaction from that drunken idiot R---. You will admit, however,
that having the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my
own was in no great danger. I could ascribe my forbearance to
generosity alone, but I will not tell a lie. If I could have chastised
R--- without the least risk to my own life, I should never have
pardoned him."
I looked at Silvio with astonishment. Such a confession completely
astounded me. Silvio continued:
"Exactly so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago
I received a slap in the face, and my enemy still lives."
My curiosity was greatly excited.
"Did you not fight with him?" I asked. "Circumstances probably
separated you."
"I did fight with him," replied Silvio; "and here is a souvenir of our
duel."
Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel
and embroidery (what the French call a bonnet de police); he put it
on--a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead.
"You know," continued Silvio, "that I served in one of the Hussar
regiments. My character is well known to you: I am accustomed to
taking the lead. From my youth this has been my passion. In our time
dissoluteness was the fashion, and I was the most outrageous man in the
army. We used to boast of our drunkenness; I beat in a drinking bout
the famous Bourtsoff [Footnote: A cavalry officer, notorious for his
drunken escapades], of whom Denis Davidoff [Footnote: A military poet
who flourished in the reign of Alexander I] has sung. Duels in our
regiment were constantly taking place, and in all of them I was either
second or principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental
commanders, who were constantly being changed, looked upon me as a
necessary evil.
"I was calmly enjoying my reputation, when a young man belonging to a
wealthy and distinguished family--I will not mention his name--joined
our regiment. Never in my life have I met with such a fortunate
fellow! Imagine to yourself youth, wit, beauty, unbounded gayety, the
most reckless bravery, a famous name, untold wealth--imagine all these,
and you can form some idea of the effect that he would be sure to
produce among us. My supremacy was shaken. Dazzled by my reputation,
he began to seek my friendship, but I received him coldly, and without
the least regret he held aloof from me. I took a hatred to him. His
success in the regiment and in the society of ladies brought me to the
verge of despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; to my epigrams
he replied with epigrams which always seemed to me more spontaneous and
more cutting than mine, and which were decidedly more amusing, for he
joked while I fumed. At last, at a ball given by a Polish landed
proprietor, seeing him the object of the attention of all the ladies,
and especially of the mistress of the house, with whom I was upon very
good terms, I whispered some grossly insulting remark in his ear. He
flamed up and gave me a slap in the face. We grasped our swords; the
ladies fainted; we were separated; and that same night we set out to
fight.
"The dawn was just breaking. I was standing at the appointed place
with my three seconds. With inexplicable impatience I awaited my
opponent. The spring sun rose, and it was already growing hot. I saw
him coming in the distance. He was walking on foot, accompanied by one
second. We advanced to meet him. He approached, holding his cap
filled with black cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us.
I had to fire first, but my agitation was so great, that I could not
depend upon the steadiness of my hand; and in order to give myself time
to become calm, I ceded to him the first shot. My adversary would not
agree to this. It was decided that we should cast lots. The first
number fell to him, the constant favorite of fortune. He took aim, and
his bullet went through my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last
was in my hands; I looked at him eagerly, endeavoring to detect if only
the faintest shadow of uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol,
picking out the ripest cherries from his cap and spitting out the
stones, which flew almost as far as my feet. His indifference annoyed
me beyond measure. 'What is the use,' thought I, 'of depriving him of
life, when he attaches no value whatever to it?' A malicious thought
flashed through my mind. I lowered my pistol.
"'You don't seem to be ready for death just at present,' I said to him:
'you wish to have your breakfast; I do not wish to hinder you.'
"'You are not hindering me in the least,' replied he. 'Have the
goodness to fire, or just as you please--the shot remains yours; I
shall always be ready at your service.'
"I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of
firing that day, and with that the duel came to an end.
"I resigned my commission and retired to this little place. Since then
not a day has passed that I have not thought of revenge. And now my
hour has arrived."
Silvio took from his pocket the letter that he had received that
morning, and gave it to me to read. Some one (it seemed to be his
business agent) wrote to him from Moscow, that a CERTAIN PERSON was
going to be married to a young and beautiful girl.
"You can guess," said Silvio, "who the certain person is. I am going
to Moscow. We shall see if he will look death in the face with as much
indifference now, when he is on the eve of being married, as he did
once with his cherries!"
With these words, Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began
pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I had listened
to him in silence; strange conflicting feelings agitated me.
The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio
grasped my hand tightly, and we embraced each other. He seated himself
in his telega, in which lay two trunks, one containing his pistols, the
other his effects. We said good-bye once more, and the horses galloped
off.
CHAPTER II.
Several years passed, and family circumstances compelled me to settle
in the poor little village of M---. Occupied with agricultural
pursuits, I ceased not to sigh in secret for my former noisy and
careless life. The most difficult thing of all was having to accustom
myself to passing the spring and winter evenings in perfect solitude.
Until the hour for dinner I managed to pass away the time somehow or
other, talking with the bailiff, riding about to inspect the work, or
going round to look at the new buildings; but as soon as it began to
get dark, I positively did not know what to do with myself. The few
books that I had found in the cupboards and storerooms I already knew
by heart. All the stories that my housekeeper Kirilovna could remember
I had heard over and over again. The songs of the peasant women made me
feel depressed. I tried drinking spirits, but it made my head ache;
and moreover, I confess I was afraid of becoming a drunkard from mere
chagrin, that is to say, the saddest kind of drunkard, of which I had
seen many examples in our district.
I had no near neighbors, except two or three topers, whose conversation
consisted for the most part of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was
preferable to their society. At last I decided to go to bed as early
as possible, and to dine as late as possible; in this way I shortened
the evening and lengthened out the day, and I found that the plan
answered very well.
Four versts from my house was a rich estate belonging to the Countess
B---; but nobody lived there except the steward. The Countess had only
visited her estate once, in the first year of her married life, and
then she had remained there no longer than a month. But in the second
spring of my hermitical life a report was circulated that the Countess,
with her husband, was coming to spend the summer on her estate. The
report turned out to be true, for they arrived at the beginning of June.
The arrival of a rich neighbor is an important event in the lives of
country people. The landed proprietors and the people of their
households talk about it for two months beforehand and for three years
afterwards. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of
a young and beautiful neighbor affected me strongly. I burned with
impatience to see her, and the first Sunday after her arrival I set out
after dinner for the village of A---, to pay my respects to the
Countess and her husband, as their nearest neighbor and most humble
servant. A lackey conducted me into the Count's study, and then went
to announce me. The spacious apartment was furnished with every
possible luxury. Around the walls were cases filled with books and
surmounted by bronze busts; over the marble mantelpiece was a large
mirror; on the floor was a green cloth covered with carpets.
Unaccustomed to luxury in my own poor corner, and not having seen the
wealth of other people for a long time, I awaited the appearance of the
Count with some little trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces
awaits the arrival of the minister. The door opened, and a
handsome-looking man, of about thirty-two years of age, entered the
room. The Count approached me with a frank and friendly air; I
endeavored to be self-possessed and began to introduce myself, but he
anticipated me. We sat down. His conversation, which was easy and
agreeable, soon dissipated my awkward bashfulness; and I was already
beginning to recover my usual composure, when the Countess suddenly
entered, and I became more confused than ever. She was indeed
beautiful. The Count presented me. I wished to appear at ease, but
the more I tried to assume an air of unconstraint, the more awkward I
felt. They, in order to give me time to recover myself and to become
accustomed to my new acquaintances, began to talk to each other,
treating me as a good neighbor, and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I
walked about the room, examining the books and pictures. I am no judge
of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention. It represented
some view in Switzerland, but it was not the painting that struck me,
but the circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two bullets,
one planted just above the other.
"A good shot that!" said I, turning to the Count.
"Yes," replied he, "a very remarkable shot. . . . Do you shoot well?"
he continued.
"Tolerably," replied I, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at
last upon a subject that was familiar to me. "At thirty paces I can
manage to hit a card without fail,--I mean, of course, with a pistol
that I am used to."
"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest.
"And you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"
"Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my time I did not
shoot badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol."
"Oh!" I observed, "in that case, I don't mind laying a wager that Your
Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces; the pistol demands
practice every day. I know that from experience. In our regiment I
was reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not
touch a pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and
would you believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot
again, I missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces. Our
captain, a witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he
said to me: 'It is evident, my friend, that your hand will not lift
itself against the bottle.' No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect
to practise, or your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot
that I ever met used to shoot at least three times every day before
dinner. It was as much his custom to do this as it was to drink his
daily glass of brandy."
The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.
"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.
"Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly
settle on the wall--you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the
truth--if he saw a fly, he would call out: 'Kouzka, my pistol!' Kouzka
would bring him a loaded pistol--bang! and the fly would be crushed
against the wall."
"Wonderful!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"
"Silvio, Your Excellency."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting up. "Did you know Silvio?"
"How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency: we were intimate
friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it
is now five years since I had any tidings of him. Then Your Excellency
also knew him?"
"Oh, yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you of one very
strange incident in his life?"
"Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received
from some blackguard at a ball?"
"Did he tell you the name of this blackguard?"
"No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name, . . . Ah! Your
Excellency!" I continued, guessing the truth: "pardon me . . . I did
not know . . . could it really have been you?"
"Yes, I myself," replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary
agitation; "and that bullet-pierced picture is a memento of our last
meeting."
"Ah, my dear," said the Countess, "for Heaven's sake, do not speak
about that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to."
"No," replied the Count: "I will relate everything. He knows how I
insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should 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 I got married. The first month--the honeymoon--I spent
here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the happiest
moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful
recollections.
"One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback. My wife's
horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and
returned home on foot. I rode on before. In the courtyard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for me
a man, who would not give his name, but who merely said that he had
business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man,
covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days' growth. He was
standing there, near the fireplace. I approached him, trying to
remember his features.
"'You do not recognize me, Count?' said he, in a quivering voice.
"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had
suddenly stood on end.
"'Exactly,' continued he. 'There is a shot due to me, and I have come
to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?'
"His pistol protruded from a side pocket. I measured twelve paces and
took my stand there in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before
my wife arrived. He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were
brought in. I closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter,
and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim. . .
. I counted the seconds. . . . I thought of her. . . . A terrible
minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand.
"'I regret,' said he, 'that the pistol is not loaded with cherry-stones
. . . the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel, but
a murder. I am not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us
begin all over again; we will cast lots as to who shall fire first.'
"My head went round. . . . I think I raised some objection. . . . At
last we loaded another pistol, and rolled up two pieces of paper. He
placed these latter in his cap--the same through which I had once sent
a bullet--and again I drew the first number.
"'You are devilish lucky, Count,' said he, with a smile that I shall
never forget.
"I don't know what was the matter with me, or how it was that he
managed to make me do it . . . but I fired and hit that picture."
The Count pointed with his finger to the perforated picture; his face
glowed like fire; the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief;
and I could not restrain an exclamation.
"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed my aim.
Then Silvio . . . at that moment he was really terrible . . . Silvio
raised his hand to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opens, Masha
rushes into the room, and with a loud shriek throws herself upon my
neck. Her presence restored to me all my courage.
"'My dear,' said I to her, 'don't you see that we are joking? How
frightened you are! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back
to us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'
"Masha still doubted.
"'Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?' said she, turning to the
terrible Silvio: 'is it true that you are only joking?'
"'He is always joking, Countess,' replied Silvio: 'once he gave me a
slap in the face in a joke; on another occasion he sent a bullet
through my cap in a joke; and just now, when he fired at me and missed
me, it was all in a joke. And now I feel inclined for a joke.'
"With these words he raised his pistol to take aim at me--right before
her! Masha threw herself at his feet.
"'Rise, Masha; are you not ashamed!' I cried in a rage: 'and you, sir,
will you cease to make fun of a poor woman? Will you fire or not?'
"'I will not,' replied Silvio: 'I am satisfied. I have seen your
confusion, your alarm. I forced you to fire at me. That is
sufficient. You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'
"Then he turned to go, but pausing in the doorway, and looking at the
picture that my shot had passed through, he fired at it almost without
taking aim, and disappeared. My wife had fainted away; the servants
did not venture to stop him, the mere look of him filled them with
terror. He went out upon the steps, called his coachman, and drove off
before I could recover myself."
The Count was silent. In this way I learned the end of the story,
whose beginning had once made such a deep impression upon me. The hero
of it I never saw again. It is said that Silvio commanded a detachment
of Hetairists during the revolt under Alexander Ipsilanti, and that he
was killed in the battle of Skoulana.
ST. JOHN'S EVE
BY
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL
From "St. John's Eve." Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood.
1886
[Footnote: This is one of the stories from the celebrated volume
entitled "Tales at a Farmhouse near Dikanka."]
(RELATED BY THE SACRISTAN OF THE DIKANKA CHURCH)
Thoma Grigorovitch had a very strange sort of eccentricity: to the day
of his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were
times when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, behold, he would
interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to
recognize it. Once on a time, one of those gentlemen (it is hard for
us simple people to put a name to them, to say whether they are
scribblers or not scribblers: but it is just the same thing as the
usurers at our yearly fairs; they clutch and beg and steal every sort
of frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an ABC
book, every month, or even every week),--one of these gentlemen wormed
this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and he completely forgot
about it. But that same young gentleman in the pea-green caftan, whom
I have mentioned, and one of whose Tales you have already read, I
think, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening
it in the middle, shows it to us. Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point
of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he
had forgotten to wind thread about them, and stick them together with
wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand something about
reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read
it. I had not turned two leaves, when all at once he caught me by the
hand, and stopped me.
"Stop! tell me first what you are reading."
I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.
"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? These were your very
words."
"Who told you that they were my words?"
"Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: RELATED BY SUCH
AND SUCH A SACRISTAN."
"Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a
Moscow pedler! Did I say that? 'TWAS JUST THE SAME AS THOUGH ONE
HADN'T HIS WITS ABOUT HIM. Listen. I'll tell it to you on the spot."
We moved up to the table, and he began.
* * * *
My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten
rolls and makovniki [FOOTNOTE: Poppy-seeds cooked in honey, and dried
in square cakes.] with honey in the other world!) could tell a story
wonderfully well. When he used to begin on a tale, you wouldn't stir
from the spot all day, but keep on listening. He was no match for the
story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue
as though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch
your cap and flee from the house. As I now recall it,--my old mother
was alive then,--in the long winter evenings when the frost was
crackling out of doors, and had so sealed up hermetically the narrow
panes of our cottage, she used to sit before the hackling-comb, drawing
out a long thread in her hand, rocking the cradle with her foot, and
humming a song, which I seem to hear even now.
The fat-lamp, quivering and flaring up as though in fear of something,
lighted us within our cottage; the spindle hummed; and all of us
children, collected in a cluster, listened to grandfather, who had not
crawled off the oven for more than five years, owing to his great age.
But the wondrous tales of the incursions of the Zaporozhian Cossacks,
the Poles, the bold deeds of Podkova, of Poltor-Kozhukh, and
Sagaidatchnii, did not interest us so much as the stories about some
deed of old which always sent a shiver through our frames, and made our
hair rise upright on our heads. Sometimes such terror took possession
of us in consequence of them, that, from that evening on, Heaven knows
what a marvel everything seemed to us. If you chance to go out of the
cottage after nightfall for anything, you imagine that a visitor from
the other world has lain down to sleep in your bed; and I should not be
able to tell this a second time were it not that I had often taken my
own smock, at a distance, as it lay at the head of the bed, for the
Evil One rolled up in a ball! But the chief thing about grandfather's
stories was, that he never had lied in all his life; and whatever he
said was so, was so.
I will now relate to you one of his marvellous tales. I know that
there are a great many wise people who copy in the courts, and can even
read civil documents, who, if you were to put into their hand a simple
prayer-book, could not make out the first letter in it, and would show
all their teeth in derision--which is wisdom. These people laugh at
everything you tell them. Such incredulity has spread abroad in the
world! What then? (Why, may God and the Holy Virgin cease to love me
if it is not possible that even you will not believe me!) Once he said
something about witches; . . . What then? Along comes one of these
head-breakers,--and doesn't believe in witches! Yes, glory to God that
I have lived so long in the world! I have seen heretics, to whom it
would be easier to lie in confession than it would to our brothers and
equals to take snuff, and those people would deny the existence of
witches! But let them just dream about something, and they won't even
tell what it was! There's no use in talking about them!
* * * *
ST. JOHN'S EVE.
No one could have recognized this village of ours a little over a
hundred years ago: a hamlet it was, the poorest kind of a hamlet. Half
a score of miserable izbas, unplastered, badly thatched, were scattered
here and there about the fields. There was not an inclosure or decent
shed to shelter animals or wagons. That was the way the wealthy lived;
and if you had looked for our brothers, the poor,--why, a hole in the
ground,--that was a cabin for you! Only by the smoke could you tell
that a God-created man lived there. You ask why they lived so? It was
not entirely through poverty: almost every one led a wandering, Cossack
life, and gathered not a little plunder in foreign lands; it was rather
because there was no reason for setting up a well-ordered khata (wooden
house). How many people were wandering all over the
country,--Crimeans, Poles, Lithuanians! It was quite possible that
their own countrymen might make a descent, and plunder everything.
Anything was possible.