The arrival of a rich neighbor marks an important epoch for country dwellers. Landowners and their servants discuss it for two months before and three years after. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I burned with impatience to see her, and so, on the first Sunday after their arrival, I went to the village of * * * after dinner to introduce myself to their excellencies as their nearest neighbor and most humble servant.
A footman led me to the count’s study and went to announce me. The vast study was decorated with all possible luxury; the walls were lined with bookcases, with a bronze bust on top of each; above the marble fireplace was a wide mirror; the floor was covered with green felt and overlaid with carpets. Having lost the habit of luxury in my poor corner, and not having seen other people’s wealth for a long time, I grew timid and waited for the count with a certain trepidation, the way a provincial petitioner awaits the appearance of a minister. The door opened, and a very handsome man of about thirty-two came in. The count approached me with an air of openness and friendliness; I tried to take heart and was about to introduce myself, but he forestalled me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to return to my normal state, when the countess suddenly came in, and I was overcome by a greater confusion than before. She was indeed a beauty. The count introduced me; I wanted to seem free and easy, but the more I tried to assume an air of nonchalance, the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and accustom myself to my new acquaintances, they started talking to each other, treating me as a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile I started pacing up and down, examining the books and paintings. I am not a connoisseur of paintings, but one of them caught my attention. It represented some view of Switzerland; but what struck me in it was not the picture, but the fact that it had been pierced by two bullets in the same spot.
“That’s fine shooting,” I said, turning to the count.
“Yes,” he said, “quite remarkable. Are you a good shot?” he went on.
“Fairly good,” I replied, glad that the conversation had finally touched upon a subject close to me. “I wouldn’t miss a card at thirty paces—with familiar pistols, of course.”
“Really?” said the countess, with a look of great attentiveness. “And you, my love, can you hit a card at thirty paces?”
“Someday we’ll give it a try,” replied the count. “In my time I wasn’t a bad shot; but it’s four years now since I’ve touched a pistol.”
“Oh,” I remarked, “in that case I’ll wager Your Excellency couldn’t hit a card even from twenty paces: a pistol calls for daily practice. I know that from experience. I was reckoned one of the best shots in our regiment. Once it 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 tried shooting after that, I missed a bottle four times in a row at twenty-five paces. We had a captain, a wit, an amusing fellow; he happened to be there and said to me: ‘It’s obvious, brother, your hand refuses to raise itself against a bottle.’ No, Your Excellency, you mustn’t neglect that exercise, or else you’ll lose the habit just like that. The best shot I ever happened to meet used to practice at least three times before dinner every day. It was a habit with him, like a glass of vodka.”
The count and countess were glad that I had gotten to talking.
“And how did he shoot?” the count asked me.
“Here’s how, Your Excellency: he would see a fly land on the wall—you laugh, Countess? By God, it’s true. He would see the fly and shout, ‘Kuzka, my pistol!’ Kuzka brings him a loaded pistol. He goes—bang!—and the fly is squashed into the wall!”
“That’s astonishing!” said the count. “And what was his name?”
“Silvio, Your Excellency.”
“Silvio!” cried the count, jumping from his seat. “You knew Silvio?”
“What else, Your Excellency? We were friends; he was treated by our regiment as one of our own, a comrade; but it’s five years now since I’ve had any news of him. So that means Your Excellency knew him, too?”
“Knew him, yes, I knew him well. Did he never tell you…but no, I suppose not. Did he never tell you about one very strange incident?”
“Does Your Excellency mean the slap in the face he received from some scapegrace at a ball?”
“And did he tell you the name of that scapegrace?”
“No, Your Excellency, he didn’t…Ah, Your Excellency,” I went on, guessing the truth, “forgive me…I didn’t know…Can it have been you?”
“I myself,” the count replied, looking extremely upset, “and the bullet-pierced painting is a souvenir of our last meeting—”
“Ah, my dear,” said the countess, “for God’s sake don’t tell about it; I’d be frightened to listen.”
“No,” the count objected, “I’ll tell it all. He knows how I offended his friend; let him learn how Silvio took revenge on me.”
The count moved 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 ‘honey-moon,’* I spent here in this village. I owe to this house the best moments of my life and one of the most oppressive memories.
“One evening we went out riding together. My wife’s horse started to balk; she got frightened, handed me the reins, and went home on foot. I rode ahead. In the yard I saw a traveling cart; I was told that there was a man sitting in my study who did not want to give his name, but simply said he had business with me. I went into that room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and overgrown with beard; he was standing here, by the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to recall his features.
“ ‘Don’t you recognize me, Count?’ he said in a trembling voice.
“ ‘Silvio!’ I cried, and I confess, I felt my hair suddenly stand on end.
“ ‘That’s right,’ he went on. ‘I owe you a shot; I’ve come to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?’
“The pistol was sticking out of his side pocket. I measured off twelve paces and stood there in the corner, begging him to shoot quickly, before my wife came back. He delayed—he asked for light. Candles were brought. I shut the door, gave orders to let no one in, and again begged him to shoot. He drew his pistol and took aim…I counted the seconds…I thought of her…A terrible minute went by! Silvio lowered his arm.
“ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that the pistol isn’t loaded with cherry stones…bullets are heavy. I keep thinking that what we’re doing is not a duel, but murder: I’m not used to aiming at an unarmed man. Let’s start over; we’ll draw lots for who shoots first.’
“My head was spinning…It seems I did not agree…Finally we loaded another pistol; we rolled up two pieces of paper; he put them in the cap I had once shot through; again I drew the first number.
“ ‘You’re devilishly lucky, Count,’ he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he forced me into it…but—I shot and hit this painting.” (The count pointed his finger at the hole in the painting; his face was burning like fire; the countess was paler than her own handkerchief: I couldn’t help crying out.)
“I shot,” the count went on, “and, thank God, I missed. Then Silvio—he was truly terrible at that moment—Silvio began to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opened, Masha runs in and throws herself on my neck with a shriek. Her presence gave me back all my courage.
“ ‘My dear,’ I said to her, ‘don’t you see we’re joking? How frightened you are! Go, drink a glass of water, and come back to us; I’ll introduce you to my old friend and comrade.’