«The Shot» in Russian

We were stationed in the little town of N — .

The life of an officer in the army is well known.

In the morning, drill and the riding-school; dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening, punch and cards.

In N — - there was not one open house, not a single marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other's rooms, where, except our uniforms, we never saw anything.

One civilian only was admitted into our society.

He was about thirty- five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old fellow.

His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his habitual taciturnity, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a deep impression upon our young minds.

Some mystery surrounded his existence; he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a foreign one.

He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with distinction. Nobody knew the cause that had induced him to retire from the service and settle in a wretched little village, where he lived poorly and, at the same time, extravagantly. He always went on foot, and constantly wore a shabby black overcoat, but the officers of our regiment were ever welcome at his table.

His dinners, it is true, never consisted of more than two or three dishes, prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like water.

Nobody knew what his circumstances were, or what his income was, and nobody dared to question him about them.

He had a collection of books, consisting chiefly of works on military matters and a few novels.

He willingly lent them to us to read, and never asked for them back; on the other hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent to him.

His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol.

The walls of his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a honeycomb.

A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the humble cottage where he lived.

The skill which he had acquired with his favorite weapon was simply incredible: and if he had offered to shoot a pear off somebody's forage-cap, not a man in our regiment would have hesitated to place the object upon his head.

Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio — so I will call him — never joined in it.

When asked if he had ever fought, he dryly replied that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was evident that such questions were not to his liking.

We came to the conclusion that he had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy victim of his terrible skill.

Moreover, it never entered into the head of any of us to suspect him of anything like cowardice.