Novels, Tales, Journeys

Only one man belonging to our group was not military. He was about thirty-five, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; besides that, his habitual sullenness, tough character, and wicked tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some mysteriousness surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but had a foreign name. He had once served in the hussars, and even successfully; no one knew what motive had prompted him to retire and settle in a poor little town, where he lived both poorly and extravagantly: he always went about on foot, in a shabby black frock coat, yet he kept open house for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinners consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but then the champagne flowed in streams. No one knew his fortune, or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had some books, mostly military, but also novels. He willingly lent them out, and never asked for them back; then, too, he never returned a borrowed book to its owner. His main exercise consisted in shooting pistols. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullet holes like a honeycomb. A fine collection of pistols was the only luxury in the poor clay-and-wattle hovel he lived in. The skill he had achieved was unbelievable, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off of somebody’s cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to offer him his head. The conversation among us often touched upon duels; Silvio (as I shall call him) never mixed into it. To the question of whether he had ever fought a duel, he replied drily that he had, but did not go into the details, and it was clear that such questions displeased him. We supposed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible skill lay on his conscience. However, it never entered our heads to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. An unexpected incident amazed us all.

Once some ten of our officers were having dinner at Silvio’s. We drank as usual, that is, a great deal; after dinner we started persuading our host to keep the bank for us. He refused for a long time, for he almost never gambled; finally he ordered the cards brought, poured some fifty gold pieces on the table, and sat down to deal. We gathered around him, and the game began. Silvio had the custom while gambling of maintaining a total silence, never argued and never explained. If a punter happened to miscalculate, he either paid what was owing immediately or noted down the excess. We already knew that and did not keep him from handling it his way; but among us there happened to be a recently transferred officer. While playing, he absentmindedly bent down an extra corner, doubling the stake. Silvio took the chalk and corrected the account as he usually did. The officer, thinking he was mistaken, started to explain. Silvio silently went on dealing. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what he thought had been wrongly written. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it again. The officer, flushed with the wine, the gambling, and his comrades’ laughter, considered himself cruelly offended and, snatching a brass candlestick from the table in his fury, hurled it at Silvio, who barely managed to duck the blow. We were disconcerted. Silvio stood up, pale with anger, his eyes flashing, and said: “My dear sir, kindly leave, and thank God that this happened in my house.”

We had no doubt of the consequences and considered our new comrade already dead. The officer left, saying he was ready to answer for the offense whenever it suited Mister Banker. The play went on for a few more minutes; but, sensing that our host’s mind was not on the game, we stopped one by one and wandered off to our quarters, talking about the soon-to-be vacancy.

The next day, at riding practice, we were already asking if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when the man himself appeared among us. We put the same question to him. He replied that he had not yet had any news from Silvio. That surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, planting bullet after bullet into an ace glued to the gate. He received us as usual, without saying a word about yesterday’s incident. Three days went by, and the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in astonishment: Can it be that Silvio won’t fight? Silvio did not fight. He contented himself with a very flimsy explanation and made peace.

This damaged him greatly in the opinion of the young men. Lack of courage is least excusable of all for young people, who usually see bravery as the height of human virtue and the excuse for all possible vices. However, it was all gradually forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.