Novels, Tales, Journeys

I alone could no longer be around him. Endowed by nature with a romantic imagination, I was formerly attached most strongly of all to the man, whose life was an enigma and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious tale. He liked me; at any rate, it was only with me that he abandoned his usual biting mockery and discussed various subjects with simple-heartedness and extraordinary charm. But after that unfortunate evening, the thought that his honor was stained and by his own fault had not been washed clean never left me and prevented me from behaving with him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too intelligent and too experienced not to notice it and not to guess the reason for it. It seemed to pain him; at any rate I noticed a couple of times that he wished to talk with me; but I avoided such occasions, and Silvio gave it up. After that I saw him only in the presence of my comrades, and our former candid conversations ceased.

The distracted inhabitants of capitals have no idea of many impressions well known to the inhabitants of villages or small towns, for instance, waiting for mail day. On Tuesdays and Fridays our regimental office was filled with officers: one was waiting for money, another for a letter, yet another for newspapers. Envelopes were usually opened then and there, news was exchanged, and the office presented a picture of great animation. Silvio had his letters addressed to our regiment, and he was usually to be found there. Once he was handed an envelope that he tore open with an air of the greatest impatience. As he skimmed the letter, his eyes flashed. The officers, each occupied with his own letters, did not notice anything. “Gentlemen,” Silvio said to them, “circumstances demand that I absent myself at once; I am leaving tonight; I hope you will not refuse to dine with me for a last time. I shall expect you, too,” he went on, turning to me. “Come without fail.” With those words, he hurriedly left, and, having agreed to meet at Silvio’s, each of us went his own way.

I came to Silvio’s at the appointed time and found almost all our regiment there. His belongings were already packed; there were only the bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down at the table. The host was in extremely high spirits, and his good cheer soon became general. Corks popped every minute, glasses foamed and fizzed nonstop, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing man a good journey and all the best. It was late at night when we rose from the table. As we were going for our caps, Silvio, saying good-bye to everyone, took me by the arm and stopped me at the very moment I was preparing to leave. “I must talk to you,” he said softly. I stayed.

The guests were gone. We two remained alone, sat facing each other, and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no trace left of his convulsive gaiety. A grim pallor, flashing eyes, and the thick smoke coming from his mouth gave him the look of a real devil. Several minutes passed, and Silvio broke the silence.

“You and I may never see each other again,” he said to me. “Before we part, I would like to have a talk with you. You might have noticed that I have little respect for other people’s opinion of me; but I like you, and I feel it would be painful for me to leave an unjust impression in your mind.”

He paused and began to refill his burnt-out pipe; I was silent and lowered my eyes.

“You found it strange,” he went on, “that I did not demand satisfaction from that drunken madcap R––. You’ll agree that, having the right to choose weapons, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe. I could ascribe my restraint to magnanimity alone, but I don’t want to lie. If I could have punished R–– without any risk to my life, I would not have forgiven him for anything.”

I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession totally disconcerted me. Silvio went on.

“Precisely so: I have no right to risk my life. Six years ago I was slapped in the face, and my enemy is still alive.”

My curiosity was greatly aroused.

“You didn’t fight with him?” I asked. “Circumstances must have separated you?”

“I did fight with him,” Silvio replied, “and here is a souvenir of our duel.”

Silvio stood up and took from a box a red cap with a gold tassel and galloon (what the French call a bonnet de police). He put it on. There was a bullet hole about two inches above the brow.

“You know,” Silvio went on, “that I served in the * * * hussar regiment. My character is familiar to you: I am accustomed to taking first place, but in my youth it was my passion. In our time rowdiness was in fashion: I was the foremost rowdy in the army. We boasted of our drunkenness: I outdrank the famous Burtsov, whose praises were sung by Denis Davydov.3 Duels went on constantly in our regiment: I was in all of them, either as a second or as a participant. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, who were constantly being replaced, looked upon me as a necessary evil.