The Shot (Pushkin)
Short summary
Russia, early 19th century. A young officer was stationed in a small town where he befriended a mysterious civilian named Silvio.
When an officer threw a candlestick at Silvio during a card game, everyone expected a duel, but Silvio accepted a lame apology. This lowered him in everyone's eyes. Before departing, Silvio revealed to the narrator that six years earlier, a wealthy young count had slapped him at a ball. They fought a duel, and the count fired first, shooting through Silvio's cap. Silvio postponed his shot, waiting for the right moment when the count would value his life more.
Years later, the narrator settled in a village and met the Count, now married to a beautiful young woman. The Count told him how Silvio had appeared on his wedding day to claim his delayed shot. The Count fired and missed. Then Silvio aimed at him in front of his terrified wife. Silvio said:
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.
Silvio fired at the picture instead and left. He later died commanding rebels in Greece.
Detailed summary by chapters
Chapter titles and their division into sections are editorial.
Chapter 1. Silvios mysterious past
Military life in town N and the enigmatic Silvio
Officers stationed in the small town of N--- led a monotonous existence filled with morning drills, dinners with their colonel or at local restaurants, and evenings spent playing cards and drinking punch. The town offered no social diversions, no open houses, and no marriageable young women. The officers gathered in each other's rooms, seeing nothing beyond their military uniforms.
Only one civilian gained admission to their society. Silvio was about thirty-five years old, which made the young officers regard him as elderly. His experience, habitual silence, stern manner, and sharp tongue made a profound impression on their youthful minds. Mystery surrounded his existence—he appeared Russian despite his foreign name. He had formerly served with distinction in the Hussars, but nobody knew why he had retired and settled in this miserable village, where he lived both poorly and extravagantly.
Silvio always walked on foot wearing a shabby black overcoat, yet officers were always welcome at his table. Though his dinners consisted of only two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, champagne flowed freely. Nobody dared question him about his circumstances or income. He owned a collection of military books and novels, which he willingly lent but never returned borrowed books. His principal amusement was pistol shooting. The walls of his humble cottage were riddled with bullet holes like a honeycomb, and he possessed a rich collection of pistols. His skill with his favorite weapon was extraordinary.
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.
The card game incident and Silvios refusal to duel
Conversations often turned to duels, but Silvio never participated. When asked if he had ever fought, he replied dryly that he had, but offered no details. The officers concluded he must have some unhappy victim on his conscience, yet none suspected him of cowardice. An unexpected incident astounded everyone. One evening, about ten officers dined with Silvio. After much drinking, they persuaded him to deal faro, though he rarely played. During the game, a recently transferred officer absently scored one point too many. Silvio corrected it with chalk as was his custom. The officer, thinking Silvio mistaken, began explaining. When Silvio continued dealing silently, the officer lost patience, erased the correction, and Silvio marked it again. Heated with wine and play, the officer seized a brass candlestick and hurled it at Silvio, who barely avoided it.
The officers were filled with consternation. Silvio rose, white with rage and gleaming eyes, and told the officer to withdraw and thank God this happened in his house. Everyone expected a duel and considered the new comrade a dead man. The officer withdrew, ready to answer for his offense. After a few minutes, the guests departed, discussing the probable vacancy in the regiment. Next day at the riding-school, they were surprised to see the lieutenant alive. He reported hearing nothing from Silvio. Three days passed with the lieutenant still alive. Silvio did not fight. He accepted a lame explanation and reconciled with his assailant. This lowered him greatly in the young men's opinion, for they considered bravery the chief virtue and excuse for every fault. Gradually, however, everything was forgotten and Silvio regained his former influence.
Silvios confession about the unfinished duel
Only the narrator could not approach Silvio on the old footing. Being endowed with romantic imagination, he had become more attached than the others to this enigmatic man. Silvio was fond of him and conversed with him in an unusually agreeable manner. After the unlucky evening, however, the thought that Silvio's honor had been tarnished and left unstained by his own wish prevented the narrator from treating him as before. He was ashamed to look at him. Silvio observed this and guessed the cause, seeming vexed. He attempted explanation once or twice, but the narrator avoided such opportunities, and Silvio gave up. From then on, they met only in the presence of comrades.
One day Silvio received a letter which he read with sparkling eyes and great impatience. He announced his immediate departure and invited the officers to dine with him for the last time, particularly addressing the narrator. That evening at Silvio's house, nearly the whole regiment gathered. All his belongings were packed, leaving only bare, bullet-riddled walls. Silvio was in excellent humor, which quickly spread to the rest. After the guests departed late in the evening, Silvio detained the narrator, saying he wanted to speak with him. They sat down opposite each other and silently lit their pipes. Silvio seemed greatly troubled, his former gaiety vanished. His intense pallor, sparkling eyes, and thick smoke gave him a diabolical appearance.
Silvio explained that though he cared little for others' opinions, he liked the narrator and felt it would be painful to leave with a wrong impression on his mind. He admitted that having the choice of weapons, the drunken officer's life had been in his hands while his own was in no danger. He could ascribe his forbearance to generosity, but would not lie.
If I could have chastised R---without the least risk to my own life, I should never have pardoned him.
Silvio revealed he had no right to expose himself to death because six years ago he received a slap in the face, and his enemy still lived. He had fought with him and showed a red cap with gold tassel—a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead. He explained that in his Hussar regiment, he was accustomed to taking the lead. Dissoluteness was fashionable, and he was the most outrageous man in the army. He boasted of drunkenness and duels were constant. A young man from a wealthy, distinguished family joined the regiment—handsome, witty, brave, with a famous name and untold wealth. This man's success shook Silvio's supremacy. Silvio sought a quarrel. At a ball, seeing his rival as the center of attention, especially of the mistress of the house with whom Silvio was on good terms, he whispered a grossly insulting remark. The man flamed up and gave Silvio a slap in the face. They grasped their swords but were separated, and that night they set out to fight.
Silvios departure for revenge
At dawn, Silvio stood at the appointed place with three seconds, awaiting his opponent with inexplicable impatience. His adversary approached on foot with one second, holding his cap filled with black cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces. Silvio had to fire first, but his agitation was so great he ceded the first shot. His adversary would not agree, so they cast lots. The first number fell to the opponent, fortune's constant favorite. He took aim and his bullet went through Silvio's cap. Now Silvio's turn came. His adversary stood picking ripest cherries from his cap and spitting out stones.
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.
A malicious thought flashed through Silvio's mind. He lowered his pistol, saying his opponent did not seem ready for death and wished to have breakfast. The man replied he was not hindering Silvio and could fire or not—the shot remained his, and he would always be ready at his service. Silvio informed the seconds he had no intention of firing that day, and the duel ended. He resigned his commission and retired to this place. Since then, not a day passed that he did not think of revenge. Now his hour had arrived. Someone wrote from Moscow that a certain person was going to marry a young and beautiful girl. Silvio revealed he was 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!
Silvio rose, threw his cap on the floor, and paced like a tiger in his cage. The narrator had listened in silence, strange conflicting feelings agitating him. A servant announced the horses were ready. Silvio grasped the narrator's hand tightly, they embraced, and he seated himself in his telega containing two trunks—one with pistols, the other with his effects. They said goodbye once more, and the horses galloped off.
Chapter 2. The final confrontation revealed
New life in village M and arrival of the Count
Several years passed, and family circumstances compelled the narrator to settle in the poor village of M---. Occupied with agricultural pursuits, he secretly sighed for his former noisy, careless life. The most difficult thing was accustoming himself to passing spring and winter evenings in perfect solitude. He managed to pass time until dinner talking with the bailiff, riding to inspect work, or looking at new buildings, but as darkness fell, he did not know what to do with himself. The few books he found he already knew by heart. All stories his housekeeper could remember he had heard repeatedly. Songs of peasant women made him depressed. He tried drinking spirits, but it made his head ache, and he feared becoming a drunkard from chagrin. He had no near neighbors except two or three topers whose conversation consisted of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was preferable. He decided to go to bed as early as possible and dine as late as possible, shortening the evening and lengthening the day.
Four versts from his house was a rich estate belonging to Countess B---, but nobody lived there except the steward. The Countess had visited only once, in the first year of her married life, remaining no longer than a month. In the second spring of his hermitical life, a report circulated that the Countess with her husband was coming to spend the summer on her estate. The report proved true—they arrived at the beginning of June. The arrival of a rich neighbor was an important event in country life. The narrator burned with impatience to see her. The first Sunday after their arrival, he set out after dinner for the village of A--- to pay his respects as their nearest neighbor and most humble servant.
Meeting the Count and the bullet-marked painting
A lackey conducted the narrator into the Count's study and announced him. The spacious apartment was furnished with every possible luxury—cases filled with books surmounted by bronze busts, a large mirror over the marble mantelpiece, green cloth covered with carpets on the floor. Unaccustomed to luxury in his own poor corner and not having seen others' wealth for a long time, he awaited the Count's appearance with some trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces awaits the minister. The door opened, and a handsome man of about thirty-two entered. The Count approached with frank and friendly air. The narrator endeavored to be self-possessed and began introducing himself, but the Count anticipated him. They sat down. His conversation, easy and agreeable, soon dissipated the narrator's awkward bashfulness, and he was beginning to recover his usual composure when the Countess suddenly entered, and he became more confused than ever. She was indeed beautiful. The Count presented him.
The more he tried to assume an air of unconstraint, the more awkward he felt. They began talking to each other to give him time to recover and become accustomed to his new acquaintances. Meanwhile, he walked about examining books and pictures. He was no judge of pictures, but one attracted his attention—some view in Switzerland. It was not the painting that struck him, but the circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two bullets, one planted just above the other. He remarked it was a good shot. The Count replied it was very remarkable and asked if he shot well. The narrator replied tolerably—at thirty paces he could manage to hit a card without fail with a pistol he was used to.
The Counts story of Silvios return and final act
The Countess expressed great interest, asking if her husband could hit a card at thirty paces. The Count replied that some day they would try, but it was now four years since he touched a pistol. The narrator observed that in that case, he would not mind laying a wager that His Excellency would not hit the card at twenty paces—the pistol demands daily practice. He knew from experience. In his regiment he was reckoned one of the best shots. Once he did not touch a pistol for a whole month, having sent his to be mended, and the first time he began shooting again, he missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces. Their captain said it was evident his hand would not lift itself against the bottle. The Count and Countess seemed pleased that he had begun to talk. He continued, describing the best shot he ever met who used to shoot at least three times every day before dinner—it was as much his custom as drinking his daily glass of brandy. The Count asked what sort of shot he was, and the narrator described how if he saw a fly settle on the wall, he would call for his pistol and crush the fly. The Count exclaimed wonderfully and asked his name. The narrator replied Silvio. The Count started up, asking if he knew Silvio.
The narrator replied he could not help knowing him—they were intimate friends, and he was received in their regiment like a brother officer, but it was now five years since he had any tidings of him. He asked if His Excellency also knew him. The Count said yes, very well, and asked if Silvio ever told him of one very strange incident in his life. The narrator asked if His Excellency referred to the slap in the face he received from some blackguard at a ball. The Count asked if he told him the blackguard's name. The narrator said no, he never mentioned his name. He continued, guessing the truth, asking pardon and wondering if it could really have been the Count. The Count replied yes, himself, with extraordinary agitation, and that bullet-pierced picture was a memento of their last meeting. The Countess begged him for Heaven's sake not to speak about it—it would be too terrible for her to listen to. The Count replied no, he would relate everything. The narrator knew how he insulted his friend, and it was only right he should know how Silvio revenged himself.
The Count pushed a chair towards the narrator, who listened with liveliest interest to the following story. Five years ago the Count got married. The first month—the honeymoon—he spent in this village. To this house he was indebted for the happiest moments of his life, as well as one of its most painful recollections. One evening they went out riding together. His wife's horse became restive, she grew frightened, gave the reins to him, and returned home on foot. He rode on before. In the courtyard he saw a travelling carriage and was told that in his study sat waiting a man who would not give his name but said he had business with him. He entered the room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days' growth, standing near the fireplace. He approached, trying to remember his features. The man said in a quivering voice that the Count did not recognize him. The Count cried Silvio, and confessed he felt as if his hair had suddenly stood on end. Silvio said exactly, there was a shot due to him, and he had come to discharge his pistol, asking if the Count was ready. His pistol protruded from a side pocket. The Count measured twelve paces and took his stand in the corner, begging him to fire quickly before his wife arrived. Silvio hesitated and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. The Count closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter, and again begged him to fire. Silvio drew out his pistol and took aim. The Count counted the seconds, thought of her. A terrible minute passed. Silvio lowered his hand, saying he regretted the pistol was not loaded with cherry-stones—the bullet was heavy. It seemed to him this was not a duel but murder. He was not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. He proposed they begin all over again and cast lots as to who should fire first. The Count's head went round—he thought he raised some objection. At last they loaded another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. Silvio placed these in his cap—the same through which the Count had once sent a bullet—and again the Count drew the first number. Silvio said with a smile the Count would never forget that he was devilish lucky.
The Count did not know what was the matter with him or how Silvio managed to make him do it, but he fired and hit that picture. He pointed with his finger to the perforated picture. His face glowed like fire, the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief, and the narrator could not restrain an exclamation. The Count continued that he fired and, thank Heaven, missed his aim. Then Silvio—at that moment he was really terrible—raised his hand to take aim. Suddenly the door opened, Masha rushed into the room, and with a loud shriek threw herself upon his neck. Her presence restored all his courage. He told her not to see that they were joking, asked how frightened she was, told her to go drink a glass of water and return, and he would introduce her to an old friend and comrade. Masha still doubted, asking Silvio if her husband spoke the truth—was it true they were only joking. Silvio replied he was always joking—once he gave him a slap in the face in a joke, on another occasion he sent a bullet through his cap in a joke, and just now when he fired at him and missed, it was all in a joke. And now he felt inclined for a joke. With these words he raised his pistol to take aim—right before her. Masha threw herself at his feet. The Count cried in rage for her to rise, asking if she was not ashamed, and asked Silvio if he would cease making fun of a poor woman and whether he would fire or not. Silvio replied he would not—he was satisfied. He had seen the Count's confusion, his alarm. He forced him to fire at him. That was sufficient. He would remember him. He left him to his conscience. Then he turned to go, but pausing in the doorway and looking at the picture the Count's shot had passed through, he fired at it almost without taking aim and disappeared. The Count's wife had fainted away. The servants did not venture to stop Silvio—the mere look of him filled them with terror. He went out upon the steps, called his coachman, and drove off before the Count could recover himself.
The Count was silent. In this way the narrator learned the end of the story whose beginning had once made such a deep impression upon him. The hero of it he never saw again. It was said that Silvio commanded a detachment during the revolt under Alexander Ipsilanti and that he was killed in the battle of Skoulana.