We surrounded him and the game began Silvio. Pushkin shot read text online

We were shooting.

Baratynsky.

I swore to shoot him by right of duel
(my shot was still behind him).

Evening at the bivouac.

We were standing in the town of ***. The life of an army officer is known. In the morning training, playpen; lunch with the regimental commander or in a Jewish tavern; in the evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's houses, where we saw nothing but our uniforms.

Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man.

Experience gave him many advantages over us; Moreover, his usual gloominess, harsh disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but had a foreign name. He once served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to resign and settle in a poor town, where he lived both poorly and wastefully: he always walked on foot, in a worn black frock coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three courses prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military ones, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned to the owner the books he had borrowed. His main exercise was pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullets, all in holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art he achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to shoot a pear off someone’s cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to offer their heads to him. The conversation between us often concerned fights; Silvio (that's what I'll call him) never interfered with it. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly that he had, but did not go into details, and it was clear that such questions were unpleasant to him. We believed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never occurred to us to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The accident surprised us all.

One day about ten of our officers were having lunch with Silvio. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; After lunch we began to persuade the owner to sweep the bank for us. For a long time he refused, because he almost never played; Finally he ordered the cards to be brought, poured fifty chervonets onto the table and sat down to throw. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio used to remain completely silent while playing, never argued or explained himself. If the punter happened to be shortchanged, he immediately either paid the extra amount or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not stop him from managing things in his own way; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, while playing right there, absent-mindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized the score as usual. The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued throwing silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what seemed to him to be written down in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, inflamed by the wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a rage, grabbed a copper shandal from the table and threw it at Silvio, who barely managed to dodge the blow. We were confused. Silvio stood up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: “Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house.”

We had no doubt about the consequences and assumed that our new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as Mr. Banker pleased. The game continued for several more minutes; But feeling that the owner had no time for the game, we fell behind one by one and scattered to our apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.

The next day, in the arena, we were already asking whether the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet had any news about Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, putting 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 passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in surprise: will Silvio really not fight? Silvio didn't fight. He was content with a very easy explanation and made peace.

This greatly damaged him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all excused by young people, who usually see courage as the height of human virtue and an excuse for all possible vices. However, little by little everything was forgotten, and Silvio again regained his former influence.

I could no longer approach him alone. Having a naturally romantic imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life was a mystery, and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he abandoned his usual harsh slander and spoke about various subjects with simplicity and extraordinary pleasantness. But after the unhappy evening, the thought that his honor was soiled and not washed through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reasons for it. This seemed to upset him; at least I noticed twice in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio abandoned me. From then on, I saw him only in front of my comrades, and our previous frank conversations ceased.

Absent-minded residents of the capital have no idea about many experiences that are so familiar to residents of villages or towns, for example, about waiting for mail day: on Tuesday and Friday, our regimental office was full of officers: some were waiting for money, some for letters, some for newspapers. The packages were usually immediately unsealed, the news was reported, and the office presented the most animated picture. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment and was usually right there. One day they handed him a package, from which he tore the seal with an air of great impatience. As he ran through the letter, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with their letters, did not notice anything. “Gentlemen,” Silvio told them, “circumstances require my immediate absence; I'm going tonight; I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for the last time. “I’m waiting for you too,” he continued, turning to me, “I’m definitely waiting.” With this word he hurriedly left; and we, having agreed to unite at Silvio’s, each went our separate ways.

I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the entire regiment with him. All his belongings were already packed; All that remained were bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down at the table; the owner was extremely in spirit, and soon his gaiety became general; the corks popped every minute, the glasses foamed and hissed incessantly, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing person a good journey and all the best. We got up from the table late in the evening. While sorting out the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took me by the hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I stayed.

The guests have left; We were left alone, sat down opposite each other and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no longer any trace of his convulsive gaiety. His gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes and thick smoke coming out of his mouth gave him the appearance of a real devil. Several minutes passed and Silvio broke the silence.

“Perhaps we will never see each other again,” he told me, “before parting, I wanted to explain myself to you.” You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinions; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me to leave an unfair impression on your mind.

He stopped and began to fill his burnt out pipe; I was silent, looking down.

“It was strange for you,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madman R ***.” You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe: I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I don’t want to lie. If I could punish R*** without risking my life at all, I would never forgive him.

I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession completely confused me. Silvio continued.

“That’s right: I have no right to expose myself to death.” Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.

My curiosity was greatly aroused. “You didn’t fight him? - I asked. “Circumstances, right, separated you?”

“I fought with him,” answered Silvio, “and here is a monument to our fight.”

Silvio stood up and took out of the cardboard a red cap with a gold tassel and braid (what the French call bonnet de police 1); he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead.

“You know,” continued Silvio, “that I served in the *** Hussar Regiment.” You know my character: I am used to being superior, but from a young age this was a passion in me. In our time, rioting was in fashion: I was the first rowdy in the army. We boasted about our drunkenness: I drank too much of the glorious Burtsov, sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or an actor in all of them. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, constantly changing, looked at me as a necessary evil.

I was calmly (or restlessly) enjoying my fame, when a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him) decided to join us. I have never met such a brilliant lucky man in my life! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, the most frantic gaiety, the most careless courage, a loud name, money for which he did not know the account and which was never transferred from him, and imagine what effect he had to produce between us. My primacy has wavered. Seduced by my glory, he began to seek my friendship; but I received him coldly, and he left me without any regret. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the society of women led me to complete despair. I began to look for a quarrel with him; He responded to my epigrams with epigrams that always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine and which, of course, were far more fun: he joked, and I was angry. Finally, one day at a ball hosted by a Polish landowner, seeing him as the object of attention of all the ladies, and especially of the hostess herself, who was in a relationship with me, I said some flat rudeness in his ear. He flushed and slapped me. We rushed to the sabers; ladies fainted; They took us away, and that same night we went to fight.

It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. I waited with inexplicable impatience for my opponent. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already rising. I saw him from afar. He walked on foot, with his uniform on his saber, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him halfway. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured out twelve steps for us. I was supposed to shoot first: but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the fidelity of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool down, I conceded the first shot to him; my opponent did not agree. They decided to cast lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot through my cap. The line was behind me. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him greedily, trying to catch at least one shadow of concern... He stood under the pistol, choosing ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the seeds, which flew to me. His indifference infuriated me. What good would it do me, I thought, to deprive him of his life when he does not value it at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I lowered the gun. “It seems you don’t care about death now,” I told him, “you deign to have breakfast; I don’t want to disturb you...” “You don’t bother me at all,” he objected, “if you please, shoot yourself, but however you wish: your shot remains behind you; I am always ready at your service." I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot today, and that was how the fight ended.

I retired and retired to this place. Since then, not a single day has passed that I have not thought about revenge. Now my time has come...

Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed his attorney for affairs) wrote to him from Moscow that a famous person should soon enter into legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl.

“You can guess,” said Silvio, “who this famous person is.” I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death as indifferently before his wedding as he once waited for it behind the cherries!

At these words, Silvio stood up, threw his cap on the floor and began to walk back and forth around the room, like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings worried me.

The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly; we kissed. He got into the cart, where there were two suitcases, one with pistols, the other with his belongings. We said goodbye again, and the horses galloped off.

Several years passed, and home circumstances forced me to settle in the poor village of N** county. While doing housework, I never stopped quietly sighing about my former noisy and carefree life. The hardest thing for me was to get used to spending autumn and winter evenings in complete solitude. I somehow still made it until lunch, talking with the headman, traveling around to work or visiting new establishments; but as soon as it began to get dark, I had absolutely no idea where to go. A small number of books that I found under cabinets and in the pantry were memorized. All the fairy tales that the housekeeper Kirilovna could remember were retold to me; the songs of the women made me sad. I started to drink the unsweetened liqueur, but it gave me a headache; Yes, I admit, I was afraid of becoming a drunkard out of grief, that is, the most bitter drunkard, of which I saw many examples in our district. There were no close neighbors around me, except for two or three bitter ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. The solitude was more bearable. *

Four miles from me there was a rich estate belonging to Countess B***; but only the steward lived in it, and the countess visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and then she lived there for no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my seclusion, a rumor spread that the countess and her husband would come to their village for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June.

The arrival of a rich neighbor is an important era for the villagers. The landowners and their servants were talking about it two months earlier and three years later. As for me, I confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I was eager to see her, and therefore, on the first Sunday after her arrival, I went after lunch to the village of *** to recommend myself to their Lordships as my closest neighbor and most humble servant.

The footman led me into the count's office, and he himself went to report on me. The vast office was decorated with every possible luxury; near the walls there were cabinets with books, and above each there was a bronze bust; there was a wide mirror above the marble fireplace; the floor was covered with green cloth and covered with carpets. Having become unaccustomed to luxury in my poor corner and having not seen someone else’s wealth for a long time, I became timid and waited for the count with some trepidation, like a petitioner from the provinces waiting for the minister to appear. The doors opened and he walked in man about thirty-two years old, handsome. The Count approached me with an open and friendly air; I tried to cheer up and began to recommend myself, but he warned me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to settle into my usual position, when suddenly the Countess entered, and embarrassment took possession of me more than ever. Indeed, she was a beauty. The Count introduced me; I wanted to appear casual, but the more I tried to assume an air of ease, the more awkward I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover and get used to the new acquaintance, began to talk among themselves, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I began to walk back and forth, examining the books and paintings. I'm not an expert in paintings, but one caught my attention. She depicted some kind of view from Switzerland; but what struck me about it was not the painting, but the fact that the painting was shot through by two bullets planted one on top of the other.

“That’s a good shot,” I said, turning to the count.

“Yes,” he answered, “the shot is very wonderful.” Are you a good shooter? - he continued.

“Pretty much,” I answered, glad that the conversation finally touched on a subject that was close to me. “I won’t let you miss at thirty paces, using familiar pistols, of course.”

- Right? - said the countess, with an air of great attentiveness, - and you, my friend, will you get into the map at thirty paces?

“Someday,” the count answered, “we’ll try.” In my time I was not a bad shot; but it’s been four years since I picked up a pistol.

“Oh,” I remarked, “in that case, I bet that your Excellency will not hit the map even at twenty paces: a pistol requires daily exercise.” I know this from experience. In our regiment I was considered one of the best shooters. Once it happened that I didn’t take a pistol for a whole month: mine were being repaired; What would you think, Your Excellency? The first time I started shooting later, I missed the bottle four times in a row at twenty-five paces. We had a captain, a wit, a funny man; he happened here and told me: you know, brother, your hand does not rise to the bottle. No, Your Excellency, you should not neglect this exercise, otherwise you will just get out of the habit. The best shooter I ever met shot every day, at least three times before lunch. He had this as a habit, like a glass of vodka.

The Count and Countess were glad that I started talking.

- How did he shoot? - the count asked me.

“I myself,” answered the count, looking extremely upset, “and the shot-through picture is a monument to our last meeting...

“Oh, my dear,” said the countess, “for God’s sake don’t tell me; I'll be scared to listen.

“No,” the count objected, “I’ll tell you everything; he knows how I offended his friend: let him know how Silvio took revenge on me.

The Count moved chairs for me, and I heard the following story with lively curiosity.

One evening we rode together on horseback; My wife’s horse became stubborn; she got scared, gave me the reins and walked home; I went ahead. In the yard I saw a road cart; I was told that there was a man sitting in my office who did not want to announce his name, but simply said that he cared about me. I entered this room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and overgrown with a beard; he was standing here by the fireplace. I approached him, trying to remember his features. “You didn’t recognize me, Count?” - he said in a trembling voice. "Silvio!" - I shouted, and I admit, I felt how my hair suddenly stood on end. “That’s right,” he continued, “the shot is behind me; I came to unload my pistol; are you ready? He had a pistol sticking out of his side pocket. I measured twelve steps and stood there in the corner, asking him to shoot quickly before my wife returned. He hesitated - he asked for fire. Candles were brought. I locked the doors, told no one to come in, and again asked him to shoot. He took out a pistol and took aim... I counted the seconds... I thought about her... A terrible minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand. “I regret,” he said, “that the pistol is not loaded with cherry pits... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we are not having a duel, but a murder: I am not used to aiming at an unarmed person. Let's start again; Let's draw lots to see who should shoot first." My head was spinning... It seems I didn’t agree... Finally we loaded another pistol; folded two tickets; he put them in his cap, which I had once been shot through; I took out the first number again. “You, Count, are devilishly happy,” he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he could force me to do this... but I shot and ended up in this picture. (The Count pointed his finger at the bullet-ridden picture; his face burned like fire; the Countess was paler than her scarf: I could not refrain from exclamation.)

“I shot,” the count continued, “and, thank God, I missed; then Silvio... (at that moment he was truly terrible) Silvio began to take aim at me. Suddenly the doors opened, Masha ran in and threw herself on my neck with a squeal. Her presence restored all my vigor. “Honey,” I told her, “can’t you see we’re joking? How scared you were! go, drink a glass of water and come to us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.” Masha still couldn’t believe it. “Tell me, is your husband telling the truth? “- she said, turning to the formidable Silvio, “is it true that you are both joking?” “He’s always joking, Countess,” Silvio answered her; - he once gave me a joking slap in the face, jokingly shot me through this cap, jokingly now he missed me; now I too have the urge to make a joke...” With this word he wanted to take aim at me... in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet. “Get up, Masha, it’s a shame! - I shouted in rage, - and you, sir, will you stop mocking the poor woman? Will you shoot or not? “I won’t,” Silvio answered, “I’m satisfied: I saw your confusion, your timidity, I forced you to shoot at me, that’s enough for me. You will remember me. I commend you to your conscience." Then he was about to go out, but stopped at the door, looked back at the picture I had shot through, shot at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. The wife lay in a faint; people did not dare to stop him and looked at him with horror; he went out onto the porch, called the driver and drove away before I had time to come to my senses.”

The Count fell silent. Thus I learned the end of the story, the beginning of which had once so amazed me. I have never met her hero. They say that Silvio, during the indignation of Alexander Ypsilanti, led a detachment of etherists and was killed in the battle of Skulani.

-----------------

1 police hat (French).

2 honeymoon (English).

We were shooting.

Baratynsky.

I swore to shoot him by right of duel (he still had my shot left behind him).

Evening at the bivouac.

I

Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; Moreover, his usual gloominess, harsh disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but had a foreign name. He once served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to resign and settle in a poor town, where he lived together and in poverty

and wasteful: he walked forever, in a worn black frock coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three courses prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military ones, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned to the owner the books he had borrowed. His main exercise was pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullets, all in holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art he achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to shoot a pear off someone’s cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to offer their heads to him. The conversation between us often concerned fights; Silvio (that's what I'll call him) never interfered with it. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly that he had, but did not go into details, and it was clear that such questions were unpleasant to him. We believed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never occurred to us to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The accident surprised us all.

Absentmindedly, he bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized the score as usual. The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued throwing silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what seemed to him to be written down in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, inflamed by the wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a rage, grabbed a copper shandal from the table and threw it at Silvio, who barely managed to dodge the blow. We were confused. Silvio stood up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: “Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house.”

We had no doubt about the consequences and assumed that our new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as the banker pleases. The game continued for several more minutes; but, feeling that the owner had no time for the game, we fell behind one by one and scattered to our apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.

This greatly damaged him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all excused by young people, who usually see courage as the height of human virtue and an excuse for all sorts of vices. However, little by little everything was forgotten, and Silvio again regained his former influence.

I could no longer approach him alone. Having a naturally romantic imagination, I am stronger than everyone else

Before this, I was attached to a man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he abandoned his usual harsh slander and spoke about various subjects with simplicity and extraordinary pleasantness. But after the unhappy evening, the thought that his honor was soiled and not washed through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reasons for it. This seemed to upset him; at least I noticed twice in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio abandoned me. From then on, I saw him only in front of my comrades, and our previous frank conversations ceased.

soon his gaiety became general; the corks popped every minute, the glasses foamed and hissed incessantly, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing person a good journey and all the best. We got up from the table late in the evening. While sorting out the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took me by the hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I stayed.

“Maybe we will never see each other again,” he told me, “before parting, I wanted to explain myself to you.” You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinions; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me to leave an unfair impression on your mind.

He stopped and began to fill his burnt out pipe; I was silent, looking down.

It was strange for you,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madman R***. You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe: I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I don’t want to lie. If I could punish R*** without risking my life at all, I would never forgive him.

I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession completely confused me. Silvio continued.

That’s right: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.

My curiosity was greatly aroused.

You didn't fight with him? - I asked. - Circumstances, right, separated you?

“I fought with him,” Silvio answered, “and here is a monument to our fight.”

Silvio stood up and took out of the cardboard a red cap with a gold tassel and braid (what the French call a bonnet de police (police cap (French))); he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead.

You know,” Silvio continued, “that I served in the *** Hussar Regiment. You know my character: I am used to being superior, but from a young age this was a passion in me. In our time, rioting was in fashion: I was the first rowdy in the army. We boasted about our drunkenness: I drank too much of the glorious Burtsov, sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or an actor in all of them. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, constantly changing, looked at me as a necessary evil.

It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. I waited with inexplicable impatience for my opponent. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already rising. I saw him from afar. He walked on foot, with his uniform on his saber, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him halfway. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured out twelve steps for us. I was supposed to shoot first: but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the fidelity of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool down, I conceded the first shot to him; my opponent did not agree. They decided to cast lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot through my cap. The line was behind me. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him greedily, trying to catch at least one shadow of concern... He stood under the pistol, choosing ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the seeds, which flew to me. His indifference infuriated me. What good would it do me, I thought, to deprive him of his life when he does not value it at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I lowered the gun. “It seems you don’t care about death now,” I told him, “you would like to have breakfast; I don’t want to disturb you.” “You don’t bother me at all,” he objected, “if you please, shoot yourself, but however, as you wish: your shot remains behind you; I am always ready at your service." I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot today, and that was how the fight ended.

I retired and retired to this place. Since then, not a single day has passed that I have not thought about revenge. Now my time has come...

Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed his attorney for affairs) wrote to him from Moscow that a famous person would soon enter into a legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl.

You can guess,” said Silvio, “who this famous person is.” I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if that's true

he will indifferently accept death before his wedding, as he once waited for it behind the cherries!

At these words, Silvio stood up, threw his cap on the floor and began to walk back and forth around the room, like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings agitated me.

II

she and her husband will come to their village for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June.

The footman led me into the count's office, and he himself went to report on me. The vast office was decorated with every possible luxury; near the walls there were cabinets with books, and above each there was a bronze bust; there was a wide mirror above the marble fireplace; the floor was covered with green cloth and covered with carpets. Having become unaccustomed to luxury in my poor corner and having not seen someone else’s wealth for a long time, I became timid and waited for the count with some trepidation, like a petitioner from the provinces waiting for the minister to appear. The doors opened and a man of about thirty-two, handsome, entered. The Count approached me with an open and friendly air; I tried to cheer up and began to recommend myself, but he warned me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to settle into my usual position, when suddenly the Countess entered, and embarrassment took possession of me more than ever. Indeed, she was a beauty. The Count introduced me; I wanted to appear casual, but the more I tried to assume an air of ease, the more awkward I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover and get used to the new acquaintance, began to talk among themselves, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I began to walk back and forth, examining the books and paintings. I'm not an expert in paintings, but one caught my attention. She depicted some kind of view from Switzerland; but what struck me about it was not the painting, but the fact that the painting was shot through by two bullets planted one on top of the other.

“That’s a good shot,” I said, turning to the count.

Yes,” he answered, “the shot is very wonderful.” Are you a good shooter? - he continued.

“Pretty much,” I answered, glad that the conversation finally touched on a subject that was close to me. “I won’t let you miss at thirty paces, using familiar pistols, of course.”

Right? - said the countess, with an air of great attentiveness, - and you, my friend, will you get into the map at thirty paces?

Someday,” the count answered, “we’ll try.” In my time I was not a bad shot; but it’s been four years since I picked up a pistol.

Oh,” I remarked, “in that case, I bet your Excellency will not hit the map even at twenty paces: a pistol requires daily exercise.” I know this from experience. In our regiment I was considered one of the best shooters. Once it happened that I didn’t take a pistol for a whole month: mine were being repaired; What would you think, Your Excellency? The first time I started shooting later, I missed the bottle four times in a row at twenty-five paces. We had a captain, a wit, a funny man; he happened here and told me: you know, brother, your hand does not rise to the bottle. No, Your Excellency, you should not neglect this exercise, otherwise you will just get out of the habit. The best shooter I ever met shot every day, at least three times before lunch. He had this as a habit, like a glass of vodka.

The Count and Countess were glad that I started talking.

How did he shoot? - the count asked me.

Yes, this is how it is, your Excellency: it happened that he saw a fly land on the wall: are you laughing, Countess? By God, it's true. Sometimes he would see a fly and shout: “Kuzka, gun!” Kuzka brings him a loaded pistol. He slams and presses the fly into the wall!

It is amazing! - said the count, - what was his name?

Silvio, your Excellency.

Silvio! - the count cried, jumping up from his seat; - did you know Silvio?

How not to know, Your Excellency; we were friends with him; he was accepted in our regiment as a comrade brother; Yes, it’s been five years since I’ve had any news about him. So your Excellency, therefore, knew him?

He knew, he knew very much. Didn't he tell you... but no; I don't think; didn't he tell you one very strange incident?

Wasn't it a slap in the face, Your Excellency, that he received at a ball from some rake?

Did he tell you the name of this rake?

No, Your Excellency, I didn’t say... Ah! your Excellency,” I continued, guessing the truth, “I’m sorry... I didn’t know... wasn’t it you?..

“I myself,” the count answered, looking extremely upset, “and the shot-through picture is a monument to our last meeting...

“Oh, my dear,” said the countess, “for God’s sake don’t tell me; I'll be scared to listen.

No,” the count objected, “I’ll tell you everything; he knows how I offended his friend: let him know how Silvio took revenge on me.

The Count moved chairs for me, and I heard the following story with lively curiosity.

“Five years ago I got married. - I spent the first month, the honey-moon, here in this village. I owe the best moments of my life and one of the most difficult memories to this house.

remember his features. “You didn’t recognize me, Count?” - he said in a trembling voice. "Silvio!" - I shouted, and, I confess, I felt how my hair suddenly stood on end. “That’s right,” he continued, “the shot is behind me; I came to unload my pistol; are you ready? He had a pistol sticking out of his side pocket. I measured twelve steps and stood there in the corner, asking him to shoot quickly before my wife returned. He hesitated - he asked for fire. Candles were brought. I locked the doors, told no one to come in, and again asked him to shoot. He took out a pistol and took aim... I counted the seconds... I thought about her... A terrible minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand. “I regret,” he said, “that the pistol is not loaded with cherry pits... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we are not having a duel, but a murder: I am not used to aiming at an unarmed person. Let's start again; Let's draw lots to see who should shoot first." My head was spinning... It seems I didn’t agree... Finally we loaded another pistol; folded two tickets; he put them in his cap, which I had once been shot through; I took out the first number again. “You, Count, are devilishly happy,” he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he could force me to do this... but I shot and ended up in this picture. (The Count pointed his finger at the bullet-ridden picture; his face burned like fire; the Countess was paler than her scarf: I could not refrain from exclamation.)

jokingly shot me through this cap, jokingly missed me now; now I too have the urge to make a joke...” With this word he wanted to take aim at me... in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet. “Get up, Masha, it’s a shame! - I shouted in rage; - and you, sir, will you stop mocking the poor woman? Will you shoot or not? “I won’t,” Silvio answered, “I’m pleased: I saw your confusion, your timidity; I made you shoot at me, I've had enough. You will remember me. I commend you to your conscience." Then he was about to go out, but stopped at the door, looked back at the picture I had shot through, shot at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. The wife lay in a faint; people did not dare to stop him and looked at him with horror; he went out onto the porch, called the driver and drove away before I had time to come to my senses.”

The plot of the story Pushkin's Shot

The life of an army regiment is gray and routine, maintained by military discipline. The garrison is home to Silvio, a gloomy and gloomy officer. He has some secret that no one knows. No one has any idea about his condition, but in his house a table is always set for officers, where they do not count the amount of champagne they drink. Silvio is famous for his target shooting skills. The officers assume that Silvio has some tragic incident on his conscience related to his ability to shoot without missing. Colleagues often gather at his place for card game. Among the officers there is one colleague towards whom Silvio is more predisposed than the rest.

One day, when another game, the owner of the house was insulted by an officer who had recently arrived in the regiment. Colleagues were perplexed to learn that their comrade was content with a simple apology from the offender. Gradually everything calmed down, and only the officer with whom Silvio sympathized could not accept this fact.

After some time, Silvio received the news. He became excited and announced his urgent departure. The garrison was invited to a dinner held on the occasion of departure. When the guests left the house, the owner asked that officer to stay and told him about his secret.

Once Silvio served in a distant garrison, he was daring and violent. In the regiment he was in first place everywhere, which gave him pleasure. This continued until an officer from a noble family, young and rich, arrived at the garrison. He turned out to be a worthy opponent, and Silvio's dominance was greatly shaken. He hated his opponent. One day, both officers were at a ball, where a quarrel occurred between them. The opponent hit Silvio in the face. A duel was to take place early in the morning. The offender came to the fight with a cap filled with cherries. The favorite of fortune was lucky here too, he shot first. Having shot through Silvio's cap, the enemy continued to calmly eat cherries. The enraged hero refused his turn, reserving the right to shoot. The opponent agreed. From that moment on, Silvio dreamed of revenge. And then he received the news that his rival was going to get married. Silvio decided to put the lucky man at gunpoint.

The officer who learned his secret also learned the sequel. A few years later he met the count's family. In his house, he noticed a painting riddled with two bullets. This count was Silvio’s offender, who again took the pistol away from the enemy. Silvio died at the Battle of Skulyansky.

About the product

The story “Shot” is the fourth of five short stories in the collection of stories “Belkin” by the wonderful Russian poet A.S. Pushkin. It consists of two parts, but still the story is distinguished by its compressed content and brevity.

The plot of this action is taken from real events in Pushkin’s life. Namely, the duel between the author himself and his friend officer Zubov.

The narration comes from the perspective of a former lieutenant colonel, who previously served in the tsarist army, and is now a simple landowner, who witnessed the main event of the story. He leads a detached lifestyle, not participating in social events.

In addition to the main character, there are two more characters in the story: Silvio, a former military man who still loved to shoot, and the Count, his rival. The colonel meets them at different times and tells the story of each of them.

Silvio appears as a romantic man with his own secrets that hung like a heavy burden on his soul. He is a kind, brave and decent person. And although he once served in a guards regiment, he was not a cold-blooded killer. Silvio did not try in vain to offend a person; he had an ardent disposition and was known as a very generous person. He led a rather cheerful lifestyle. He organized rich feasts and was very popular in secular circles. His house has a rich collection of pistols, so the walls of the house looked like a sieve.

The count's beauty, his charm, intelligence and dexterity in military affairs became the reason for his rivalry with the former hussar Silvio, crossing his path in the service. Squabbles constantly arose between them, and subsequently Sivvio provoked the count into a duel.

The duel still took place. According to the rules of the duel, the first shot belonged to the count. And he didn’t have to wait long. Taking aim, he fired and hit his opponent’s cap. When it was Silvio’s turn, the count began to behave cheekily and unceremoniously. He ate cherries and cheekily spat out the seeds. This behavior of the count greatly outraged Silvio, and he decided to postpone the duel for an indefinite period.

At that time, the colonel was a friend of Silvio and was also outraged by the count's behavior when he told him this story.

Later, several years later, the colonel meets the count, who settles next door, and finds out how that incident ended and the outcome of the fight itself, seeing in his house a picture shot through with two shots.

From the count's story, Silvio came unexpectedly to the count's house during his honeymoon and decided to intimidate him, threatening to kill him. Silvio did not wish harm to anyone, he only wanted everyone to treat him, and the count first of all, with respect. The Count needed to answer for his insolence.

Silvio fired his shot and hit the painting. Hearing the shot, the count's young wife runs into the room and begs for mercy, falling at the feet of the former hussar. Having asked her not to humiliate herself, the count put her out the door, and he himself prepared to take a fatal shot.

Silvio was a sharp shooter, and leaving the room, he shoots at the same place in the picture. He was satisfied because he achieved what he wanted.

The moral is simple - forgive the offense while preserving your honor. Struggling with my emotions and anger. Also love for loved ones, not position in society.

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We were standing in the town of ***. The life of an army officer is known. In the morning
training, playpen; lunch with the regimental commander or in a Jewish tavern; In the evening
punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; We
they gathered at each other's houses, where they saw nothing but their uniforms.
Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. To him
He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience
gave him many advantages over us; besides his ordinary
gloominess, harsh disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young
minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but
bore a foreign name. He once served in the hussars, and even happily; nobody
did not know the reason that prompted him to resign and settle in a poor
the town where he lived together both poorly and wastefully: he walked forever, in
worn black frock coat, and kept an open table for all our officers
shelf. True, his lunch consisted of two or three dishes prepared
a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like a river. Nobody knew him
fortune, nor his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. U
He had books, mostly military ones, and novels. He gave them willingly
read without ever demanding them back; but he never returned the books to the owner,
im busy. His main exercise was pistol shooting. Walls
his rooms were all riddled with bullets, all in holes, like a honeycomb.
A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut, where
he lived. The art he achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered
knock a pear off someone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would
I hesitated to give him my head. The conversation between us often touched on
fights; Silvio (that's what I'll call him) never interfered with it. To the question
did he happen to fight, he answered dryly, what happened, but in detail
did not enter, and it was clear that such questions were unpleasant to him. We
believed that some unfortunate victim of his lay on his conscience
terrible art. However, it never even occurred to us to suspect him
something like shyness. There are people whom appearance alone removes
such suspicions. The accident surprised us all.
One day about ten of our officers were having lunch with Silvio. Drank
as usual, that is, a lot; after lunch we began to persuade
the owner will sweep the bank for us. For a long time he refused, because he almost never
played; Finally he ordered the cards to be brought, poured fifty chervonets onto the table and sat down.
throw. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio used to
gamely maintained complete silence, never argued or explained himself. If
the punter happened to be shortchanged, he immediately either paid enough, or
wrote down unnecessary things. We already knew this and did not stop him from managing things in his own way; But
Between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, playing right there, in
absentmindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and evened the score in his own way
custom. The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, launched into an explanation. Silvio
silently continued to throw. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what
it seemed to him that it had been written down in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. An officer,
inflamed by the wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, he considered himself severely offended
and, in a rage, grabbed a copper shandal from the table and threw it at Silvio, who
barely managed to dodge the blow. We were confused. Silvio stood up, turning pale from
anger, and with sparkling eyes said: “Dear sir, please
come out and thank God that this happened in my house."
We had no doubt about the consequences and assumed that our new comrade had already been killed.
The officer walked out, saying that he was ready to answer for the offense as he pleased.
Mr. Banker. The game continued for several more minutes; but feeling
that the owner had no time for the game, we fell behind one after another and scattered around
apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy.
The next day in the arena we asked if the poor lieutenant was still alive,
how he himself appeared among us; we asked him the same question. He replied that
He had not yet heard anything about Silvio. This surprised us. We went to
Silvio and found him in the yard, putting bullet after bullet in an ace glued to
gate. He received us as usual, without saying a word about yesterday
incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We are surprised
they asked: will Silvio really not fight? Silvio didn't fight. He
I was content with a very easy explanation and made peace.
This greatly damaged him in the opinion of the youth. Flaw
courage is least excused by young people who are in courage
usually see the height of human dignity and an excuse for all kinds of
vices. However, little by little everything was forgotten, and Silvio again acquired
its former influence.
I could no longer approach him alone. Having a naturally romantic
imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life
was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He
loved me; at least with me alone he left his usual sharp
slander and spoke about various subjects with simplicity and extraordinary
pleasantness. But after the unhappy evening the thought that his honor had been sullied
and not washed through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and bothered me
treat him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was
too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reasons for it.
This seemed to upset him; at least I noticed a desire in him twice
explain to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio from me
retreated. Since then I saw him only in front of my comrades, and the previous
our frank conversations stopped.
The absent-minded residents of the capital have no idea about many impressions, so
known to residents of villages or towns, for example about waiting for the postal day:
on Tuesday and Friday our regimental office was full of officers: who
I was waiting for money, some for letters, some for newspapers. Packages are usually right there
were printed, the news was reported, and the office presented the picture of the most
lively. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment, and usually
was right there. One day they handed him a package, from which he tore off the seal.
with a look of the greatest impatience. As he ran through the letter, his eyes sparkled. Officers,
Everyone was busy with their letters and did not notice anything. “Gentlemen,” he told them
Silvio, circumstances require my immediate absence; I'm going today
at night; I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for the last time. I
I’m waiting for you too,” he continued, turning to me, “I’m certainly waiting for you.” With this
in a word, he hurriedly left; and we, having agreed to unite at Silvio’s, separated
each in his own direction.
I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the entire regiment with him.
All his belongings were already packed; All that remained were bare, bullet-riddled walls.
We sat down at the table; the owner was extremely in good spirits, and soon his cheerfulness
became common; the corks popped constantly, the glasses foamed and hissed
incessantly, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing person a good journey
and every good thing. We got up from the table late in the evening. When disassembling caps
Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took me by the hand and stopped me at that very moment,
as I was about to go out. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I
remained.
The guests have left; we were left alone, sat down opposite each other and silently
lit their pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no longer any trace of his convulsive
gaiety. Gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes and thick smoke coming out of
mouth, gave him the appearance of a real devil. A few minutes passed and Silvio
broke the silence.
“Perhaps we will never see each other again,” he told me, “before
Due to separation, I wanted to explain myself to you. You may have noticed that I have little respect
outside opinion; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me
leave an unfair impression in your mind.
He stopped and began to fill his burnt out pipe; I was silent, looking down
eyes.
“It was strange for you,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction
from this drunken madman R***. You agree that, having the right to choose
weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe: I could
attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I don’t want to lie. If I could
punish R*** without exposing my life at all, then I would never forgive
his.
I looked at Silvio in amazement. Such a confession completely embarrassed
me. Silvio continued.
- That’s right: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago
ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.
My curiosity was greatly aroused.
-You didn’t fight with him? - I asked. - Circumstances, right, you
separated?
“I fought with him,” answered Silvio, “and here is a monument to our fight.”
Silvio stood up and took out a red hat with a gold tassel from the cardboard, with
galloon (what the French call bonnet de police); 1) he put it on; she
was shot an inch from the forehead.
“You know,” continued Silvio, “that I served in the *** Hussar Regiment.”
You know my character: I am used to being superior, but from a young age it was
to me with passion. In our time, rioting was in fashion: I was the first rowdy in
army. We boasted about drunkenness: I drank too much of the famous Burtsov, praised
Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was in all of them
either a witness or an actor. My comrades adored me, and the regimental
the commanders, constantly changing, looked at me as if I were a necessary evil.
I calmly (or restlessly) enjoyed my fame, as I decided to
we are a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him). From childhood
I have never met such a brilliant lucky man! Imagine youth, intelligence,
beauty, the most frantic gaiety, the most careless courage, a loud name,
money for which he did not know the account and which had never been transferred from him, and
imagine what effect he must have had between us.
My primacy has wavered. Seduced by my glory, he began to look for
my friendship; but I received him coldly, and he left without any regret
I left. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the society of women
brought me to complete despair. I began to look for a quarrel with him; on
he answered my epigrams with epigrams that always seemed to me
more unexpected and sharper than mine and which, of course, were far more fun: he
I was joking, but I was angry. Finally, one day at a ball with a Polish landowner, seeing
his subject of attention to all the ladies, and especially the hostess herself, who was with me in
connection, I said some flat rudeness in his ear. He flushed and gave me
slap in the face. We rushed to the sabers; ladies fainted; we were separated, and in
That same night we went to fight.
It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three
seconds. I waited with inexplicable impatience for my opponent. Spring
the sun had risen, and the heat was already rising. I saw him from afar. He walked with
uniform on a saber, accompanied by one second. We went to him
towards. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. Seconds
They measured out twelve steps for us. I should have shot first: but the excitement
the anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the loyalty of my hand and,
to give himself time to cool down, he gave way to the first shot; my opponent is not
agreed. They decided to cast lots: the first number went to him, the eternal
to the darling of happiness. He took aim and shot through my cap. There was a line behind
by me. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him greedily, trying
catch at least one shadow of concern... He stood under the pistol, choosing from
caps of ripe cherries and spitting out the seeds that reached me. His
the indifference infuriated me. What good would it do me, I thought, to take his life when
Does he not value her at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I lowered
gun. “It seems you don’t care about death now,” I told him, “if you please
breakfast; I don’t want to bother you.” - “You don’t bother me at all,”
he objected, “if you please, shoot yourself, but however, as you wish: shoot
yours remains yours; I am always ready at your service." I turned to
seconds, announcing that he did not intend to shoot today, and the duel was
ended.
I retired and retired to this place. Nothing has passed since then
one day so that I don’t think about revenge. Now my time has come...
Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read.
Someone (it seemed his attorney) wrote to him from Moscow that
a famous person should soon enter into legal marriage with a young and beautiful
girl.
“You can guess,” said Silvio, “who this famous person is.” I'm going to
Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death so indifferently before his wedding,
how I once waited for her behind the cherries!
At these words Silvio stood up, threw his cap on the floor and began to walk
up and down the room like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless;
strange, opposite feelings agitated me.
The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly;
we kissed. He got into the cart, where there were two suitcases, one with
pistols, the other with his belongings. We said goodbye again, and the horses
Let's gallop.

Please tell me how many letters n need to be written in suffixes verbal adjectives in phrases: he is scattered n or he is scattered nn; he is educated or he is educated. What rule of the Russian language applies in this case?

Short forms of adjectives and participles in the form male written with one N.


	Question No. 241778

Hello.
In the “training” textbook for the Unified State Exam there is the following task:
"What word consists of a prefix, a root, one suffix and an ending?"
1. dark
2. whether scattered
3. takeover
4. addition.
The correct answer is "addition".
It’s clear why it’s not “dark” or “scattered.” Two suffixes, but one is needed.
But why not “for-possession”?
What is the difference between “with-lying” and “taking possession”?