The Daughter of a Captain: A Selection of Pushkin's Short Stories

Author: (Russian) Pushkin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: We were stationed in a certain small town. The life of an officer was well-known. In the morning, we drilled and practiced horseback riding. Lunch was either at the commander's or in a Jewish tavern. In the evening, we drank punch and played cards. There was no household in the town that regularly hosted guests, no unmarried girl. We always gathered at a colleague's residence, where, apart from those in uniform, no one else was seen. The only person we interacted with who was not a soldier was he. He was nearly thirty-five, so we considered him an old man. He was worldly-wise and seemed more astute and capable than us in every way. He was always melancholic, irritable, and sharp-tongued, which greatly influenced us young men. His life was filled with mysterious undertones. He seemed Russian, yet bore a foreign name. He had once been a dragoon and lived a carefree life. No one knew why he resigned his commission or why he chose to live in this impoverished town. Here, he lived modestly but spent money extravagantly: he always wore an old black frock coat, walked everywhere, yet often hosted officers from our regiment for meals. True, his meals had only two or three dishes, prepared by a former soldier, but champagne flowed like water. No one knew what assets he had or how much he earned, yet no one dared to ask him these questions. He had many books, mostly military and novels. He was happy to lend them out but never expected them back, yet he never returned any to their owners. His main activity was practicing pistol shooting. The walls of his room were riddled with bullet holes, like a beehive. He collected many pistols, which was the only luxury in his humble abode. His shooting skills were incredible; if he proposed to place an apple on someone's cap and shoot it off with a bullet, none of the officers in our regiment would hesitate to put their heads forward. We often talked about duels, but Silvio (as I called him) never joined these conversations. Sometimes we asked him if he had ever been in a duel, and he replied coolly that he had but never discussed the details. It was clear he disliked us asking about such matters. We guessed that some unhappy event haunted his conscience, that someone had become a victim under his terrifying marksmanship. However, we never suspected him of any cowardice. There was a certain type of person who didn't require such suspicion. But an unexpected incident shocked us all. One day, about a dozen officers were dining at Silvio's. As usual, we drank a lot of wine. After the meal, we invited the host to be the dealer in a card game. He hesitated for a long time, as he rarely played cards, but finally had the cards brought and threw fifty gold coins on the table, ready to deal. We sat around him as the game began. Silvio had a habit of remaining completely silent while playing cards, never arguing or explaining. If a player miscalculated, he would immediately pay the shortfall or record any overpayment. We all knew his temperament, so we always let him handle things his way. But among us was an officer who had recently transferred here and had also come to play cards.