The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, Issue 02, February 1891: An Illustrated MonthlyVarious
General
The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, Issue 02, February 1891: An Illustrated Monthly
Various
English literature -- Periodicals; Short stories, English -- Periodicals
[Illustration: "WE CLUTCHED OUR SWORDS."]
"I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of
firing that day; and with this the duel ended. I resigned my commission
and retired to this little place. Since then not a single day has passed
that I have not thought of my revenge; and now the hour has arrived."
Silvio took from his pocket the letter he had received that morning, and
handed it to me to read. Someone (it seemed to be his business agent)
wrote to him from Moscow, that a certain individual was soon to be
married to a young and beautiful girl.
"You guess," said Silvio, "who the certain individual is. I am starting
for Moscow. We shall see whether he will be as indifferent now as he was
some time ago, when in presence of death he ate cherries!"
[Illustration: "HIS LIFE AT LAST WAS IN MY HANDS."]
With these words Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began
pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I remained silent.
Strange contending feelings agitated me.
The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio
grasped my hand tightly. He got into the _telega_, in which lay two
trunks--one containing his pistols, the other some personal effects. We
wished good-bye a second time, and the horses galloped off.
II.
Many years passed, and family circumstances obliged me to settle in the
poor little village of N. Engaged in farming, I sighed in secret for my
former merry, careless existence. Most difficult of all I found it to
pass in solitude the spring and winter evenings. Until the dinner hour I
somehow occupied the time, talking to the _starosta_, driving round to
see how the work went on, or visiting the new buildings. But as soon as
evening began to draw in, I was at a loss what to do with myself. My
books in various bookcases, cupboards, and storerooms I knew by heart.
The housekeeper, Kurilovna, related to me all the stories she could
remember. The songs of the peasant women made me melancholy. I tried
cherry brandy, but that gave me the headache. I must confess, however,
that I had some fear of becoming a drunkard from _ennui_, the saddest
kind of drunkenness imaginable, of which I had seen many examples in our
district.
I had no near neighbours with the exception of two or three melancholy
ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. Solitude
was preferable to that. Finally I decided to go to bed as early as
possible, and to dine as late as possible, thus shortening the evening
and lengthening the day; and I found this plan a good one.
Four versts from my place was a large estate belonging to Count B.; but
the steward alone lived there. The Countess had visited her domain once
only, just after her marriage; and she then only lived there about a
month. However, in the second spring of my retirement, there was a
report that the Countess, with her husband, would come to spend the
summer on her estate; and they arrived at the beginning of June.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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