Then long with practiced oar the boatman brooked the stormy combers. And every moment saw the little skiff and daring oarsmen seem to disappear in their troughs—at last they made safe landing on the distant beach-head.
The hapless youth flies down the well-known street to find familiar spots. He looks, there’s naught to fix on. Horrid sight! Whatever meets his vision is heaped up, tumbled down, or simply gone. Some houses there were knocked askew, some quite destroyed, and others there the waves had overturned; and all about, as on a battlefield, the bodies lay. Evgeny, uncomprehending, rushes on. Now near to swooning with his fear, he flies to where—a folded missive tightly sealed, its news unknown and unforeseen—his Fate awaits. And now he races through the outskirts, and there’s the bay, the nearby cote … But what is this?
He stops, returns, retraces every step and looks, in this spot should their dwelling stand. The willow’s there… the gate beside it—gone, it seems. But where’s the house gone? And, full of dark presentiment he walks the circuit, twice he walks it, debating loudly with himself—then strikes his forehead, starts to laugh.
The mists of night came down and cloaked the anxious byways; the city folk delayed their rest as all together they recalled the day just past.
The rays of morning gleamed from pale and weary cloudbanks upon the quiet capital, already found no lasting trace of yesterday’s despair. The royal glow of dawn disguised the woe. All took up its accustomed course. Along the streets, now unencumbered, the people went their ways with cool aplomb. The tribe of penmen quit their nightly lodgings, set forth to their work. Tradesmen, hail and brash, tenaciously uncovered all their stores Neva had drowned and rifled. They schemed to make their losses good, and gouge their neighbors. From the yards the boats are carried.
Count Khvostov,
a bard, beloved of the gods, already hymned in deathless verse the fate Neva’s embankments suffered.
But poor Evgeny, my poor youth … Alas, his mind was now unbalanced, could not prevail, prove master of this horrid shock. The stormy roar Neva and all the winds had made still echoed in his ears. Black musings, but wordless, drove him on. He was beset by a tormenting dream. A week went by, and then a month—he never sought his former lodgings. The lease expired, the landlord let his corner out to some poor bard. Evgeny never happened by to get his things. He soon became a stranger to the world. He wandered throughout the day, slept on the dockside, and lived on scraps from kitchen windows. The threadbare clothing that he wore grew frayed, and moldered. Spiteful urchins threw their stones as he passed by. Not seldom did the coachman’s whiplash cut him, for he never seemed to see them, or mark the roadway—simply failed to notice. He was made deaf by inner tumult and its din. And thus his wretched life dragged on, not beast, not man—no more at home with living men, not yet a specter …
He slept
once down among the wharves. The summer days were winding downward towards the fall. A chill wind blew. The murky rolling waves would splash upon the wharf with restive foam, and tap the rain-slicked stairs, but feebly, as plaintiffs vainly tap the doors of judges who refuse to hear. The poor tramp woke. How dreary: raindrops fell, a mournful wind was keening, and through the dark of night, from far-off streets, the watchman gave reply … Evgeny flinched: the memories of horrors past for him were real; he rose to wander off, then halted suddenly, and fell to gazing quite slowly all around, a freakish terror on his face. He found himself before the columns of a stately house. Its perron bore, with paws upthrust as though alive, two Lion sentries keeping vigil. And opposite, against a darkened sky, atop the warded cliff the Idol with his out-flung arm still sat upon his steed of bronze.
Evgeny shuddered, then his reason cleared. In fear-struck recognition he knew the spot where once the flood had played, where predatory billows had surged around him, mutinous and cruel. The Lions and the square, and He who in the murk, unshaken, held his bronzen head uplifted, the One whose fatal will had built this city on the ocean verges…How fearsome was He in the circling mists! Upon his brow what thoughts are gathered, what power is in Him concealed! What fire animates his steed! Where do you gallop, prideful steed? Where will your hoof-beats land their mark? O mighty lord of Destiny—above the depthless void, did you not, with iron bit, make Rus to caracole on high and leap?
Around the idol’s pedestal of stone the wretched madman paced, his wild eyes fixed upon the One whose gaze had once swayed half the planet. His breast contracted as he lent his head against the iron pale, his eyes were clouded over, a flame was coursing through his heart, the blood within him seethed. Morose before the haughty bronzen image, he clenched his teeth and made a fist, as if demonic force possessed him: “Take care, you wonder-builder,” he then hissed, atremble in his spite, “I’ll get you yet…!” Then suddenly he fled, in desperate haste retreating. It seemed to him the awesome Tsar, upon an instant flaming up in wrath, had slowly turned to face him… And Evgeny through the square, now emptied, ran headlong, hearing at his back—a sound like rolling thunder peals—the heavy, ringing hoof-beats clatter down the shaken cobble-stones. And by the pallid moon illumined, arm out-flung and pointing upwards, the Bronzen Horseman now pursues him on His thunder-gaited steed; and that whole night the wretched madman fled, at every turn he took the Bronzen Horseman followed him, pursued him with a heavy hoof-beat.
And from that day when, as might be, Evgeny came across that square, his face reflected inner consternation. Quickly to his heart he’d press his hand, as if to soothe the torment that he felt within. He’d doff his tattered forage cap, forbear to lift his flustered glances, and sidle off.
A tiny island can be seen
offshore. At times a fisherman out trolling late will moor there with his net and tackle to cook his meager meal. Or else a civil servant comes to see this barren islet on his Sunday pleasure sail. No blade of grass now will grace this spot. The playful spate had driven there a shabby hut. It stood above the water, looking like a blackened hedge. Last Spring they hauled it off by barge. Inside the dwelling there was nothing but wreckage and decay. Stretched out upon the threshold of the hut they found my madman. Then and there they laid to rest his frozen corpse for kindness sake.
Translated by A.L. and M. K.
The Queen of Spades
The Queen of Spades signifies a secret misfortune.
FROM A RECENT BOOK ON FORTUNE-TELLING
CHAPTER ONE
And on rainy days
They gathered
Often;
Their stakes—God help them!—
Wavered from fifty
To a hundred,
And they won
And marked up their winnings
With chalk.
Thus on rainy days
Were they
Busy.
There was a card party one day in the rooms of Narumov, an officer of the Horse Guards. The long winter evening slipped by unnoticed; it was five o’clock in the morning before the assembly sat down to supper. Those who had won ate with a big appetite; the others sat distractedly before their empty plates. But champagne was brought in, the conversation became more lively, and everyone took a part in it.
“And how did you get on, Surin?” asked the host.
“As usual, I lost. I must confess, I have no luck: I never vary my stake, never get heated, never lose my head, and yet I always lose!”
“And weren’t you tempted even once to back on a series …? Your strength of mind astonishes me.”
“What about Hermann then,” said one of the guests, pointing at the young Engineer. “He’s never held a card in his hand, never doubled a single stake in his life, and yet he sits up until five in the morning watching us play.”
“The game fascinates me,” said Hermann, “but I am not in the position to sacrifice the essentials of life in the hope of acquiring the luxuries.”
“Hermann’s a German: he’s cautious—that’s all,” Tomskii observed. “But if there’s one person I can’t understand, it’s my
grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna.”
“How? Why?” the guests inquired noisily.
“I can’t understand why it is,” Tomskii continued, “that my grandmother doesn’t gamble.”
“But what’s so astonishing about an old lady of eighty not gambling?” asked Narumov.
“Then you don’t know…?”
“No, indeed; I know nothing.”
“Oh well, listen then:
“You must know that about sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she made something of a hit. People used to chase after her to catch a glimpse of la vénus moscovite; Richelieu paid court to her, and my grandmother vouches that he almost shot himself on account of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play faro. On one occasion at the Court, my grandmother lost a very great deal of money on credit to the Duke of Orleans. Returning home, she removed the patches from her face, took off her hooped petticoat, announced her loss to my grandfather and ordered him to pay back the money. My late grandfather, as far as I can remember, was a sort of lackey to my grandmother. He feared her like fire; on hearing of such a disgraceful loss, however, he completely lost his temper; he produced his accounts, showed her that she had spent half a million francs in six months, pointed out that neither their Moscow nor their Saratov estates were in Paris, and refused point-blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and went off to sleep on her own as an indication of her displeasure. In the hope that this domestic infliction would have had some effect on him, she sent for her husband the next day; she found him unshakeable. For the first time in her life she approached him with argument and explanation, thinking that she could bring him to reason by pointing out that there are debts and debts, that there is a big difference between a Prince and a coach-maker. But my grandfather remained adamant, and flatly refused to discuss the subject any further. My grandmother did not know what to do. A little while before, she had become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St-Germain, about whom so many marvelous stories are related. You know that he held himself out to be the Wandering Jew, and the inventor of the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone and so forth. Some ridiculed him as a charlatan and in his memoirs Casanova declares that he was a spy. However, St-Germain, in spite of the mystery which surrounded him, was a person of venerable appearance and much in demand in society. My grandmother is still quite infatuated with him and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks of him with disrespect. My grandmother knew that he had large sums of money at his disposal. She decided to have recourse to him, and wrote asking him to visit her without delay. The eccentric old man at once called on her and found her in a state of terrible grief. She depicted her husband’s barbarity in the blackest light, and ended by saying that she pinned all her hopes on his friendship and kindness.
“St-Germain reflected. ‘I could let you have this sum,’ he said, ‘but I know that you would not be at peace while in my debt, and I have no wish to bring fresh troubles upon your head. There is another solution — you can win back the money.’
“‘But, my dear Count,’ my grandmother replied, ‘I tell you —we have no money at all.’
“‘In this case money is not essential,’ St-Germain replied. ‘Be good enough to hear me out.’
“And at this point he revealed to her the secret for which any one of us here would give a very great deal…”
The young gamblers listened with still greater attention. Tomskii lit his pipe, drew on it and continued:
“That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles, au jeu de la Reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; inventing some small tale, my grandmother lightly excused herself for not having brought her debt, and began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won and my grandmother recouped herself completely.”
“Pure luck!” said one of the guests.
“A fairy-tale,” observed Hermann.
“Perhaps the cards were marked!” said a third.
“I don’t think so,” Tomskii replied gravely.
“What!” cried Narumov. “You have a grandmother who can guess three cards in succession, and you haven’t yet contrived to learn her secret.”
“No, not much hope of that!” replied Tomskii. “She had four sons, including my father; all four were desperate gamblers, and yet she did not reveal her secret to a single one of them, although it would have been a good thing if she had told them—told me, even. But this is what I heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Il’ich, and he gave me his word for its truth. The late Chaplitskii—the same who died a pauper after squandering millions—in his youth once lost nearly 300,000 roubles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was most strict in her attitude towards the extravagances of young men, for some reason took pity on Chaplitskii. She told him the three cards on condition that he played them in order; and at the same time she exacted his solemn promise that he would never play again as long as he lived. Chaplitskii appeared before his victor; they sat down to play. On the first card Chaplitskii staked 50,000 roubles and won straight off; he doubled his stake, redoubled—and won back more than he had lost….
“But it’s time to go to bed; it’s already a quarter to six.”
Indeed, the day was already beginning to break. The young men drained their glasses and dispersed.
CHAPTER TWO
“Il paraît que monsieur est décidément pour les suivantes.”
“Que voulez-vous, madame? Elles sont plus fraîches.”
FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION
The old Countess *** was seated before the looking-glass in her dressing-room. Three lady’s maids stood by her. One held a jar of rouge, another a box of hairpins, and the third a tall bonnet with flame-coloured ribbons. The Countess no longer had the slightest pretensions to beauty, which had long since faded from her face, but she still preserved all the habits of her youth, paid strict regard to the fashions of the seventies, and devoted to her dress the same time and attention as she had done sixty years before. At an embroidery frame by the window sat a young lady, her ward.
“Good morning, grand’maman!” said a young officer as he entered the room. “Bonjour, mademoiselle Lise. Grand’maman, I have a request to make of you.”
“What is it, Paul?”
“I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow me to bring him to the ball on Friday.”
“Bring him straight to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at ***’s yesterday?”
“Of course. It was very gay; we danced until five in the morning. How charming Eletskaia was!”
“But, my dear, what’s charming about her? Isn’t she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna …? By the way, I dare say she’s grown very old now, the Princess Daria Petrovna …?”
“What do you mean, ‘grown old’?” asked Tomskii thoughtlessly. “She’s been dead for seven years.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young man. He remembered then that the death of any of her contemporaries was kept secret from the old Countess, and he bit his lip. But the Countess heard the news, previously unknown to her, with the greatest indifference.
“Dead!” she said. “And I didn’t know it. We were maids of honour together, and when we were presented, the Empress …”
And for the hundredth time the Countess related the anecdote to her grandson.
“Come, Paul,” she said when she had finished her story, “help me to stand up. Lisanka, where’s my snuff-box?”
And with her three maids the Countess went behind a screen to complete her dress. Tomskii was left alone with the young lady.
“Whom do you wish to introduce?” Lisaveta Ivanovna asked softly.
“Narumov. Do you know him?”
“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”
“A soldier.”
“An Engineer?”
“No, he’s in the Cavalry. What made you t
hink he was an Engineer?”
The young lady smiled but made no reply.
“Paul!” cried the Countess from behind the screen. “Bring along a new novel with you some time, will you, only please not one of those modern ones.”
“What do you mean, grand’maman?”
“I mean not the sort of novel in which the hero strangles either of his parents or in which someone is drowned. I have a great horror of drowned people.”
“Such novels don’t exist nowadays. Wouldn’t you like a Russian one?”
“Are there such things? Send me one, my dear, please send me one.”
“Will you excuse me now, grand’maman, I’m in a hurry. Good-bye, Lisaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?”
And Tomskii left the dressing-room.
Lisaveta Ivanovna was left on her own; she put aside her work and began to look out of the window. Presently a young officer appeared from behind the corner house on the other side of the street. A flush spread over her cheeks; she took up her work again and lowered her head over the frame. At this moment, the Countess returned, fully dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lisanka,” she said, “and we’ll go for a drive.”
Lisanka got up from behind her frame and began to put away her work.
“What’s the matter with you, my child? Are you deaf?” shouted the Countess. “Order the carriage this minute.”
“I’ll do so at once,” the young lady replied softly and hastened into the ante-room.
A servant entered the room and handed the Countess some books from the Prince Pavel Alexandrovich.
“Good, thank him,” said the Countess. “Lisanka, Lisanka, where are you running to?”
“To get dressed.”
“Plenty of time for that, my dear. Sit down. Open the first volume and read to me.”
The young lady took up the book and read a few lines.
Worlds Apart Page 11
