The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

by Alexander Pushkin

  The Mass ended. Kiril Petrovich was the first to kiss the cross.1 All the others flocked after him; the neighbours went up to him to pay their respects, the ladies surrounded Masha. As he was leaving the church Kiril Petrovich invited everybody to dine, and stepping into his carriage drove home. They all followed.

  The rooms filled with guests: new-comers arrived every moment and with difficulty threaded their way to their host. The ladies, in pearls and diamonds and costly old-fashioned gowns that had seen better days, sat sedately in a semicircle. The men crowded round the caviar and vodka, raising their voices in animated discussion. Eighty places were being set in the dining-hall; the servants bustled about arranging bottles and decanters and straightening the table-cloths. At last the butler announced that dinner was served. Kiril Petrovich led the way to the table and sat down. After him the married ladies took their places with an air of dignity, observing a sort of order of precedence as they did so. The young ladies clung together like a timid herd of gazelles, choosing places next to one another. The men settled opposite. The tutor sat at the end of the table next to little Sasha.

  The servants attended to the guests in the order of their rank; where they were uncertain they acted according to the principles of Lavater1 and hardly ever made a mistake. The clatter of plates and jingle of spoons mingled with the noise of conversation. Kiril Petrovich looked gaily round the table, thoroughly enjoying his part as hospitable host. At that moment a carriage drawn by six horses drove into the courtyard.

  ‘Who is that?’ Troyekurov asked.

  ‘Anton Pafnutyevich,’ several voices answered.

  The doors opened and Anton Pafnutyevich Spitsyn, a stout man of about fifty years of age with a round, pock-marked face adorned by a triple chin, rolled into the dining-room, bowing, smiling and apologetic.

  ‘A cover here!’ cried Kiril Petrovich. ‘Welcome, Anton Pafnutyevich. Sit down and tell us what this means: you weren’t at my Mass and you are late for dinner. It isn’t like you: you are a pious man and you relish good fare.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Anton Pafnutyevich answered, tucking a corner of his napkin into the buttonhole of his pea-green coat. ‘I am sorry, my dear fellow – I left home early but I had not gone half a dozen miles before the iron rim of one of my front wheels split in two, so what was I to do? Fortunately we were not far from a village but by the time we had crawled there and found a blacksmith, and patched things up somehow, three hours had gone—there was nothing for it, I would not venture the shortest way through the Kistenyovka forest, so I drove round.’

  ‘O-ho!’ Kiril Petrovich interrupted him. ‘You are not over brave, I see! What are you afraid of?’

  ‘What am I afraid of, Kiril Petrovich, sir? Why, Dubrovsky, of course. One might fall into his clutches at any moment. He knows what he’s about, and no one is safe with him; and me he would skin twice over.’

  ‘Why such a distinction?’

  ‘Why, sir, because of his father, Andrei Gavrilovich, to be sure. Wasn’t it I who to please you – that is, in all conscience and justice – testified that the Dubrovskys had no right to Kistenyovka but held the property solely by virtue of your kindness? And did not the deceased (God rest his soul) swear to get even with me in his own way, and might not the son keep his father’s word? Up to now God has had pity on me – they have only broken into a barn of mine – but one of these days they may get at the house.’

  ‘Where they will have a fine time of it,’ remarked Kiril Petrovich. ‘I expect the little red cash-box is crammed to overflowing.’

  ‘Not a bit, my dear Kiril Petrovich. It was full once, but now it is quite empty.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. We know you. You are not one for spending money. At home you live in squalor, you never entertain, and you fleece your peasants. You are hoarding it up all right.’

  ‘You are pleased to joke, Kiril Petrovich,’ murmured Anton Pafnutyevich with a smile, ‘but I swear to you that we are destitute,’ and he swallowed a slice of rich pie to take away the taste of his host’s contemptuous teasing.

  Kiril Petrovich left him and turned to the new police-captain, who had come to his house for the first time and was sitting at the other end of the table next to the tutor.

  ‘Well, sir, and will you be long catching Dubrovsky?’

  The police-captain shrank back, bowed, smiled, stammered, and brought out at last:

  ‘We shall do our best, your excellency.’

  ‘Hm! Do your best! You have been doing your best for a long time but nothing has come of it yet. And indeed, why catch him? Dubrovsky’s robberies are a perfect godsend to police-captains, what with investigations, travelling expenses and the money that goes into their pockets. Why bring down such a benefactor? Is not that the way of it, police-captain?’

  ‘Absolutely, your excellency,’ the police-captain answered, utterly confused.

  The company roared with laughter.

  ‘I like this young fellow for his candour,’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘I see I shall have to tackle the business myself without waiting for any help from the local authorities. But it is a pity about the old police-captain. If they hadn’t burnt him to death there would have been less trouble about in the district. But what news of Dubrovsky? Where was he seen last?’

  ‘At my house, Kiril Petrovich,’ a deep feminine voice replied. ‘He had dinner with me last Tuesday.’

  All eyes were turned on Anna Savishna Globov, a rather homely widow who was universally loved for her kindly, cheerful disposition. Everyone prepared to listen to her story with great interest.

  ‘I must tell you that three weeks ago I sent my steward to the post with a letter for my Vanyusha. I do not spoil my son, and indeed I haven’t the means to do so even if I wanted to, but of course, as you know very well, an officer in the Guards has to keep up appearances and I share my income with Vanyusha as best I can. Well, I sent him two thousand roubles; and although the thought of Dubrovsky more than once came into my head I said to myself, The town is not far off, only five miles, and we might just get through, God willing. And behold – in the evening my steward comes home looking quite pale and with his clothes all torn, and on foot. I gasped, I did. “What is the matter? What has happened to you?” I cried. Said he: “Anna Savishna, ma’am, highwaymen robbed me and very near killed me. Dubrovsky himself was there and he was for hanging me, but then he took pity and let me go. But he robbed me of everything – took the horse and cart too.” My heart sank. King of Heaven, what will become of my Vanyusha? There was nothing to be done. I wrote another letter to him, telling him what had happened, and sent him my blessing without enclosing a penny.

  ‘A week or two passed. Suddenly one day a carriage drove into my courtyard. Some general I did not know asked to see me; I said he was welcome. A dark-complexioned man of about thirty-five came in. He had black hair, a moustache and a beard, and was the very image of Kulnev.1 He introduced himself as a friend and colleague of my late husband: he was passing by, he said, and could not resist paying a visit to his old comrade’s widow, knowing that I lived here. I invited him in to our simple meal, we talked of this and that and, finally, of Dubrovsky. I told him of my trouble. “That is strange,” he said. “I have heard that Dubrovsky does not attack all and sundry but only people who are known to be rich, and even then he leaves them something and doesn’t strip them completely. And as for murdering people, no one has accused him of that yet: I wonder if there isn’t some trickery here. Will you oblige me by sending for your steward?” I sent for the steward. The man came. The moment he saw the general he opened his mouth, dumbfounded. “Tell me, my good fellow, about Dubrovsky robbing you and wanting to hang you.” My steward began to tremble, and he fell at the general’s feet. “I did wrong, sir… the devil led me astray… I lied.” – “If that is so,” replied the general, “have the goodness to relate to your mistress just what happened, and I will listen.” My steward tried in vain to collect his wits. “Come now,” the general went on, “tell us
where you met Dubrovsky.” – “By the two pine-trees, sir, by the two pinetrees.” – “And what did he say to you?” – “He asked me whose servant I was, and where I was going, and on what errand.” – “Well, and after that?” – “After that he asked me for the letter and the money, and I gave them to him.” – “And what did he do?” – “He gave me the money back and the letter, and said, ‘Go in peace, take it to the post.’” – “Well?” – “Sir, I did wrong!” – “I will settle with you, my lad!” said the general fiercely. “And you, madam, have this rascal’s box searched and then hand him over to me: I will teach him a lesson. Let me tell you that Dubrovsky was himself an officer in the Guards and he would not offend against a comrade.” I guessed who his excellency was but there was no sense in saying anything to him. The coachman tied my steward to the box of his carriage; the money was found; the general had dinner with me and departed immediately after, taking the steward with him. The steward was discovered in the forest next day, tied to an oak-tree and properly fleeced.’

  The company listened in silence to Anna Savishna’s story, the young ladies with particular attention. Many of them secretly wished Dubrovsky well, seeing in him a romantic hero – Maria Kirilovna especially, who was an ardent day-dreamer, gorged with the mysterious horrors of Mrs Radciffe.1

  ‘And you think, Anna Savishna, it was Dubrovsky himself came to see you?’ Kiril Petrovich asked. ‘You are very much mistaken. I do not know who your visitor may have been but he certainly was not Dubrovsky.’

  ‘How do you mean, not Dubrovsky? Who else would stop travellers on the high road and search them?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, but I feel sure it was not Dubrovsky. I remember him as a child. I don’t know if his hair has turned black – as a boy he had fair, curly hair; but I do know that Dubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that makes him not thirty-five but about three and twenty.’

  ‘Quite so, your excellency,’ observed the police-captain. ‘I have in my pocket a description of Vladimir Dubrovsky. It says definitely that he is in his twenty-third year.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘By the way, read it and we will listen. It will not be a bad thing for us to know what he looks like: we may come across him, and if so he won’t escape in a hurry.’

  The police-captain took out of his pocket a rather dirty sheet of paper, unfolded it solemnly and began to read in sing-song tones:

  ‘Description of Dubrovsky, based upon the depositions of his former serfs:

  ‘Twenty-two years of age, of medium height, clear complexion, does not wear a beard, hazel-brown eyes, light brown hair, straight nose. Special peculiarities: none.’

  ‘And that is all?’ Kiril Petrovich said.

  ‘That is all,’ replied the police-captain, folding the paper.

  ‘I congratulate you, police-captain. A very valuable document! With that description you will have no difficulty in finding Dubrovsky. As though most people weren’t of medium height with brown hair, a straight nose and brown eyes! I would wager you could talk to Dubrovsky himself for three hours at a stretch and never guess in whose company you were. A smart lot you officials are, I must say!’

  Meekly putting the sheet of paper back into his pocket, the police-captain busied himself in silence with his roast goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had gone the round of the table more than once, filling up the wine-glasses. Several bottles of Caucasian and Crimean wine were uncorked with a loud pop and favourably received under the name of champagne. Cheeks began to glow and conversation grew louder, gayer and more inconsequent.

  ‘No,’ continued Kiril Petrovich, ‘we shall never see another police-captain like our old Taras Alexeyevich! He knew what was what, he was no wool-gatherer. A pity they burnt the fellow to death. Not a single man of their band would have escaped him otherwise. He would have caught the whole lot of ’em – not even Dubrovsky himself would have slipped his clutches. Taras Alexeyevich would have taken a bribe from him right enough but he would not have let him go all the same. That was his way. There is nothing for it: it seems I shall have to see about the matter myself and go for the brigands with my own men. I’ll begin by sending a score of them to scour the wood. My people are not cowards: any of them will tackle a bear single-handed – and they are not likely to turn tail at the sight of brigands.’

  ‘How is your bear, Kiril Petrovich?’ asked Anton Pafnutyevich, reminded of his shaggy acquaintance and of certain practical jokes of which he had once been the victim.

  ‘Misha the bear has departed this life,’ answered Kiril Petrovich. ‘He died an honourable death at the hand of an enemy. There is his conqueror!’ and Kiril Petrovich pointed to Desforges. ‘You ought to get a portrait of my Frenchman. He has avenged your… if I may say so… do you remember?’

  ‘I should think I do!’ said Anton Pafnutyevich, scratching his head. ‘I remember only too well. So Misha is dead – I am sorry to hear it, I really am! What an amazing creature he was! So intelligent! You will not find another bear like him. And why did monsieur kill him?’

  Kiril Petrovich began with great satisfaction to relate the exploit of his Frenchman, for he had the happy faculty of priding himself on all that in any way belonged to him. The guests listened attentively to the story of the bear’s death, glancing in amazement at Desforges who, unaware that his bravery was the subject of the conversation, sat quietly in his place, occasionally admonishing his restive pupil.

  The dinner, which had lasted some three hours, came to an end. The host put his napkin on the table and everybody rose and went to the drawing-room, where coffee and cards awaited them, and a continuation of the drinking so excellently begun in the dining-room.

  10

  TOWARDS seven o’clock in the evening some of the guests were ready to go home, but Kiril Petrovich, exhilarated by punch, ordered the gates to be closed and forbade anyone to leave before morning. Soon the strains of a band swelled out, the doors into the big drawing-room were thrown open, and dancing began. The host and his cronies sat in a corner drinking glass after glass, watching the young people enjoy themselves. The elderly ladies played cards. There was a shortage of men as generally happens unless some cavalry brigade is quartered in the neighbourhood, and all the men who could dance were enlisted as partners. The tutor particularly distinguished himself: he danced more than anyone, all the young ladies desiring him for their partner and finding him very easy to waltz with. He danced several times with Maria Kirilovna, and the other girls observed them with knowing smiles. At last, around midnight, the host, who was tired, stopped the dancing, ordered supper to be served and then betook himself to bed.

  With Kiril Petrovich out of the way the company felt more at ease and livelier; the gentlemen ventured to sit near the ladies; the young girls laughed and whispered with their partners; the ladies talked loudly across the table. The older men drank and argued with boisterous laughter – in short the supper-party was extremely gay and left many a pleasant memory behind it.

  One man only took no part in the general enjoyment. Anton Pafnutyevich sat gloomy and silent, eating absent-mindedly and apparently feeling exceedingly ill at ease. The conversation about the brigands had disturbed his imagination. We shall soon see that he had good reason to fear them.

  In calling God to witness that the little red cash-box was empty Anton Pafnutyevich had committed no sin, told no lie: the red cash-box really was empty. The money that had once been kept in it had been transferred to a leather pouch which he wore round his neck under his shirt. It was only this precaution that appeased to some extent his continual fear and distrust of every one. Obliged to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid of being put in some distant room where thieves would have no difficulty in breaking in. He looked round for a reliable companion and at last selected Desforges. His strong build and, still more, the courage he had shown in the encounter with the bear, whom poor Anton Pafnutyevich could never think of without a shudder, decided his choice. When they g
ot up from the table Anton Pafnutyevich hung round the young Frenchman and, clearing his throat and giving a preliminary cough, finally addressed him directly.

  ‘Hm! Hm! Could I spend the night in your room, monsieur, because you see…’

  ‘Que désire monsieur?’ asked Desforges with a polite bow.

  ‘Oh, how unfortunate, monsieur, that you have not yet learnt Russian. Je veux, moi chez vous coucher, do you understand?’

  ‘Monsieur, très volontiers,’ replied Desforges. ‘Veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence.’

  Very much pleased with his knowledge of the French language, Anton Pafnutyevich went at once to make the necessary arrangements.

  The guests wished each other good night and retired to the rooms appointed to them, while Anton Pafnutyevich accompanied the tutor to the far wing. The night was dark. The tutor lighted the way with a lantern. Anton Pafnutyevich followed with a fair amount of confidence, occasionally touching the pouch hidden in his breast to make sure that his money was still there.

  When they came to their apartment the tutor lit a candle and they both began to undress, Anton Pafnutyevich as he did so walking about and examining the doors and windows, and shaking his head at the unsatisfactory state of things revealed by his inspection. The doors had no lock but only a latch, and there were no double frames to the windows.1 He tried to complain of all this to Desforges but his knowledge of French was too limited for so complicated an explanation. The Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutyevich was obliged to stop grumbling. Their beds were opposite each other. They both lay down, and Desforges blew out the candle.