The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

by Alexander Pushkin

  19

  IN a narrow clearing in the deep heart of the forest was a small fort consisting of a rampart and a ditch running round some huts and shelters. A number of men immediately recognizable as bandits by their various garments and the fact that all were armed were eating their dinner, sitting bareheaded round a large cauldron. A sentry sat cross-legged on the rampart beside a small cannon. He was sewing a patch on part of his attire, plying the needle with an art that indicated the experienced tailor, and at the same time keeping a sharp look-out in every direction.

  Though the drinking-cup had been passed round several times a strange hush reigned among the gathering. The bandits finished their dinner; one after another they got to their feet and silently offered their thanksgiving. Some dispersed to their huts, others wandered off into the forest or lay down for a brief nap as Russians do.

  The sentry finished his sewing, gave his patched-up garment a shake, admired his handiwork, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat astride the cannon and sang at the top of his voice the melancholy old song:

  ‘Rustle not, Mother-forest, with all your green leaves, And stay not a young lad from thinking his thoughts.’

  At that moment the door of one of the huts opened and an old woman in a white cap, neatly and primly dressed, appeared on the threshold.

  ‘That’s enough, Styopka,’ she said crossly. ‘The master is having a rest, and you keep on yelling like this! You people have no conscience, no pity.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Yegorovna,’ Styopka answered. ‘All right, I’ll be quiet. Let him sleep and get better.’

  The old woman withdrew into the hut and Styopka began pacing up and down the rampart.

  Inside the hut from which the old woman had emerged the wounded Dubrovsky lay on a camp-bed behind a partition. His pistols were on a table in front of him and his sword hung near his head. The floor and the walls of the mud-hut were covered with rich rugs. In a corner was a lady’s silver toilet-set and a cheval-glass. Dubrovsky held an open book in his hand but his eyes were closed and the old woman, who kept peeping at him from the other side of the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or merely lost in thought.

  Suddenly Dubrovsky started. There was a commotion in the stronghold and Styopka thrust his head in at the window.

  ‘Vladimir Andreyevich, sir!’ he shouted. ‘Our men are signalling – they are on our track!’

  Dubrovsky leaped from his bed, seized his weapons and came out from the hut. The brigands were crowding noisily together in the enclosure but when they saw him there was a deep silence.

  ‘Are you all here?’ Dubrovsky asked.

  ‘All except the patrols,’ was the reply.

  ‘To your stations!’ cried Dubrovsky, and the brigands took up each his appointed place.

  At that moment three of the scouts ran up to the gate of the fort. Dubrovsky went over to them.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Soldiers in the forest, they are surrounding us.’

  Dubrovsky ordered the gates to be locked and went to examine the cannon. Voices were heard in the forest, drawing nearer and nearer. The brigands waited in silence. Suddenly three or four soldiers appeared out of the forest and immediately drew back again, firing their muskets as a signal to their comrades.

  ‘Prepare for battle!’ cried Dubrovsky, and there was a movement among the bandits. Then all was still again.

  They could hear the noise of the approaching column; see the glint of weapons among the trees. Some hundred and fifty soldiers poured out of the forest and rushed with a shout towards the rampart. Dubrovsky lit the fuse; the shot was successful – one soldier had his head blown off and two others were wounded. The troops were thrown into confusion but the officer dashed forward, the soldiers followed him and jumped down into the ditch. The brigands fired down at them with muskets and pistols, and then with axes in their hands prepared to defend the rampart against the infuriated soldiers who were now climbing it, leaving a score of their fellows wounded in the ditch below. A hand-to-hand struggle followed. The soldiers were already on the rampart and the brigands losing ground but Dubrovsky advanced towards the officer in command of the attacking party, put his pistol to the man’s breast and fired. The officer crashed backwards to the ground. Some soldiers lifted him into their arms and hastened to carry him into the wood; the others, having lost their leader, stopped fighting. Encouraged by their momentary hesitation, the brigands pressed them back into the ditch. The attackers began to run; with fierce yells the brigands started in pursuit. The victory was decisive. Feeling sure that the enemy was completely routed, Dubrovsky called his men off and, giving orders to pick up the wounded, shut himself in his fortress, after having doubled the number of sentries and forbidden anyone to leave the place.

  These last events drew the attention of the Government to Dubrovsky’s daring robberies. Information was obtained of his whereabouts and a detachment of soldiers sent to capture him dead or alive. Several of his band were caught and from them it was learned that Dubrovsky was no longer with them. A few days after the battle he had called together all his confederates and declared that he was leaving them for ever, and advised them to change their way of living.

  ‘You have become rich under my command. Each of you has a pass with which he can safely make his way to some distant province and there spend the rest of his life in honest labour and prosperity. But you are all rascals and probably will not wish to give up your trade.’

  After this speech he left them, taking with him only one man. No one knew what became of him. At first the truth of this testimony was doubted – the brigands’ devotion to their leader was well known and it was thought that they were trying to shield him; but subsequently it found confirmation. The dreadful raids, the incendiarism and the robberies ceased. The roads became safe once more. According to other sources it appeared that Dubrovsky had fled to some foreign country.1

  Maria Kirilovna’s life

  Death of Prince Vereisky

  The Widow

  The Englishman [Dubrovsky returns to Maria Kirilovna in the guise of an Englishman]

  The Meeting [between Dubrovsky and Maria Kirilovna]

  The Gamblers

  The Chief of Police

  Dénouement

  Another plan reads:

  Moscow, the Surgeon, Solitude

  The Tavern, Denunciation

  Suspicion, the Chief of Police.

  The Queen of Spades

  THE QUEEN OF SPADES BETOKENS

  THE EVIL EYE

  Modern Guide to Fortune-Telling

  1

  When bleak was the weather

  They would meet together

  For cards – God forgive them!

  Some would win, others lost,

  And they chalked up the cost

  In bleak autumn weather

  When they met together.

  THERE was a card party in the rooms of Narumov, an officer of the Horse Guards. The long winter night had passed unnoticed and it was after four in the morning when the company sat down to supper. Those who had won enjoyed their food; the others sat absent-mindedly in front of empty plates. But when the champagne appeared conversation became more lively and general.

  ‘How did you fare, Surin?’ Narumov asked.

  ‘Oh I lost, as usual. I must confess, I have no luck: I stick to mirandole, never get excited, never lose my head, and yet I never win.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you were not once tempted to back the red the whole evening? Your self-control amazes me.’

  ‘But look at Hermann,’ exclaimed one of the party, pointing to a young officer of the Engineers. ‘Never held a card in his hands, never made a bet in his life, and yet he sits up till five in the morning watching us play.’

  ‘Cards interest me very much, ‘said Hermann, ‘but I am not in a position to risk the necessary in the hope of acquiring the superfluous.’

  ‘Hermann is a German: he’s careful, that’s what that is!�
� remarked Tomsky. ‘But if there is one person I can’t understand it is my grandmother, Countess Anna Fedotovna.’

  ‘Why is that?’ the guests cried.

  ‘I cannot conceive how it is that my grandmother does not play.’

  ‘But surely there is nothing surprising in an old lady in the eighties not wanting to gamble?’ said Narumov.

  ‘Then you don’t know about her?’

  ‘No, nothing, absolutely nothing!’

  ‘Well, listen then. I must tell you that some sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris and was quite the rage there. People would run after her to catch a glimpse of la Vénus moscovite; Richelieu was paying court to her, running after her, and grandmamma maintains that he very nearly blew his brains out because of her cruelty to him. In those days ladies used to play faro. One evening at the Court she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. When she got home she told my grandfather of her loss while peeling off the beauty spots from her face and untying her farthingale, and commanded him to pay her debt. My grandfather, so far as I remember, acted as a sort of major-domo to my grandmother. He feared her like fire; however, when he heard of such a frightful gambling loss he almost went out of his mind, fetched the bills they owed and pointed out to her that in six months they had spent half a million roubles and that in Paris they had neither their Moscow nor their Saratov estates upon which to draw, and flatly refused to pay. Grandmamma gave him a box on the ear and retired to bed without him as a sign of her displeasure. The following morning she sent for her husband, hoping that the simple punishment had had its effect, but she found him as obdurate as ever. For the first time in her life she went so far as to reason with him and explain, thinking to rouse his conscience and arguing with condescension, that there were debts and debts, and that a prince was different from a coach-builder. But it was not a bit of good – grandfather just would not hear of it. “Once and for all, no!” Grandmamma did not know what to do. Among her close acquaintances was a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count Saint-Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that he posed as the Wandering Jew and claimed to have discovered the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone, and so on. People laughed at him as a charlatan, and Casanova in his Memoirs says that he was a spy. Be that as it may, Saint-Germain, in spite of the mystery that surrounded him, had a most dignified appearance and was a very amiable person in society. Grandmamma is still to this day quite devoted to his memory and gets angry if anyone speaks of him with disrespect. Grandmamma knew that Saint-Germain had plenty of money at his disposal. She decided to appeal to him, and wrote a note asking him to come and see her immediately. The eccentric old man came at once and found her in terrible distress. She described in the blackest colours her husband’s inhumanity, and ended by declaring that she laid all her hopes on his friendship and kindness. Saint-Germain pondered. “I could oblige you with the sum you want,” he said, “but I know that you would not be easy until you had repaid me, and I should not like to involve you in fresh trouble. There is another way out – you could win it back.”

  ‘“But, my dear count,” answered grandmamma, “I tell you I have no money at all.”

  ‘“That does not matter,” Saint-Germain replied. “Listen now to what I am going to tell you.”

  ‘And he revealed to her a secret which all of us would give a great deal to know….’

  The young gamblers redoubled their attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and continued:

  ‘That very evening grandmamma appeared at Versailles, at the jeu de la reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank. Grandmamma lightly excused herself for not having brought the money to pay off her debt, inventing some little story by way of explanation, and began to play against him. She selected three cards and played them one after the other: all three won, and grandmamma retrieved her loss completely.’

  ‘Luck!’ said one of the party.

  ‘A fairy tale!’ remarked Hermann.

  ‘Marked cards, perhaps,’ put in a third.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Tomsky impressively.

  ‘What!’ said Narumov. ‘You have a grandmother who knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and you haven’t learnt her secret yet?’

  ‘Like hell!’ Tomsky replied. ‘She had four sons, one of whom was my father; all four were desperate gamblers, and yet she did not reveal her secret to a single one of them, though it would not have been a bad thing for them, or for me either. But listen to what my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, used to say, assuring me on his word of honour that it was true. Tchaplitsky – you know him, he died a pauper after squandering millions – as a young man once lost three hundred thousand roubles, to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. Grandmamma was always very severe on the follies of young men, but somehow she took pity on Tchaplitsky. She gave him three cards, which he was to play one after the other, at the same time forcing him to give his word of honour that he would never afterwards touch a card so long as he lived. Tchaplitsky went to Zorich’s; they sat down to play. Tchaplitsky slaked fifty thousand on his first card and won; doubled his stake and won; did the same again, won back his loss and ended up in pocket…

  ‘But, I say, it’s time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already.’

  And indeed dawn was breaking. The young men emptied their glasses and went home.

  2

  ‘Il paratt que monsieur est décidément pour les suivantes.’

  ‘Que voulez-vous, madame? Elles sont plus fratebes.’

  FROM A SOCIETY CONVERSATION1

  THE old Countess X was seated before the looking-glass in her dressing-room. Three maids were standing round her. One held a pot of rouge, another a box of hairpins, and the third a tall cap with flame-coloured ribbons. The countess had not the slightest pretensions to beauty – it had faded long ago – but she still preserved all the habits of her youth, followed strictly the fashion of the seventies, and gave as much time and care to her toilette as she had sixty years before. A young girl whom she had brought up sat at an embroidery frame by the window.

  ‘Good morning, grand’maman!’ said a young officer, coming into the room. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grand’maman, I have a favour to ask of you.’

  ‘What is it, Paul?’

  ‘I want you to let me introduce to you a friend of mine and bring him to your ball on Friday.’

  ‘Bring him straight to the ball and introduce him to me then. Were you at the princess’s last night?’

  ‘Of course I was! It was most enjoyable: we danced until five in the morning. Mademoiselle Yeletsky looked enchanting!’

  ‘Come, my dear! What is there enchanting about her? She isn’t a patch on her grandmother, Princess Daria Petrovna. By the way, I expect Princess Daria Petrovna must have aged considerably?’

  ‘How do you mean, aged?’ Tomsky replied absent-mindedly. ‘She’s been dead for the last seven years.’

  The girl at the window raised her head and made a sign to the young man. He remembered that they concealed the deaths of her contemporaries from the old countess, and bit his lip. But the countess heard the news with the utmost indifference.

  ‘Dead! I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘We were maids of honour together, and as we were being presented the Empress…’

  And for the hundredth time the countess repeated the story to her grandson.

  ‘Well, Paul,’ she said at the end; ‘now help me to my feet. Lise, where is my snuff-box?’

  And the countess went with her maids behind the screen to finish dressing. Tomsky was left à deux with the young girl.

  ‘Who is it you want to introduce?’ Lizaveta Ivanovna asked softly.

  ‘Narumov. Do you know him?’

  ‘No. Is he in the army?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the Engineers?’

  ‘No, Horse Guards. What made you think he was in the Engineers?’

  The girl laughed and made no answer.
/>
  ‘Paul!’ the countess called from behind the screen. ‘Send me a new novel to read, only pray not one of those modern ones.’

  ‘How do you mean, grand’maman?’

  ‘I want a book in which the hero does not strangle either his father or his mother, and where there are no drowned corpses. I have a horror of drowned persons.’

  ‘There aren’t any novels of that sort nowadays. Wouldn’t you like something in Russian?’

  ‘Are there any Russian novels?… Send me something, my dear fellow, please send me something!’

  ‘Excuse me, grand’maman: I must hurry…. Good-bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna! I wonder, what made you think Narumov was in the Engineers?’

  And Tomsky departed from the dressing-room.

  Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone. She abandoned her work and began to look out of the window. Soon, round the corner of a house on the other side of the street, a young officer appeared. Colour flooded her cheeks; she took up her work again, bending her head over her embroidery-frame. At that moment the countess came in, having finished dressing.

  ‘Order the carriage, Lise,’ she said, ‘and let us go for a drive.’

  Lizaveta Ivanovna rose from her embroidery-frame and began putting away her work.

  ‘What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?’ the countess cried. ‘Be quick and order the carriage.’

  ‘I will go at once,’ the young girl answered quietly, and ran into the ante-room.

  A servant came in and handed the countess a parcel of books from Prince Paul Alexandrovich.

  ‘Good! Tell him I am much obliged,’ said the countess. ‘Lise, Lise, where are you off to?’