The game continued for some while. On the table lay more than thirty cards. Tchekalinsky paused after each round to give the players time to arrange their cards and note their losses, listened courteously to their observations and more courteously still straightened the corner of a card that some careless hand had turned down. At last the game finished. Tchekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
‘Will you allow me to take a card?’ said Hermann, stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.
Tchekalinsky smiled and bowed graciously, in silent token of consent. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on breaking his long abstention from cards and wished him a lucky start.
‘There!’ said Hermann, chalking some figures on the back of his card.
‘How much?’ asked the banker, screwing up his eyes. ‘Excuse me, I cannot see.’
‘Forty-seven thousand,’ Hermann answered.
At these words every head was turned in a flash, and all eyes were fixed on Hermann.
‘He has taken leave of his senses!’ thought Narumov.
‘Allow me to point out to you’, said Tchekalinsky with his unfailing smile, ‘that you are playing rather high: nobody here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five at a time.’
‘Well?’ returned Hermann. ‘Do you accept my card or not?’
Tchekalinsky bowed with the same air of humble acquiescence.
‘I only wanted to observe’, he said, ‘that, being honoured with the confidence of my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my own part, of course, I am perfectly sure that your word is sufficient but for the sake of the rules of the game and our accounts I must request you to place the money on your card.’
Hermann took a bank-note from his pocket and handed it to Tchekalinsky, who after a cursory glance placed it on Hermann’s card. He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a three.
‘I win!’ said Hermann, pointing to his card.
There was a murmur of astonishment among the company. Tchekalinsky frowned, but the smile quickly reappeared on his face.
‘Would you like me to settle now?’ he asked Hermann.
‘If you please.’
Tchekalinsky took a number of bank-notes out of his pocket and paid there and then. Hermann picked up his money and left the table. Narumov could not believe his eyes. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and departed home.
The following evening he appeared at Tchekalinsky’s again. The host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the players immediately made room for him. Tchekalinsky bowed graciously. Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed on it his original forty-seven thousand together with his winnings of the day before. Tchekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on the left.
Hermann showed his seven.
There was a general exclamation. Tchekalinsky was obviously disconcerted. He counted out ninety-four thousand and handed them to Hermann, who pocketed them in the coolest manner and instantly withdrew.
The next evening Hermann again made his appearance at the table. Every one was expecting him; the generals and privy councillors left their whist to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers leaped up from their sofas and all the waiters collected in the drawing-room. Every one pressed round Hermann. The other players left off punting, impatient to see what would happen. Hermann stood at the table, prepared to play alone against Tchekalinsky, who was pale but still smiling. Each broke the seal of a pack of cards. Tchekalinsky shuffled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned in the room.
Tchekalinsky began dealing; his hands trembled. A queen fell on the right, an ace on the left.
‘Ace wins!’ said Hermann, and showed his card.
‘Your queen has lost,’ said Tchekalinsky gently.
Hermann started: indeed, instead of an ace there lay before him the queen of spades. He could not believe his eyes or think how he could have made such a mistake.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades opened and closed her eye, and mocked him with a smile. He was struck by the extraordinary resemblance….
‘The old woman!’ he cried in terror.
Tchekalinsky gathered up his winnings. Hermann stood rooted to the spot. When he left the table every one began talking at once.
‘A fine game, that!’ said the players.
Tchekalinsky shuffled the cards afresh and the game resumed as usual.
HERMANN went out of his mind. He is now in room number 17 of the Obuhov Hospital. He returns no answer to questions put to him but mutters over and over again, with incredible rapidity: ‘Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very pleasant young man; he is in the civil service somewhere and has a good income. He is the son of the old countess’s former steward. Lizaveta Ivanovna in her turn is bringing up a poor relative.
And Tomsky, who has been promoted to the rank of captain, has married the Princess Pauline.
October-November 1833
The Captain’s Daughter
LOOK AFTER YOUR HONOUR FROM YOUR YOUTH UP
Maxim
1
SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS
‘He could enter the Guards a captain tomorrow’
– ‘Why should be? Let him serve in the line.’
‘Well said! Let him ruff it awhile and win his spurs!
……
‘But who is his father?’ KNIAZHNIN1
As a young man my father, Andrei Petrovich Griniov, served under Count Münnich,2 and retired with the rank of major, in the year 17—.3 After that, he lived on his estate in the province of Simbirsk, where he married Maid Avdotia Vassilievna U—, the daughter of an impecunious nobleman of the district. There were nine of us children. All my brothers and sisters died in infancy. As for me, I was entered as a sergeant in the Semeonovsky regiment, thanks to the favour of Prince B—, a major in the Guards and near relative of ours. I was considered to be on leave of absence until I had finished my studies. In those days children were brought up very differently from today. At the age of five I was entrusted to Savelich, our groom, who for his sobriety was promoted to the dignity of being my personal attendant. Under his supervision by the age of twelve I had learned to read and write Russian, and had a good eye for a greyhound. At this time my father engaged a Frenchman for me, a Monsieur Beaupré, whom he sent for from Moscow together with our yearly supply of wine and olive oil. Savelich was not at all pleased at his coming.
‘By God’s grace,’ he would growl to himself, ‘so far’s I see, the child be clean and tidy and well fed. What be the good of wasting money getting a “Mossieu” – as if we hadn’t servants enough of our own kith ’n kin?’
Beaupré in his native land had been a barber, then a soldier in Prussia, after which he had come to Russia ‘to be an outchitel’ – a teacher – without having much understanding of the meaning of the word. He was a good fellow, but flighty and rakish to a degree. His chief weakness was a passion for the fair sex; his attentions were often rewarded by cuffs that made him sigh for days. In addition, he was not (as he phrased it) an enemy of the bottle, which is to say (in Russian) that he was fond of swigging a drop too much. But since in our house wine was only served at dinner, and then only one glass each with the tutor generally missed out, my Beaupré very quickly accustomed himself to Russian home-made brandy, which he even came to prefer to the wines of his own country as being incomparably better for the digestion. We made friends at once, and although it had been arranged that he was to teach me French, German and all other subjects he very soon preferred to pick up some Russian from me and, after that, we each followed our own pursuits. We got on capitally together. I certainly wished for no other mentor. But fate soon parted us, and this is how it happened.
One fine day Palashka, the laundrymaid, a stout, pockmarked wench, and the one-eyed dairymai
d, Akulka, mutually decided to throw themselves at the same moment at my mother’s feet, confessing to wicked weakness and complaining tearfully of ‘Mossieu’, who had taken advantage of their inexperience. My mother did not treat such matters lightly. She went to my father, whose justice was swift. He immediately sent for that scoundrel of a Frenchman. He was told that ‘Mossieu’ was giving me my lesson. My father came to my room. At that particular moment Beaupré was sleeping the sleep of innocence on my bed. I was busy with my own affairs. I ought to mention that a map of the world had been obtained for me from Moscow. It hung on the wall but was never used and for long I had been tempted by the size and quality of the paper it was printed on. Now I had decided to make a kite with it and, taking advantage of Beaupré’s slumbers, I had set to work. My father came in just as I was trying to fit a bast tail to the Cape of Good Hope. At the sight of my geography exercises my father pulled my ear sharply, then ran over to Beaupré, roused him without ceremony and started heaping reproaches on him. In consternation Beaupré tried to get to his feet but could not: the unhappy Frenchman was dead drunk. In for a penny, in for a pound. My father lifted him from the bed by his collar, kicked him out of the room and sent him away that same day, to Savelich’s indescribable delight. Thus ended my education.
I lived the life of any other young boy of the gentry, chasing pigeons and playing leap-frog with the servants’ children. Meanwhile I had turned sixteen. Then there came a change in my life.
One autumn day my mother was making jam with honey in the parlour, while I licked my lips as I watched the bubbling froth. My father sat by the window reading the Court Calendar, which he received every year. The book always had a powerful effect on him: he never read it without agitation, and perusal of it invariably stirred his bile. My mother, who knew all his ways by heart, always tried to stuff the wretched book as far out of sight as possible, and often the Court Calendar did not catch his eye for months on end, so that when by accident he did come across it it would be hours before he would let it out of his hands. As I have said, my father was reading the Court Calendar, every now and then shrugging his shoulders and muttering to himself: ‘Lieutenant-general!… He used to be a sergeant in my Company!… Knight of both Russian Orders!1… And how long is it since together we…?’ Finally, my father flung the Calendar down upon the sofa and sank into a reverie which boded nothing good.
Suddenly he turned to my mother: ‘Avdotia Vassilievna, how old is Petrusha now?’
‘Why, he’ll be seventeen next birthday,’ replied my mother. ‘Petrusha was born the same year Aunty Nastasia Gerassimovna went blind in one eye, and when…’
‘Very well,’ my father interrupted, ‘it’s time that he entered the Service. He has been running about the servants’ quarters and climbing the dove-cotes long enough.’
The thought of soon being parted from me so overwhelmed my mother that she dropped the spoon into the stewpan, and the tears streamed down her face. My delight, however, could hardly be described. The idea of military service was connected in my mind with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of life in Petersburg. I imagined myself an officer in the Guards, which to my way of thinking was the height of human bliss.
My father cared neither for going back on his decisions nor for putting off their execution. The day for my departure was fixed. On the night before, my father announced his intention of giving me a letter for my future commanding officer, and demanded pen and paper.
‘Don’t forget, Andrei Petrovich,’ said my mother, ‘to give my kind regards, too, to Prince B—, and to say that I hope he will take our Petrusha under his protection.’
‘What fiddlesticks!’ replied my father with a frown. ‘Why should I be writing to Prince B—?’
‘But you said just now you were going to write to Petrusha’s commanding officer.’
‘Well, what of it?’
‘But Petrusha’s commanding officer is Prince B—. Petrusha’s entered for the Semeonovsky regiment.’
‘Entered! What do I care about that? Petrusha is not going to Petersburg. What would he learn, serving in Petersburg? To be a spendthrift and a rake? No, let him serve in the line, let him learn to carry a pack on his back, and know the smell of powder – let him be a soldier and not a fop in the Guards. Where is his passport? Bring it here.’
My mother got out my passport, which she kept in her little chest along with my christening robe, and with a trembling hand passed it to my father. My father read it through attentively, put it on the table in front of him and began his letter.
I was consumed by curiosity. Where were they sending me if not to Petersburg? My eyes never left my father’s pen, which progressed slowly enough. At last he finished, sealed the letter up with the passport, took off his spectacles and, calling me to him, said: ‘Here is a letter to Andrei Karlovich R—, an old comrade and friend of mine. You are going to Orenburg to serve under him.’
And so all my brilliant hopes were dashed to the ground! Instead of a gay life in Petersburg boredom awaited me in some forsaken hole at the other end of the world. Army service which a moment ago I had thought of with such enthusiasm now appeared to me a dreadful misfortune. But it was no use protesting! The next morning a travelling-chaise was driven up to the steps. My trunk, a canteen with tea things and some little packets of white bread and pasties, the last tokens of the spoiling I had at home, were packed into it. My parents gave me their blessing. My father said to me: ‘Good-bye, Piotr. Carry out faithfully your oath of allegiance. Obey your superiors; do not try to curry favour with them; do not put yourself forward, but never shirk a duty, and remember the maxim: “Look after your clothes while they are new, and your honour from your youth up.”’ My mother enjoined me with tears to take care of my health, and bade Savelich look after the child. They helped me on with my coat of hare-skin and over it a cloak of fox fur. I took my seat in the chaise with Savelich and set off, weeping bitterly.
In the evening I arrived in Simbirsk, where I was to spend the next day in order to purchase things that I needed, an errand which Savelich was entrusted with. I put up at an inn. In the morning Savelich sallied out early to the shops. Tired of looking from my window on to a muddy alley-way, I wandered through the other rooms of the inn. Going into the billiard-room, I saw a tall gentleman of about five and thirty, with long black moustaches and in his dressing-gown, a billiard cue in one hand and a pipe between his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who tossed off a glass of vodka every time he won and when he lost had to crawl on all fours under the table. I stopped to watch their play. The longer they went on the more frequent were the excursions on all fours, until at last the marker remained under the table altogether. The gentleman pronounced several vigorous epithets over him, by way of a funeral oration, and invited me to have a game. I refused, saying that I did not know how to play. This seemed to strike him as strange. He looked at me with something like pity. However, we got into conversation. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, that he was a captain in the regiment of — Hussars, stationed at Simbirsk to receive recruits, and was staying in the inn. Zurin invited me to take pot luck and dine with him, as between soldiers. I accepted with pleasure. We sat down to table. Zurin drank a great deal and filled my glass to the brim, saying that I must get used to army ways. He recounted guard-room stories which had me almost rolling on the floor with laughter, and we rose from the table fast friends. Then he offered to teach me to play billiards. ‘It’s indispensable for us army men,’ he said. ‘On the march, for instance, you arrive in some trumpery little town. What are you going to do with yourself? One can’t always be thrashing Jews. So there’s nothing for it but to go to the inn and start playing billiards: but for that you must know how to play!’ I was quite convinced and set about learning with diligence. Zurin was loud in his encouragement, marvelled at my rapid progress and after a few lessons suggested that we play for money, at two kopecks a hundred, not for the sake of gain but merely to avoid playing for nothing, w
hich, he said, was a most detestable practice. I agreed to this too. Zurin called for some punch, and persuaded me to try it, repeating that one must accustom oneself to army life, for what would army life be without punch! I obeyed. Meanwhile, we continued our game. The more often I sipped from my glass the more reckless I became. The balls kept flying over the cushion; I got excited, railed at the marker, who was scoring heaven knows how, from hour to hour I raised the stake – in short, I behaved like a boy having his first taste of freedom. Meanwhile, time passed imperceptibly. Zurin looked at his watch, put down his cue and remarked that I had lost a hundred roubles. That disconcerted me somewhat. Savelich held my money. I began to apologize. Zurin interrupted me: ‘I beg of you, do not worry yourself. I can wait, and meantime let us go and see Arinushka.’
Well, I ended the day as wildly as I had begun. We took supper at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept filling my glass, repeating that I must get used to the ways of the army. When I rose from the table I could hardly stand. At midnight Zurin drove me back to the inn.
Savelich met us at the steps. He uttered a groan when he saw the unmistakable signs of my zeal for the Service.
‘What happened to you, master?’ he said in a woeful voice. ‘Where did you go to get yourself into such a state? Merciful heavens! Never has such a dreadful thing happened to you before!’
‘Be quiet, you old dotard!’ I mumbled in an unsteady voice. ‘It’s you who must be drunk. Get off to bed… and put me to bed.’
Next morning I woke with a splitting head and a confused recollection of the day before. My reflections were interrupted by Savelich coming in with a cup of tea. ‘You’re beginning early, Piotr Andreich –’ he said to me, shaking his head, ‘you’re beginning early to go out on the spree. Who do you take after? It’s my belief neither your dad nor your grandad were drinkers. And of course there be no need to speak of your mamma: she hasn’t touched a drop of anything stronger than kvass since the day she was born. Who is at the bottom of all this? It’s that cursed “Mossieu”. He was for ever running round to Antipievna’s: “Madame, shu voo pree, vodque.” That’s what comes of shu voo pree! There be no doubt about it, he taught you some pretty ways, the son of a dog! And we had to engage that heathen tutor for you, as if the master had not servants enough of his own!’
The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Page 17
