The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

by Alexander Pushkin

  ‘No palavering now, please,’ I said to the old man. ‘Bring the coat at once.’

  ‘Gracious heavens!’ groaned my Savelich. ‘Why the hare-skin coat is almost brand new! It would be different if it were for someone deserving, but to give it to a scamp of a drunkard!’

  However, the hare-skin coat appeared. The peasant immediately began to try it on. The coat, which I had slightly outgrown, was certainly a little tight for him. All the same, he managed to get into it somehow, after bursting the seams. Savelich nearly howled when he heard the stitches cracking. The tramp was exceedingly pleased with my present. He accompanied me to the sledge, and said with a low bow: ‘Thank you, your Honour. May the Lord reward you for your goodness. I shall never forget your kindness so long as I live.’ He went his way, and I continued on mine, taking no notice of Savelich, and I soon forgot the snowstorm of the day before, my guide and the hare-skin coat.

  Arriving in Orenburg, I presented myself at once to the general. I saw a tall man though already bent by age, with long, completely white hair. His old faded uniform recalled the soldier of Anna Ivanovna’s reign, and he spoke with a strong German accent. I handed him my father’s letter. At the mention of his name the general glanced at me quickly. ‘Mein Gott!’ he said. ‘It doess not seem so long ago since Andrei Petrovich vass your age. And now see what a fine big son he hass! Ach, how time flies!’ He broke the seal of the letter and began reading it in an undertone, interposing his own remarks: ‘“Esteemed Sir, Andrei Karlovich, I hope that your Excellency…” Here iss zeremony for youl Pshaw, I vonder he iss not ashamed! Of course disscipline before everyt’ing, but iss diss der way to write to an old Kamerad? “… your Excellency hass not forgotten…” H’m… “and when the late Field-Marshal Munnich… in the campaign… and also the… little Caroline…” Ach, ach, der Bruder! So he still remembers our old pranks, then? “Now to business… I am sending my rascal to you…” H’m… “Handle him with mitts of porcupine…” What are mitts of porcupine? Dat must be a Russian saying…. What does to handle with mitts of porcupine mean?’ he repeated, turning to me.

  ‘It means’, I answered him, looking as innocent as possible, ‘to treat kindly, not to be too strict, to give plenty of freedom – to handle with mitts of porcupine’

  ‘H’m, I see… “and not to give him too much rope –” No, mitts of porcupine must mean somet’ing different…. “Enclosed you vill find his passport.” Where is it though? Oh yes… “Take his name off the register of the Semeonovsky regiment…” Very goot, very goot: everyt’ing shall be attended to… “You vill allow me wit’out zeremony to embrace you and… as an old Kamerad and friend…” Ah, at last he has got round to it!… and so on, and so on. Veil, my boy,’ he said, when he had finished reading the letter and put aside my passport, ‘everyt’ing shall be arranged; you vill be transferred mit’ der rank of officer to the — regiment, and, not to lose time, you shall leaf tomorrow for der Bielogorsky fortress, where you vill serve under Captain Mironov, a goot and upright man. T’ere you vill see real service, und be taught what iss disscipline. Der is not’ing for you to do in Orenburg; dissipation iss bad for a young man. Und today! invite you to dine mit’ me.’

  ‘From bad to worse!’ I thought to myself. ‘What is the good of my having been a sergeant in the Guards almost before I was born! Where has it brought me? To the — regiment and a fortress buried in the steppes by the Kirghiz-Kaissak border…’

  I had dinner with Andrei Karlovich, in company with his old aide-de-camp. A rigorous German economy reigned at his table, and I believe that fear of an additional guest to share his frugal bachelor meal was partly the cause of my hurried despatch to the garrison. Next day I took leave of the general and set off to my destination.

  3

  THE FORTRESS

  In this fortress we live,

  Bread and water our fare,

  But when the fierce en’my

  Comes to savour our ware –

  A fine feast we’ll prepare,

  With grape-shot our cannon

  We’ll load.

  SOLDIERS’ SONG

  They are old-fashioned people, my dear sir.

  THE MINOR1

  THE Bielogorsky fortress lay forty versts2 from Orenburg. The road followed the steep bank of the Yaïk. The river was not yet frozen, and its leaden waves looked black and mournful between the white, monotonous, snow-covered banks. Away on the other side the Kirghiz steppes stretched into the distance. I was absorbed in reflections, for the most part of a melancholy nature. Garrison life held little attraction for me. I tried to picture Captain Mironov, my future chief, and imagined him a stern, bad-tempered old man, ignorant of everything but the Service, and ready to put me under arrest on a diet of bread and water for the merest trifle. Meanwhile, it was beginning to grow dark. We were driving fairly quickly.

  ‘Is it far to the fortress?’ I asked the driver. ‘No, not far,’ he replied. ‘You can see it over yonder.’ I looked round on every side, expecting to catch sight of menacing battlements, towers and a moat, but saw nothing save a little hamlet surrounded by a picket-fence of stakes. On one side of it stood three or four haystacks half buried under the snow; on the other a tumble-down windmill with wings of bast which hung idle. ‘But where is the fortress?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Why, there it is,’ replied the driver, pointing to the hamlet, and as he spoke we drove into it. At the gate I saw an old cannon made of cast iron; the streets were narrow and crooked; the cottages small and for the most part with thatched roofs. I told the driver to take me to the commandant, and a minute later the sledge stopped before a small wooden house built on rising ground near the church, which was likewise of wood.

  No one came out to meet me. I walked into the lobby and opened the door into the next room. An old soldier was sitting on the table, sewing a blue patch on the sleeve of a green uniform. I told him to announce me. ‘Go in, my dear,’ he replied. ‘They’re at home.’ I went into a neat little room, furnished in the old-fashioned style. In one corner stood a dresser with plates and dishes; on the wall hung an officer’s diploma, glazed and framed; coloured woodcuts, representing The Taking of Küstrin, The Taking of Ochakov, Choosing a Bride, and The Cat’s Funeral, made bright splashes on either side of it. An old woman wearing a quilted jacket with a kerchief on her head was sitting by the window. She was winding a hank of yarn which a one-eyed old man in an officer’s uniform held for her between outstretched hands. ‘What is your pleasure, good sir?’ she asked me, continuing with her work. I answered that I had come to serve in the army, and to present myself, as duty bid, to the Captain, and I was about to address the one-eyed old man by that title, supposing him to be the commandant, when the lady of the house interrupted the speech I had prepared. ‘Ivan Kuzmich is not at home,’ said she. ‘He has gone to see Father Gerassim. But it makes no difference, good sir, I am his wife. You are very welcome. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.’ She called to the maid and told her to summon the sergeant. The old man kept looking at me inquisitively with his one eye. ‘May I be so bold as to ask in what regiment you have been serving?’ I satisfied his curiosity. ‘And may I ask’, he continued, ‘why you have exchanged the Guards for garrison service?’ I replied that such was the wish of my superiors. ‘For conduct unbecoming an officer of the Guards, I presume?’ persisted my indefatigable interrogator. ‘That’s enough of your chatter,’ the captain’s lady interrupted him. ‘You can see the young man is tired after his journey: he doesn’t want to be bothered with you…. Hold your hands straighter now…. As for you, my good sir,’ she went on, turning to me, ‘don’t take it to heart that you have been packed off to these wilds. You are not the first, and you will not be the last. You will like it well enough when you get used to it. Shvabrin – Alexei Ivanich – was transferred to us five years ago for killing a man. Heaven alone knows what possessed him: would you believe it, he went out of town with a certain lieutenant. They had taken their swords with them, and they started p
rodding each other, and Alexei Ivanich ran the lieutenant through, and before two witnesses tool Well, there it is – one never knows what one may do.’

  At this point the sergeant came in, a well-built young Cossack.

  ‘Maximich!’ the captain’s lady said to him. ‘Find a lodging for this officer, and mind it is clean.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Could not his Honour lodge at Ivan Polezhayev’s?’

  ‘Certainly not, Maximich,’ said the captain’s wife. ‘Polezhayev’s is crowded enough as it is. Besides, he is a friend, and always remembers that we are his superiors. Take the gentleman – what is your name, sir?’

  ‘Piotr Andreich.’

  ‘Take Piotr Andreich to Semeon Kuzov’s. He let his horse into my kitchen-garden, the rascal. Well, Maximich, is everything going all right?’

  ‘Everything in order, praise God,’ the Cossack answered. ‘Only Corporal Prohorov had a set-to in the bath-house with Ustinia Negulina over a bucket of hot water.’

  ‘Ivan Ignatyich!’ said the captain’s wife to the one-eyed old man. ‘See into this business between Prohorov and Ustinia and find out which of them was in the wrong. And then punish the pair of them. Well, Maximich, you can go now. Piotr Andreich, Maximich will accompany you to your quarters.’

  I bowed and took my departure. The Cossack brought me to a cottage situated on the steep bank of the river at the extreme end of the village. One half of the cottage was occupied by the family of Semeon Kuzov, the other half was allotted to me. It consisted of one fairly well kept room divided in two by a partition. Savelich began unpacking while I looked out of the narrow window. The melancholy steppe stretched before me. On one side I got a glimpse of a few cottages; two or three hens strutted about the street. An old woman, standing on the steps with a trough in her hands, was calling some pigs, who answered her with friendly grunting. And this was the place in which I was condemned to spend my youth! I was suddenly overwhelmed with misery. I came away from the window and went to bed without eating any supper in spite of the entreaties of Savelich, who kept repeating in tones of distress: ‘Lord in heaven! Isn’t he going to eat anything? What will the mistress say if the child falls ill?’

  Next morning I had just begun to dress when the door opened and a young officer, short, swarthy and remarkably ugly but with an extraordinarily animated face, walked in. ‘Excuse me,’ he began in French, ‘for coming in without ceremony to make your acquaintance. I heard yesterday of your arrival; the desire at last to see a human face was too strong to be resisted. You will understand when you have lived here for a while.’ I guessed that this was the officer who had been dismissed from the Guards on account of the duel. We quickly made each other’s acquaintance. Shvabrin was certainly no fool. His conversation was witty and entertaining. He gave me the most spirited description of the commandant’s family, their friends and the place to which fate had brought me. I was helpless with laughter, when the old soldier whom I had seen mending his uniform in the captain’s lobby came in with an invitation from Vassilissa Yegorovna to dine with them. Shvabrin offered to go with me.

  As we approached the commandant’s house we saw in the square a score or so of old soldiers with long plaits of hair and three-cornered hats. They were drawn up to attention. The commandant, a tall, vigorous old man wearing a night-cap and nankeen dressing-gown stood facing them. When he saw us he came up, said a few affable words to me, and went back to drilling his men. We would have stopped to watch but he asked us to go on to his house, promising to join us without delay. ‘There is nothing for you to look at here,’ he added.

  Vassilissa Yegorovna gave us a cordial, homely welcome, treating me as though she had known me all my life. The old pensioner and Palashka were laying the table. ‘But what keeps my Ivan Kuzmich so long at his drilling today?’ said the commandant’s wife. ‘Palashka, call your master in to dinner. And where is Masha?’ At that moment a girl of about eighteen entered the room, with a round rosy face and light flaxen hair combed back smoothly behind her ears, which were hot and burning with shyness. I was not particularly taken with her at first glance. I regarded her with prejudiced eyes: Shvabrin had described Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a perfect little idiot. Maria Ivanovna [Masha] sat down in a corner and began sewing. Meanwhile, cabbage soup was brought in. Not seeing her husband, Vassilissa Yegorovna sent Palashka a second time to call him. ‘Tell your master that our guests are waiting, and the soup will get cold. Thank heaven, there is always time for drilling: he can shout himself hoarse later on.’ The captain soon made his appearance, accompanied by the one-eyed little old man.

  ‘What has come over you, my dear?’ his wife said to him. ‘Dinner has been ready an eternity, but there was no getting you in.’

  ‘But I was busy drilling my men, Vassilissa Yegorovna, let me tell you,’ replied Ivan Kuzmich.

  ‘Come, come!’ his wife retorted. ‘It is all talk about your instructing the men. They are no good in the Service, and you don’t know anything about it either. You would do far better to sit at home and say your prayers. My dear guests, please come to table.’

  We sat down to dinner. Vassilissa Yegorovna was never silent for a moment and bombarded me with questions. Who were my parents? Were they alive? Where did they live and how much were they worth? When she heard that my father had three hundred serfs – ‘Just fancy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can there be such rich people in the world? And we, my dear, have only our one maid, Palashka, but we manage pretty well, thank heaven. Our only trouble is, Masha ought to be getting married, but what has she got for a dowry? A fine comb, a fibre glove1 and three kopecks (God forgive me!) for a visit to the bath-house! Well and good if a decent lad turns up; if not, she will have to die an old maid.’ I glanced at Maria Ivanovna; she had flushed crimson and tears were dropping into her plate. I felt sorry for her and hastened to change the conversation.

  ‘I have heard rumours’, I remarked, rather inappropriately, ‘that the Bashkirs are assembling to attack your fortress.’

  ‘And from whom did you hear that, my good sir?’ asked Ivan Kuzmich.

  ‘They told me so in Orenburg,’ I replied.

  ‘All nonsense!’ said the commandant. ‘It’s a long time since there was talk of that. The Bashkirs have been scared off, and the Kirghiz, too, have learnt a lesson. They’ll fight shy of us all right; but if they should poke their noses in I’ll give them a dressing-down that will keep them quiet for the next ten years.’

  ‘And are you not afraid’, I continued, turning to the captain’s wife, ‘to remain in a fortress exposed to such dangers?’

  ‘It’s all a question of habit, my dear,’ she replied. ‘Twenty years ago when we were transferred from the regiment to this place – merciful heavens, how terrified I was of those accursed infidels! The moment I caught sight of their caps of lynx fur, and heard their yelping – would you believe it, my heart stood still. But now I have grown so accustomed to it that I would not stir an inch if I were told that the villains were prowling round the fortress.’

  ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna is a most courageous lady,’ remarked Shvabrin pompously. ‘Ivan Kuzmich can bear witness to that.’

  ‘Yes, she is not one of the timid sort, let me tell you!’ declared Ivan Kuzmich.

  ‘And what about Maria Ivanovna?’ I asked. ‘Is she as brave as you are?’

  ‘Masha brave?’ replied her mother. ‘No, Masha is a coward. She can’t bear even now to hear a rifle-shot: it makes her tremble all over. And a couple of years ago when Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire our cannon on my name-day, she nearly died of fright, poor child. Since then we have not fired the cursed cannon again.’

  We rose from the table. The captain and his wife went to lie down, while I returned with Shvabrin to his quarters, where we spent the rest of the day together.

  4

  THE DUEL

  Very well, then, take up your position,

  And you shall see me run your pers
on through!

  KNIAZHNIN

  SEVERAL weeks had passed and my life in the Bielogorsky fortress had grown not merely endurable but positively pleasant. In the commandant’s house I was received as one of the family. Both husband and wife were most worthy people. Ivan Kuzmich, who was the son of a soldier and had risen to the rank of officer, was a simple, uneducated man, but exceedingly upright and kind. His wife ruled him, which suited his easy-going disposition. Vassilissa Yegorovna considered even Service matters her own concern, and managed the fortress as she did her own home. Maria Ivanovna soon lost her shyness with me. We got to know each other. I found her to be a girl of feeling and good sense. Imperceptibly I grew attached to this kind family, and even to Ivan Ignatyich, the one-eyed lieutenant of the garrison, for whom Shvabrin had invented an improper relationship with Vassilissa yegorovna, though there was not a shadow of probability for this accusation; but Shvabrin did not trouble himself about that.

  I received my commission. My military duties were no burden to me. In our fortress, which God protected, we had neither parades, drills nor sentry duty. Occasionally, when he had a mind to, the commandant instructed the garrison but had not yet succeeded in teaching all of them to know their left hand from their right, although many, so as to make no mistake, crossed themselves at each about-turn. Shvabrin had several French books in his possession. I began reading them and developed a taste for literature. In the mornings I read, did some translating and sometimes even composed verses. I generally dined at the commandant’s and usually spent the rest of the day there, and sometimes of an evening Father Gerassim would come with his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the biggest gossip of the whole neighbourhood. Of course I saw Alexei Ivanich Shvabrin daily but his conversation became more and more distasteful to me as time went on. I very much disliked his constant jesting about the commandant’s family, and especially his derisive remarks concerning Maria Ivanovna. There was no other society in the garrison, but then I wished for no other.