The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  Andrey Gavrilovich, after a more careful consideration of the questions addressed to him, saw the necessity of replying more circumstantially. He wrote a sufficiently businesslike letter, but this ultimately proved insufficient also. Dubrovsky had no experience in litigation. He generally followed the dictates of common sense, a guide rarely safe, and nearly always insufficient.

  The business dragged on. Confident of being in the right, Andrey Gavrilovich troubled himself very little about the matter; he had neither the inclination nor the means to scatter money about, and although he was always the first to poke fun at the venality of the scribbling fraternity, the idea of being made the victim of chicanery never entered his head. Troyekurov, on his side, thought as little of winning the case he had started. Shabashkin took the matter in hand for him, acting in his name, intimidating and bribing the judges and quoting and interpreting various ukases in the most distorted manner possible.

  At last, on the 9th day of February, in the year 18 — , Dubrovsky received, through the town police, an invitation to appear at the district Court to hear the decision in the matter of the disputed property between himself — Lieutenant Dubrovsky — and General Troyekurov, and to signify his approval or disapproval of the verdict. That same day Dubrovsky set out for town. On the road he was overtaken by Troyekurov. They glared haughtily at each other, and Dubrovsky observed a malicious smile upon the face of his adversary.

  Arriving in town, Andrey Gavrilovich stopped at the house of an acquaintance, a merchant, where he spent the night, and the next morning he appeared before the Court. Nobody paid any attention to him. After him arrived Kirila Petrovich. The clerks rose and stuck their pens behind their ears, while the members of the Court received him with every sign of abject obsequiousness, and an arm-chair was offered him out of consideration for his rank, years and corpulence. He sat down; Andrey Gavrilovich stood leaning against the wall. A deep silence ensued, and the secretary began in a sonorous voice to read the decree of the Court.

  We cite it in full, believing that everyone will be pleased to see one of the ways in which we in Russia may lose an estate to which we have an indisputable right.

  When the secretary had ceased reading, the assessor arose and, with a low bow, turned to Troyekurov, inviting him to sign the paper which he held out to him. Troyekurov, quite triumphant, took the pen and wrote beneath the decision of the Court a statement signifying his complete satisfaction with it.

  It was now Dubrovsky’s turn. The secretary handed the paper to him, but Dubrovsky stood immovable, with his head bowed. The secretary repeated his invitation: “To signify his full and complete satisfaction, or his manifest dissatisfaction, if he felt in his conscience that his case was just, and intended, at the time stipulated by law, to appeal against the decision of the Court.”

  Dubrovsky remained silent... Suddenly he raised his head, his eyes flashed, he stamped his foot, pushed back the secretary with such force that he fell, seized the inkstand, and hurled it at the assessor. Everyone was horrified.

  “What!” Dubrovsky shouted, “Not to respect the Church of God! Out with you, you spawn of Ham!”

  Then turning to Kirila Petrovich:

  “Has such a thing ever been heard of, Your Excellency?” he continued. “The whips bring dogs into the Church of God! The dogs are running about the church! I will teach you a lesson!”

  The guards rushed in on hearing the noise, and with difficulty overpowered him. They led him out and placed him in a sledge. Troyekurov went out after him, accompanied by the whole Court. Dubrovsky’s sudden madness had produced a deep impression upon his imagination and poisoned his triumph. The judges, who had counted upon his gratitude, did not receive a single affable word from him. He returned immediately to Pokrovskoye. Dubrovsky, in the meantime, lay in bed. The district doctor — not altogether a blockhead — bled him and applied leeches and fly-blisters to him. Toward evening he began to feel better, and the next day he was taken to Kistenyovka, which scarcely belonged to him any longer.

  III

  SOME time elapsed, but poor Dubrovsky’s health showed no signs of improvement. It was true that the fits of madness did not recur, but his strength was visibly failing. He abandoned his former occupations, rarely left his room, and for days together remained absorbed in his own reflections. Yegorovna, a kind- hearted old woman who had once tended his son, now became his nurse. She waited upon him as though he were a child, reminded him when it was time to eat and sleep, fed him and put him to bed. Andrey Gavrilovich obeyed her, and had no dealings with anybody else. He was not in a condition to think about his affairs or to look after his property, and Yegorovna saw the necessity of informing young Dubrovsky, who was then serving in one of the regiments of Foot Guards stationed in Saint Petersburg, of everything that had happened. And so, tearing a leaf from the account-book, she dictated to Khariton the cook, the only literate person in Kistenyovka, a letter, which she sent off that same day to town to be posted.

  But it is time to acquaint the reader with the real hero of our story.

  Vladimir Dubrovsky had been educated at the cadet school and, on leaving it, had entered the Guards as sub-lieutenant. His father spared nothing that was necessary to enable him to live in a becoming manner, and the young man received from home a great deal more than he had any right to expect. Being imprudent and ambitious, he indulged in extravagant habits, played cards, ran into debt, and troubled himself very little about the future. Occasionally the thought crossed his mind that sooner or later he would be obliged to take to himself a rich bride, the dream of every poverty- stricken youth.

  One evening, when several officers were visiting him, lolling on couches and smoking his amber pipes, Grisha, his valet, handed him a letter, the address and seal of which immediately struck the young man. He hastily opened it and read the following:

  “Our Master Vladimir Andreyevich, I, your old nurse, have decided to report to you regarding your father’s health. He is very poorly, sometimes he wanders in his talk,, and the whole day long he sits like a foolish child — but life and death are in the hands of God. Come to us, my bright little falcon, and we will send horses to meet you at Pesochnoye. We hear that the Court is going to hand us over to Kirila Petrovich Troyekurov, because it is said that we belong to him, although we have always belonged to you, and have always heard so ever since we can remember. You might, living in Saint Petersburg, inform our father the Czar of this, and he will not allow us to be wronged. I remain your faithful servant, nurse Arina Yegorovna Buzireva.

  “I send my maternal blessing to Grisha, does he serve you well? It has been raining here for the last fortnight and Rodya the shepherd died about St. Nicholas’ day!’

  Vladimir Dubrovsky read these somewhat confused lines several times with great agitation. He had lost his mother during his childhood, and, hardly knowing his father, had been taken to Saint Petersburg when he was eight years of age. In spite of that, he was romantically attached to his father, and having had but little opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of family life, he loved it all the more in consequence.

  The thought of losing his father pained him exceedingly, and the condition of the poor invalid, which he guessed from his nurse’s letter, horrified him. He imagined his father, left in an out-of-the-way village in the hands of a stupid old woman and the domestics, threatened with some misfortune, and fading away helplessly in the midst of mental and physical tortures. Vladimir reproached himself with criminal neglect. Not having received any news of his father for a long time, he had not thought of making inquiries about him, supposing him to be traveling about or absorbed in the management of his estate. He decided to go to him and even to retire from the army, should his father’s condition require his presence at his side. Seeing that he was upset, his friends left. Once alone, Vladimir wrote an application for leave of absence, lit his pipe, and sank into deep thought. That same evening he began to take further steps for obtaining leave of absence, and two days afterward he set out
in a stage coach, accompanied by his faithful Grisha.

  Vladimir Andreyevich neared the post station at which he was to take the turning for Kistenyovka. His heart was filled with sad forebodings; he feared that he would no longer find his father alive. He pictured to himself the dreary kind of life that awaited him in the village: the desolation, solitude, poverty and cares connected with business of which he did not understand a thing. Arriving at the station, he went to the postmaster and asked for horses. The postmaster, having inquired where he was going, informed him that horses sent from Kistenyovka had been waiting for him for the last four days. Before Vladimir Andreyevich there soon appeared the old coachman Anton, who used formerly to take him over the stables and look after his pony. Anton’s eyes filled with tears on seeing his young master, and bowing to the ground, he told him that his old master was still alive, and then rushed off to harness the horses. Vladimir Andreyevich declined the proffered meal, and hastened to depart. Anton drove him along the cross-country roads, and conversation began between them.

  “Tell me, if you please, Anton, what is this business between my father and Troyekurov?”

  “God knows, little father Vladimir Andreyevich; the master, they say, fell out with Kirila Petrovich, and the latter went to law about it, though often he takes the law into his own hands. It is not the business of us servants to have a say about what our masters please to do, but God knows that your father had no business to go against the will of Kirila Petrovich: it’s no use butting your head against a wall.”

  “It seems, then, that this Kirila Petrovich does just what he pleases with you?”

  “He certainly does, master: he does not care a rap for the assessor, and the police officer is his errand boy. The gentry kowtow to him, for as the proverb says: ‘Where there is a trough, there will the pigs be also.’”

  “Is it true that he is taking our estate from us?”

  “Oh, master, that is what we have heard. The other day, the sexton from Pokrovskoye said at the christening held at the house of our overseer: ‘You’ve had it easy long enough; Kirila Petrovich will soon take you in hand;’ and Mikita the blacksmith said to him: ‘Sa- velich, don’t distress the godfather, don’t disturb the guests. Kirila Petrovich is for himself, and Andrey Gavrilovich is for himself — and we are all God’s and the Czar’s.’ But you cannot sew a button upon another person’s mouth.”

  “Then you do not wish to pass into the possession of Troyekurov?”

  “Into the possession of Kirila Petrovich! The Lord save and preserve us! His own people fare badly enough, and if he got possession of strangers, he would strip off, not only the skin, but the flesh also. No, may God grant long life to Andrey Gavrilovich; and if God should take him to Himself, we want nobody but you, our provider. Do not give us up, and we will stand by you.”

  With these words, Anton flourished his whip, shook the reins, and the horses broke into a brisk trot.

  Touched by the devotion of the old coachman, Dubrovsky became silent and gave himself up to his own reflections. More than an hour passed; suddenly Grisha roused him by exclaiming: “There is Pokrovskoye!” Dubrovsky raised his head. They were just then driving along the bank of a broad lake, out of which flowed a small stream which was lost to sight among the hills. On one of these, above a thick green wood, rose the green roof and belvedere of a huge stone house, and on another a church with five cupolas and an ancient belfry; round about were scattered the village huts with their kitchen gardens and wells. Dubrovsky recognized these places; he remembered that on that very hill he had played with little Masha Troyekurov, who was two years younger than he, and who even then gave promise of being a beauty. He wanted to make inquiries of Anton about her, but a certain bashfulness restrained him.

  As they drove past the manor house, he noticed a white dress flitting among the trees in the garden. At that moment Anton whipped the horses, and impelled by that vanity, common to village coachmen as to drivers in general, he drove at full speed over the bridge and past the village. On emerging from the village, they ascended the hill, and Vladimir perceived the little birch grove, and to the left, in an open place, a small gray house with a red roof. His heart began to beat — before him was Kistenyovka, and the humble house of his father.

  About ten minutes afterwards he drove into the courtyard. He looked around him with indescribable emotion: it was twelve years since he had last seen his birthplace. The little birches, which had just then been planted near the wooden fence, had now become tall, spreading trees. The courtyard, formerly ornamented with three regular flower-beds, between which ran a broad path carefully swept, had been converted into a meadow, in which was grazing a tethered horse. The dogs began to bark, but recognizing Anton, they stopped and wagged their shaggy tails. The servants came rushing out of the house and surrounded the young master with loud manifestations of joy. It was with difficulty that he was able to make his way through the enthusiastic crowd. He ran up the rickety steps; in the vestibule he was met by Yegorovna, who tearfully embraced him.

  “How do you do, how do you do, nurse?” he repeated, pressing the good old woman to his heart. “And father? Where is he? How is he?”

  At that moment a tall old man, pale and thin, in a dressing-gown and cap, entered the room, dragging one foot after the other with difficulty.

  “How are you Volodka?” said he in a weak voice, and Vladimir embraced his father warmly.

  The joy proved too much for the sick man; he grew weak, his legs gave way beneath him, and he would have fallen, if his son had not held him up.

  “Why did you get out of bed?” said Yegorovna to him. “He cannot keep on his feet, and yet he wants to behave just like anybody.”

  The old man was carried back to his bedroom. He tried to converse with his son, but he could not collect his thoughts, and his words were incoherent. He became silent and fell into a kind of doze. Vladimir was struck by his condition. He installed himself in the bedroom and requested to be left alone with his father. The household obeyed, and then all turned toward Grisha and led him away to the servants’ hall, where they regaled him with a hearty meal according to the rustic custom, and entertained him hospitably, wearying him with questions and greetings.

  IV

  There is a coffin where the festive board was spread.

  A FEW days after his arrival, young Dubrovsky wished to turn his attention to business, but his father was not in a condition to give him the necessary explanations, and there was no one in charge of Andrey Gavrilovich’s affairs. Examining his papers, Vladimir only found the first letter of the assessor and a rough copy of his father’s reply to it. From these he could not ol> tain any clear idea of the lawsuit, and he determined to await the result, trusting in the justice of their cause.

  Meanwhile the health of Andrey Gavrilovich grew worse from hour to hour. Vladimir foresaw that his end was not far off, and he never left the old man, who was now in his second childhood.

  In the meantime the term for appealing the case had elapsed and nothing had been done. Kistenyovka now belonged to Troyekurov. Shabashkin came to him, and with a profusion of salutations and congratulations, inquired when His Excellency intended to enter into possession of his newly acquired property — would he go and do so himself, or would he deign to commission somebody else to act as his representative?

  Kirila Petrovich was troubled. By nature he was not avaricious; his desire for revenge had carried him too far, and now his conscience pricked him. He knew in what condition his adversary, the old comrade of his youth, was, and his victory brought no joy to his heart. He glared sternly at Shabashkin, seeking for some pretext to give him a dressing-down, but not finding a suitable one, he said to him in an angry tone:

  “Get out! I’m in no mood to see you!”

  Shabashkin, seeing that he was in a bad humor, bowed and hastened to withdraw, and Kirila Petrovich, left alone, began to pace up and down, whistling: “Thunder of victory resound!” which, with him, was always a sure sign
of unusual agitation of mind.

  At last he gave orders for the droshky to be got ready, wrapped himself up warmly (it was already the end of September), and, himself holding the reins, drove away.

  He soon caught sight of Andrey Gavrilovich’s little house. Contradictory feelings filled his soul. Satisfied vengeance and love of power had, to a certain extent, deadened his more noble sentiments, but at last these lattef prevailed. He resolved to effect a reconciliation with his old neighbor, to efface the traces of the quarrel and restore to him his property. Having eased his soul with this good intention, Kirila Petrovich set off at a gallop toward the residence of his neighbor and drove straight into the courtyard.

  At that moment the invalid was sitting at his bedroom window. He recognized Kirila Petrovich — and his face assumed a look of violent agitation: a livid flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes gleamed and he uttered unintelligible sounds. His son, who was sitting there examining the account books, raised his head and was struck by the change in his father’s condition. The sick man pointed with his finger toward the courtyard with an expression of rage and horror. At that moment the voice and heavy tread of Yegorovna were heard: “Master, master! Kirila Petrovich has come! Kirila Petrovich is on the steps!” she cried.... “Good God! What is the matter? What has happened to him?” Andrey Gavrilovich had hastily gathered up the skirts of his dressing-gown and was preparing to rise from bis arm-chair. He succeeded in getting upon his feet — and then suddenly collapsed. His son rushed toward him; the old man lay insensible and without breathing: he had had a stroke.

  “Quick, quick! send to town for a doctor!” cried Vladimir.

  “Kirila Petrovich is asking for you,” said a servant, entering the room.

  Vladimir gave him a terrible look.