All rose; her father was just beginning to introduce his guests, when suddenly he stopped short and bit his lips.... Liza, his dark-complexioned Liza, was painted white up to the ears, and was more heavily made up than even Miss Jackson herself; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, covered her head like the peruke of Louis the Fourteenth; her sleeves à l’imbécile stood out like the hooped skirts of Madame de Pompadour; her figure was pinched in like the letter X, and all her mother’s jewels, which had not yet found their way to the pawnbroker’s, shone upon her fingers, her neck and in her ears.
Alexey could not possibly recognize his Akulina in the grotesque and dazzling young lady. His father kissed her hand, and he followed his example, though much against his will; when he touched her little white fingers, it seemed to him that they trembled. In the meantime he succeeded in catching a glimpse of her little foot, intentionally advanced and set off to advantage by the most coquettish shoe imaginable. This reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her toilette. As for the paint and powder, it must be confessed that, in the simplicity of his heart, he had not noticed them at the first glance, and afterwards had no suspicion of them. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise, and endeavored not to show any astonishment; but his daughter’s prank seemed to him so amusing, that he could scarcely contain himself. But the person who felt no inclination to laugh was the prim English governess. She had a shrewd suspicion that the paint and powder had been extracted from her chest of drawers, and a deep flush of anger was distinctly visible beneath the artificial whiteness of her face. She darted angry glances at the young madcap, who, reserving her explanations for another time, pretended that she did not notice them.
They sat down to table. Alexey continued to play his rôle of assumed indifference and absent-mindedness. Liza put on an air of affectation, spoke in a sing-song through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept constantly looking at her, not understanding her object, but finding it all exceedingly amusing. The English governess fumed with rage and said not a word. Ivan Petrovich alone seemed at home: he ate like two, drank heavily, laughed at his own jokes, and grew more talkative and hilarious every moment.
At last they all rose from the table; the guests took their departure, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free vent to his laughter and to his questions.
“What put the idea into your head of fooling them like that?” he said to Liza. “But do you know what? The paint suits you admirably. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of a lady’s toilette, but if I were in your place, I would very soon begin to paint; not too much, of course, but just a little.”
Liza was enchanted with the success of her stratagem. She embraced her father, promised him that she would consider his advice, and then hastened to conciliate the indignant Miss Jackson, who with great reluctance consented to open the door and listen to her explanations. Liza was ashamed to appear before strangers with her dark complexion; she had not dared to ask... she felt sure that dear, good Miss Jackson would pardon her, etc., etc. Miss Jackson, feeling convinced that Liza had not wished to make her a laughing-stock by imitating her, calmed down, kissed her, and as a token of reconciliation, made her a present of a small pot of English ceruse, which Liza accepted with every appearance of sincere gratitude.
The reader will readily imagine that Liza lost no time in repairing to the rendezvous in the little wood the next morning.
“You were at our master’s yesterday,” she said at once to Alexey: “what do you think of our young mistress?”
Alexey replied that he had not noticed her.
“That’s a pity!” replied Liza.
“Why so?” asked Alexey.
“Because I wanted to ask you if it is true what they say —
“What do they say?”
“Is it true, as they say, that I am very much like her?”
“What nonsense! She is a perfect freak compared with you.”
“Oh, sir, it is very wrong of you to speak like that. Our young mistress is so fair and so stylish! How could I be compared with her!”
Alexey vowed to her that she was more beautiful than all the fair young ladies in creation, and in order to pacify her completely, he began to describe her mistress in such comical terms, that Liza laughed heartily.
“But,” said she with a sigh, “even though our young mistress may be ridiculous, I am but a poor ignorant thing in comparison with her.”
“Oh!” said Alexey; “is that anything to break your heart about? If you wish it, I will soon teach you to read and write.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Liza, “why shouldn’t I try?”
“Very well, my dear; we will commence at once.”
They sat down. Alexey drew from his pocket a pencil and note-book, and Akulina learnt the alphabet with astonishing rapidity. Alexey could not sufficiently admire her intelligence. The following morning she wished to try to write. At first the pencil refused to obey her, but after a few minutes she was able to trace the letters with tolerable accuracy.
“It is really wonderful!” said Alexey. “Our method certainly produces quicker results than the Lancaster system.”
And indeed, at the third lesson Akulina began to spell through Natalya the Boyar’s Daughter, interrupting her reading by observations which really filled Alexey with astonishment, and she filled a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms drawn from the same story.
A week went by, and a correspondence was established between them. Their letter-box was the hollow of an old oak-tree, and Nastya acted as their messenger. Thither Alexey carried his letters written in a bold round hand, and there he found on plain blue paper the scrawls of his beloved. Akulina perceptibly began to acquire an elegant style of expression, and her mind developed noticeably.
Meanwhile, the recently formed acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky soon became transformed into a sincere friendship, under the following circumstances. Muromsky frequently reflected that, on the death of Ivan Petrovich, all his possessions would pass into the hands of Alexey Ivanovich, in which case the latter would be one of the wealthiest landed proprietors in the province, and there would be nothing to hinder him from marrying Liza. The elder Berestov, on his side, although recognizing in his neighbor a certain extravagance (or, as he termed it, English folly), was perfectly ready to admit that he possessed many excellent qualities, as for example, his rare resourcefulness. Grigory Ivanovich was closely related to Count Pronsky, a man of distinction and of great influence. The Count could be of great service to Alexey, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich) would doubtless rejoice to see his daughter marry so advantageously. By dint of constantly dwelling upon this idea, the two old men came at last to communicate their thoughts to one another. They embraced each other, both promised to do their best to arrange the matter, and they immediately set to work, each on his own side. Muromsky foresaw that he would have some difficulty in persuading his Betsy to become more intimately acquainted with Alexey, whom she had not seen since the memorable dinner. It seemed to him that they had not liked each other much; at least Alexey had not paid any further visits to Priluchino, and Liza had retired to her room every time that Ivan Petrovich had honored them with a visit.
“But,” thought Grigory Ivanovich, “if Alexey came to see us every day, Betsy could not help falling in love with him. That is in the nature of things. Time will settle everything.”
Ivan Petrovich was less uneasy about the success of his designs. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short pause, said:
“Well, Alyosha, you have not said anything for a long time about military service. Or has the Hussar uniform lost its charm for you?”
“No, father,” replied Alexey respectfully; “but I see that you do not like the idea of my entering the Hussars, and it is my duty to obey you.”
“Good,” replied Ivan Petrovich; “I see that you are an obedient son; that is a consolation to me.... On my side, I do not wish to compel yo
u; I do not want to force you to enter,.. the civil service... at once, but, in the meanwhile, I intend you to get married.”
“To whom, father?” asked Alexey in astonishment.
“To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovich. “She is a fine bride, is she not?”
“Father, I have not thought of marriage yet.”
“You have not thought of it, and therefore I have thought of it for you.”
“As you please, but I do not care for Liza Muromsky in the least.”
“You will get to like her afterwards. Love comes with time.”
“I do not feel capable of making her happy.”
“Do not fret about making her happy. What? Is this how you respect your father’s wish? Very well!”
“As you choose. I do not wish to marry, and I will not marry.”
“You will marry, or I will curse you; and as for my estate, as true as there is a God in heaven, I will sell it and squander the money, and not leave you a farthing. I will give you three days to think about the matter; and in the meantime, keep out of my sight.”
Alexey knew that when his father once took an idea into his head, even a nail would not drive it out, as Taras Skotinin says in the comedy. But Alexey took after his father, and was just as head-strong as he was. He went to his room and began to reflect upon the limits of paternal authority. Then his thoughts reverted to Lizaveta Grigoryevna, to his father’s solemn vow to make him a beggar, and last of all to Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic idea of marrying a peasant girl and of living by the labor of his hands came into his head, and the more he thought of such a decisive step, the more reasonable did it seem to him. For some time the interviews in the wood had ceased on account of the rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the neatest handwriting, and in the wildest style, informing her of the misfortune that threatened them, and offering her his hand. He took the letter at once to the
post-office in the wood, and then went to bed, well satisfied with himself.
The next day Alexey, still firm in his resolution, rode over early in the morning to visit Muromsky, in order to explain matters frankly to him. He hoped to excite his generosity and win him over to his side.
“Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” he asked, stopping his horse in front of the steps of the Priluchino mansion.
“No, sir,” replied the servant; “Grigory Ivanovich rode out early this morning, and has not yet returned.”
“How annoying!” thought Alexey.... “Is Liza- veta Grigoryevna at home, then?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Alexey sprang from his horse, gave the reins to the lackey, and entered without being announced.
“Everything is going to be decided now,” thought he, directing his steps toward the parlor: “I will explain everything to Lizaveta herself.”
He entered... and then stood still as if petrified! Liza... no... Akulina, dear, dark-skinned Akulina, no longer in a sarafan, but in a white morning dress, was sitting in front of the window, reading his letter; she was so preoccupied that she had not heard him enter.
Alexey could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Liza started, raised her head, uttered a cry, and wished to fly from the room. But he held her back.
“Akulina! Akulina!”
Liza endeavored to free herself from his grasp.
“Mais laissez-moi donc, Monsieur!... Mais êtes- vous fou?” she repeated, turning away.
“Akulina! my dear Akulina!” he repeated, kissing her hands.
Miss Jackson, a witness of this scene, knew not what to think of it. At that moment the door opened, and Grigory Ivanovich entered the room.
“Aha!” said Muromsky; “it seems that you have already arranged matters between you.”
The reader will spare me the unnecessary obligation of describing the denouement.
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
Translated by H. Twitchell
Pushkin’s most celebrated short story, The Queen of Spades is the eternal tale of gambling and the avarice that plagues humanity. Pushkin wrote the story in the autumn of 1833 while staying at Boldino and the tale was first published in the literary magazine Biblioteka dlya chteniya in March 1834.
It tells the story of Hermann, an ethnic German, who is an officer of the engineers in the Imperial Russian army. He constantly watches the other officers gamble, but never plays himself. One night, he is intrigued to hear Tomsky tell a story about his grandmother, who was an elderly countess. Many years ago, she lost a fortune at cards and then won it back, with the secret of the three winning cards, which she learned from a notorious Count. And so Hermann becomes obsessed with obtaining the secret of the Queen of Spades…
Interestingly, the character of the Countess was inspired by Princess Natalya Petrovna Galitzine, a lady in waiting, socialite and noble and Dame of the Order of St. Catherine’s first degree. The tale appears repeatedly in short story anthologies and has gone on to inspire operas by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Fromental Halévy and Franz von Suppé.
Natalya Petrovna Chernysheva (1741-1837)
Pushkin, close to the time of publication
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
AT the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under the influence of the good wine, however, the conversation then became general.
“Well, Sourine?” said the host inquiringly.
“Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep, I never win.”
“How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?” remarked one of the men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. “Here you are with the rest of us at five o’clock in the morning, and you have neither played nor bet all night.”
“Play interests me greatly,” replied the person addressed, “but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain superfluities.”
“Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it,” said Tomsky. “But the person I can’t quite understand is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna.”
“Why?” inquired a chorus of voices.
“I can’t understand why my grandmother never gambles.”
“I don’t see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty refuses to gamble,” objected Naroumov.
“Have you never heard her story?”
“No — ”
“Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People crowded each other in the streets to get a chance to see the ‘Muscovite Venus,’ as she was called. All the great ladies played faro, then. On one occasion, while playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost an enormous sum. She told her husband of the debt, but he refused outright to pay it. Nothing could induce him to change his mind on the subject, and grandmother was at her wits’ ends. Finally, she remembered a friend of hers, Count Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him, as many wonderful stories have been told about him. He is said to have discovered the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone, and many other equally marvelous things. He had money at his disposal, and my grandmother knew it. She sent him a note asking him to come to see her. He obeyed her summons and found her in great distress. She painted the cruelty of her husband in the darkest colors, and ended by telling the Count that she depended upon his friendship and generosity.
“‘I could lend you the money,’ replied the Count, after a moment of thoughtfulness, ‘but I know that you would not enjoy a moment’s rest until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment. There is another way of freeing yourself.’
“‘But I have no money at all,’ insisted my grandmother.
“‘There is no need of money. Listen to me.’
“The Count then t
old her a secret which any of us would give a good deal to know.”
The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few whiffs, then continued:
“The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen’s gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was soon out of debt.”
“A fable,” remarked Herman; “perhaps the cards were marked.”
“I hardly think so,” replied Tomsky, with an air of importance.
“So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you haven’t found out the magic secret.”
“I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my father, all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to one of them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor. Tchaplitzky, who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost at one time, at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was desperate and grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three cards, making him swear never to use them again. He returned to the game, staked fifty thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead, after paying his debts.”
As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass and taking his leave.
The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young girl, her ward, sat at her needlework.
Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 57