The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

by Alexander Pushkin

  I felt ashamed of myself. I turned my back and said to him: ‘Go away, Savelich. I don’t want any tea.’ But it was not easy to stop Savelich once he began sermonizing. ‘You see now, Piotr Andreich, what happens when you go drinking. A bad head and no appetite. A man who drinks is good for nothing…. Some cucumber and honey mixture now, or, best thing of all for getting rid of a sick headache, half a glass of liqueur. What do you say?’

  At that moment a lad came in and handed me a note from Zurin. I opened it and read the following lines:

  Dear Piotr Andreyevich,

  Be so good as to send me by this lad of mine the hundred roubles which I won from you yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.

  Always at your service,

  Ivan Zurin

  There was no help for it. I assumed an air of indifference and, turning towards Savelich, who had charge of my money, my clothes and all my affairs, told him to give the boy a hundred roubles.

  ‘What? Why?’ asked Savelich, aghast.

  ‘I owe them to him,’ I replied as coolly as possible.

  ‘Owe them?’ echoed Savelich, more and more aghast. ‘And when was it, sir, you found time to incur a debt to him? There be something fishy about this business. Do what you like, sir, but I am not going to pay out the money.’

  I reflected that if at this critical moment I did not gain the upper hand of the obstinate old man it would be difficult later on to free myself from his tutelage, so, looking at him haughtily, I said:

  ‘I am your lord and master, while you are only my servant. The money is mine. I lost it at play because such was my fancy. I advise you not to argue but to do as you are told.’

  Savelich was so struck by my words that he clasped his hands in the air and stood dumbfounded.

  ‘What are you standing there for?’ I shouted at him angrily.

  Savelich began to weep.

  ‘Good master, Piotr Andreich,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘don’t bring me to the grave with a broken heart. Light of my eyes, listen to me – listen to an old man. Write to that brigand that it was all a joke, that we have not got such money. A hundred roubles! Merciful heavens! Tell him your parents absolutely forbade you to gamble for anything except nuts…’

  ‘That will do!’ I interrupted him severely. ‘Bring me the money or I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck.’

  Savelich looked at me with profound sadness and went to fetch the money. I was sorry for the poor old man, but I wanted to assert my independence and show that I was no longer a child. The money was paid to Zurin. Savelich made haste to get me out of the confounded inn. He came to tell me that the horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience and full of silent remorse I left Simbirsk without taking leave of my teacher and not expecting ever to see him again.

  2

  THE GUIDE

  O distant land, now land of mine,

  ’Tis not my wish that I am come,

  ’Tis not my good horse brings me here

  But lusty youth and nimble wit,

  Audacity and tavern wine.

  AN OLD SONG

  MY reflections as we journeyed were not particularly agreeable. The sum I had lost, according to the value of money at that time, was considerable. I could not help confessing in my innermost heart that I had behaved foolishly at the Simbirsk inn, and I felt in the wrong with Savelich. All this made me wretched. The old man sat morosely on the box, his back turned away from me, and was silent except for an occasional sigh. I was extremely anxious to make my peace with him but not sure how to begin. At last I said:

  ‘Come now, Savelich! That’s enough, let us be friends, I was to blame. I can see myself that I was wrong. I behaved foolishly yesterday, and hurt your feelings unjustly. I promise to be more sensible in future, and listen to you. So don’t be angry – let us make it up!’

  ‘Alas, alas, Piotr Andreich, master!’ he replied with a deep sigh. ‘I be angry with myself: ‘twas all my fault. How could I have gone and left you alone in the inn! But there ‘tis – the devil tempted me: I took it into my head to drop in on the wife of the diatchok,1 an old crony of mine. That is the way of it: drop in on an old crony and you might be in prison, the time you stay. Was there ever such a calamity! How shall I be able to show myself in the sight of the master and mistress? What will they say when they hear that their child is a drunkard and a gambler?’

  In order to comfort poor Savelich I gave him my word that in future I would not spend a single kopeck without his consent. Gradually he calmed down, although from time to time he still muttered to himself, shaking his head: ‘A hundred roubles! Oh, a mere trifle!’

  I was approaching my destination. Around me stretched desolate wastes, intersected by hills and ravines, and everything covered with snow. The sun was setting. The sledge was travelling along a narrow roadway, or, to be more precise, a track made by the sledges of the peasants. Suddenly the driver began looking over to the side, and finally, taking off his cap, he turned to me and said:

  ‘Will you not have me go back, sir?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The weather is uncertain: the wind is getting up a bit. See how it’s lifting the newly-fallen snow.’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘But look over there.’ (The driver pointed with his whip to the east.)

  ‘I don’t see anything save white steppe and clear sky.’

  ‘But over there, away in the distance: that tiny cloud.’

  I did indeed see a small white cloud on the edge of the horizon which I had taken at first for a faraway hillock. The driver explained that the little cloud presaged a snowstorm.

  I had heard of the snowstorms in those parts and knew that often entire convoys of sledges got buried by them. Savelich was of the driver’s opinion and advised a return. But the wind not appearing to be at all strong, I hoped to reach the next post-station in time, and gave the order to drive faster.

  The driver put the horses at a gallop but still kept looking towards the east. The beasts sped along steadily together. The wind meanwhile was getting up. The little cloudlet was transformed into a great white cloud, which climbed heavily and grew until it overran the whole sky. Fine snow began to fall, and then suddenly came down in great flakes. The wind howled, and the storm burst upon us. In a trice the sombre heavens were merged in a sea of snow. Everything was lost to sight.

  ‘Well, sir,’ cried the driver, ‘the misfortune’s come: it’s a snowstorm!’

  I looked through the curtain of the sledge: all was darkness and hurricane. The wind howled with such savage violence that it seemed to be alive. Savelich and I were covered with snow. The horses slowed to a walking pace and soon stopped altogether.

  ‘Why don’t you go on!’ I called to the driver impatiently.

  ‘What good to go on?’ he replied, jumping down from the box. ‘As it is we don’t know where we’ve got ourselves to: no track, and a fog of snow all round.’

  I began to rail at him. Savelich took his part.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have listened?’ he said irritably. ‘You would have been back at the inn by now, drinking cup after cup of tea, and slept in comfort until the morning. The storm would have died down and we should be on our way again. And where’s our hurry? ‘Tisn’t as if we were going to a wedding!’

  Savelich was right. There was nothing to be done. The snow continued to fall thick and fast. It piled high around the sledge. The horses stood still, their heads down, and every now and again they gave a shiver. For want of something to do the driver walked round them, adjusting the harness. Savelich grumbled. I looked about me, hoping to discover some sign of habitation or a road, but could make out nothing save the dense swirl of the storm. Suddenly I caught sight of something black.

  ‘Hey, driver!’ I shouted. ‘Look – what’s that black thing over there?’

  The driver stared into the distance.

  ‘Heaven only knows, sir,’ he said, climbing back on to his seat. ‘It’s no sort of a c
art, it can’t be a tree. And yet it seems to be moving: must be a wolf or a man.’

  I told him to make for the unknown object which immediately started to advance in our direction. A couple of minutes later we came up with a man.

  ‘Hey, my good man!’ the driver shouted to him. ‘Do you know where the road is?’

  ‘The road – this is the road: I am standing on firm ground,’ replied the wayfarer, ‘but what use is that?’

  ‘Listen, my good fellow,’ I said to him. ‘Do you know these parts? Can you guide me to a night’s lodging?’

  ‘I know the country well enough,’ he replied. ‘I should think I have trodden every inch of it, yes and covered it on horseback too. But you see what the weather is: we should get lost straight away. Better stop here, and wait till it’s over. Maybe the storm will abate, and the sky clear: then we can find our bearings by the stars.’

  His composure put heart into me. I had already made up my mind to trust Providence and spend the night out in the steppes, when suddenly the man climbed nimbly on to the box and said to the driver:

  ‘Come, thanks be to God, there is a dwelling not far off: turn right and let us go there.’

  ‘But why should I go right?’ asked the driver in annoyance. ‘Where do you see a road? Of course the horses are not yours, or their collars, so whip up, then, and away – is that it?’

  The driver seemed to me to be right.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said I, ‘what makes you think we are close to a house?’

  ‘Why, because a gust of wind blew from that direction,’ replied the traveller, ‘and I smelt smoke, which proves there’s a hamlet nearby.’

  His shrewdness and keen sense of smell amazed me. I told the driver to push on. The horses advanced with difficulty in the deep snow. The sledge moved slowly, now clambering up a snowdrift, now tumbling into a hollow and leaning over first to one side, then to the other. It was like the pitching of a boat in a rough sea. Savelich groaned as he kept lurching into my side every minute. I let down the matting which served as a portière, wrapped my cloak round me and dozed off, lulled by the singing of the storm and the swaying of our slow progress.

  I had a dream which I have never forgotten, and in which to this day I see something prophetic when considered in connexion with the strange vicissitudes of my life. The reader will forgive me, for he probably knows from experience how natural it is for man to indulge in superstition, however great his contempt for vain imaginings may be.

  I found myself in that condition of mind and feeling when reality gives place to reverie and merges into the shadowy visions of the first stages of sleep. It seemed to me that the storm was still raging, and we were still wandering in the wilderness of snow…. Suddenly I saw a gateway and drove into the courtyard of our estate. My first thought was one of apprehension lest my father should be angry because of my involuntary return home, and regard it as intentional disobedience. With a feeling of uneasiness I sprang out of the sledge and saw my mother coming down the steps to meet me, a look of deep sorrow upon her face. ‘Hush, quietly,’ she says to me, ‘your father is ill and dying, and wants to say good-bye to you.’ Terror-stricken, I follow her into the bedroom. The room is feebly lit; people with sad faces are standing round the bed. I creep up to the bed; my mother lifts the curtains a little, and says: ‘Andrei Petrovich, Petrusha has arrived; he came back when he heard you were ill: give him your blessing.’ I knelt down and fixed my eyes on the sick man. But what’s this?… Instead of my father, a peasant with a black beard is lying on the bed, looking at me merrily. I turn to my mother in perplexity, and say: ‘What does it mean? This is not my father. And why must I ask this peasant’s blessing?’ – ‘Never mind, Petrusha,’ replied my mother. ‘He is taking your father’s place for the wedding; kiss his hand and let him give you his blessing….’ I refused. Where upon the peasant jumped out of the bed, seized an axe from behind his back and began flourishing it about. I wanted to run away… and could not. The room was full of dead bodies; I kept stumbling against them, and my feet slipped in the pools of blood…. The dreadful peasant called to me in a kindly voice: ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he cried. ‘Come and let me bless you….’ Horror and bewilderment possessed me…. And at that moment I awoke. The horses had stopped. Savelich was holding me by the arm, and saying:

  ‘Get out, master, we have arrived.’

  ‘Where have we arrived?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘At an inn. By God’s help we ran right up against the fence. Make haste, master, and come and warm yourself.’

  I stepped out of the sledge. The storm still continued, though with less violence. It was pitch dark. The landlord greeted us at the gate, holding a lantern under the skirt of his coat, and conducted me into a room that was small but tolerably clean, and lighted by a pine-torch. A gun and a tall Cossack cap hung on the wall.

  The landlord, a Cossack from Yaïk, appeared to be a man of about sixty, active and well preserved. Savelich followed me with the box of tea-things, and demanded a fire to make tea, which had never seemed to me more welcome. Our host departed to set to work.

  ‘But where is our guide?’ I asked Savelich.

  ‘Here, your Honour,’ replied a voice from above.

  I looked up and on the shelf over the stove saw a black beard and two flashing eyes.

  ‘Well, friend, are you frozen?’

  ‘I should think I am frozen with nothing but a thin jerkin on! I did have a sheepskin coat but I confess I left it in pawn yesterday with the owner of a tavern: the frost did not seem to be so bad.’

  At this point the landlord came in with a boiling samovar: I offered our guide a cup of tea. The peasant let himself down from the shelf. His appearance struck me as remarkable. He was about forty years old, of medium height, thin and broad-shouldered. His black beard was streaked with grey; his big sparkling eyes were never still. His face had a rather pleasant but sly expression. His hair was cropped round after the Cossack manner. He wore a tattered jerkin over wide Turkish trousers. I handed him a cup of tea. He tasted it and made a wry face. ‘Be so kind, your Honour… tell them to bring me a glass of vodka: tea is not the drink for us Cossacks.’ I willingly did as he asked. The landlord took a square bottle and a glass out of the dresser, went up to the man and, looking him in the face, said: ‘Well, well, you round here again! Where have you sprung from?’ My guide winked significantly and replied with this adage: ‘I was flying about the kitchengarden, picking up hempseed. The old woman threw a stone at me, but it missed. And how are your fellows getting on?’

  ‘Nothing much to say of them,’ replied the landlord, continuing the conversation in allegorical terms. ‘They were just going to ring the bells for vespers, but the parson’s wife forbade them: with the priest away on a visit, the devils make merry in the parish.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, man,’ retorted my vagabond. ‘If it rains there will be mushrooms; if there are mushrooms there will be a basket to put them in; but now’ (and he winked his eye again) ‘hide the axe behind your back: the forester’s making his rounds. Your Honour, here’s to your health!’

  With these words he took his glass, crossed himself and emptied it at a gulp, then bowed to me and returned to his shelf.

  I could understand nothing of this thieves’ slang at the time but afterwards I guessed that they were talking of matters concerning the Yaïk Cossacks, who had only recently been put down after the 1772 rebellion. Savelich listened with a look of deep displeasure. He took stock suspiciously now of the landlord now of the guide. The inn, or shelter for travellers, as the local people called it, stood isolated in the middle of the steppe, a long way from any village, and looked uncommonly like a place of rendezvous for brigands. But there was no help for it. To continue our journey was out of the question. I was much amused by Savelich’s anxiety. Meanwhile I got ready to pass the night, and stretched out on the bench. Savelich decided to sleep on the stove; the landlord lay down on the floor. Soon the hut was full of snoring, and I dr
opped off sound as a log.

  I awoke somewhat late next morning, and saw that the storm had died away. The sun was shining. The snow lay in a dazzling sheet over the boundless steppe. The horses were harnessed. I paid the landlord, who charged us such a modest sum that even Savelich did not argue with him and start his usual haggling, and quite forgot his suspicions of the night before. Calling our guide, I thanked him for his help, and told Savelich to give him half a rouble. Savelich scowled. ‘Half a rouble for a tip!’ he exclaimed. ‘And what for? Because you were good enough to give him a lift to the inn? As you please, sir; but we have no half roubles to spare. If we tip everybody we shall soon go hungry ourselves.’ I could not quarrel with Savelich. I had promised that he should have the entire control of our money. But I felt vexed not to be able to show my gratitude to the man who had saved me if not from disaster at least from a most disagreeable situation.

  ‘Very well,’ I said to him coldly. ‘If you do not want to give him half a rouble, get out some of my clothes for him. He is not wearing enough. Give him my hare-skin coat.’

  ‘Mercy on us, my good master, Piotr Andreich!’ cried Savelich. ‘Why give him your hare-skin coat? He’ll sell it for drink at the first pot-house he comes to, the dog!’

  ‘That is no concern of yours, old fellow,’ put in my tramp, ‘whether I sell it for drink or not. His Honour is making me a present of one of his own coats. It is your master’s pleasure to do so, and your duty as a servant not to argue but obey.’

  ‘Have you no fear of God, brigand!’ replied Savelich in an angry voice. ‘You can see the child has not yet reached the age of wisdom, and you are only too glad to take advantage of his inexperience. What do you want with my master’s coat? You could not squeeze your hulking shoulders into it, however you try.’