The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  “Ah, ah!” interrupted Kirila Petrovich, “it is evident that you are no dare-devil. What are you afraid of?”

  “How, what am I afraid of, my dear Kirila Petrovich? And Dubrovsky? I might have fallen into his clutches. He is a young man who never misses his aim — he lets nobody off; and I am afraid he would have flayed me twice over, had he got hold of me.”

  “Why, brother, such a distinction?”

  “Why, dear Kirila Petrovich? Have you forgotten the lawsuit of the late Andrey Gavrilovich? Was it not I who, to please you, that is to say, according to conscience and justice, showed that Dubrovsky held possession of Kistenyovka without having any right to it, and solely through your condescension; and did not the deceased — God rest his soul! — vow that he would settle with me in his own way, and might not the son keep his father’s word? Hitherto the Lord has been merciful to me. Up to the present they have only plundered one of my barns, but one of these days they may find their way to the manor-house.”

  “Where they would find rich booty,” observed Kirila Petrovich: “I have no doubt that the little red cash-box is as full as it can be.”

  “Not so, dear Kirila Petrovich; there was a time when it was full, but now it is quite empty.”

  “Don’t you fib, Anton Pafnutyich. We know you. Where do you spend money? At home you live like a pig, you never receive anybody, and you fleece your peasants. You do nothing with your money but hoard it.”

  “You are only joking, dear Kirila Petrovich,” murmured Anton Pafnutyich, smiling; “but I swear to you that we are ruined,” and Anton Pafnutyich began to chew a greasy piece of pie, to take away the sting of his host’s joke.

  Kirila Petrovich left him and turned to the new sheriff, who was his guest for the first time and who was sitting at the other end of the table, near the tutor. “Well, Mr. Sheriff, will you catch Dubrovsky?”

  The sheriff was frightened, bowed, smiled, stammered, and said at last:

  “We will do our best, Your Excellency.”

  “H’m! ‘we will do our best!’ You have been doing your best for a long time and to no purpose. And, after all, why try to catch him? Dubrovsky’s robberies are a blessing to the sheriffs: what with trips and investigations, the money gets into one’s pocket. Why do away with such a godsend? Isn’t that true, Mr. Sheriff?”

  “Perfectly true, Your Excellency,” replied the sheriff, in utter confusion.

  The guests roared with laughter.

  “I like the fellow for his frankness,” said Kirila Petrovich: “but it is a pity that our late sheriff is no longer with us. If he had not been burnt, the neighborhood would have been quieter. And what news of Dubrovsky? Where was he last seen?”

  “At my house, Kirila Petrovich,” said a female voice: “last Tuesday he dined with me.”

  All eyes were turned toward Anna Savishna Glob- ova, a widow, a rather simple person, beloved by everybody for her kind and cheerful disposition. Everyone prepared to listen to her story with curiosity.

  “You must know that three weeks ago I sent my steward to the post with a letter for my Vanyusha. I do not spoil my son, and moreover I haven’t the means of spoiling him, even if I wished to do so. However, you know very well that an officer of the Guards must live in suitable style, and I share my income with Vanyusha as well as I can. Well, I sent two thousand rubles to him; and although the thought of Dubrovsky came more than once into my mind, I thought to myself: the town is not far off — only seven versts altogether, please God all will be well. But what happens? In the evening my steward returns, pale, tattered, and on foot. ‘What is the matter? What has happened to you!’ I exclaimed. ‘The brigands have robbed and almost killed me,’ he answered. ‘Dubrovsky himself was there, and he wanted to hang me, but he afterwards had pity upon me and let me go. But he took away everything I had — money, horse, and cart.’ A faintness came over me. Heavenly Lord! What will become of my Vanyusha? There was nothing to be done. I wrote him a letter, telling him all that had happened, and sent him my blessing without a groat. One week passed, and then another. Suddenly, one day, a coach drove into my courtyard. Some general asked to see me: I gave orders for bim to be shown in. He entered the room, and I saw before me a man of about thirty-five years of age, dark, with black hair, mustache and beard — the exact portrait of Kulnev. He introduced himself to me as a friend and colleague of my late husband, Ivan Andreyevich. He happened to be passing by, he said, and he could not resist paying a visit to his old friend’s widow, knowing that I lived there. I invited him to dine, and I set before him what God had sent me. We spoke of this and that, and at last we began to talk about Dubrovsky. I told him of my trouble. My general frowned. ‘That is strange,’ said he: ‘I have heard that Dubrovsky does not attack everybody, but only people who are well known to be rich, and that even then he leaves them a part of their possessions and does not rob them of everything. As for murdering people, nobody has yet accused him of that. Is there not some knavery here? Oblige me by sending for your steward.’

  “The steward was sent for, and quickly made his appearance. But as soon as he caught sight of the general he stood as if petrified.

  “‘Tell me, brother, in what manner did Dubrovsky rob you, and how was it that he wanted to hang you?’ My steward began to tremble and fell at the general’s feet.

  “‘Sir, I am guilty. The evil one led me astray. I have lied.’

  “‘If that is so,’ replied the general, ‘have the goodness to relate to your mistress how it all happened, and I will listen.’

  “My steward could not recover himself.

  “‘Well, then,’ continued the general, ‘tell us where you met Dubrovsky.’

  “‘At the two pine trees, sir, at the two pine trees.’

  “‘What did he say to you?’

  “‘He asked me who I was, where I was going, and why.’

  “‘Well, and after that?’

  “‘After that he demanded the letter and the money from me, and I gave them to him.’

  “‘And he?’

  “‘Well, and he... forgive me, sir!’

  “‘Well, what did he do?’

  “‘He returned me the money and the letter, and said:” Go in peace, and post this.”‘

  “‘Well!’

  “‘Forgive me, sir!”

  “‘I will settle with you, my dear fellow,’ said the general sternly. ‘And you, madam, order this scoundrel’s trunk to be searched, and then give him into my hands; I will teach him a lesson. Remember that Dubrovsky himself was once an officer in the Guards, and would not wish to take advantage of a comrade.’

  “I guessed who His Excellency was, but there was no use saying anything. The coachmen tied the steward to the carriage-box; the money was found; the general dined with me, and departed immediately afterwards, taking with him my steward. The steward was found the next day in the wood, tied to an oak, and stripped bare.”

  Everybody listened in silence to Anna Savishna’s story, especially the young ladies. Many of them secretly wished well to Dubrovsky, seeing in him a romantic hero, particularly Marya Kirilovna, an ardent dreamer, steeped in the mysteries and horrors of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe.

  “And do you think, Anna Savishna, that it was Dubrovsky himself who visited you?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “You are very much mistaken. I do not know who your guest may have been, but I feel quite sure that it was not Dubrovsky.”

  “Not Dubrovsky? How can that be, my dear sir? But who else would stop travelers on the high road and search them?”

  “I don’t know; but certainly not Dubrovsky. I remember him as a child; I do not know whether his hair has turned black, but in those days his hair was fair and curly. But I do know for a positive fact, that Dubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that consequently he is not thirty-five, but about twenty- three.”

  “Exactly, Your Excellency,” observed the sheriff: “I have in my pocket the description of Vladimir Dubrovsky. There it is distinctly stated that he is twenty-
three years of age.”

  “Ah!” said Kirila Petrovich. “By the way, read it, and we will listen: it will not be a bad thing for us to know what he looks like. Perhaps we may catch a glimpse of him, and if so, he will not escape in a hurry.”

  The sheriff drew from his pocket a rather dirty sheet of paper, unfolded it with an air of importance, and began to read in a sing-song manner:

  “Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based upon the depositions of his former house-serfs:

  “Age: twenty-two; height: medium; complexion: clear; beard: shaven; eyes: hazel; hair: light; nose: straight; special marks: none.”

  “And is that all?” said Kirila Petrovich.

  “That is all,” replied the sheriff, folding up the paper.

  “I congratulate you, Mr. Sheriff. A very valuable document! With that description it will not be difficult for you to find Dubrovsky! Who is not of medium height? Who has not light hair, a straight nose and hazel eyes? I would wager that you would talk for three hours at a stretch to Dubrovsky himself, and you would never guess in whose company you were. There is no denying that these officials are clever fellows.”

  The sheriff, meekly replacing the paper in his pocket, silently attacked his goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone the round of the guests several times, filling up each one’s glass. Several bottles of Don and Caucasian wine had been opened with a great deal of noise, and had been favorably received under the name of champagne. Faces began to glow, and the conversation grew louder, more incoherent and more lively.

  “No,” continued Kirila Petrovich, “we shall never see another sheriff like the late Taras Alexeyevich! He was no blunderhead, no simpleton. It is a pity that the fellow was burnt, for otherwise not one of the band would have got away from him. He would have laid his hands upon the whole lot of them, and not even Dubrovsky himself would have escaped, or bribed his way out. Taras Alexeyevich would surely have taken his money, but he would not have let him go. That was the man’s way. Evidently there is nothing else to be done but for me to take the matter in hand and go after the brigands with my people. I will begin by sending out twenty men to scour the wood. My people are not cowards. Each of them would attack a bear single-handed, and they certainly would not fall back before a brigand.”

  “How is your bear, Kirila Petrovich?” asked Anton Pafnutyich, being reminded by these words of his shaggy acquaintance and of certain pleasantries of which he had once been the victim.

  “Misha has departed this life,” replied Kirila Petrovich: “he died a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There is his conqueror!” Kirila Petrovich pointed to the French tutor. “You should have an image of the Frenchman’s patron saint. He has avenged you — if you will allow me to say so — do you remember?”

  “How should I not remember?” said Anton Pafnutyich, scratching his head: “I remember it only too well. So Misha is dead. I am very sorry for Misha — upon my word, I am very sorry! How amusing he was! How intelligent! You will not find another bear like him. And why did mossoo kill him?”

  Kirila Petrovich began, with great satisfaction, to relate the exploit of his Frenchman, for he possessed the happy faculty of boasting of all that belonged to his entourage. The guests listened with great attention to the story of Misha’s death, and gazed in astonishment at Deforges, who, not suspecting that his bravery was the subject of the conversation, calmly sat in his place, occasionally rebuking his restive pupil.

  The dinner, which had lasted about three hours, came to an end; the host placed his napkin upon the table, and everybody rose and repaired to the parlor, where coffee and cards were awaiting them, and a continuation of the drinking so famously begun in the dining-room.

  X

  ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, some of the guests wished to depart, but the host, merry with punch, ordered the gates to be locked, and declared that he would let no one leave the house until the next morning. Music soon resounded, the doors of the ballroom were thrown open and the dancing began. The host and his intimates sat in a corner, draining glass after glass, and admiring the gaiety of the young people. The old ladies played cards. There were fewer men than women, as is always the case, except where a brigade of Uhlans is stationed, and all the men, suitable for partners, were soon pressed into service. The tutor particularly distinguished himself; he danced more than anyone else; all the young ladies wanted to have him as a partner, finding it very pleasant to waltz with him. He danced several times with Marya Kirilovna, and the young ladies observed them mockingly. At last, about midnight, the tired host stopped the dancing, ordered supper to be served, while he betook himself to bed.

  The retirement of Kirila Petrovich allowed the company more freedom and animation. The gentlemen ventured to sit near the ladies; the girls laughed and whispered to their neighbors; the ladies spoke in loud voices across the table; the gentlemen drank, disputed, and laughed boisterously. In a word, the supper was exceedingly merry, and left behind it many agreeable memories.

  One man only did not share in the general joy. Anton Pafnutyich sat gloomy and silent in his place, ate absently, and seemed extremely uneasy. The conversation about the brigands had worked upon his imagination. We shall soon see that he had good cause to fear them.

  Anton Pafnutyich, in invoking God as a witness that the little red cash-box was empty, had not lied and sinned. The little red cash-box was really empty. The money which it had at one time contained had been transferred to a leather pouch, which he carried on his breast under his shirt. This precaution alone quieted his distrust of everybody and his constant fear. Being compelled to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid that he might be lodged in some solitary room, where thieves could easily break in. He looked round in search of a trustworthy companion, and at last his choice fell upon Deforges. His appearance — indicative of strength — but especially the bravery shown by him in his encounter with the bear, which poor Anton Paf- nutyich could never think of without a shudder, decided his choice. When they rose from the table, Anton Pafnutyich began to circle round the young Frenchman, clearing his throat and coughing, and at last he turned to him and addressed him:

  “Hm! hm! Couldn’t I spend the night in your room, mossoo, because you see — ”

  “Que désire monsieur?” asked Deforges, with a polite bow.

  “Ah! what a pity, mossoo, that you have not yet learnt Russian, fe vais moa chez vous coucher. Do you understand?”

  “Monsieur, très volontiers,” replied Deforges, “veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence!’

  Anton Pafnutyich, well satisfied with his knowledge of the French language, went off at once to make the necessary arrangements.

  The guests began to wish each other good night, and each retired to the room assigned to him, while Anton Pafnutyich went with the tutor to the wing. The night was dark. Deforges lighted the way with a lantern. Anton Pafnutyich followed him boldly enough, pressing the hidden treasure occasionally against his breast, in order to convince himself that his money was still there.

  On arriving at the wing, the tutor lit a candle and both began to undress; in the meantime Anton Pafnutyich was walking about the room, examining the locks and windows, and shaking his head at the disquieting results of his inspection. The doors fastened with only a bolt, and the windows had not yet their double frames. He tried to complain to Deforges, but his knowledge of the French language was too limited for so elaborate an explanation. The Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutyich was obliged to cease his complaints. Their beds stood opposite each other; they both lay down, and the tutor extinguished the light.

  “Pourquoi vous extinguishez; pourquoi vous extin- guishez?” cried Anton Pafnutyich, conjugating the verb to extinguish, after the French manner. “I cannot dormir in the dark.”

  Deforges did not understand his exclamation, and wished him good night.

  “Accursed heathen!” muttered Spitzyn, wrapping himself up in the bedclothes: “he couldn’t
do without extinguishing the light. So much the worse for him. I cannot sleep without a light — Mossoo, mossoo,” he continued: “Je vé avec vous parler.”

  But the Frenchman did not reply, and soon began to snore.

  “He is snoring, the French brute,” thought Anton Pafnutyich, “while I can’t even think of sleep. Thieves might walk in at any moment through the open doors or climb in through the window, and the firing of a cannon would not wake him, the beast!”

  “Mossoo! mossoo! — the devil take you!”

  Anton Pafnutyich became silent. Fatigue and the effect of the wine gradually overcame his fear. He began to doze, and soon fell into a deep sleep. A strange sensation aroused him. He felt in his sleep that someone was gently pulling him by the collar of his shirt, Anton Pafnutyich opened his eyes and, by the pale light of an autumn morning, he saw Deforges standing before him. In one hand the Frenchman held a pocket pistol, and with the other he was unfastening the strings of the precious leather pouch. Anton Pafnutyich felt faint.

  “Quest ce que c’est, Mossoo, quest ce que c’est?” said he, in a trembling voice.

  “Hush! Silence!” replied the tutor in pure Russian. “Silence! or you are lost. I am Dubrovsky.”

  XI

  WE WILL now ask the reader’s permission to explain the last incidents of our story, by referring to the circumstances that preceded them, and which we have not yet had time to relate.

  At the station, in the house of the postmaster, of whom we have already spoken, sat a traveler in a corner, looking very meek and patient, which showed him to be a man without rank or a foreigner, that is, a person unable to assert his rights on the post road. His carriage stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased. Within it lay a small portmanteau, evidence of a very modest fortune. The traveler ordered neither tea nor coffee, but sat looking out of the window and whistling, to the great annoyance of the postmistress sitting behind the partition.