The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Read online

  ‘Pourquoi vous touchez pourquoi vous touchez?’ cried Anton Pafnutyevich, managing with a great effort to conjugate the Russian infinitive ‘tooshit’, to blow out, as if it were a French verb. ‘I cannot dormir in the dark.’

  But to Desforges the exclamations were meaningless, and he wished Anton Pafnutyevich good night.

  ‘Wretched infidel!’ muttered Spitsyn, wrapping himself up in the bedclothes. ‘The idea of blowing out the candle! So much the worse for him, though. I cannot sleep without a light. Monsieur, monsieur!’ he went on, ‘je veux avec vous parler.’

  But the Frenchman made no answer, and soon began to snore.

  ‘Snoring brute of a Frenchman,’ mumbled Anton Pafnutyevich to himself, ‘and I can’t even think of going to sleep. Thieves might walk in at any moment, or climb in through the window, and a cannon would not wake that brute. Monsieur, monsieur! – the devil take you!’

  Anton Pafnutyevich lapsed into silence. Fatigue and the wine he had drunk gradually overcame his fears. He dozed off and soon sank into profound slumber.

  A strange awakening was in store for him. He felt in his sleep that someone was tugging gently at the collar of his shirt. Anton Pafnutyevich opened his eyes, and by the pale light of an autumn morning saw Desforges standing over him. The Frenchman held a pistol in one hand, and with the other was unfastening the precious leather pouch.

  ‘Qu ‘est ce que c’est, monsieur, qu’est ce que c’est?’ he brought out in a trembling voice.

  ‘Sssh! Be quiet!’ the tutor replied in the purest Russian. ‘Be quiet, or you are lost. I am Dubrovsky.’

  11

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

  In the house of the post-master, whom we have mentioned once before, a traveller sat in a corner with a mild and patient air that showed him to be a man of plebeian origin or a foreigner – that is to say, a man who had no rights at poststations. His trap stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased. In it lay a small portmanteau, its meagre dimensions a proof of his lack of means. The traveller ordered neither tea nor coffee but sat looking out of the window and whistling, to the great annoyance of the post-master’s wife sitting behind the partition.

  ‘A regular affliction, that whistler!’ she said in an undertone. ‘Whistling away like that! Plague take him, the accursed infidel!’

  ‘Why, what does it matter?’ said the post-master. ‘Let him whistle to himself.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ his wife retorted angrily. ‘Surely you know the saying?’

  ‘What saying? That whistling drives the money away? Nonsense, my dear! Whistling or not, it makes no difference to us, we never have any money anyway.’

  ‘Do send him off, Sidorych. Why do you keep him? Give him the horses and let him go to the devil.’

  ‘He can wait, my dear. I have only three troikas ready, the fourth is resting. Important travellers may turn up any minute: I don’t want to risk my neck for a Frenchman. Listen, I thought so! There’s someone galloping up now! Pretty smartly, too. I wonder if it’s some general?’

  A carriage stopped at the steps. The servant jumped down from the box, opened the carriage door, and a moment later a young man in a military cloak and a white cap came into the post-master’s house. The servant followed, carrying a box which he put in the window.

  ‘Horses!’ said the officer peremptorily.

  ‘At once, sir!’ the post-master answered. ‘May I have your road-pass, please.’

  ‘I have no road-pass. I am not taking the main road…. And surely you recognize me?’

  The station-master fussed about and rushed off to hurry the drivers. The young man started pacing up and down the room. Then he went behind the partition and inquired of the post-master’s wife in a low voice who the other traveller was.

  ‘Heaven only knows,’ she answered. ‘Some Frenchman or other. He’s been here five hours waiting for horses and whistling the whole time. Fair sick of him I am, confound him!’

  The young man addressed the traveller in French.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked him.

  ‘To the next town,’ replied the Frenchman, ‘and from there to a landed gentleman who has engaged me by letter as a tutor. I thought I would be there today but the post-master has evidently decided otherwise. In this country it is not easy to get horses, monsieur l’officier.’

  ‘And with which of the local gentlemen have you found employment?’ the officer asked.

  ‘With Monsieur Troyekurov,’ the Frenchman answered.

  ‘Troyekurov? Who is this Troyekurov?’

  ‘Ma foi, monsieur, I have not heard much good of him. They say he is a proud, headstrong man, cruel to his dependants; that nobody can get on with him, that everyone trembles at the mention of his name; and that he does not stand upon ceremony with tutors and has already flogged two of them to death.’

  ‘Good heavens! And you venture to enter the service of such a monster?’

  ‘What can I do, monsieur l’officier? He offers me good wages, three thousand roubles a year and all found. I may be more fortunate than the others. My mother is no longer young – I shall send her half my salary to live on, and out of the rest I shall be able to save enough in five years to provide a small capital which will make me independent for the rest of my life. Then, bonsoir, I return to Paris and set up in business on my own.’

  ‘Does anyone in Troyekurov’s house know you?’ the officer asked.

  ‘No one,’ answered the tutor. ‘He heard of me through a friend of his in Moscow, whose cook, my fellow-countryman, recommended me. I must tell you that I was trained to be a pastry-cook, not a teacher, but they say in your country being a teacher is far more lucrative.’

  The officer reflected.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, interrupting the Frenchman. ‘What would you say if, instead of this future that awaits you, you were offered ten thousand roubles in cash on condition that you went back to Paris at once?’

  The Frenchman stared at the officer in amazement, and shook his head with a smile.

  ‘The horses are ready,’ the post-master said, coming in.

  The servant corroborated this.

  ‘Just coming,’ said the officer. ‘Leave the room for a moment.’ The post-master and the servant withdrew. ‘I am not joking,’ he continued in French. ‘I can give you ten thousand roubles; all I want is your absence and your papers.’

  So saying, he opened his box and took out several bundles of notes.

  The Frenchman stared with wide-open eyes. He did not know what to make of it.

  ‘My absence… my papers,’ he repeated in astonishment. ‘Here are my papers… but surely you must be joking? What do you want with my papers?’

  ‘That is nothing to do with you. I ask, do you consent or not?’

  The Frenchman, still unable to believe his own ears, handed his papers to the young officer, who quickly looked them over. ‘Your passport… good; a letter of recommendation… let’s look at it; your birth certificate… excellent. Well, here is the money, go back now. Good-bye.’

  The Frenchman stood, rooted to the ground. The officer turned round to him.

  ‘I nearly forgot the most important thing of all. Give me your word of honour that all this will remain between ourselves… your word of honour.’

  ‘My word of honour,’ the Frenchman answered. ‘But my papers? What shall I do without them?’

  ‘In the first town you come to say you were robbed by Dubrovsky. They will believe you and give you the necessary certificate. God grant you a speedy return to Paris, and may you find your mother in good health.’

  Dubrovsky left the room, seated himself in the carriage and drove off at a gallop.

  The post-master was looking out of the window, and when the carriage had gone he turned to his wife, exclaiming:

  ‘My dear! Do you know? W
hy, that was Dubrovsky!’

  His wife rushed to the window but it was too late. Dubrovsky was already a long way off. She began scolding her husband:

  ‘How could you, Sidorych! Why didn’t you tell me sooner – I might at least have caught a glimpse of Dubrovsky, but now goodness knows how long it might be before he comes this way again. A shameless creature, you are, and that’s a fact.’

  The Frenchman stood as though rooted to the spot. The pact with the officer, the money – it was all like a dream. But the bundle of bank notes was there in his pocket, eloquently confirming the reality of the wonderful adventure.

  He decided to hire horses to take him to the town. The driver went at a snail’s pace and it was night when they arrived.

  Before they reached the town-gates, where in place of a watch-man there was a tumbledown sentry-box, the Frenchman told the driver to stop, got out of the carriage and proceeded on foot, explaining by signs to the driver that he might keep the vehicle and the portmanteau by way of a gratuity. The driver was as dumbfounded by his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been by Dubrovsky’s proposal. But, concluding that the foreign gentleman had taken leave of his senses, he thanked him with a low bow and, deeming it wiser not to go into the town, made his way to a certain place of entertainment he knew of, the owner of which was a friend of his. There he spent the night, and next morning set off home with his three horses but no trap and no portmanteau, his face swollen and his eyes red.

  Dubrovsky, with the Frenchman’s papers, boldly presented himself, as we have already seen, to Troyekurov, and settled down in his house. Whatever his secret intentions were (we shall learn about them later), there was nothing reprehensible about his conduct. True, he did not occupy himself overmuch with little Sasha’s education, letting the boy do what he liked in play-time. Nor was he very exacting in the matter of lessons, which were only set to the child for form’s sake. On the other hand, however, he paid great attention to the musical studies of his fair pupil, and frequently sat for hours beside her at the piano. Every one liked the young tutor: Kiril Petrovich for his spontaneous daring in the hunting field, Masha for his unbounded devotion and slavish attentiveness, Sasha for his leniency with his pranks, the servants for his kindness and a liberality which seemed out of keeping with his position. He himself appeared to be fond of the whole family and already regarded himself as a member of it.

  Nearly a month had elapsed from the time of his entering the teaching profession to the date of the memorable patronal festival, and nobody suspected that the modest young Frenchman was the terrible brigand whose name inspired all the landed proprietors of the neighbourhood with terror. During all that time Dubrovsky had not left Pokrovskoe but rumours of his robberies never ceased to spread, thanks to the country people’s fertile imagination; although it may have been, too, that his band continued with their exploits in the absence of their chief.

  Passing the night in the same room with a man whom he could only regard as a personal enemy and one of the principal authors of his misfortune, Dubrovsky could not resist the temptation. He knew of the precious wallet and decided to gain possession of it. We have seen how greatly he surprised poor Anton Pafnutyevich by his sudden transformation from tutor to brigand.

  12

  AT nine o’clock in the morning the visitors who had spent the night at Pokrovskoe repaired one after the other to the parlour, where a samovar was already boiling. Maria Kirilovna sat before the samovar in a morning gown, and Kiril petrovich in a frieze coat and slippers was drinking his tea out of a big cup that looked like a slop-basin. Anton Pafnutyevich was the last to come in. He looked so pale and distressed that every one was struck by his appearance, and Kiril Petrovich inquired after his health. Spitsyn gave a random answer and glanced in terror at the tutor, who sat at the table with the others as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later a servant entered and told Spitsyn that his carriage was ready. Anton Pafnutyevich hastened to take leave of the company and drove away at once. Neither guests nor host could understand what had happened to him, and Kiril Petrovich came to the conclusion that he must have overeaten. After the morning tea and a farewell breakfast the other guests began to depart, and soon Pokrovskoe was deserted and things resumed their normal course.

  Several days passed and nothing worthy of note happened. Life at Pokrovskoe was uneventful. Kiril Petrovich rode out hunting every day, while reading, walks and music lessons occupied Maria Kirilovna’s time – especially music lessons. She was beginning to understand her own heart and acknowledged to herself with involuntary vexation that it was not indifferent to the young Frenchman’s fine qualities. For his part he never overstepped the bounds of respect and strict propriety, and thereby assuaged her pride and timid doubts. With more and more confidence she gave herself up to the pleasant habit of being with him. She felt restless without him and when he was present she constantly turned to him, wanting to know his opinion on every subject and agreeing with him in everything. Perhaps she was not in love as yet; but at the first casual obstacle or unexpected reverse of fortune the flame of passion was bound to flare up in her heart.

  Going into the large drawing-room one day, where the tutor was waiting for her, Maria Kirilovna was surprised to observe a look of confusion on his pale face. She opened the piano and sang a few notes; but Dubrovsky excused himself, saying that he had a headache and could not continue the lesson. Closing the book of music, he handed her a note. Maria Kirilovna took it before she had time to think, and then instantly repented; but Dubrovsky was no longer there. Maria Kirilovna went to her room and unfolding the note read as follows:

  Come to the arbour by the brook at seven o’clock this evening: I must speak to you.

  Her curiosity was thoroughly aroused. For some time she had been expecting a declaration, which she both longed for and dreaded. It would have been agreeable to hear a confirmation of what she divined; but she felt that it would be unseemly for her to listen to an avowal from a man who, owing to his station in life, ought not to aspire ever to obtain her hand in marriage. She decided to keep the tryst but could not make up her mind on one point: should the tutor’s declaration be received with aristocratic indignation, with friendly admonition, with good-humoured banter, or with silent sympathy. Meanwhile she kept looking at the time. It grew dark; candles were brought in. Kiril Petrovich sat down to play boston with some of the neighbours who had called. The clock in the dining-room struck a quarter to seven, and Maria Kirilovna walked quietly out on to the steps, looked about her, and ran into the garden.

  The night was dark, the sky covered with clouds, and it was impossible to see anything at a distance of two paces, but Maria Kirilovna went forward in the darkness along the familiar paths and in a minute she reached the arbour. There she paused in order to draw breath and present herself before Desforges with an air of calm indifference. But Desforges already stood before her.

  ‘Thank you for not having refused my request,’ he said in a low, sad voice. ‘I should have been in despair if you had not come.’

  Maria Kirilovna answered him with a phrase she had prepared beforehand:

  ‘I hope you will not cause me to repent of my kindness.’

  He said nothing, and seemed to be mustering his courage.

  ‘Circumstances require… I have to leave you,’ he said at last. ‘Soon maybe you will hear… but I must explain to you myself before we part.’

  Maria Kirilovna did not answer. She thought his words were a prelude to the declaration she had been expecting.

  ‘I am not what you suppose,’ he went on, bowing his head. ‘I am not the Frenchman Desforges – I am Dubrovsky.’

  Maria Kirilovna uttered a cry.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, for God’s sake! You need not be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unhappy person whom your father, after depriving him of his last crust of bread, drove out of his paternal home to plunder and rob on the highways. But you need have no fear of me, either on your own account or on his. It is a
ll over… I have forgiven him; listen, you have saved him. His was the first blood I meant to shed. I was prowling round his house, deciding where the fire was to break out, from where I should enter his bedroom, and how I should cut him off from all means of escape. At that moment you passed by me like a heavenly vision and my heart was conquered. I realized that the house in which you dwelt was sacred to me, that not a single being related to you by ties of blood could lie under my curse. I renounced vengeance as madness. For days on end I wandered round the gardens of Pokrovskoe in the hope of catching a glimpse of your white dress in the distance. I followed you in your careless walks, stealing from bush to bush, happy in the thought that there could be no danger for you where I was secretly present. At last an opportunity occurred… I established myself in your house. These three weeks were days of happiness for me: the memory of them will be the joy of my melancholy existence…. This morning I received news which makes it impossible for me to stay here any longer…. I am leaving you today – at this very moment…. But before going I had to open my heart to you so that you should not hold me up to execration or despise me. Think of Dubrovsky sometimes. Believe that he was born for another fate, that his soul was capable of loving you, that never…’

  Just then there was a loud whistle, and Dubrovsky fell silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.

  ‘Farewell,’ said Dubrovsky. ‘They are calling me. A moment’s delay may be fatal.’

  He walked away…. Maria Kirilovna stood motionless. Dubrovsky came back and took her hand again.

  ‘If ever,’ he said in a tender, moving voice – ‘if ever some misfortune befalls you and there is none to protect and help you, will you promise to have recourse to me, demanding that I do all in my power to save you? Will you promise not to spurn my devotion?’

  Maria Kirilovna wept silently. The whistle sounded for the third time.

  ‘You will destroy me!’ cried Dubrovsky. ‘I will not leave you until you give me an answer: do you promise or not?’