The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Page 12

  ‘I promise!’ the poor girl whispered.

  Greatly agitated by her tryst with Dubrovsky, Maria Kirilovna started back indoors. There seemed to be a great many people in the courtyard; a troika stood at the steps, all the servants were running about, the house was in commotion. From some distance she heard Kiril Petrovich’s voice and hurried to reach her room, afraid lest her absence be noticed. In the large drawing-room she ran into Kiril Petrovich. His guests were pressing round our old acquaintance, the police-officer, bombarding him with questions. The police-captain, in travelling attire and armed to the teeth, answered them with a mysterious and preoccupied air.

  ‘Where have you been, Masha?’ asked Kiril Petrovich. ‘Have you seen Monsieur Desforges?’

  Masha just managed to answer in the negative.

  ‘Would you believe it?’ Kiril Petrovich went on. ‘The police-captain has come to arrest him, and assures me that he is Dubrovsky.’

  ‘The description tallies exactly, your excellency,’ said the police-captain respectfully.

  ‘Oh, my dear man, go to – you know where – with your description,’ Kiril Petrovich interrupted. ‘I won’t give you my Frenchman till I’ve seen into the matter myself. One can’t take Anton Pafnutyevich’s word for it – a coward, and a man like that! He must have dreamt that the tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he tell me about it the next morning? He never said a word.’

  ‘The Frenchman threatened him, your excellency,’ replied the police-captain, ‘and made him swear to keep quiet.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Kiril Petrovich decided. ‘I’ll have the whole matter cleared up immediately. Well, where is the tutor?’ he asked of a servant who had come into the room.

  ‘He is nowhere to be found, sir,’ the man answered.

  ‘Then search for him!’ shouted Troyekurov, beginning to feel doubtful. ‘Show me that description you are so proud of,’ he said to the police-captain, who instantly handed him the paper.

  ‘Hm! Hm! Twenty-three years of age, and so on. It’s all very well, but it does not prove anything. Well, where is the tutor?’

  ‘He is not to be found, sir,’ was the answer again.

  Kiril Petrovich began to be uneasy; Maria Kirilovna was more dead than alive.

  ‘You are pale, Masha,’ her father remarked to her. ‘Have they frightened you?’

  ‘No, papa,’ Masha replied; ‘I have a headache.’

  ‘Go along to your room, Masha, and don’t you worry.’

  Masha kissed his hand and hastened to her room. There she threw herself on her bed and broke into hysterical sobs. The maids ran in, undressed her with difficulty, and with difficulty succeeded in soothing her by means of cold water and all kinds of smelling-salts. They put her to bed and she fell asleep.

  The Frenchman, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. Kiril Petrovich paced up and down the room, loudly whistling ‘Thunder of victory, resound!’. The visitors whispered among themselves; the police-captain had evidently been fooled; the Frenchman had disappeared. He had probably managed to escape, having been forewarned. But by whom, and how? That remained a mystery.

  It was eleven o’clock, but no one thought of sleep. At last Kiril Petrovich said angrily to the police-captain:

  ‘Well, what about it? You can’t stay here till daylight, you know: my house is not an inn. You aren’t quick enough to catch Dubrovsky, my good man – if he really is Dubrovsky. Go home, and try to be a bit smarter in future. And it’s time for you to be off, too,’ he went on, turning to his visitors. ‘Order your carriages; I want to go to bed.’

  Thus ungraciously did Troyekurov take leave of his guests.

  13

  SOME time passed without anything of interest happening. But at the beginning of the following summer many changes occurred in Kiril Petrovich’s family life.

  About twenty miles away there was a rich estate belonging to Prince Vereisky. For many years the prince had lived in foreign parts while a retired major managed his property for him; and there was no contact between Pokrovskoe and Arbatovo. But at the end of May the prince returned from abroad and went to live in his country-seat which until then he had never seen. Accustomed to a continual round of pleasure, he could not endure solitude, and on the third day after his arrival he set out to dine with Troyekurov, whom he had known years before.

  The prince was some fifty years of age but he looked much older. Excesses of every kind had undermined his health and left their indelible stamp on him. He was perpetually in need of distraction, and perpetually bored. In spite of that, he had an attractive and distinguished appearance, and long years in society had given him a certain courtesy of manner, especially with women. Kiril Petrovich was exceedingly gratified by his visit, regarding it as a mark of respect from a man who knew the world. In accordance with his usual custom he began to entertain the prince by conducting him over his establishment and taking him to the kennels. But the prince felt almost stifled by the smell of the dogs and hurried out, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old-fashioned garden with its clipped lime-trees, square pond and formal avenues did not please him: he liked English parks and so-called nature, but he praised everything and was apparently delighted. A servant came to announce that dinner was served. They went in. The prince was limping slightly, tired with the walk and already regretting having come.

  But Maria Kirilovna met them in the large drawing-room, and the old rake was struck by her beauty. Troyekurov placed his visitor beside her. Excited by her company, the prince was gay and succeeded several times in attracting her attention by his interesting stories. After dinner Kiril Petrovich proposed a ride on horseback but the prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout. He suggested going for a drive so that he should not be separated from his charming companion. The carriage was ordered. The two old men and the beautiful girl stepped in and drove off. The conversation never flagged. Maria Kirilovna was listening with pleasure to the flattering compliments and witty remarks of the man of the world beside her, when suddenly Vereisky turned to Kiril Petrovich and asked what were those charred ruins, and did they belong to him? Kiril Petrovich frowned: the memories that the burned-out farmstead roused were distasteful to him. He answered that the land was his now but that formerly it had belonged to Dubrovsky.

  ‘To Dubrovsky?’ Vereisky echoed. ‘What, to the famous brigand?’

  ‘To his father,’ replied Troyekurov; ‘and his father was a bit of a brigand too.’

  ‘And what has become of our Rinaldo?1 Have they caught him? Is he alive?’

  ‘Alive and still at large, and so long as we have thieves and villains for police-captains he is not likely to be caught. By the way, prince, didn’t Dubrovsky pay you a visit at Arbatovo?’

  ‘Yes, I believe last year he burnt something down or broke into some building or other. Don’t you think, mademoiselle, it would be interesting to make a closer acquaintance with this romantic hero?’

  ‘Interesting, indeed!’ said Troyekurov. ‘She knows him already. For three whole weeks he taught her music, but thank Heavens he did not take anything for his lessons.’

  And Kiril Petrovich began telling the story of the so-called French tutor. Maria Kirilovna was on tenterhooks. Vereisky listened with deep interest and found it all very odd, and changed the subject. When they returned from the drive he ordered his carriage and, though Kiril Petrovich begged him to stay the night, departed immediately after tea. Before leaving, however, he invited Kiril Petrovich to pay him a visit with Maria Kirilovna, and the conceited Troyekurov promised to do so; for, taking into consideration the princely title, the two decorations and the three thousand serfs belonging to his ancestral estate, he regarded Prince Vereisky as in a sense his equal.

  14

  TWO days after this visit Kiril Petrovich and his daughter set out to visit Prince Vereisky. As they approached Arbatovo he could not sufficiently admire the clean, gay huts of the peasants and the stone manor-house built after the style of
an English castle. In front of the house stretched an oval meadow with lush green grass on which Swiss cows with tinkling bells round their necks were grazing. The house stood in the middle of a spacious park. Vereisky met his visitors on the steps and gave his arm to the beautiful young girl. They went into a magnificent reception-room where a table had been laid for three. The prince led his guests to the window, and a delightful view opened before them. The Volga flowed past outside; loaded barges under full sail floated by, and little fishing-boats, so aptly called smacks, flashed here and there. Beyond the river stretched hills and fields, and several small villages enlivened the landscape. Then the three proceeded to inspect the picture-gallery of paintings which the prince had purchased abroad. He explained to Maria Kirilovna the subject of each picture, told her about the painters and pointed out the merits and defects of their work. He spoke of pictures, not in the stock-language of the pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination. Maria Kirilovna enjoyed listening to him. They went into dinner. Troyekuroy did full justice to his Amphitryon’s wines and to the art of his cook, and Maria Kirilovna felt neither shy nor constrained in talking to a man whom she was seeing for the second time in her life. After dinner the prince proposed to his guests that they should go into the garden. They drank coffee in the arbour on the bank of a broad lake dotted with islands. Suddenly they heard the music of wind instruments, and a row-boat with six oars drifted up to the arbour. They rowed on the lake, round the islands, visiting some of them; on one they found a marble statue, on another a lonely grotto, on a third a monument with a mysterious inscription which aroused the young girl’s curiosity, which the prince’s courteous but reticent explanations did not altogether satisfy. The time slipped past imperceptibly. It began to grow dusk. The prince hurried his guests home because of the dew and the evening chill; the samovar was waiting for them. The prince asked Maria Kirilovna to play the part of hostess in an old bachelor’s house. She poured out the tea, listening to the amiable raconteur’s inexhaustible stories. Suddenly there was a report, and a rocket blazed in the sky…. The prince gave Maria Kirilovna a shawl and invited her and Troyekurov on to the balcony. In front of the house many-coloured lights flared up into the darkness, whirled round, rose in sheaves, cascaded in fountains, fell in showers of rain and stars, died down and flared up again. Maria Kirilovna was carried away like a child. Vereisky was delighted with her happiness, and Troyekurov was vastly pleased with him, for he regarded tous ces frais as signs of respect for himself and a desire to please him.

  Supper was in no way inferior to the dinner in excellence. The guests retired to the bedrooms prepared for them, and next morning parted from their agreeable host, promising to see each other again in the near future.

  15

  MARIA KIRILOVNA was sitting in her room, embroidering at her frame before the open window. She did not mix up her silks like Konrad’s mistress, who in her amorous distraction embroidered a rose in green silk.1 Her needle faultlessly reproduced on the canvas the design she was copying; but for all that her thoughts were not on her work – they were far away.

  Suddenly a hand was thrust gently in at the window, someone put a letter on the embroidery frame and disappeared before Maria Kirilovna had recovered from her surprise. At the same moment a servant came in to call her to Kiril Petrovich. Tremblingly she hid the letter under her fichu and hastened to her father’s study.

  Kiril Petrovich was not alone. Prince Vereisky was there with him. When Maria Kirilovna appeared he got up and bowed to her in silence, with a confusion most unusual for him.

  ‘Come here, Masha,’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will please you very much. Here is a suitor for you: the prince seeks your hand in marriage.’

  Masha was aghast; a deathly pallor overspread her face. She was silent. The prince went up to her and, looking deeply moved, took her hand and asked if she would consent to make him a happy man. Masha remained silent.

  ‘Consent? Of course she consents,’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘But you know, prince, a girl finds it hard to express herself. Well, children, kiss one another and be happy.’

  Masha stood motionless. The old prince kissed her hand. Suddenly tears ran down her pale face. The prince frowned slightly.

  ‘Off with you, off with you now,’ Kiril Petrovich said. ‘Dry your tears and come back to us gay as a lark. They all weep at their betrothal,’ he continued, turning to Vereisky; ‘it’s customary, you know. Now, prince, let us talk business – that is, about the dowry.’

  Maria Kirilovna eagerly took advantage of the permission to escape. Running to her room, she locked the door and gave way to her tears, imagining herself as the old prince’s wife. He had suddenly become repugnant and hateful to her…. The idea of marriage terrified her like the executioner’s block, like the grave!… ‘No! No!’ she repeated in despair. ‘I’d rather go into a convent, I’d rather marry Dubrovsky….’ She remembered the letter and took it out, intent, guessing that it was from him. It was indeed written by him, and contained only the following words:

  This evening, at ten o’clock, in the same place.

  The moon was shining; the country night was still; a little breeze rose from time to time, and a gentle rustle ran through the garden.

  Like an airy shadow the beautiful girl approached the trysting-place. She could not see anyone. Suddenly, emerging from behind the arbour, Dubrovsky stood before her.

  ‘I know everything,’ he said in a low, sad voice. ‘Remember your promise.’

  ‘You offer me your protection?’ replied Masha. ‘But – do not be angry – the idea frightens me. How could you help me?’

  ‘I could save you from that odious man.’

  ‘For God’s sake do not lay hands on him, do not venture to lay hands on him, if you love me! I do not want to be the cause of anything horrible….’

  ‘I will not touch him: your wish is sacred for me. He owes his life to you. Never shall a crime be committed in your name. You must be unstained even where my misdeeds are concerned. But how can I save you from a cruel father?’

  ‘There is still hope: I may move his heart with my tears, my despair. He is obstinate, but he loves me dearly.’

  ‘Do not put your trust in vain hopes: he will see in your tears simply the timidity and aversion common to all young girls when they are marrying not for love but for sensible motives. What if he takes it into his head to arrange for your happiness in spite of yourself? What if you are led to the altar by force and your destiny placed for ever in the hands of that valetudinarian?’

  ‘Then – then there will be nothing else to do. Come for me – I will be your wife.’

  Dubrovsky trembled; his pale face flushed crimson and then grew paler than before. He paused for a while, with bowed head

  ‘Muster all your courage, implore your father, throw your self at his feet. Picture to him all the horror of the future that he is preparing for you, your youth fading away at the side of a feeble old rake. Tell him that riches will not procure for you even a single moment of happiness: luxury only comforts the poor, and even then but for a brief season while they are unused to it. Keep on entreating him and do not be afraid of his anger or his threats so long as there is a shadow of hope. For God’s sake do not give up! But if you have no other resource left make up your mind to speak deliberately. Tell him that if he remains relentless you… you will find a terrible protector….’

  Dubrovsky buried his face in his hands; he seemed to be choking. Masha wept.

  ‘My wretched, wretched fate!’ he said with a bitter sigh. ‘I was ready to give my life for you; to see you from a distance, to touch your hand was ecstasy for me. And now when there opens up before me the possibility of pressing you to my throbbing heart and saying “My angel, let us die together!”– unhappy creature that I am, I must guard against such bliss, I must put it from me with all the strength I have. I dare not fall at your feet and thank heaven for incredible, unmerited happiness!
Oh, how I ought to hate him who… but I feel that now there is no place in my heart for hatred.’

  He put his arm gently round her slim waist and gently drew her to his heart. Trustfully she rested her head on the young brigand’s shoulder. Both were silent…. Time flew.

  ‘I must be going,’ Masha said at last.

  Dubrovsky seemed to wake from a dream. He took her hand and placed a ring on her finger.

  ‘If you decide you want my help,’ he said, ‘drop the ring into the hollow of this oak: I shall know what to do.’

  Dubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared among the trees.

  16

  PRINCE VEREISKY’S suit was now no secret to the neighbourhood. Kiril Petrovich received congratulations, and preparations started for the wedding. Masha postponed from day to day the decisive explanation with her father. Meanwhile her manner towards her elderly suitor was cold and constrained. The prince did not worry about that. He troubled not at all about her love, satisfied with her mute consent.

  But time was passing. Masha at last decided to act, and wrote a letter to Prince Vereisky. She tried to rouse a nobility of feeling in his heart, candidly confessing that she had not the slightest affection for him and begging him to renounce her hand and even to protect her from her father’s power. She slipped the missive into the prince’s hand. The latter read it when he was alone, and was not in the least moved by his betrothed’s outspokenness. On the contrary, he perceived the necessity of hastening the wedding, and for this purpose deemed it advisable to show the letter to his future father-in-law.

  Kiril Petrovich was furious; the prince had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to keep his knowledge of the letter secret from Masha. Kiril Petrovich agreed not to speak about the matter to her, but he decided to waste no time, and fixed the wedding for the following day. The prince found this very sensible; he went to his betrothed and told her that her letter had grieved him very much but that he hoped in time to gain her affection; that the thought of losing her was too painful for him to bear, and that he had not the strength to agree to his own death sentence. Then he kissed her hand respectfully and went away, not having said a word to her about Kiril Petrovich’s decision.