The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Read online

  4

  In times of old our forbears feasted long,

  Goblet with foaming beer and silver cup

  With sparkling wine passed slowly round the throng.

  RUSSLAN AND LUDMILLA

  I MUST now introduce my gentle reader to Gavril Afanassyevich Rzhevsky. He came of an ancient boyar family, possessed vast estates, was hospitable, had a passion for falconry, and kept a great number of indoor servants: in short, he was a true Russian nobleman. He could not endure the German spirit, as he put it, and strove to preserve in his home the old customs that were so dear to him. His daughter was sixteen years old. She had lost her mother while still a child. She had been brought up in the old-fashioned way, that is to say, surrounded by nurses, playmates and maidservants; she embroidered in gold, and could not read or write. In spite of his aversion for everything from abroad her father could not resist her desire to learn foreign dances from a captive Swedish officer who lived in their house. This worthy dancing-master was some fifty years of age; his right leg had been shot through in the battle of Narva and was consequently not particularly well qualified for the minuet and the coranto but the left leg made up for it by executing the most difficult pas with astonishing skill and agility. His pupil did credit to his efforts. Natalia Gavrilovna was renowned for being the best dancer at the Assemblies – and this was partly the reason for Korsakov’s offence. He came the next day to apologize to Gavril Afanassyevich, but the airiness and elegance of the young fop found no favour in the eyes of the proud old noble, who satirically nicknamed him the French monkey.

  It was a holiday. Gavril Afanassyevich was expecting a number of relatives and friends. A long table was being laid in the old-fashioned dining-hall. Visitors were arriving with their wives and daughters, who had at last been set free from domestic seclusion by edicts of the Emperor and by his own example.1 Natalia Gavrilovna brought round to each guest a silver tray laden with gold cups, and each man as he drained his regretted that the kiss given in the old days on such occasions was no longer the custom. They sat down to dinner. The place of honour next to the host was taken by his father-in-law, Prince Boris Alexeyevich Lykov, an old man of seventy; the other guests ranged themselves according to the seniority of their family, thus recalling the happy days when birth received due honour. The men sat on one side of the table, the women on the other. The family protégée and companion in her old-fashioned jerkin and peasant head-dress, a prim wrinkled little dwarf of thirty, and the captive dancing-master in his faded blue uniform occupied their usual places at the end. Numerous menials bustled round the table, which was laid with a great many dishes. Among the servants the major-domo was conspicuous for his stern expression, big paunch and lofty immobility. The first few moments of the meal were devoted exclusively to savouring the traditional Russian dishes: the rattling of plates and spoons alone interrupted the general silence. At last, seeing that the time had come for entertaining his guests with pleasant conversation, the host looked about him and said:

  ‘But where is Yekimovna? Summon her here!’

  Several servants were about to dash off in different directions but at that moment an old woman, rouged and powdered, wearing a low-cut brocade dress and decked with flowers and tinsel, came into the room, singing and dancing. Her appearance was greeted with pleasure by everyone.

  ‘Good day to you, Yekimovna,’ said Prince Lykov. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Nicely, nicely, my dear man, with singing and dancing and looking for a sweetheart.’

  ‘Where have you been, you clown?’ asked the host.

  ‘I’ve been dressing up, my dear man, for our welcome guests, for this holy day, by order of the Emperor, by command of my master, in the German fashion, for good people all to laugh at.’

  There was a burst of merriment at these words, and the fool took her place behind her master’s chair.

  ‘Our fool talks nonsense enough but sometimes she speaks the truth,’ remarked Tatiana Afanassyevna, the host’s eldest sister, whom he held in great respect. ‘The fashions today are indeed enough to make good people laugh. But since you, gentlemen, have shaved off your beards1 and put on skimpy jackets it is idle to talk about women’s clothes; but really it is a pity about the sarafan, the maiden’s ribbons and the woman’s head-dress! Why, just look at the fine ladies nowadays – ’tis enough to cause laughter and tears at one and the same time: hair frizzed like tow, greased and covered with French chalk; stomachs so tightly laced ’tis a wonder they do not break in two; petticoats distended with hoops, so that they have to enter a carriage sideways and bend to go through a door. They can neither stand nor sit nor draw breath – regular martyrs, the poor dears!’

  ‘Ah, Tatiana Afanassyevna, my friend,’ said Kirila Petrovich T—, a former governor of Ryazan, where he had acquired, not altogether by fair means, three thousand serfs and a young wife, ‘I do not mind what my wife wears: she may dress as she pleases, provided she does not order new gowns every month and throw away her others which are practically new. In the old days the grandmother’s sarafan formed part of the granddaughter’s dowry, but now the gown that the mistress wears today, you will see the maid wearing tomorrow. What is to be done? It spells ruination for the Russian gentry, alas and alack!’

  Saying these words, he glanced with a sigh at his wife,Maria Ilyinishna, who did not seem to care at all either for their praises of the past or their disparagement of the new. Other ladies shared her displeasure but said nothing, for in those days modesty was considered an indispensable attribute in a young woman.

  ‘And who is to blame?’ said Gavril Afanassyevich, filling a tankard with frothy kvass. ‘Is it not our own fault? Young women play the fool, and we encourage them.’

  ‘But what can we do, if we are not free in the matter?’ retorted Kirila Petrovich. ‘Many a husband would be only too glad to shut up his wife in the women’s apartments at the top of the house, but they come with beating drums to summon her to the Assembly. The husband goes after the whip, but the wife is busy dressing. Ugh, those Assemblies! They’re the Lord’s punishment for our sins.’

  His wife chafed with impatience; her tongue fairly itched to speak. At last she could contain herself no longer and turning to her husband she asked him with a sour smile what harm he saw in the Assemblies.

  ‘Why, this harm,’ replied her spouse heatedly, ‘since they were instituted husbands no Longer have the upper hand of their wives; wives have forgotten the words of the Apostle: “Wives, reverence your husbands.” Their minds are taken up not with their domestic affairs but with new clothes; they do not think of how to please their husbands but how to attract the attention of flighty young officers. And is it seemly, Madam, for a Russian noblewoman to be in the same room with tobacco-smoking Germans and their maidservants? And dancing and talking with young men far into the night – it’s unheard of! It might be all very well if they were relatives but with perfect strangers –!’

  ‘If I were to speak my true mind – though ’twould be more prudent to hold my tongue –’ said Gavril Afanassyevich, frowning, ‘I confess these Assemblies are not to my liking either – before you know where you are you may run up against someone who is drunk, or are made drunk yourself for the amusement of others. Then you have to keep your eyes open that some scapegrace isn’t up to mischief with your daughter, and the young people are spoilt beyond words nowadays. At the last Assembly, for instance, young Korsakov made such a commotion over my Natasha that I positively blushed. Next day I see somebody driving right into my courtyard. I thought to myself, Who in the name of heaven is it – Prince Alexander Danilovich, perhaps? Not a bit of it – it was young Korsakov! He could not, if you please, stop his carriage at the gate and take the trouble to walk across to the steps – oh no! He flew in, scraped a leg and started to chatter away – the Lord preserve us! Yekimovna mimics him very amusingly: here, fool, act the foreign monkey for us.’

  Yekimovna seized the lid off one of the dishes and, taking it under her
arm as though it were a hat, began twisting, scraping and bowing in every direction, repeating ‘Mossoo… mam’zelle… Assemblée,… pardon;.’ Prolonged and general laughter again testified to the guests’ appreciation.

  ‘The living image of Korsakov,’ said old Prince Lykov, wiping away tears of laughter when eventually quiet was restored. ‘But why not admit it? He is not the first, nor will he be the last, to return to Holy Russia from foreign parts transformed into a buffoon. What do our children learn abroad? To scrape a leg, to chatter in goodness knows what gibberish, to treat their elders with disrespect, yes, and to run after other men’s wives. Of all the young men who have been educated in foreign lands the Tsar’s negro (the Lord forgive me!) is more of a man than any.’

  ‘Dear me, prince!’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna. ‘I have seen him, seen him quite close… what a dreadful visage! I was quite scared.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gavril Afanassyevich remarked, ‘he is a steady, decent man, not to be compared with that weathercock…. But who is it has just driven through the gate into the courtyard? Surely it cannot be that foreign monkey again? Why do you stand gaping there, you idiots?’ he continued, turning to the servants. ‘Run and stop him, and for the future…’

  ‘Are you raving, dunderhead?’ interrupted Yekimovna the fool. ‘Or perhaps you are blind? That’s the Imperial sledge: the Tsar has come.’

  Gavril Afanassyevich hastily got up from the table; everybody rushed to the windows, and, sure enough, they saw the Emperor walking up the steps, leaning on his orderly’s shoulder. There was a general hurly-burly. The host rushed to meet Peter; the servants ran hither and thither as if they had gone crazy; the guests took fright – some even thinking how they might depart home as quickly as possible. Suddenly Peter’s loud voice was heard on the other side of the door; the room was hushed, and the Tsar entered, accompanied by his host, overcome with joy.

  ‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen!’ said Peter gaily.

  All made a low bow. The Tsar’s sharp eyes sought out the host’s daughter in the crowd, and he called her to him. Natalia Gavrilovna advanced boldly enough, though she was blushing not merely to the ears but to the shoulders too.

  ‘You grow prettier every day,’ the Emperor said, kissing her upon the head as was his habit. Then, turning to the guests, he added: ‘Well, have I disturbed you? Were you dining? Pray be seated again; and give me some aniseedvodka, Gavril Afanassyevich.’

  The host rushed to his stately major-domo, snatched the tray from his hands and, filling a golden goblet, himself handed it with a bow to the Emperor. Peter drank the vodka, ate a dry biscuit, and once more invited the company to go on with their dinner. All resumed their former places except the dwarf and the companion, who did not dare to remain at a table graced by the Tsar’s presence. Peter sat down next to Gavril Afanassyevich and asked for some soup. His orderly handed him a wooden spoon with ivory mountings, and a knife and fork with green bone handles, for Peter used no forks and spoons but his own. The dinner which a moment ago had rung with talk and laughter continued in silence and constraint.

  The host, out of respect and delight, ate nothing; the guests also stood on ceremony and listened with reverent homage to the Emperor chatting in German to the captive Swede about the campaign of 1701. The fool Yekimovna, whom the Emperor addressed more than once, replied with a sort of timid aloofness, which, be it noted, was in no sense a mark of natural stupidity on her part. At last the dinner came to an end. The Tsar rose, and after him all the other guests.

  ‘Gavril Afanassyevich,’ he said to the host, ‘I want a word with you in private.’ And taking him by the arm he led him into the drawing-room, shutting the door behind them.

  The guests stayed in the dining-room, talking in whispers about this unexpected visit and, afraid of being indiscreet, they soon one after another went home, without having thanked the host for his hospitality. His father-in-law, daughter and sister saw them very quietly to the door, and remained alone in the dining-room, waiting for the Emperor to come out.

  5

  HALF an hour later the door opened and Peter appeared. With a grave inclination of his head he acknowledged the salutations of Prince Lykov, Tatiana Afanassyevna and Natasha, and walked straight into the ante-room. Rzhevsky helped him on with his red sheepskin coat, accompanied him to the sledge, and on the steps thanked him once more for the honour he had shown him.

  Peter drove away.

  Returning to the dining-room, Gavril Afanassyevich seemed much preoccupied; he angrily ordered the servants to make haste and clear the table, sent Natasha to her room and saying to his sister and father-in-law that he wanted to talk to them led them into the bedroom where he usually rested after dinner. The old prince stretched himself upon the oak bedstead; Tatiana Afanassyevna settled in the old brocaded arm-chair, drawing up a footstool for her feet; Gavril Afanassyevich locked all the doors, sat down at the foot of the bed by Prince Lykov, and in a low voice began:

  ‘It was not for nothing that the Emperor was graciously pleased to come and see me: guess what he wanted to talk to me about.’

  ‘How can we tell, my dear brother?’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna.

  ‘Has the Tsar appointed you governor somewhere?’ said his father-in-law. ‘It is high time he did so. Or has he offered you an embassy? Why not? It is not only government secretaries who are sent to foreign sovereigns, but persons of quality as well.’

  ‘No,’ Rzhevsky answered with a frown. ‘I am a man of the old school, and our services are not needed now, although it may be an Orthodox Russian gentleman is worth as much as these modern upstarts, pancake-sellers and heathens. But that is a different matter.’

  ‘Then what did he talk to you about, all that time?’ asked Tatiana Afanassyevna. ‘Can it be some misfortune has befallen you? The Lord save and defend us!’

  ‘It isn’t exactly misfortune, but I confess I was rather taken aback.’

  ‘But what is it, brother? What has happened?’

  ‘It is about Natasha: the Tsar came to make a match for her.’

  ‘Praise be!’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna, crossing herself. ‘The girl is of marriageable age, and like match-maker, like suitor. God give them love and concord: it is a great honour. For whom does the Tsar ask her hand?’

  ‘H’m!’ Gavril Afanassyevich cleared his throat. ‘For whom? That’s just it – for whom!’

  ‘For whom, then?’ repeated Prince Lykov, who was beginning to doze off.

  ‘Guess,’ said Gavril Afanassyevich.

  ‘My dear brother,’ replied the old lady, ‘how can we guess? There are no end of marriageable young men at Court, any one of whom would be glad to take your Natasha to wife. Is it Dolgoruky?’

  ‘No, it isn’t Dolgoruky.’

  ‘Just as well: far too high and mighty. Schein, is it? Or Troyekurov?’

  ‘No, neither the one nor the other.’

  ‘No, they are not to my taste either: flighty, they are, and too much infected with the German spirit. Well, is it Miloslavsky?’

  ‘No, not he.’

  ‘And a good thing, too: he is rich and stupid. Who is it then? Yeletsky? Lvov? Surely not Raguzinsky? No, I give it up. For whom, then, does the Tsar want Natasha?’

  ‘For the negro Ibrahim.’

  The old lady cried out, clasping her hands. Prince Lykov raised his head from the pillow and repeated in amazement:

  ‘For the negro Ibrahim?’

  ‘My dear brother!’ said the old lady in a tearful voice. ‘Do not be the ruin of your own dear child – do not deliver poor little Natasha into the clutches of that black devil!’

  ‘But how am I to refuse the Emperor,’ objected Gavril Afanassyevich, ‘when he promises us his favour, me and all our family?’

  ‘What!’ cried the old prince, who was wide awake now. ‘Marry Natasha, my granddaughter, to a bought negro slave?’

  ‘He is not a commoner,’ said Gavril Afanassyevich. ‘He is the son of a negro sultan. The Turks captured him and
sold him in Constantinople, and our ambassador rescued him and presented him to the Tsar. Ibrahim’s elder brother came to Russia with a considerable ransom and…’

  ‘My dear Gavril Afanassyevich!’ his sister interrupted him. ‘We have heard the fairy-tale about Prince. Bova and Yeruslan Lazarevich! You had better tell us what answer you gave to the Emperor.’

  ‘I said that he was our master, and that it was his servants’ duty to obey him in all things.’

  At that moment there was a noise behind the door. Gavril Afanassyevich went to open it but felt something in the way. He gave a hard push – the door opened and they saw Natasha lying unconscious on the blood-stained floor.

  Her heart had swooned away when the Emperor shut himself up with her father; some presentiment whispered to her that the matter concerned her, and when Gavril Afanassyevich sent her away, saying that he must speak to her aunt and grandfather, she had not been able to resist the feminine instinct of curiosity and, stealing quietly through the inner rooms to the bedroom door, had not missed a single word of the whole awful conversation. When she heard her father’s last sentence the poor girl fainted and in falling struck her head against one of the iron corners of the chest in which her dowry was kept.