The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Read online

  Servants came running in haste; they picked Natasha up, carried her to her room and placed her on the bed. In a little while she regained consciousness and opened her eyes but did not recognize her father or her aunt. She broke out into a high fever; in her delirium she kept raving about the Tsar’s negro and the wedding, and then suddenly cried out in a pitiful, piercing voice:

  ‘Valerian, dear Valerian, my life! Save me: here they come, here they come….’

  Tatiana Afanassyevna glanced uneasily at her brother, who turned pale, bit his lip and silently left the room. He joined the old prince, who, unable to mount the stairs, had remained below.

  ‘How is Natasha?’ he asked.

  ‘Very bad,’ replied the distressed father. ‘Worse than I thought: she is delirious and raves about Valerian.’

  ‘Who is this Valerian?’ asked the old man, alarmed. ‘Can it be that orphan, that boy belonging to the Strelitz1 man, who was brought up in your house?’

  ‘The very same, woe is me!’ replied Gavril Afanassyevich. ‘His father saved my life during the mutiny of the Strelitz, and the devil put it into my head to take the accursed young wolf-cub into my home. When he was enrolled into the Service two years ago, at his own request, Natasha burst into tears as she said good-bye to him, while he stood as though turned to stone. It struck me as suspicious, and I spoke to my sister about it. But since that time Natasha has not mentioned him, and nothing further was heard of Valerian. I thought she had forgotten him, but it seems she hasn’t…. But it is settled: she shall marry the negro.’

  Prince Lykov did not gainsay him: that would have been useless; he went home. Tatiana Afanassyevna remained by Natasha’s bedside; after sending for the doctor Gavril Afanassyevich locked himself in his room, and all was still and mournful in the house.

  *

  The unexpected offer to make a match for him surprised Ibrahim quite as much as it did Gavril Afanassyevich, if not more. This was how it happened. They were engaged on a piece of work together when Peter said to Ibrahim:

  ‘I perceive, my friend, that you are low-spirited. Tell me frankly, what is wrong?’

  Ibrahim assured the Tsar that he was content with his lot and wished for nothing better.

  ‘Good!’ said the Tsar. ‘If you are dejected for no reason, I know how to cheer you up.’

  When they had finished work Peter asked Ibrahim:

  ‘Did you like the girl you danced the minuet with at the last Assembly?’

  ‘She is very charming, sire, and seems to be a good and modest girl.’

  ‘Then I will help you to know her better. Would you like to marry her?’

  ‘I, sire?…’

  ‘Listen, Ibrahim: you are a lonely man, having neither kith nor kin, a stranger to every one except myself. If I were to die today, what would become of you tomorrow, my poor African? You must get settled while there is still time, find support in new ties, become connected with the Russian nobility.’

  ‘Sire, I am happy under your Majesty’s protection and in the possession of your favour. God grant I may not outlive my Tsar and benefactor – that is all I wish. But even if I did think of marrying, would the girl and her relatives consent? My appearance…’

  ‘Your appearance? What nonsense! There is nothing wrong with you. A young girl must obey her parents, and we shall see what old Gavril Afanassyevich will say when I come in person to ask his daughter’s hand for you!’

  With these words the Tsar ordered his sledge, and left Ibrahim plunged deep in thought.

  ‘Get married!’ thought the African. ‘Why not? Can I be doomed to pass my life in solitude, knowing nothing of the greatest joys and most sacred duties of man, simply because I was born in the tropics? I may not hope to be loved: a childish objection! As though one could believe in love! As though woman’s frivolous heart were capable of love! I have renounced for ever such charming delusions, and chosen other more practical attractions instead. The Tsar is right: I must think of my future. Marriage with Rzhevsky’s daughter will unite me with the proud Russian nobility, and I shall cease to be a stranger in my new fatherland. I will not expect love from my wife but be content with her fidelity; and I will win her affection by constant tenderness, trust and devotion.’

  Ibrahim tried to go on with his work as usual but his mind was in a turmoil. He left his papers and went for a stroll along the banks of the Neva. Suddenly he heard Peter’s voice; he looked round and saw the Tsar, who had dismissed his sledge and was hurrying after him with a beaming countenance.

  ‘It is all settled, my friend!’ Peter said, taking him by the arm. ‘I have arranged the marriage for you. Go and call on your future father-in-law tomorrow, but see that you humour his family pride: leave your sledge at the gate and walk across the courtyard, talk to him about his services and his noble lineage – and he will dote on you. And now’, he went on, shaking his cudgel, ‘take me to that rascal Menshikov. I must see him about his latest tricks.’

  Cordially thanking Peter for his fatherly solicitude, Ibrahim accompanied him as far as Prince Menshikov’s magnificent palace, and then returned home.

  6

  A LITTLE lamp was burning dimly before the glass case containing the old family icons with their glittering gold and silver mountings. Its flickering flame cast a faint light over the curtained bed and a small table covered with labelled medicine-bottles. Near the stove a servant maid sat at her spinning-wheel, and the slight whirr of the spindle was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the room.

  ‘Who is there?’ asked a weak voice.

  The maid got up at once, went over to the bed and gently lifted the curtain.

  ‘Will it soon be daylight?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘It’s past midday,’ the maid answered.

  ‘Gracious me, why is it so dark, then?’

  ‘The shutters are closed, miss.’

  ‘Help me to dress, quick.’

  ‘I can’t, miss. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Am I ill then? Have I been ill long?’

  ‘It’s a fortnight now.’

  ‘Is it possible? And it seems to me as if it were only yesterday that I went to bed….’

  Natasha was silent; she was trying to collect her scattered thoughts: something had happened to her, but what it was she could not exactly remember. The maid stood awaiting her orders. At that moment a dull noise was heard below.

  ‘What is that?’ asked the sick girl.

  ‘They have finished dinner and are getting up from the table,’ the maid answered. ‘Your aunt will be here directly.’

  Natasha seemed pleased at this; with a feeble gesture she dismissed the servant. The maid drew the bed-curtains and sat down again at her spinning-wheel. A few minutes later a head in a broad white cap with dark ribbons appeared in the doorway and a voice asked in an undertone:

  ‘How is Natasha?’

  ‘Good morning, auntie,’ the invalid said quietly, and Tatiana Afanassyevna hastened to her.

  ‘Our young lady has regained consciousness,’ said the maid, carefully drawing an arm-chair to the side of the bed.

  The old lady, with tears in her eyes, kissed her niece’s pale, languid face, and sat down beside her. A German doctor in a black coat and learned wig came in after her and, feeling Natasha’s pulse, declared first in Latin and then in Russian that she was out of danger. Asking for paper and ink, he wrote out a fresh prescription, and departed. The old lady rose, kissed Natasha once more and hurried downstairs to give the good news to Gavril Afanassyevich.

  In the drawing-room the Tsar’s negro in full uniform, with sword by his side and hat in his hand, sat respectfully talking to Gavril Afanassyevich. Korsakov, lolling on a soft couch, was listening absent-mindedly to their conversation and teasing a venerable borzoi dog. Becoming tired of this occupation, he went up to the mirror, a familiar recourse of the idle, and in it he saw Tatiana Afanassyevna, standing in the doorway and vainly trying to attract her brother’s attention.

  ‘You ar
e wanted, Gavril Afanassyevich,’ said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim.

  Gavril Afanassyevich immediately went out to his sister, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘I marvel at your patience,’ Korsakov said to Ibrahim. ‘You have been listening for a whole hour to all that stuff and nonsense about the antiquity of the Lykov and Rzhevsky families, and have even added your own moral observations! In your place j’aurais planté là the old humbug and all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who gives herself airs, pretending to be ill – une petite santé! Tell me honestly: surely you aren’t in love with the little mijaurée?’

  ‘No,’ Ibrahim answered: ‘I am marrying her not for love, of course, but for practical reasons, and then only if she feels no positive aversion for me.’

  ‘Look here, Ibrahim,’ said Korsakov, ‘follow my advice for once: I assure you, I have more sense than would appear. Give up this mad idea – don’t marry! I do not think your betrothed has any particular liking for you. All sorts of things happen in this world, you know. Here am I – tolerably good-looking, of course, but it has happened to me to deceive husbands who were in no way inferior to me, I can assure you. And you yourself… remember our Parisian friend, Count L—? There is no relying on a woman’s fidelity: happy are those who do not bother about it. But you… With your passionate, brooding and suspicious nature, with your flat nose, thick lips and fuzzy hair – for you to rush into the dangers of matrimony!…’

  ‘I thank you for your friendly advice,’ Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, ‘but you know the saying: “One does not have to sing lullabies to other people’s children”…’

  ‘Take care, Ibrahim,’ Korsakov answered, laughing, ‘that you are not called upon some day to prove the truth of that saying in a literal sense.’

  But the conversation in the next room was growing heated.

  ‘You will kill her,’ the old lady was saying. ‘She cannot bear the sight of him.’

  ‘But just consider,’ her obstinate brother retorted, ‘for a fortnight now he has been coming to the house as her betrothed and has not seen her once yet. He may end by thinking that her illness is mere pretence, and that we are simply seeking to delay matters so as to rid ourselves of him in some way or other. Besides, what will the Tsar say? He has sent three times as it is to inquire after Natasha’s health. Protest as you please, but I do not intend to quarrel with him.’

  ‘Merciful heavens, what will become of the poor child!’ said Tatiana Afanassyevna. ‘At least let me go and prepare her for the visit.’

  Gavril Afanassyevich consented, and returned to the drawing-room.

  ‘Thank God, she is out of danger!’ he said to Ibrahim. ‘Natalia is much better; were it not for leaving our dear guest alone here, I would take you upstairs to have a glimpse of your betrothed.’

  Korsakov congratulated Gavril Afanassyevich on his daughter’s recovery, begged him not to be uneasy on his account, assured him that he was obliged to go at once, and rushed into the hall, not allowing his host to see him off.

  Meanwhile, Tatiana Afanassyevna hastened to prepare the invalid for her terrible visitor. Entering the room, she sat down breathless by the side of the bed and took Natasha’s hand, but before she had time to utter a word the door opened. ‘Who is it?’ Natasha asked. The old lady turned faint. Gavril Afanassyevich drew back the curtain, looked coldly at the invalid and inquired how she was. Natasha tried to smile at him but could not. She was struck by her father’s stern expression and a vague feeling of anxiety took possession of her. At that moment it seemed to her that someone was standing at the head of her bed. With an effort she raised her head and suddenly recognized the Tsar’s negro. Then she remembered everything, and all the horror of her future presented itself before her. But exhausted nature received no perceptible shock. She let her head sink back on the pillow and closed her eyes… her heart was beating painfully. Tatiana Afanassyevna signed to her brother that the invalid wanted to sleep, and they all crept quietly out of the room, except the maid-servant, who sat down to her spinning-wheel again.

  The unhappy girl opened her eyes and, seeing no one by her bedside, called the maid and asked her to go and fetch the dwarf. But at that moment a little old figure, round as a ball, rolled up to her bed. Lastochka (that was the dwarf’s name) had followed Gavril Afanassyevich and Ibrahim upstairs as fast as her short little legs could carry her, and, true to the inquisitiveness natural to the fair sex, had hidden behind the door. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf sat down upon a stool by the bedside.

  Never did so tiny a body house so much mental activity. She had a finger in every pie, knew all there was to know, and busied herself with everything. By her cunning and insinuating ways she had succeeded in gaining the affection of her masters and the detestation of the rest of the household, which she dominated completely. Gavril Afanassyevich listened to her tales, complaints and petty requests. Tatiana Afanassyevna was constantly asking her opinion and following her advice, while Natasha cherished a boundless affection for her and confided to her all the thoughts and emotions of her sixteen-year-old heart.

  ‘Do you know, Lastochka,’ she said, ‘my father is marrying me to the negro.’

  The dwarf gave a deep sigh and her wrinkled face became more wrinkled than ever.

  ‘Is there no hope?’ Natasha continued. ‘Won’t father have pity on me?’

  The dwarf shook her head, on which she wore a little mob-cap.

  ‘Won’t grandfather or auntie intercede for me?’

  ‘No, miss, while you were ill the negro succeeded in bewitching every one. The master raves about him, the prince can talk of no one else, and Tatiana Afanassyevna keeps saying: “’Tis a pity he’s a negro, as a better suitor we could not wish for”.’

  ‘O God, O God!’ moaned poor Natasha.

  ‘Do not grieve, my pretty one,’ said the dwarf, kissing her listless hand. ‘Even if you are to marry the negro, you will still have your liberty. Things aren’t what they used to be in the old days: husbands no longer keep their wives under lock and key. They say the negro is rich: your house will have everything you can think of, and you will be living in clover.’

  ‘Poor Valerianl’ said Natasha, but so softly that the dwarf could only guess at the words which she did not hear.

  ‘That’s just it, miss,’ she said, mysteriously lowering her voice. ‘If you had thought less about that boy you would not have talked about him when you were delirious, and your father would not have been angered.’

  ‘What?’ cried Natasha in alarm. ‘I talked about Valerian? Father heard? He was angry?’

  ‘That’s just the trouble,’ replied the dwarf. ‘If you ask your father now not to marry you to the negro he will think it is because of Valerian. There is no help for it: submit to your father’s will, and what is to be will be.’

  Natasha made no answer. The thought that her heart’s secret was known to her father disturbed her deeply. One hope alone remained: to die before the odious marriage. The idea comforted her. Weak and sad at heart, she resigned herself to her fate.

  7

  IN Gavril Afanassyevich’s house, to the right of the entrance-hall, was a small room with one tiny window. A plain bed covered with a blanket of baize stood in this room; in front of the bed there was a deal table on which a tallow candle was burning and some music lay open. An old blue uniform and an equally old three-cornered hat hung on the wall below a rough woodcut of Charles XII On horseback, secured with three nails. Sounds of a flute came from this humble habitation. Its solitary occupant, the captive dancing-master, in a night-cap and a cotton dressing-gown, sought to relieve the tedium of a winter evening by playing some old Swedish marches. Having devoted two whole hours to this exercise, the Swede took his flute to pieces, placed it in its case and began to undress….

  Dubrovsky

  1

  SEVERAL years ago Kiril Petrovich Troyekurov, a Russian gentleman of the old school, was living on one of his cou
ntry estates. His wealth, distinguished birth and connexions gave him great influence in the province where his property was situated. His neighbours were ready to humour his smallest whim; the officials of the province trembled at his name. Kiril Petrovich accepted all these marks of servility as his rightful due. His house was always full of guests prepared to provide amusement for his lordship’s leisure and join in his noisy and sometimes boisterous mirth. No one dared refuse his invitations or fail on certain special days to put in an appearance at Pokrovskoe to pay their respects to him. In his domestic habits Kiril Petrovich manifested all the vices of a man of no education. Completely spoiled by circumstances, he allowed full rein to every impulse of his passionate temperament, and to every caprice of his somewhat limited intellect. He was immensely hospitable, and in spite of a wonderful constitution two or three times a week he suffered from having eaten too much, and every evening was slightly the worse for liquor.

  Very few of the serf-girls of his household escaped the amorous attentions of this elderly man of fifty. Moreover, in one of the wings of the house lived sixteen maid-servants engaged in fine sewing, as befitted their sex. The windows of this wing were protected by wooden bars, the doors were kept locked, and Kiril Petrovich held the keys. At appointed hours the young recluses went out for a walk in the garden under the surveillance of two old women. Every now and then Kiril Petrovich would marry some of them off, and new-comers took their place. He treated his peasants and domestics in a harsh and arbitrary fashion, but this had no effect on their devotion to him: they were proud of their master’s wealth and repute, and in their turn took many a liberty with their neighbours, trusting to his powerful protection.