The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Read online

  ‘Why did you get out of bed?’ Yegorovna said to him. ‘He can’t stand on his feet and yet he had to be doing the same as other people and going where they do.’

  The old man was carried back to his bedroom. He tried to talk to his son but his thoughts were confused and there was no coherence in what be said. He dropped into silence and dozed off. Vladimir was shocked by his condition. He had his things brought into his father’s room and asked to be left alone with him. The servants obeyed and turned their attentions to Grisha, who was led away to the servants’ hall, to be plied with food and overwhelmed with questions and greetings.

  4

  A coffin now lies on the table

  Where once the board was festive and gay.1

  A FEW days after his arrival young Dubrovsky would have liked to find out how matters stood with regard to the estate, but his father was not able to give him the necessary information, and Andrei Gavrilovich had no lawyer. Going through the various papers, Vladimir found only the assessor’s first letter and the rough draft of his father’s reply. This was not enough to give him any clear idea of the case, and he decided to await developments, trusting to the righteousness of his father’s cause.

  Meanwhile Andrei Gavrilovich was sinking hourly. Vladimir saw that the end was not far off, and he never left the old man, who had become quite senile.

  By now the time for lodging an appeal had expired and nothing had been done about it. Kistenyovka belonged to Troyekurov. Shabashkin came to him to present his respects and congratulations, and to ask when his excellency intended to take possession of his newly acquired property – and would he do so in person or would he commission someone else to act as his representative? Kiril Petrovich felt troubled. He was not grasping by nature; his desire for revenge had carried him too far; his conscience was uneasy. He knew the state his adversary, the old comrade of his youth, was in, and his victory brought no joy to his heart. He glared at Shabashkin, seeking for some pretext to abuse him, but finding none said angrily:

  ‘Be off! I have no time for you!’

  Shabashkin saw that he was in a bad temper, bowed and hastened to withdraw. Left alone, Kiril Petrovich began pacing up and down the room whistling ‘Thunder of victory, resound!’,1 always a sure sign with him of extreme mental disturbance.

  At last he ordered a droshky,2 put on a warm coat (it was the end of September), and drove out, himself taking the reins.

  Soon he caught sight of Andrei Gavrilovich’s house. His soul was full of conflicting emotions. Satisfied vengeance and love of power to a certain extent stifled his nobler feelings, but at last these latter prevailed. He resolved to effect a reconciliation with his old neighbour, wipe out all traces of their quarrel and restore his property to him. Having eased his soul with these good intentions, Kiril Petrovich set off at a trot for his neighbour’s house, and drove straight into the courtyard.

  The sick man happened to be sitting at his bedroom window. He recognized Kiril Petrovich, and a dreadful look of agitation came into his face: a livid flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes flashed and he uttered some unintelligible sounds. His son, who was in the room poring over account-books, raised his head and was alarmed at his condition. The sick man was pointing with his finger to the courtyard with an expression of rage and horror. At that moment Yegorovna’s heavy steps were heard.

  ‘Master, master!’ she cried. ‘Kiril Petrovich has come, Kiril Petrovich is at the door! Lord God!’ she gasped. ‘What is it? What is the matter with him?’

  Andrei Gavrilovich had hastily gathered up the skirts of his dressing-gown, meaning to rise, from his arm-chair. He half got to his feet – and then suddenly fell. His son rushed towards him; the old man lay unconscious, hardly breathing; he had had a stroke.

  ‘Quick, quick, send into the town for a doctor!’ Vladimir shouted.

  ‘Kiril Petrovich Troyekurov would like to see you,’ announced a servant, coming into the room.

  Vladimir cast him a fearful look.

  ‘Tell Kiril Petrovich to take himself off before I have him turned out – now go!’

  The man delightedly hurried away to execute his master’s bidding. Yegorovna threw up her hands in despair.

  ‘Dearie!’ she shrieked. ‘You’ll be the ruin of us! Kiril Petrovich will eat us alive!’

  ‘Quiet, nurse!’ said Vladimir angrily. ‘Make haste and send Anton for the doctor.’

  Yegorovna went out. There was no one in the hall: all the servants had run to the courtyard to look at Kiril Petrovich. She came out on to the steps and heard Grisha deliver the young master’s message. Kiril Petrovich listened, seated in the droshky; his face went black as night; he smiled haughtily, scowled menacingly at the assembled servants and drove slowly round the courtyard. He looked in at the window where Andrei Gavrilovich had been sitting a minute or two before, but he was no longer there. The old nurse stood on the steps, forgetful of her master’s orders. The servants were noisily discussing what had just occurred. Suddenly Vladimir appeared in the midst of them and said abruptly: ‘There is no need for a doctor – my father is dead!’

  Confusion followed. The servants rushed into the old master’s room. He was lying in the arm-chair where Vladimir had carried him; his right arm hung down to the floor, his head was bent forward upon his chest – there was no sign of life in the body, which, though not yet cold, was already disfigured by death. Yegorovna set up a wail. The other servants crowded round the corpse left to their care; they washed it, dressed it in a uniform made in 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which for so many years they had waited upon their master.

  5

  THE funeral took place three days later. The poor old man’s body, wrapped in a shroud, lay in the coffin surrounded by lighted candles. The dining-room was crowded with serfs ready to follow the funeral procession. Vladimir and some of the men lifted the coffin. The priest walked in front, and after him his clerk, singing the burial prayers. The master of Kistenyovka crossed the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through the copse – the church was on the other side of it. It was a bright, cold day; the autumn leaves were falling from the trees. Emerging from the wood, they saw before them the timber church and the churchyard shaded by the old lime-trees. The mortal remains of Vladimir’s mother rested there, and there, beside her tomb, a new grave had been dug the day before. The church was packed with the Kistenyovka peasants come to render the last homage to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood by the ikonostasis; he did not weep or pray but the expression on his face was terrible. The sad ceremony came to an end. Vladimir was the first to give the farewell kiss to the dead; the manor serfs approached after him. The lid was brought and nailed on the coffin. The women wailed aloud, the men frequently wiped their eyes with their fists. Vladimir and the same three servants as before carried the coffin to the churchyard, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the ground; all who were present threw a handful of earth on to it; the grave was filled up, they bowed before it and went home. Vladimir walked away hastily and, leaving the others behind, disappeared into the Kistenyovka wood.

  Yegorovna, in his name, invited the priest and the other clerics to the funeral dinner, saying that the young master would not be coming. Father Anissim, his wife Fedorovna and the clerk made their way to the house, discoursing with Yegorovna upon the virtues of the deceased and the future that in all probability awaited his heir. (Troyekurov’s visit and the reception given to him were already known to the whole neighbourhood, and the local politicians predicted serious consequences therefrom.)

  ‘What will be, will be,’ said the priest’s wife, ‘but I shall be sorry if Vladimir Andreyevich is not master here. He is a fine young fellow, there is no denying that.’

  ‘But who else can be our master?’ Yegorovna interrupted her. ‘It is no good Kiril Petrovich getting into a temper – he has a brave one to deal with. My young falcon can stand up for himself, and please God his high-born friends will
not forsake him. Kiril Petrovich is far too puffed up, that’s what he is. He did slink away, though, with his tail between his legs, when my Grisha shouted to him: “Be off, you old cur! Get away from here.”’

  ‘Mercy on us, Yegorovna,’ said the clerk. ‘How ever could Grisha bring himself to say such things? I believe I’d as soon venture to lay a complaint against my lord bishop as make a wry face at Kiril Petrovich. The instant I set eyes on him I go all of a tremble. And my back bends of its own accord before I know where I am….’

  ‘Vanity of vanities!’ said the priest. ‘They will sing “May his memory live for ever!” when Kiril Petrovich dies just the same as they did today for Andrei Gavrilovich. The funeral may be grander, and more people be invited to the house afterwards, but it will be all one in the sight of God.’

  ‘Oh, father, we wanted to invite all the neighbourhood but Vladimir Andreyevich wouldn’t hear of it. It isn’t that there’s not enough to entertain people with… but what could we do? At all events, with only a few of you coming back you can eat to your heart’s content.’

  This kindly promise and the hope of finding a toothsome pie waiting for them caused the party to quicken their steps. They arrived safely back at the house, where the table was already laid and vodka served.

  Meanwhile Vladimir advanced further into the depths of the wood, hoping to tire himself out and thus deaden his sorrow. He walked on, not looking where he was going; branches caught and scratched him at every step, his feet continually sank into the bog – but he was oblivious. At last he reached a little glen surrounded on all sides by the forest; a brook wound silently among the trees half stripped of their leaves by the autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down on the cold turf, and thoughts, each one gloomier than the last, oppressed his soul…. He was painfully aware of being alone in the world; terrible storm-clouds menaced the future. The quarrel with Troyekurov foreboded fresh misfortunes. His modest heritage might be taken from him, in which case he would be completely destitute. For a long while he sat in the same spot without moving, watching the gentle flow of the stream bearing away a few withered leaves, and it struck him as being very much like life: the analogy was so true, so homely. At last he realized that it was growing dusk; he got to his feet and began to look for the way back, but for a long time he wandered about the unfamiliar wood before stumbling upon the path which led straight to his courtyard gates.

  The priest and his party were coming towards him. This was a bad omen.1 Automatically he turned aside and hid behind the trees. They did not see him, and continued talking earnestly among themselves.

  ‘Avoid evil and do good,’ the priest was saying to his wife. ‘There is no need for us to stay here. It does not concern us, however the business may end.’

  The priest’s wife made some reply but Vladimir could not hear what she said.

  Approaching the house, he saw a number of people, peasants and house-serfs, crowding into the courtyard. From where he was he could hear unusual noise and a hubbub of voices. Two troikas waited by the coach-house. On the steps several unknown men in official uniforms seemed to be talking together.

  ‘What does this mean?’ he asked angrily of Anton, who ran forward to meet him. ‘Who are these people, and what do they want?’

  ‘Oh, Vladimir Andreyevich, my dear,’ the old man answered breathlessly, ‘it’s Court officials. They are giving us over to Troyekurov, they are taking us from your honour!…’

  Vladimir’s head drooped; the serfs surrounded their luckless master.

  ‘You are our lord and master,’ they cried, kissing his hands. ‘We don’t want any master but you. We will die, but we will not leave you. Say the word, sir, and we’ll settle them.’

  Vladimir looked at them, and dark thoughts surged in his mind.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘I will speak to the officers.’

  ‘That’s it – you speak to them, sir,’ some of them shouted from the crowd. ‘Put the wretches to shame!’

  Vladimir went up to the officials. Shabashkin with his cap on his head stood, arms akimbo, staring arrogantly about him. The police-captain, a tall stout man of some fifty years of age, with a red face and a moustache, cleared his throat when he saw Dubrovsky, and pronounced in a hoarse voice:

  ‘Thus I repeat what I have said to you already, by the decision of the District Court from this day forth you belong to Kiril Petrovich Troyekurov, who is here represented by Mr Shabashkin. Obey him in all things, whatever he may order you; and you, women, love and honour him, for he is very partial to you.’

  At this witticism the police-captain burst into a laugh, and Shabashkin and the other officials followed suit. Vladimir boiled with indignation.

  ‘Allow me to inquire, what does this mean?’ he asked the jocular police-captain with affected composure.

  ‘Why, it means this,’ the resourceful official answered, ‘that we have come to place Kiril Petrovich Troyekurov in possession of this estate, and to request certain others to take themselves off for good and all!’

  ‘But you might, I should have thought, communicate with me first, rather than with my peasants, and inform the owner that his estate no longer belongs to him….’

  ‘The former owner, Andrei, son of Gavril Dubrovsky, by the will of God is dead; but who are you?’ said Shabashkin with an insolent stare. ‘We do not know you, nor have we any wish to do so either.’

  ‘Your honour, that’s Vladimir Andreyevich, our young master,’ a voice called out from the crowd.

  ‘Who dared to open his mouth?’ said the police-captain threateningly. ‘What master? Who is this Vladimir Andreyevich? Kiril Petrovich Troyekurov is your master…. You hear that, you blockheads?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind!’ said the same voice.

  ‘Why, this is defiance!’ the police-captain shouted. ‘Hey, elder, come here!’

  The village elder stepped forward.

  ‘Find out at once who it was that dared speak to me. I’ll give him –’

  The elder turned to the crowd and asked who it was had spoken. But every one was silent. Soon there was a murmur at the back of the crowd; it grew louder and in a minute broke into fearful yells. The police-captain dropped his voice and was about to try persuasion.

  ‘Why stand looking at him?’ the peasants cried. ‘Come on, seize ‘em, lads!’ And the crowd surged forward.

  Shabashkin and his group rushed into the vestibule and slammed the door behind them.

  ‘Push, lads!’ shouted the same voice, and the crowd pressed against the door.

  ‘Stop!’ Dubrovsky cried. ‘Fools! What are you doing? You will destroy yourselves and me too. Go home, all of you, and leave me alone. Don’t be afraid, the Tsar is merciful. I will appeal to him – he will not see us wronged, we are all his children. But how is he to take our part if you start rebelling and behaving like brigands?’

  Young Dubrovsky’s words, his ringing voice and impressive appearance produced the desired effect. The crowd calmed down and dispersed. The courtyard emptied, the officials stayed in the house. Vladimir walked sadly up the steps. Shabashkin opened the door and with obsequious bows began to thank Dubrovsky for his kind intervention.

  Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no answer.

  ‘We have decided’, continued the assessor, ‘with your permission to remain here for the night, as it is already dark and your peasants might attack us on the way. Be kind enough to have some hay spread on the parlour floor for us; as soon as it is daylight we will take our departure.’

  ‘Do what you please,’ Dubrovsky answered dryly: ‘I am no longer master here.’

  With these words he went into his father’s room and shut the door.

  6

  ‘AND so all is over!’ Vladimir said to himself. ‘Only this morning I had a home and was provided for; tomorrow I shall have to leave the house where I was born. My father, the ground where he rests, will belong to the hateful man who caused his death and beggared me….’ Vladimir clenched his teeth; his e
yes rested on a portrait of his mother. The artist had painted her leaning against a balustrade, in a white morning dress with a red rose in her hair. ‘This portrait, too, will fall into our enemy’s hands,’ Vladimir thought. ‘It will be thrown into a lumber room together with broken chairs, or hung in the hall for his kennel-men to laugh at and pass remarks about; and her bedroom, the room where my father died, will be given to his steward or his harem. No, no! He shall not have this house of mourning from which he is driving me out!’ Vladimir set his teeth; murderous thoughts rose in his mind. He heard the voices of the petty officials; they were giving their orders and making themselves at home, demanding first one thing and then another, and outraging his melancholy reflections. At last all was quiet.

  Vladimir unlocked the chests and drawers and started sorting out his father’s papers. They consisted for the most part of farming accounts and letters connected with various matters of business. Vladimir tore them up unread. Among them he came across a packet with the inscription: ‘Letters from my wife.’ With profound emotion Vladimir took them up. They had been written during the Turkish campaign,1 and were addressed to the army from Kistenyovka. She described to her husband her life in the country and her household occupations, tenderly complained of being parted from him, and implored him to return home as soon as possible to the embraces of his loving wife. In one of the letters she expressed her anxiety concerning the health of little Vladimir; in another she rejoiced at the aptitudes he showed, and predicted a happy and brilliant future for him. He read on, engrossed to the exclusion of all else, absorbed in a world of domestic bliss, and did not notice how the time passed. The clock on the wall struck eleven. Putting the letters into his pocket, Vladimir took a candle and left the room. The officials were asleep on the parlour floor. On the table were the tumblers they had emptied, and a strong smell of rum pervaded the entire room. Vladimir stepped past them in disgust, and went into the hall. There all was dark. Seeing a light, somebody rushed into a corner. Turning towards him with the candle, Vladimir recognized Arhip the blacksmith.