The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

GENERAL EDITOR: STANLEY APPELBAUM

EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: THOMAS CROFTS

Copyright

Copyright © 1994 by Dover Publications, Inc.

All rights reserved under Pan American and International Copyright Conventions.

Bibliographical Note

This Dover edition, first published in 1994, is an unabridged republication of stories originally appearing in the 1916 edition of The Prose Tales of Alexander Poushkin, translated from the Russian by T. Keane, G. Bell and Sons, Ltd, London (original edition, 1894). Some explanatory footnotes and an introductory Note have been specially prepared for the present edition.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich, 1799—1837.

[Short stories. English. Selections]

The queen of spades, and other stories / Alexander Pushkin; translated from the Russian by T. Keane.

p. cm.—(Dover thrift editions)

Unabridged republication of stories originally appearing in the 1916 edition of The prose tales of Alexander Poushkin—T.p. verso.

9780486114200

1. Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich, 1799—1837—Translations into English. I. Keane, T. II. Title. III. Series.

PG3347.A2 1994

891.73′3—dc20

94-16532

CIP

Manufactured in the United States of America

Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501

Note

ALEXANDER SERGEYEVICH PUSHKIN (1799—1837) could without exaggeration be called the founding father of modern Russian literature. He was the nation’s first poet to achieve international fame writing in his mother tongue (educated Russians then used mainly French and German) ; his play Boris Godunov was transformed by the composer Modest Mussorgsky (1835—1881) into Russia’s most admired opera; and he created a role that itself became a Russian national treasure, that of the subversive writer.

Pushkin was more than once jailed for his poetry, its content judged by Imperial censors to be either treasonous (The Upas Tree, a searing indictment of the Tsarist regime) or morally corrupt (The Gavriliad, a raffish burlesque of the Annunciation). Finally, Tsar Nicholas I, while encouraging the poet to write, burdened him with his own Imperial censor, a Count Benckendorff, whom Pushkin openly insulted and often hoodwinked by inscribing Translated from the Latin at the head of certain manuscripts.

While Pushkin’s greatest contributions may be in the medium of verse, his small body of prose fiction, which includes novels, short stories and folktales, rewards investigation. The stories included here represent two distinct aspects of Pushkin’s fiction writing. The Queen of Spades (1833—1834) reflects, in style as well as in substance, the cosmopolitan Russia of the nineteenth century: urbane, card-playing officers, fancy dress balls and countesses. The other stories included here, written a short time earlier, are known collectively as The Tales of the Late P. Belkin after the fictional author under whose name Pushkin published them (his first printed stories). Set for the most part far from Moscow and St. Petersburg, these portray the character of rural Russia: provincial government functionaries, poor soldiers and artisans, plump land-owners and their beguiling young daughters.

For this edition, the editors have provided a handful of new footnotes—translations of French phrases, card-game terminology and the like. These new notes appear within square brackets and are starred and daggered, whereas the notes provided by the translator Keane appear with their original numbering.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Note

The Queen of Spades.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

An Amateur Peasant Girl.

The Shot.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

The Snowstorm.

The Postmaster.

The Coffin-Maker.

DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

The Queen of Spades.

CHAPTER I.

THERE WAS A card party at the rooms of Naroumoff of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.

And how did you fare, Sourin? asked the host.

"Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play mirandole, ¹ I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always lose!"

And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red? . . . Your firmness astonishes me.

But what do you think of Hermann? said one of the guests, pointing to a young Engineer: he has never had a card in his hand in his life, he has never in his life laid a wager, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning watching our play.

Play interests me very much, said Hermann: but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.

Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all! observed Tomsky. But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna.

How so? inquired the guests.

I cannot understand, continued Tomsky, how it is that my grandmother does not punt.²

What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting? said Naroumoff.

Then you do not know the reason why?

No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.

"Oh! then listen. You must know that, about sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of the ‘Muscovite Venus.’ Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches from her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had spent half a million of francs, that neither their Moscow nor Saratoff estates were in Paris, and finally refused point blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St. Germain,³ about whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man immediately waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to him in the blackest colours the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.

"St. Germain reflected.

" ‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.’

" ‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell you that I haven’t any money left.’

" ‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be pleased to listen to me.’

Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a good deal . . .

The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and then continued:

"That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the jeu de la reine.⁴ The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused herself in an off-handed manner for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won sonika,⁵ and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost."

Mere chance! said one of the guests.

A tale! observed Hermann.

Perhaps they were marked cards! said a third.

I do not think so, replied Tomsky gravely.

What! said Naroumoff, you have a grandmother who knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded in getting the secret of it out of her?

That’s the deuce of it! replied Tomsky: "she had four sons, one of whom was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to one of them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have been a bad thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he assured me, on his honour, that it was true. The late Chaplitsky—the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions—once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles—to Zoritch, ⁶ if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitsky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitsky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles and won sonika; he doubled the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back more than he had lost . . .

"But it