The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

  Pushkin’s plots move forward irresistibly, only very occasionally interrupted by a brief passage of description, such as that of the storm in Chapter 2 of The Captain’s Daughter. Rarely does he introduce any personal idea, and then never to the detriment of the action. A short paragraph gives us his views on the use of torture, and a single sentence sums up his whole political philosophy – ‘The best and most enduring of transformations are those which proceed from an improvement in morals and customs, and not from any violent upheaval.’ (In this connexion we may quote the last lines of the same work: ‘Heaven send that we may never see such another senseless and merciless rebellion à la russe! Those who plan impossible revolutions in Russia are either youngsters who do not know our people or positively heartless men who set little value on their own skins and less still on those of others.’)

  ‘Precision and brevity are the principal merits of prose,’ wrote Pushkin in 1822, five years before he himself launched into ‘humble prose’. ‘Prose calls for ideas and more ideas, without which brilliant expressions avail nothing.’ He demanded of the writer ‘philosophy, objectivity, the statesman-like ideas of the historian, shrewdness, vivid imagination, absence of bias for favourite thoughts, freedom.’ In his works the Russian literary language reached its perfection. His prose is as disciplined and mathematical as a Bach fugue. His sentences are short and splendidly chiselled. There is never a blurred outline, never a single superfluous word or unwarranted punctuation mark. He had no taste for ‘shabby ornaments’. (‘The charm of naked beauty is still so incomprehensible to us that even in prose we pursue shabby ornaments,’ he wrote in 1828.)

  Pushkin gave the heavy, archaic, uncertain language of his predecessors the purity, elegance and precision of a classical language, creating forms and rhythms for centuries to come.

  London, October 1957 ROSEMARY EDMONDS

  and October 1960

  The footnotes throughout have been added by the translator

  The Negro of Peter the Great

  1

  ONE of the young men sent abroad by Peter the Great to acquire the learning needed by a country in the course of reorganization was his godson, the negro Ibrahim. Ibrahim studied at the Military School in Paris, passed out with the rank of artillery captain, distinguished himself in the Spanish war and, after being dangerously wounded, returned to Paris. In the midst of his voluminous labours the Tsar never failed to inquire after his favourite, and always received flattering reports of Ibrahim’s progress and conduct. Peter was exceedingly pleased with him and more than once called him back to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He found various excuses for not returning: now it was his wound, now a wish to complete his education, now lack of money – and Peter indulgently complied with his requests, begging him to look after his health, thanking him for his zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and (although extremely parsimonious over his own expenditure) did not spare his exchequer where his favourite was concerned, the ducats being accompanied with fatherly advice and words of caution.

  According to the testimony of all the historical memoirs nothing could equal the frivolity, folly and luxury of the French of that period. The closing years of Louis XIV’s reign, which had been distinguished for the strict piety, gravity and decorum of the Court, had left no trace whatsoever. The Duc d’Orléans,1 who combined many brilliant qualities with all kinds of vices, unfortunately did not know what it was to dissemble. The orgies of the Palais-Royal were no secret in Paris; the example was infectious. At this time Law1 appeared upon the scene; greed for money was united to a thirst for pleasure and dissipation; estates were squandered, morals foundered; the French laughed and speculated – and the State was going to ruin to the lively refrain of satirical vaudevilles.

  Meanwhile, society presented a most remarkable picture. Culture and the craving for amusement had brought all ranks together. Wealth, charm, renown, talent or mere eccentricity – everything that fed curiosity or promised amusement was received with equal favour. Writers, scholars and philosophers left the quiet of their studies and appeared in high society, to do homage to fashion and to dictate to it. Women reigned, but no longer demanded adoration. Superficial gallantry replaced the profound respect formerly shown to them. The pranks of the Duc de Richelieu,2 the Alcibiades of the modern Athens, belong to history, and give some idea of the morals of the day.

  Temps fortuné, marqué par la licence,

  Où la folie, agitant son grelot,

  D’un pied léger parcourt toute la France,

  Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,

  Oü l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.3

  Ibrahim’s arrival, his looks, culture and natural intelligence, attracted wide attention in Paris. All the ladies were anxious to see le nègre du Czar at their houses, and vied with each other in his pursuit. More than once he was invited to the gay evening parties of the Regent; he attended suppers enlivened by the presence of the young Arouet4 and the old Chaulieu,5 by the conversations of Montesquieu1 and of Fontenelle;2 he did not miss a single ball, fête or first performance; and abandoned himself to the general whirl with all the ardour of his years and temperament. But it was not only the thought of exchanging this dissipation, these brilliant pastimes, for the simplicity of the Petersburg Court that dismayed Ibrahim: other and more powerful bonds attached him to Paris: the young African was in love.

  The Countess L—, although no longer in the first bloom of youth, was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at the age of seventeen she had been given in marriage to a man with whom she had had no time to fall in love and who afterwards made no effort to win her affection. Gossip ascribed several lovers to her but thanks to the tolerant attitude of society she enjoyed a good reputation, for she could not be reproached with any ridiculous or scandalous adventure. Her house was the most fashionable in town, and the best Parisian society made it their place of rendeZ-vous Ibrahim was introduced to the Countess by young Merville, who was generally regarded as her latest lover and used every possible means to confirm the report.

  The Countess received Ibrahim courteously but without any particular mark of attention: this captivated him. As a rule people viewed the young negro as a sort of phenomenon and, flocking round, overwhelmed him with compliments and questions – and this curiosity, although it had an air of affability, offended his pride. Women’s sweet attention – almost the sole aim of our exertions – far from delighting, filled him with bitterness and indignation. He felt that for them he was a kind of rare animal, an alien, peculiar creature, accidentally transported into their world and having nothing in common with them. He actually envied men who were in no way remarkable, and considered them fortunate in their insignificance.

  The thought that nature had not intended him for the joys of requited passion saved him from conceit and vain pretensions, and this gave a rare charm to his manner with women. His conversation was simple and dignified; it pleased Countess L—, who had grown tired of the pompous jests and sly insinuations of French wit. Ibrahim frequently visited her. Gradually she became accustomed to the young negro’s appearance, and even began to find something agreeable about the curly head that stood out so black among the powdered wigs in her drawing-room. (Ibrahim had been wounded in the head, and wore a bandage instead of a wig.) He was twenty-seven years old, tall and well-proportioned, and more than one society beauty gazed at him with sentiments more flattering than mere curiosity; but the prejudiced Ibrahim either noticed nothing or put it down to coquetry. But when his eyes met those of the Countess his distrust vanished. Her look expressed such amiable good-nature, her manner towards him was so simple, so spontaneous, that it was impossible to suspect her of the faintest shadow of coquettishness or mockery.

  The idea of love did not enter his head, but to see the Countess every day had now become a necessity for him. He was always seeking to meet her, and every encounter seemed to him an unexpected gift from Heaven. The Countess divined his feelings sooner than he did. Whatever
people may say, love without hopes or demands touches a woman’s heart more surely than all the wiles of the seducer. When Ibrahim was present the Countess watched his every movement and took in everything he said; without him she brooded and sank into her habitual absent-minded state. Merville was the first to notice their mutual attraction – and to congratulate Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love so much as an approving remark from an onlooker: love is blind, and, distrusting itself, is quick to snatch at encouragement.

  Merville’s words roused Ibrahim. The possibility of possessing the woman he loved had never yet occurred to his imagination; the light of hope suddenly flooded his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the Countess, alarmed by the frenzy of his passion, combat it with friendly admonishments and wise counsels; she herself was beginning to waver…. Incautious tokens of approval followed one after another. At last, carried away by the passion she had inspired, the Countess, succumbing to its power, gave herself to the ecstatic Ibrahim.

  Nothing can be hidden from the observant eyes of the world. The Countess’s new love affair soon became known to everyone. Some ladies marvelled at her choice; to many it seemed perfectly natural. Some laughed, others regarded her conduct as unpardonably indiscreet. In the first intoxication of passion Ibrahim and the Countess noticed nothing; but soon the equivocal jokes of the men and the caustic remarks of the women began to reach their ears. Hitherto Ibrahim’s distant, cold manner had protected him from such attacks; he suffered them impatiently and did not know how to ward them off. The Countess, accustomed to the respect of society, could not with equanimity see herself an object of calumny and ridicule. With tears in her eyes she complained to Ibrahim, now bitterly reproaching him, now imploring him not to try to defend her lest by some useless brawl he ruin her completely.

  A new circumstance now made her position still more difficult: the consequence of their imprudent love became apparent. The Countess with despair told Ibrahim that she was with child. Comfort, advice, suggestions – all were drained and all rejected. The Countess saw that her ruin was inevitable and in utter misery awaited it.

  As soon as the Countess’s condition became known gossip began again with renewed vigour; sentimental ladies gave vent to exclamations of horror; men laid wagers as to whether the child would be white or black. There were showers of epigrams at the expense of the husband, who was the only person in the whole of Paris to know and suspect nothing. The fatal moment was approaching. The Countess was distraught. Ibrahim visited her every day. He saw her mental and physical strength gradually failing. Her tears and her terror sprang afresh every moment. At last she felt the first pains. Measures were hastily taken. Means were found for getting the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. A couple of days before this a poor woman had been persuaded to relinquish her new-born infant into the hands of strangers, and a person of trust had been sent to fetch it. Ibrahim was in the closet next to the bedroom where the unfortunate Countess lay. Not daring to breathe, he listened to her stifled groans, to the maid’s whispers and the orders of the doctor.

  Her agony lasted several hours. Every groan she uttered rent Ibrahim’s soul; every interval of silence filled him with dread…. Suddenly he heard the feeble wail of a child and, unable to contain his delight, rushed into the Countess’s bedroom…. A black baby lay upon the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached. His heart beat violently. With a trembling hand he blessed his son. The Countess smiled faintly and stretched out a feeble hand to him… but the doctor, fearing too much excitement for his patient, drew Ibrahim away from the bed. The new-born child was laid in a covered basket and carried out of the house by a back staircase. The other baby was brought in and its cradle put in the Countess’s bedroom. Ibrahim went away, somewhat reassured. The Count was expected. He returned late, learned that his wife had been safely delivered, and was greatly pleased. In this way the public who had been expecting a scandal were deceived in their hopes and obliged to seek consolation in mere malicious gossip. Everything resumed its normal course.

  But Ibrahim felt that his fortune was bound to change, and that his relations with the Countess must sooner or later reach her husband’s ears. In that case, whatever happened, the Countess’s doom would be sealed. Ibrahim loved passionately and was passionately loved in return, but the Countess was wilful and flighty: this was not the first time that she had loved. Disgust and hatred might replace the tenderest feelings in her heart. Ibrahim could already foresee her beginning to cool towards him. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but with horror he now felt a presentiment of it. Thinking that the pain of parting would be less agonizing, he resolved to break off the ill-starred love affair, leave Paris and return to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had long been calling him.

  2

  DAYS, months went by – and the love-struck Ibrahim still could not make up his mind to leave the woman he had seduced. With every hour that passed, the Countess grew more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. Gossip was dying down, and the lovers began to enjoy more peace, silently remembering the past storm and trying not to think of the future.

  One day Ibrahim was at the Duc d’Orléans’ levee. Walking past him, the Duke stopped and handed him a letter, telling him to read it at his leisure. The missive was from Peter I. Guessing the true cause of his godson’s absence, the Tsar had written to the Duke that he did not intend to put the least pressure on Ibrahim, that he left it to his own free will to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would never forsake his old protégé. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment his destiny was decided. The next day he informed the Regent of his intention to set out for Russia without delay.

  ‘Reflect upon what you are doing,’ the Duke said to him. ‘Russia is not your native country. I do not suppose you will ever see your torrid fatherland again; but your long residence in France has made you equally a stranger to the climate and customs of semi-barbarous Russia. You were not born a subject of Peter. Follow my advice: take advantage of his gracious permission, remain in France for whom you have already shed your blood, and rest assured that here, too, your services and talents will find their due reward.’

  Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely but clung to his intention.

  ‘I am sorry,’ the Regent said to him, ‘but I admit you are right.’

  He promised to let him retire from the French service, and wrote in full to the Russian Tsar.

  Ibrahim was soon ready to leave. On the day before his departure he spent the evening as usual at Countess L—’s. She knew nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her the truth. The Countess was tranquil and gay. Several times she called him to her side and rallied him upon his pensive mood. After supper the guests departed. Only the Countess, her husband and Ibrahim remained in the drawing-room. The unhappy man would have given everything in the world to have been left alone with her; but Count L— seemed to be so comfortably settled by the fire that there was no hope of getting him out of the room. All three were silent.

  ‘Bonne nuit!’ the Countess said at last.

  Ibrahim’s heart sank and he suddenly felt all the pain of parting. He stood stock still.

  ‘Bonne nuit, messieurs,’ the Countess repeated.

  Still he did not move… Then his eyes went dim, his head reeled; he was scarcely able to walk out of the room. On arriving home, in a hardly conscious state he wrote the following letter:

  I am going away, dear Leonora; I am leaving you for ever. I write to you because I have not the courage to tell you in any other way. My happiness could not have lasted; I have enjoyed it against fate and nature. You are bound to cease loving me; the enchantment must inevitably pass. This thought has always haunted me, even in those moments when I seemed to forget everything at your feet, revelling in your passionate devotion, your infinite tenderness…. The careless world unmercifully persecutes that which in theory it allows: its icy derision would sooner or later have vanquished you, would ha
ve humbled your ardent soul – until in the end you would have been ashamed of your passion…. And what would have become of me then? No, better that I should die, better that I should leave you before that awful moment….

  Your peace of mind is more precious to me than anything else: you could enjoy no peace with the eyes of the world fixed upon us. Remember all that you have suffered – all the insults to your pride, all the torments of dread; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: is it right that I should subject you any longer to anxiety and peril? Why strive to unite the destiny of so tender and beautiful a being as yourself with the unhappy lot of a negro, a pitiful creature whom people scarcely deign to recognize as human?

  Farewell, Leonora; farewell, my dear, my only friend. In leaving you I leave the first and last joy of my life. I have neither fatherland nor kindred; I am going to Russia, where my utter solitude will be a solace to me. Exacting work, to which I shall henceforth devote myself, will, if not stifle, at least distract me from the agonizing memories of days of rapture and bliss…. Farewell, Leonora! I tear myself from this letter as though it were from your arms. Farewell, be happy and think sometimes of the poor negro, of your faithful

  Ibrahim

  That same night he set out for Russia.

  The journey did not seem to him so frightful as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over reality. The farther he got from Paris the closer and more vividly he pictured the things that he was leaving for ever.