The Queen of Spades and Other Stories

  On the day fixed for my departure, at the very moment when I was preparing to set off, Zurin came into my room, holding a paper in his hand and looking exceedingly concerned. My heart sank. I was frightened without knowing why. He sent away my orderly and said he had something to tell me. ‘What is it?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Something slightly disagreeable,’ he answered, handing me the paper. ‘See what I have just received.’ I began reading it: it was a secret order to all commanders of isolated detachments to arrest me wherever I might be found and to send me at once under escort to Kazan, to appear before the Commission of Inquiry into the Pugachev Rising.

  The paper almost dropped out of my hands. ‘There is nothing for it,’ Zurin said. ‘My duty is to obey orders. Probably reports of your friendly journeys with Pugachev have somehow reached the authorities. I hope the affair will have no serious consequences, and that you will exonerate yourself before the Commission. Keep up your spirits and set off at once.’

  My conscience was clear; I had no fear of the tribunal; but the thought of putting off, it might be for several months, the sweet moment of reunion appalled me. The wagon was ready. Zurin bade me a friendly good-bye. I took my place in the vehicle. Two hussars with drawn swords seated themselves beside me and we drove off along the high road.

  14

  THE TRIBUNAL

  Popular rumour

  Is like a sea-wave.

  PROVERB

  I WAS certain it was all due to my absence from Orenburg without permission. I could easily justify myself: sallying out against the enemy had never been prohibited – indeed, it had been actively encouraged. I might be accused of undue rashness, but not of disobedience. My friendly relations with Pugachev, however, could be attested by a multitude of witnesses and must have seemed, to say the least, highly suspect. Throughout our journey I kept thinking of the interrogation which awaited me and pondering the answers I should make, and resolved to tell the plain truth at the trial, believing that this was the simplest and, at the same time, the surest way of justifying myself.

  I arrived in Kazan – the town had been sacked and burnt down. Where formerly houses had stood, the streets were now littered with heaps of charred wood and blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such were the traces left by Pugachev! I was brought to the fortress which had escaped the ravages of the fire. The hussars handed me over to the officer of the guard. He summoned the blacksmith. Shackles were put on my feet and riveted together. Then I was taken to the prison and left alone in a dark and narrow cell with blank walls and a tiny iron-barred window.

  Such a beginning boded nothing good. For all that, I did not lose either hope or courage. I had recourse to the consolation of all those in affliction, and, having tasted for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured out from a pure but tortured heart, fell into a quiet sleep, regardless of what might lie in store.

  The next morning the gaoler woke me with the announcement that I was to appear before the Commission. Two soldiers took me across the yard to the commandant’s house: they stopped in the lobby and sent me into the inner room by myself.

  I walked into a good-sized room. Two men were sitting at a table covered with papers: an elderly general who looked cold and forbidding, and a young captain of the Guards of some eight and twenty years, with a most pleasant appearance and a free and easy manner. At a separate table near a little window sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, bending over a sheet of paper in readiness to take down my depositions. The interrogation began. I was asked my name and rank. The general inquired whether I was the son of Andrei Petrovich Griniov. When I said I was, he remarked severely: ‘A pity so estimable a man should have such an unworthy son!’ I replied calmly that whatever the accusations against me might be, I hoped to refute them by a candid avowal of the truth. My assurance did not please him. ‘You have your wits about you, fellow,’ he said to me, frowning, ‘but we have seen cleverer men than you!’

  Then the young man asked me in what circumstances and at what time I had entered Pugachev’s service, and on what missions I had been employed.

  I replied indignantly that, as an officer and a gentleman, I could never have entered Pugachev’s service and could not possibly have accepted any mission from him.

  ‘How comes it, then,’ continued my interrogator, ‘that this gentleman and officer was the only one spared by the Pretender, while all his comrades were cruelly done to death? How comes it that this same officer and gentleman feasted with the rebels, as their friend, and accepted presents from the brigand chief – a sheepskin coat, a horse and fifty kopecks in money? How did such a strange friendship spring up, and what could it be founded upon, if not upon treason, or, at any rate, upon base and criminal cowardice?’

  I was deeply offended by the words of the officer of the Guards and heatedly began my defence. I told them how I had first met Pugachev in the steppe in the snowstorm, how he had recognized me when the Bielogorsky fortress was taken, and spared my life. I admitted that I had not scrupled to accept the sheepskin coat and the horse from the Pretender, but said that I had defended the fortress of Bielogorsky against him to the last extremity. In conclusion I referred them to my General who could bear witness to my zealous service during the calamitous siege of Orenburg.

  The stern old man picked up an unsealed letter from the table and began reading it aloud:

  In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry concerning Ensign Griniov, said to be involved in the present insurrection and to have entered into communication with the scoundrel, contrary to the regulations of the Service and to our oath of allegiance – I have the honour to report as follows: the said Ensign Griniov formed part of the garrison at Orenburg from the beginning of October 1773 to the twenty-fourth of February of the present year, on which date he quitted the town and since that time has not made his appearance again under my command. But we have heard from some turncoats that he was in Pugachev’s camp and that be accompanied him to the Bielogorsky fortress, where he had formerly been garrisoned. With respect to his conduct, lean only…

  Here the general interrupted his reading and said to me harshly:

  ‘What can you say for yourself now?’

  I wanted to go on as I had begun, and explain my connexion with Maria Ivanovna as frankly as all the rest, but suddenly I felt an overwhelming repulsion. It occurred to me that if I mentioned her the Commission would summon her to appear before them, and the idea of implicating her name with the vile denunciations of the miscreants, and of herself being confronted with them, so appalled me that I hesitated and became confused.

  My judges, who seemed at first to have listened to my answers with a certain amount of good will, were once more prejudiced against me when they saw my embarrassment. The officer of the Guards demanded that I should be faced with my principal accuser. The general ordered ‘yesterday’s villain’ to be brought in. I turned to the door with interest, waiting for the appearance of my accuser. A few minutes later there was the clanking of chains, the door opened and – Shvabrin walked in. I was astounded at the change in him. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, but a short time ago as black as pitch, was now quite white; his long beard was unkempt. He repeated his accusations in a feeble but determined voice. According to him I had been sent by Pugachev to Orenburg as a spy; under the pretence of sallies I used to ride out every day in order to transmit written news of all that was happening in the town; at last I had openly joined Pugachev, had accompanied him from fortress to fortress, doing my utmost to bring about the downfall of my fellow-traitors so as to occupy their posts and get the rewards handed out by the Pretender. I listened to him in silence and was pleased with but one thing: Maria Ivanovna’s name was not mentioned by the villain, either because his vanity could not bear the thought of one who had scorned him, or because there lingered in his heart a spark of the same feeling which had compelled me to keep silent. In any case, the name of the daughter of the commandant of Bielogorsk was not mentioned in the presence of the Com
mission. I became still more confirmed in my resolution not to bring it up, and when the judges asked me what I had to say in answer to Shvabrin’s accusations I replied that I adhered to my original statement and had nothing to add in justification of myself. The general ordered us to be led away. We quitted the room together. I glanced calmly at Shvabrin but did not say a word. He gave me a spiteful smile and, lifting his chains, hurried past me. I was escorted back to my cell and was not called for any further interrogation.

  I was not witness of all that now remains for me to impart to the reader; but I have heard it related so often that the most minute details are engraved in my memory, and I feel as though I have been invisibly present.

  Maria Ivanovna was received by my parents with that genuine kindness which distinguished people of the older generation. They regarded it as a blessing of Providence that the opportunity was afforded them of sheltering and consoling a poor orphan. Soon she had won their sincere attachment, for it was impossible to know and not love her. My love no longer appeared mere folly to my father, and my mother’s one desire was that her Piotr should marry the Captain’s nice little daughter.

  The news of my arrest was a shock to my family. Maria Ivanovna had related my strange acquaintance with Pugachev so simply that, far from being uneasy about it, they had often laughed heartily over the whole story. My father refused to believe that I could have been implicated in an infamous rebellion, the aim of which was the overthrow of the throne and the extermination of the gentry. He questioned Savelich closely. The old man made no secret of the fact that I had been Pugachev’s guest, and had indeed found favour with the villain; but he swore that he had never heard a word of any treason. My dear parents were reassured and waited impatiently for agreeable news. Maria Ivanovna was in a great state of agitation but she held her peace, being in the highest degree modest and prudent.

  Several weeks passed…. Then my father suddenly received a letter from our relative in Petersburg, Prince B—. The prince wrote about me. After the usual opening compliments he went on to say that the suspicions about my participation in the rebel’s designs had unfortunately proved to be only too well founded; and that capital punishment would have been meted out to me as an example to others had not the Empress, in consideration of my father’s faithful service and advanced age, decided to spare the criminal son and commuted the shameful death penalty to exile for life in a remote part of Siberia.

  This unexpected blow very nearly killed my father. He lost his customary self-control, and his grief (as a rule mute) overflowed in bitter complaints. ‘What!’ he would repeat, beside himself. ‘My son an accomplice of Pugachev’s! Merciful heavens, that I should live to see this! The Empress spares his life! Does that make it any better for me? It is not the death penalty that is terrible: my great-great-grandfather’s father died on the scaffold for what to him was a matter of conscience. My father paid the price with Volynsky and Hrushchev.1 But for a gentleman to betray his oath of allegiance and associate with brigands, murderers and runaway serfs!… Shame and disgrace upon our name!…’ Frightened by his despair, my mother did not dare to weep in his presence and tried to cheer him by talking of the uncertainty of rumour and the small faith to be attached to people’s opinions. My father was inconsolable.

  Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anybody. She was firmly convinced that I could have cleared myself had I chosen to do so, and, guessing the truth, considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She hid from everyone her tears and misery, and yet was continually thinking of ways and means to save me.

  One evening my father was sitting on the sofa turning over the leaves of the Court Calendar but his thoughts were far away and the reading did not have its usual effect upon him. He was whistling an old march. My mother sat in silence, knitting a woollen waistcoat, and from time to time a tear dropped on her work. All at once Maria Ivanovna, who was in the room with them, busy with her needlework, declared that it was absolutely necessary for her to go to Petersburg, and begged of my parents to furnish her with the means of doing so. My mother was very much upset. ‘Why must you go to Petersburg?’ she said. ‘Can it be, Maria Ivanovna, that you, too, want to forsake us?’ Maria Ivanovna replied that her whole future depended upon this journey, that she was going to seek influence and help from important people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

  My father bent his head: every word that reminded him of his son’s alleged crime was painful to him and seemed like a bitter reproach. ‘Go, my dear,’ he said to her with a sigh. ‘We do not want to stand in the way of your happiness. God give you an honest man for a husband, and not a dishonoured traitor.’ He got up and walked out of the room.

  Left alone with my mother, Maria Ivanovna in part explained her plan. My mother embraced her with tears and prayed for the success of her undertaking. Preparations were made for the journey, and a few days later Maria Ivanovna set out on her road with the faithful Palasha and the faithful Savelich, who in his enforced separation from me comforted himself with the thought that at least he was serving my betrothed.

  Maria Ivanovna arrived at Sofia1 without mishap, and hearing that the Court was then at Tsarkoe Selo decided to stop there. At the posting-station she was assigned a tiny recess behind a partition. The station-master’s wife immediately got into conversation with her, said that she was niece to one of the stokers at the Palace, and initiated her into all the mysteries of Court life. She told her at what hour the Empress usually woke in the morning, took coffee, went out for walks; what great lords were then with her; what she had deigned to say at table the day before; whom she had received in the evening. In short, Anna Vlassyevna’s conversation was as good äs several pages of historical memoirs and would have been a precious gift to posterity. Maria Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went into the park together. Anna Vlassyevna related the history of every avenue and every ornamental bridge, and they returned to the post-house after a long walk, much pleased with each other.

  Early next morning Maria Ivanovna woke, dressed and quietly betook herself to the park. It was a lovely morning, the sun shone on the tops of the linden-trees, already turning yellow from the chill breath of autumn. The broad still lake glittered in the sunlight. The swans, but newly awake, came sailing majestically out from under the bushes overhanging the banks. Maria Ivanovna walked towards a beautiful lawn where a monument had just been erected to commemorate Count Piotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev’s recent victories.1 Suddenly a little white dog of English breed ran barking towards her. Maria Ivanovna was frightened and stood still. At that moment she heard a pleasant female voice call out: ‘Do not be afraid, he won’t bite.’ And Maria Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Maria Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her intently. Maria Ivanovna, in her turn, by a succession of stolen glances contrived to examine her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning gown, a night-cap and a mantle. She seemed to be about forty. Her plump, rosy face expressed calm dignity, while her blue eyes and slight smile had an indescribable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

  ‘You are a stranger here, are you not?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am: I arrived from the country only yesterday.’

  ‘You came with your parents?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I came alone.’

  ‘Alone! But you are so young.’

  ‘I have neither father nor mother.’

  ‘You are here on some business, of course?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I have come to present a petition to the Empress.’

  ‘You are an orphan: I suppose you are complaining of some wrong or injustice?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I have come to ask for mercy, not justice.’

  ‘May I ask who you are?’

  ‘I am Captain Mironov’s daughter.’

  ‘Captain Mironov! The same who was commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’


  The lady was evidently touched.

  ‘Forgive me’, she said, still more kindly, ‘for interfering in your affairs, but I am frequently at Court: tell me the nature of your petition and perhaps I may be able to help you.’

  Maria Ivanovna rose and thanked her respectfully. Everything about this unknown lady instinctively attracted and inspired her confidence. Maria Ivanovna took a folded paper out of her pocket and gave it to the lady, who began reading it to herself.

  At first she read with an attentive and benevolent air; but suddenly her expression changed, and Maria Ivanovna, who was watching her every movement, was frightened at the stern look on her face, so soft and pleasant a moment before.

  ‘You are interceding for Griniov?’ said the lady coldly.

  ‘The Empress cannot pardon him. He joined the usurper, not out of ignorance and credulity but as a depraved and dangerous ne’er-do-well.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t true!’ Maria Ivanovna cried.

  ‘What do you mean, not true?’ retorted the lady, flushing red.

  ‘It isn’t true, I swear to God it isn’t! I know all about it, I will tell you everything. It was solely for my sake that he exposed himself to all the misfortunes that have overtaken him. And if he did not clear himself before the tribunal, it was only because he did not want to implicate me.’

  And she related with great warmth all that is already known to the reader.

  The lady listened attentively.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked at the end, and hearing that it was at Anna Vlassyevna’s added with a smile: ‘Ah, I know. Good-bye, do not tell anyone of our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.’

  With these words she rose and proceeded down a covered avenue, while Maria Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlassyevna’s full of a joyous hope.

  The post-mistress scolded her for going out so early: the autumn air, she said, was not good for a young girl’s health. She brought in the samovar, and over a cup of tea was about to embark again on her interminable stories of the Court when suddenly a Palace landau stopped at the door and a footman came into the room, saying that the Empress was pleased to summon to her presence Captain Mironov’s daughter.