The Queen of Spades, and other stories
they reached the end of the garden. In the road a sledge awaited them.
The horses from cold would not stand still. Vladimir's coachman was
walking to and fro in front of them, trying to quiet them. He helped
the young lady and her maid to their seats, and packing away the
bundles and the dressing-case took up the reins, and the horses flew
forward into the darkness of the night.
* * * * *
Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and of Tereshka the
coachman, let us return to the young lover.
Vladimir had spent the whole day in driving. In the morning he had
called on the Jadrino priest, and, with difficulty, came to terms with
him. Then he went to seek for witnesses from amongst the neighbouring
gentry. The first on whom he called was a former cornet of horse,
Dravin by name, a man in his forties, who consented at once. The
adventure, he declared, reminded him of old times and of his larks
when he was in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stop to dinner
with him, assuring him that there would be no difficulty in getting
the other two witnesses. Indeed, immediately after dinner in came
the surveyor Schmidt, with a moustache and spurs, and the son of a
captain-magistrate, a boy of sixteen, who had recently entered the
Uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir's proposal, but even swore that
they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced
them with delight, and drove off to get everything ready.
It had long been dark. Vladimir despatched his trustworthy Tereshka
to Nenaradova with his two-horsed sledge, and with appropriate
instructions for the occasion. For himself he ordered the small sledge
with one horse, and started alone without a coachman for Jadrino, where
Maria ought to arrive in a couple of hours. He knew the road, and the
drive would only occupy twenty minutes.
But Vladimir had scarcely passed from the enclosure into the open field
when the wind rose, and soon there was a driving snowstorm so heavy and
so severe that he could not see. In a moment the road was covered with
snow. All landmarks disappeared in the murky yellow darkness, through
which fell white flakes of snow. Sky and earth became merged into one.
Vladimir, in the midst of the field, tried in vain to get to the road.
The horse walked on at random, and every moment stepped either into
deep snow or into a rut, so that the sledge was constantly upsetting.
Vladimir tried at least not to lose the right direction; but it seemed
to him that more than half an hour had passed, and he had not yet
reached the Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes passed, and still the
wood was invisible. Vladimir drove across fields intersected by deep
ditches. The snowstorm did not abate, and the sky did not clear. The
horse was getting tired and the perspiration rolled from him like hail,
in spite of the fact that every moment his legs were disappearing in
the snow.
At last Vladimir found that he was going in the wrong direction. He
stopped; began to reflect, recollect, and consider; till at last he
became convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He did so
now. His horse could scarcely drag along. But he had been more than
an hour on the road, and Jadrino could not now be far. He drove and
drove, but there was no getting out of the field. Still snow-drifts and
ditches. Every moment the sledge was upset, and every moment Vladimir
had to raise it up.
Time was slipping by, and Vladimir grew seriously anxious. At last in
the distance some dark object could be seen.
Vladimir turned in its direction, and as he drew near found it was a
wood.
"Thank Heaven," he thought, "I am now near the end."
He drove by the side of the wood, hoping to come at once upon the
familiar road, or, if not, to pass round the wood. Jadrino was situated
immediately behind it.
He soon found the road, and passed into the darkness of the wood, now
stripped by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was
smooth, the horse picked up courage, and Vladimir was comforted.
He drove and drove, but still Jadrino was not to be seen; there was no
end to the wood. Then to his horror he discovered that he had got into
a strange wood. He was in despair. He whipped his horse, and the poor
animal started off at a trot. But it soon got tired, and in a quarter
of an hour, in spite of all poor Vladimir's efforts, could only crawl.
Gradually the trees became thinner, and Vladimir drove out of the wood,
but Jadrino was not to be seen. It must have been about midnight.
Tears gushed from the young man's eyes. He drove on at random; and now
the weather abated, the clouds dispersed, and before him was a wide
stretch of plain, covered with a white billowy carpet. The night was
comparatively clear, and he could see a small village a short distance
off, which consisted of four or five cottages. Vladimir drove towards
it. At the first door he jumped out of the sledge, ran up to the
window, and tapped. After a few minutes a wooden, shutter was raised,
and an old man stuck out his grey beard.
"What do you want?"
"How far is Jadrino?"
"How far is Jadrino?"
"Yes, yes! Is it far?"
"Not far; about ten miles."
At this answer Vladimir clutched hold of his hair, and stood
motionless, like a man condemned to death.
"Where do you come from?" added the man. Vladimir had not the courage
to reply.
"My man," he said, "can you procure me horses to Jadrino?"
"We have no horses," answered the peasant.
"Could I find a guide? I will pay him any sum he likes."
"Stop!" said the old man, dropping the shutter; "I will send my son out
to you; he will conduct you."
Vladimir waited. Scarcely a minute had passed when he again knocked.
The shutter was lifted and a beard was seen.
"What do you want?"
"What about your son?"
"He'll come out directly: he is putting on his boots. Are you cold?
Come in and warm yourself."
"Thanks! Send out your son quickly."
The gate creaked; a youth came out with a cudgel, and walked on in
front, at one time pointing out the road, at another looking for it in
a mass of drifted snow.
"What o'clock is it?" Vladimir asked him.
"It will soon be daylight," replied the young-peasant. Vladimir spoke
not another word.
The cocks were crowing, and it was light when they reached Jadrino. The
church was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove into the yard of
the priest's house. In the yard his two-horsed sledge was not to be
seen. What news awaited him?
* * * * *
But let us return to the kind proprietors of Nenaradova, and see what
is going on there.
Nothing.
The old people awoke, and went into the sitting-room, Gavril in a
night-cap and flannel jacket, Praskovia in a wadded dressing-gown. The
samovar was brought in, and, Gavril sent the little maid to ask Maria
how she was and how she had slept. The little maid returned, saying
that her young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now, and
that she would come into the sitting-room in a moment. And indeed the
door opened, and Maria came in and wished her papa and mamma good
morning.
"How is your head-ache, Masha?" (familiar for Mary) inquired Gavril.
"Better, papa; answered Masha.
"The fumes from the stoves must have given you your head-ache,"
remarked Praskovia.
"Perhaps so, mamma," replied Masha.
The day passed well enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. A
doctor was sent for from town. He came towards evening and found the
patient delirious. Soon she was in a severe fever, and in a fortnight
the poor patient was on the brink of the grave.
No member of the family knew anything of the flight from home. The
letters written by Masha the evening before had been burnt; and the
maid, fearing the wrath of the master and mistress, had not breathed
a word. The priest, the ex-cornet, the big moustached surveyor,
and the little lancer were equally discreet, and with good reason.
Tereshka, the coachman, never said too much, not even in his drink.
Thus the secret was kept better than it might have been by half a dozen
conspirators.
But Maria herself, in the course of her long fever, let out her secret,
nevertheless, her words were so disconnected that her mother, who never
left her bedside, could only make out from them that her daughter
was desperately in love with Vladimir, and that probably love was
the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her
neighbours, and at last it was decided unanimously that the fate of
Maria ought not to be interfered with, that a woman must not ride away
from the man she is destined to marry, that poverty is no crime, that
a woman has to live not with money but with a man, and so on. Moral
proverbs are wonderfully useful on such occasions, when we can invent
little or nothing in our own justification.
Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen
for a long time in the house of Gravril, so frightened had he been by
his previous reception. It was now resolved to send and announce to
him the good news which he could scarcely expect: the consent of her
parents to his marriage with Maria.
But what was the astonishment of the proprietors of Nenaradova when,
in answer to their invitation, they received an insane reply. Vladimir
informed them he could never set foot in their house, and begged them
to forget an unhappy man whose only hope now was in death. A few days
afterwards they heard that Vladimir had left the place and joined the
army.
A long time passed before they ventured to tell Masha, who was now
recovering. She never mentioned Vladimir. Some months later, however,
finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves
and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and it was feared
that the fever might return. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit
had no bad results.
* * * * *
Maria experienced yet another sorrow. Her father died, leaving her the
heiress of all his property. But the inheritance could not console her.
She shared sincerely the affliction of her mother, and vowed she would
never leave her.
Suitors clustered round the charming heiress; but she gave no one the
slightest hope. Her mother sometimes tried to persuade her to choose a
companion in life; but Maria shook her head, and grew pensive.
Vladimir no longer existed. He had died at Moscow on the eve of the
arrival of the French. His memory was held sacred by Maria, and she
treasured up everything that would remind her of him; books he had
read, drawings which he had made; songs he had sung, and the pieces of
poetry which he had copied out for her.
The neighbours, hearing all this, wondered at her fidelity, and awaited
with curiosity the arrival of the hero who must in the end triumph over
the melancholy constancy of this virgin Artemis.
Meanwhile, the war had been brought to a glorious conclusion, and our
armies were returning from abroad. The people ran to meet them. The
music played, by the regimental bands consisted of war songs, "Vive
Henri-Quatre," Tirolese waltzes and airs from Joconde. Nourished on
the atmosphere of winter, officers who had started on the campaign
mere striplings returned grown men, and covered with decorations. The
soldiers conversed gaily among themselves, mingling German and French
words every moment in their speech. A time never to be forgotten--a
time of glory and delight! How quickly beat the Russian heart at
the words, "Native land!" How sweet the tears of meeting! With what
unanimity did we combine feelings of national pride with love for the
Tsar! And for him, what a moment!
The women--our Russian women--were splendid then. Their usual coldness