The Queen of Spades, and other stories
"Of what did he die?" I asked the brewer's wife.
"Of drink," she answered.
"And where is he buried?"
"Beyond the village, by the side of his late wife."
"Could someone take me to his grave?"
"Certainly! Hi, Vanka! cease playing with the cat and take this
gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the Postmaster's grave."
At these words, a ragged boy, with red hair and a squint, ran towards
me to lead the way.
"Did you know the poor man?" I asked him, on the road.
"How should I not know him? He taught me to make whistles. When (may
he be in heaven!) we met him coming from the tavern, _we_ used to run
after him calling, 'Daddy! daddy! some nuts,' and he gave us nuts. He
idled most of his time away with, us."
"And do the travellers ever speak of him?"
"There are few travellers now-a-days, unless the assize judge turns up;
and he is too busy to think of the dead. But a lady, passing through
last summer, did ask after the old Postmaster, and she went to his
grave."
"What was the ladylike?" I inquired curiously.
"A beautiful lady," answered the boy. "She travelled in a coach with
six horses, three beautiful little children, a nurse, and a little
black dog; and when she heard that the old Postmaster was dead, she
wept, and told the children to keep quiet while she went to the
cemetery. I offered to show her the way, but the lady said, 'I know
the way,' and she gave me a silver _piatak_ (twopence) ... such a kind
lady!"
We reached the cemetery. It was a bare place unenclosed, marked with
wooden crosses and unshaded by a single tree. Never before had I seen
such a melancholy cemetery.
"Here is the grave of the old Postmaster," said the boy to me, as he
pointed to a heap of sand into which had been stuck a black cross with
a brass _icon_ (image).
"Did the lady come here?" I asked.
"She did," replied Vanka. "I saw her from a distance. She lay down
here, and remained lying down for a long while. Then she went into the
village and saw the priest. She gave him some money and drove off. To
me she gave a silver _piatak._ She was a splendid lady!"
And I also gave the boy a silver _piatak,_ regretting neither the
journey nor the seven roubles that it had cost me.
THE LADY RUSTIC.
In one of our distant provinces was the estate of Ivan Petrovitch
Berestoff. As a youth he served in the guards, but having left the
army early in 1797 he retired to his country seat and there remained.
He married a wife from among the poor nobility, and when she died in
childbed he happened to be detained on farming business in one of his
distant fields. His daily occupations soon brought him consolation. He
built a house on his own plan, set up his own cloth factory, became his
own auditor and accountant, and began to think himself the cleverest
fellow in the whole district. The neighbours who used to come to him
upon a visit and bring their families and dogs took good care not to
contradict him. His work-a-day dress was a short coat of velveteen;
on holidays he wore a frock-coat of cloth from his own factory. His
accounts took most of his time, and he read nothing but the _Senatorial
News_. On the whole, though he was considered proud, he was not
disliked. The only person who could never get on with him was his
nearest neighbour, Grigori Ivanovitch Muromsky. A true Russian _barin,_
he had squandered in Moscow a large part of his estate, and having lost
his wife as well as his money he had retired to his sole remaining
property, and there continued his extragavance but in a different way.
He set up an English garden on which he spent nearly all the income he
had left. His grooms wore English liveries. An English governess taught
his daughter. He farmed his land upon the English system. But foreign
farming grows no Russian corn.
So, in spite of his retirement, the income of Grigori Ivanovitch did
not increase. Even in the country he had a faculty for making new
debts. But he was no fool, people said, for was he not the first
landowner in all that province to mortgage his property to the
government--a process then generally believed to be one of great
complexity and risk? Among his detractors Berestoff, a thorough hater
of innovation, was the most severe. In speaking of his neighbour's
Anglo-mania he could scarcely keep his feelings under control, and
missed no opportunity for criticism. To some compliment from a visitor
to his estate he would answer, with a knowing smile:
"Yes, my farming is not like that of Grigori Ivanovitch. I can't afford
to ruin my land on the English system, but I am satisfied to escape
starvation on the Russian."
Obliging neighbours reported these and other jokes to Grigori, with
additions and commentaries of their own. The Anglo-maniac was as
irritable as a journalist under this criticism, and wrathfully referred
to his critic as a bumpkin and a bear.
Relations were thus strained when Berestoff's son came home. Having
finished his university career, he wanted to go into the army; but his
father objected. For the civil service young Berestoff had no taste.
Neither would yield, so young Alexis took up the life of a country
gentleman, and to be ready for emergencies cultivated a moustache. He
was really a handsome fellow, and it would indeed have been a pity
never to pinch his fine figure into a military uniform, and instead
of displaying his broad shoulders on horseback to round them over an
office desk. Ever foremost in the hunting-field, and a straight rider,
it was quite clear, declared the neighbours, that he could never make
a good official. The shy young ladies glanced and the bold stared at
him in admiration; but he took no notice of them, and each could only
attribute his indifference to some prior attachment. In fact, there was
in private circulation, copied from an envelope in his handwriting,
this address:
A. N. P.,
Care of Akulina Petrovna Kurotchkina,
Opposite Alexeieff Monastery.
Those readers who have not seen our country life can hardly realize the
charm of these provincial girls. Breathing pure air under the shadow
of their apple trees, their only knowledge of the world is drawn from
books. In solitude and unrestrained, their feelings and their passions
develop early to a degree unknown to the busier beauties of our towns.
For them the tinkling of a bell is an event, a drive into the nearest
town an epoch, and a chance visit a long, sometimes an everlasting
remembrance. At their oddities he may laugh who will, but superficial
sneers cannot impair their real merits--their individuality, which, so
says Jean Paul, is a necessary element of greatness. The women in large
towns may be better educated, but the levelling influence of the world
soon makes all women as much alike as their own head-dresses.
Let not this be regarded as condemnation. Still as an ancient writer
says _nota nostra manet._
It may be imagined what an impression Alexis made on our country
misses. He was the first gloomy and disenchanted hero they had ever
beheld; the first who ever spoke to them of vanished joys and blighted
past. Besides, he wore a black ring with a death's head on it. All this
was quite a new thing in that province, and the young ladies all went
crazy.
But she in whose thoughts he dwelt most deeply was Lisa, or, as the old
Anglo-maniac called her, Betty, the daughter of Grigori Ivanovitch.
Their fathers did not visit, so she had never seen Alexis, who was
the sole topic of conversation among her young neighbours. She was
just seventeen, with dark eyes lighting up her pretty face. An only,
and consequently a spoilt child, full of life and mischief, she was
the delight of her father, and the distraction of her governess, Miss
Jackson, a prim spinster in the forties, who powdered her face and
blackened her eyebrows, read Pamela twice a year, drew a salary of
2,000 rubles, and was nearly bored to death in barbarous Russia.
Lisa's maid Nastia was older, but quite as flighty as her mistress, who
was very fond of her, and had her as confidante in all her secrets and
as fellow-conspirator in her mischief.
In fact, no leading lady played half such an important part in French
tragedy as was played by Nastia in the village.
Said Nastia, while dressing her young lady:
"May I go to-day and visit a friend?"
"Yes. Where?"
"To the Berestoff's. It is the cook's namesday. He called yesterday to
ask us to dinner."
"Then," said Lisa, "the masters quarrel and the servants entertain one
another."
"And what does that matter to us?" said Nastia. "I belong to you and
not to your father. You have not quarrelled with young Berestoff yet.
Let the old people fight if they please."
"Nastia! try and see Alexei Berestoff. Come back and tell me all about
him."
Nastia promised; Lisa spent the whole day impatiently waiting for her.
In the evening she returned.
"Well, Lisaveta Grigorievna!" she said, as she entered the room.
"I have seen young Berestoff. I had a good look at him. We spent the
whole day together."
"How so? tell me all about it."
"Certainly? We started, I and Anissia----"
"Yes, yes, I know! What then?"
"I would rather tell you in proper order. We were just in time for
dinner; the room was quite full. There were the Zaharievskys, the
steward's wife and daughters, the Shlupinskys----"
"Yes, yes! And Berestoff?"
"Wait a bit. We sat down to dinner. The steward's wife had the seat of
honour; I sat next to her, and her daughters were huffy; but what do I
care!"
"Oh, Nastia! How tiresome you are with these everlasting details!"
"How impatient you are! Well, then we rose from table--we had been
sitting for about three hours and it was a splendid dinner-party,
blue, red and striped creams--then we went into the garden to play at
kiss-in-the-ring when the young gentleman appeared."
"Well, is it true? Is he so handsome?"
"Wonderfully handsome! I may say beautiful. Tall, stately, with a
lovely colour."
"Really! I thought his face was pale. Well, how did he strike you--Was
he melancholy and thoughtful?"
"Oh, no! I never saw such a mad fellow. He took it into his head to
join us at kiss-in-the-ring." "He played at kiss-in-the-ring! It is
impossible."
"No, it's very possible; and what more do you think? When he caught any
one he kissed her." "Of course you may tell lies if you like, Nastia."
"As you please, miss, only I am not lying. I could scarcely get away
from him. Indeed he spent the whole day with us."
"Why do people say then that he is in love and looks at nobody?"
"I am sure I don't know, miss. He looked too much at me and Tania too,
the steward's daughter, and at Pasha too. In fact, he neglected nobody.
He is such a wild fellow!"
"This is surprising; and what do the servants say about him?"
"They say he is a splendid gentleman--so kind, so lively! He has only
one fault: he is too fond of the girls. But I don't think that is such
a great fault. He will get steadier in time."
"How I should like to see him," said Lisa, with a sigh.
"And why can't you? Tugilovo is only a mile off. Take a walk in that
direction, or a ride, and you are sure to meet him. He shoulders his
gun and goes shooting every morning."
"No, it would never do. He would think I was running after him.
Besides, our fathers have quarrelled, so he and I could hardly set up
a friendship. Oh, Nastia! I know what I'll do. I will dress up like a
peasant."
"That will do. Put on a coarse chemise and a _sarafan_, and set out
boldly for Tugilovo. Berestoff will never miss you I promise you."
"I can talk like a peasant splendidly. Oh, Nastia, dear Nastia, what
a happy thought!" and Lisa went to bed resolved to carry out her
plan. Next day she made her preparations. She went to the market for