The Queen of Spades, and other stories
which the family is preparing supper. In the open fields graze the
horses, and behind the tents a tame bears lies free. In the heart of
the desert all is movement with the preparations for the morning's
march, with the songs of the women, the cries of the children, and the
sound of the itinerant anvil. But soon upon the wandering band falls
the silence of sleep, and the stillness of the desert is broken only by
the barking of the dogs and the neighing of the horses.
The fires are everywhere extinguished, all is calm; the moon shines
solitary in the sky, shedding its light over the silent camp.
In one of the tents is an old man who does not sleep, but remains
seated by the embers, warming himself by their last glow. He gazes
into the distant steppes, which are now wrapped in the mists of night.
His youthful daughter has wandered into the distant plains. She is
accustomed to her wild freedom; she will return. But night wears on,
and the moon in the distant clouds is about to set. Zemphira tarries,
and the old man's supper is getting cold. But here she comes, and,
following on her footsteps, a youth, a stranger to the old gypsy.
"Father," says the maiden, "I bring a guest; I found him beyond the
tombs in the steppes, and I have invited him to the camp for the night.
He wishes to become a gypsy like us. He is a fugitive from the law. But
I will be his companion. He is ready to follow wherever I lead."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "I am glad. Stay in the shelter of our camp till
morning, or longer it thou wilt. I am-ready to share with thee both
bread and roof. Be one of us. Make trial of our life; of our wandering,
poverty, and freedom. To-morrow, at daybreak, in one van, we will go
together. Choose thy trade: forge iron, or sing songs, leading the bear
from village to village."
_Aleko:_ "I will remain."
_Zemphira_: "He is mine; who shall take him from me? But it is late....
the young moon has set, the fields are hidden in darkness, and sleep
overpowers me."
Day breaks. The old man moves softly about the silent camp.
"Wake, Zemphira, the sun is rising; awake, my guest. 'Tis time, tis
time! Leave, my children, the couch of slothfulness."
Noisily the clustering crowd expands; the tents are struck; the vans
are ready to start. All is movement, and the horde advances over the
desert.
Asses with paniers full of sportive children lead the way; husbands,
brothers, wives, daughters, young and old, follow in their wake. What
shouting and confusion! Gypsy songs are mingled with the growling
of the bear, impatiently gnawing at his chain. What a motley of
bright-coloured rags! The naked children! The aged men! Dogs bark and
howl, the bagpipes drone, the carts creak. All is so poor, so wild,
so disorderly, but full of the life and movement ever absent from our
dead, slothful, idle life, monotonous as the songs of slaves.
The youth gazes disheartened over the desert plain. The secret cause of
his sadness he admits not even to himself. By his side is the dark-eyed
Zemphira. Now he is a free inhabitant of the world, and radiant above
him shines the sun in midday glory. Why, then, does the youth's heart
tremble--what secret sorrow preys upon him?
God's little bird knows neither care nor labour, Why should it strive
to build a lasting nest? The night is long, but a branch suffices for
its sleeping place. When the sun comes in his glory, birdie hears the
voice of God, flutters his plumage, and sings his song. After spring,
Nature's fairest time, comes hot summer. Late autumn follows, bringing
mist and cold. Poor men and women are sad and dismal. To distant lands,
to warmer climes beyond the blue sea, flies birdie to the spring. Like
a little careless bird is the wandering exile. For him there is no
abiding nest, no home! Every road is his; at each stopping-place is his
night's lodging. Waking at dawn, he leaves his day at God's disposal,
and the toil of life disturbs not his calm, indolent heart. At times,
glory's enchantment, like a distant star, attracts his gaze; or sudden
visions of luxury and pleasure float before him. Sometimes above his
solitary head growls the thunder, and beneath the thunder, as beneath a
peaceful sky, he sleeps serene. And thus he lives, ignoring the power
of blind treacherous Fate. But once, oh God! how passion played with
his obedient soul! How it raged in his tormented breast! Is it long,
and for how long, that it has left him calm? It will rage again; let
him but wait!
_Zemphira_: "Friend, tell me, dost thou not regret what thou hast left
for ever?"
_Aleko_: "What have I left?"
_Zemphira:_ "Thou knowest; thy people, thy cities."
_Aleko:_ "Regret? If thou knewest, if thou could'st imagine the
confinement of our stifling towns! There people crowded behind walls
never breathe the cool breeze of the morning, nor the breath of
spring-scented meadows. They are ashamed to love, and chase away the
thought. They traffic with liberty, bow their heads to idols, and beg
for money and chains. What have I left? The excitement of treason, the
prejudged sentence, the mob's mad persecution or splendid infamy."
_Zemphira:_ "But there thou hadst magnificent palaces, many coloured
carpets, entertainments, and loud revels; and the maiden's dresses are
so rich!"
_Aleko:_ "What is there to please in our noisy towns? The genuine
love, no veritable joy. The maidens. How much dost thou surpass them,
without their rich apparel, their pearls, or their necklaces! Be true,
my gentle friend! My sole wish is to share with thee love, leisure, and
this self-sought exile."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "Thou lovest us, though born amongst the rich.. But
freedom is not always agreeable to those used to luxury. We have a
legend:--
"Once a king banished a man from the South to live amongst us--I once
knew but have forgotten his difficult name--though old in years he was
youthful, passionate, and simple-hearted. He had a wondrous gift of
song, with a voice like running waters. Everyone liked him. He dwelt
on the banks of the Danube, harming no one, but pleasing many with his
stories. He was helpless, weak, and timid as a child. Strangers brought
him game and fish caught in nets. When the rapid river froze and
winter storms raged high, they clad the saintly old man in soft warm
furs. But he could never be inured to the hardships of a poor man's
life. He wandered about pale and thin, declaring that an offended God
was chastening him for some crime. He waited, hoping for deliverance,
and full of sad regret. The wretched man wandered on the banks of the
Danube shedding bitter tears, as he remembered his distant home, and,
dying, he desired that his unhappy bones should be carried to the
South. Even in death the stranger to these parts could find no rest."
_Aleko:_ "Such is thy children's fate, O Borne, O world-famed Empire!
Singer of love, singer of the gods, say what is glory? The echo from
the tomb, the voice of praise continued from generation to generation,
or a tale told by a gypsy in his smoky tent?"
* * * * *
Two years passed. The peaceful gypsy band still wanders, finding
everywhere rest and hospitality. Scorning the fetters of civilisation,
Aleko is free, like them; without regret or care he leads a wandering
life. He is unchanged, unchanged the gypsy band. Forgetful of his past,
he has grown used to a gypsy life. He loves sleeping under their tents,
the delight of perpetual idleness, and their poor but sonorous tongue.
The bear, a deserter from his native haunts, is now a shaggy guest
within his tent. In the villages along the deserted route that passes
in front of some Moldavian dwelling, the bear dances clumsily before
a timid crowd and growls and gnaws his tiresome chain. Leaning on his
staff the old man lazily strikes the tambourine; Aleko, singing, leads
the bear; Zemphira makes the round of the villagers, collecting their
voluntary gifts; when night sets in all three prepare the corn they
have not reaped, the old man sleeps, and all is still.... The tent is
quiet and dark.
In the spring the old man is warming his numbed blood; at a cradle his
daughter sings of love. Aleko listens, and turns pale.
_Zemphira_: "Old husband, cruel husband, cut me, burn me, I am firm,
and fear neither knife nor fire. I hate thee, despise thee; I love
another, and loving him will die."
_Aleko:_ "Silence, thy singing annoys me. I dislike wild songs."
_Zemphira:_ "Dislike them? And what do I care! I am singing for myself.
Cut me, burn me, I will not complain. Old husband, cruel husband, thou
shalt not discover him. He is fresher than the spring, warmer than
the summer-day. How young and bold he is! How much he loves me! How I
caressed him in the stillness of the night! How we laughed together at
thy white hair."
_Aleko:_ "Silence, Zemphira. Enough!"
_Zemphira:_ "Then thou hast understood my song."
_Aleko:_ "Zemphira!"
_Zemphira_: "Be angry if thou wilt.... the song is about thee." (_She
retires singing_, "_Old husband, &c._")
_The Old Gypsy:_ "Yes, I remember; that song was made in my time, and
has long been sung for folk's amusement. Marioula used; as we wandered
over the Kagula Steppes, to sing it in the winter nights. The memory of
past years grows fainter hourly, but that song impressed me deeply."
. . . . . . . . . . . All is still. It is night, and the moon casts a
sheen over the blue of the southern sky. Zemphira has awakened the old
man.
"Oh, father! Aleko is terrible; listen to him! In his heavy sleep he
groans and sobs."
_The Old Gypsy_: "Do not disturb him, keep quiet. I have heard a
Russian saying that at this time, at midnight, the house spirit often
oppresses a sleeper's breathing, and before dawn quits him again. Stay
with me."
_Zemphira:_ "Father, he murmurs Zemphira!"
_The Old Gypsy:_ "He seeks thee even in his sleep. Thou art dearer to
him than all the world."
_Zemphira_: "I care no longer for his love; I am weary, my heart wants
freedom. I have already--But hush! dost thou hear? He repeats another
name."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "Whose name?"
_Zemphira:_ "Dost thou not hear? The hoarse groan, the savage grinding
of his teeth! How terrible! I will rouse him."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "No, don't chase away the night spirit; it will leave
him of its own accord!"
_Zemphira:_ "He has turned, and raised himself; he calls me, he is
awake. I will go to him. Good night, and sleep."
_Aleko:_ "Where hast thou been?"
_Zemphira:_ "With my father. Some spirit has oppressed thee. In sleep
thy soul has suffered tortures. Thou didst frighten me; grinding thy
teeth and calling out to me."
_Aleko:_ "I dreamt of thee, and saw as if between us.... I had horrible
thoughts."
_Zemphira:_ "Put no faith in treacherous dreams."
_Aleko:_ "Alas! I believe in nothing Neither in dreams, nor in sweet
assurances, nor in thy heart."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "Young madman. Why dost thou sigh so often? We here
are free. The sky is clean, the women famous for their beauty. Weep
not. Grief will destroy thee."
_Aleko:_ "Father! she loves me no more."
_The Old Gypsy:_ "Be comforted, friend. She is but a child. Thy sadness
is unreasonable. Thou lovest anxiously and earnestly, but a woman's
heart loves playfully. Behold, through the distant vault the full moon
wanders free, throwing her light equally over all the world. First
she peeps into one cloud, lights it brilliantly, and then glides to
another, making to each a rapid visit. Who shall point out to her one
spot in the heavens and say, 'There shalt thou stay'? Who to the young
girl's heart shall say, 'Love only once and change not'? Be pacified."
_Aleko:_ "How she loved me! How tenderly she leant upon me in the
silent desert when we were together in the hours of night! Full of