Part 2

The last six years of Pushkin’s life established his claim to greatness not only as a poet and a dramatist, but also as a master of Russian prose. We may not term him a novelist, but as a writer of prose tales he set a new mark in the literature of his land. When we recall that it was in the first years of that significant decade, 1830-1840, that Poe, Balzac, and Mérimée perfected and brought to its modern form the short-story, we shall realize what a great forward step was being made in Russia at the very same time when Pushkin produced his “Prose Tales.” His longer tales, “A Prisoner of the Caucasus” and “The Captain’s Daughter,” exhibit little plot, but they are notable impressionistic stories, full of rich and effective coloring.

Two of his shorter stories I outline, both on account of their intrinsic interest and for the fact that they illustrate the romantic vein which runs through all of Pushkin’s work. Else how could he ever have turned to Byron? Gogol, a contemporary of Pushkin and in some senses his successor, was the father of Russian realism. The two may be said to be the joint parents of Russian fiction.

“The Queen of Spades” is like a “Weird Tale” by Hoffmann, or a conception of Poe’s. It ranks as one of the world’s great short-stories.

At the house of a cavalry officer, several young Russians are gambling. One of them asks Herman why he never plays. He replies, “Play interests me greatly, but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessities of life for uncertain superfluities.”

Tomsky says that he can understand Herman’s being economical, but that he cannot understand why his own grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna, should not play, for, although she is eighty years of age, she knows a secret which makes winning at faro certain. Tomsky then goes on to relate how the old woman secured the secret from a friend of hers in order to save her from the disastrous results of enormous losses in cards. The secret consists of choosing three certain cards in succession. This plan she followed, winning every time, and was soon out of debt.

Being in need of funds, Herman is impressed with the story, and begins to haunt the outside of the aged Countess’s home. In order to gain admission and learn the secret, he contrives to flirt with Lisaveta Ivanovna, the Countess’s ward, who at length arranges a way in which he can gain admission to the house while the family are attending a ball. He is to pass through the Countess’s apartments and await the girl in her sitting-room, but instead of doing this the young officer secretes himself in the apartments of the Countess. After she is in bed he emerges and demands the names of the three cards, placing a pistol at her brow, but assuring her that he means no harm if she will do as he asks. She tremblingly tells him that it was only a jest, that there is nothing in the report of her knowledge, but Herman insists, and after a short time he grasps her arm roughly and is about to renew his threats when he finds that she is dead.

Presently Herman makes his way to Lisaveta’s apartment, where he tells her all. She realizes that she is not loved, and discerns the true reason why the young man has sought her acquaintance. However, she helps him to get out of the house safely.

The next night he drinks heavily and throws himself on his bed without undressing. During the night he awakes with a start and sees looking in at the window some one who quickly disappears. Presently he hears the shuffling of loose slippers, the door of his room opens, and a woman in white enters. As she comes close to his bed, the terrified man recognizes the Countess. “I have come to you against my will,” she says abruptly, “but I was commanded to grant your request. The trey, the seven, and the ace are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse after the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play again.”

The phantom then turns and walks away.

The next night he enters a fashionable gambling club in St. Petersburg, stakes forty thousand rubles, and wins a huge sum. The next night he chooses a seven-spot and wins ninety-four thousand rubles.

The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the development of events. He selected his card--an ace.

The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.

“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at it.

“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.

Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the card, it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.

“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.

The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass. The cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on.

Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous tone: “The trey, seven, ace! The trey, seven, queen!”

“The Shot” is in a different vein, being a tale of singular dramatic intensity. There is a legend that it is largely biographical, Pushkin himself having coolly eaten cherries, as did the Count, while under fire in a duel.

A group of military men stationed in the dull little town of N---- welcome to their society the one eligible civilian, a certain Silvio, a taciturn man of thirty-five, who has retired from the Hussars. He lives meagrely in a small house, where he frequently entertains the officers with the best he has, which always includes plenty of champagne. The walls of this house are punctured with bullet-holes, for its occupant is a marvellous shot with the pistol. Regarding his past, he says practically nothing, but every one feels that some tragic event has stamped his career.

One day a new-comer among the officers quarrels with Silvio, and slaps his face. Much to the surprise and disappointment of all, Silvio does not challenge him, but accepts a lame explanation. It takes some time for Silvio to rehabilitate himself with his friends, but his good qualities at last accomplish this, except with one officer, who tells the story.

One day Silvio, all excitement, announces that a change has come in his affairs, and that he must leave N----. He packs his goods, and invites the officers to a final feast. At its close he asks the narrator to remain, and tells him this story, to explain why he avoided challenging his offender.

Some years before, while serving in the Hussars, Silvio was known as a great rake and an incorrigible duellist. His popularity waned, however, with the advent of a brilliant young Count, of whom he soon became jealous, and upon whom he fixed a quarrel. In the duel which followed, the Count won the first shot, and pierced his adversary’s cap, but showed such nonchalance--having coolly eaten cherries while standing to receive Silvio’s shot--that the latter decided to relinquish his chance until a later time. In all these years a favorable opportunity had not come in which to make the Count show fear, and that was why Silvio was not willing to risk his life by engaging in another duel, even though he knew he was a remarkable shot: he was holding himself for his revenge. And now his opening had come, for he had just learned that the Count had married a beautiful young woman and was enjoying his honeymoon.

The narrator never sees Silvio again, but some time after the latter has left N----, the narrator goes back to his own native village, and there meets Count and Countess B----. At their first meeting their visitor is interested by seeing two bullet-holes which have pierced a painting. It transpires that Count B---- is the very one with whom Silvio fought his duel. The Count then narrates the sequel.

Shortly after their marriage, the Count returned with his bride to his estates, where he was startled to find Silvio, claiming the right of the shot which was his due. The Count gallantly yielded to him and stood up in his drawing-room, but Silvio a second time declined to shoot, and proposed that they again draw for the first shot. The Count won, and shot over Silvio’s head, making one of the two bullet-holes. At this juncture the Countess came in and flung herself at Silvio’s feet. In shame, the Count made her rise, and Silvio prepared to take his shot, whereupon the Countess threw herself upon her husband’s breast. As he saw Silvio point his weapon at them both, at last the Count showed terror, although not for himself. Being satisfied with this exhibition of fear, natural though it was, Silvio declined to shoot. As he left the room, he turned, however, and, almost without looking, took a parting shot at the painting, which he penetrated with a bullet-hole precisely below that which had been made by the Count’s bullet. And so this strange man passed out of their lives.

* * * * *

“The Snow-Storm” seems to me to be Pushkin’s greatest short-story. It has a well-defined plot, a surprising dénouement, the action marches on to its climax, and both local color and characterization are of a high order. It is especially remarkable for its having been produced at the very opening of the decade which gave to the world the modern short-story.

THE SNOW-STORM _By Alexander Pushkin_

Towards the close of the year 1811, during that very memorable epoch, there lived in the village of Nenaradova the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R----. He was famed throughout the district for his hospitality and good-nature; and his neighbors continually kept coming to his house to partake of food and drink, and to play the game of Boston at five kopecks with his wife, Prascovia Petrovna. Others came, however, to inspect their daughter, Maria Gavrilovna, a graceful, pale, seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich match, and many a visitor had had designs upon her for himself or for his son.

Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in love. The object chosen by her for her love was a poor army lieutenant, who was now on a leave of absence in his native village. It goes without saying that the young man returned her passion. The parents of the girl, however, having noted the mutual inclinations of the pair, forbade their daughter even to think of him; while him they received even worse than if he were a dismissed petty official.

Our lovers exchanged notes, and saw each other every day, alone, in the pine wood or in the old chapel. There they vowed to each other eternal love, bewailed their fate, and formed all sorts of plans. Their discussions carried on in this way naturally brought them to the following conclusion: “If we can’t exist without each other, and the will of stern parents stands in the way of our felicity, why shouldn’t we manage without them?” Needless to say, this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man, and that it appealed strongly to the romantic imagination of Maria Gavrilovna.

Winter came on, and interrupted their meetings. This, however, only served to quicken the correspondence. Vladimir Nikolaevich, in every letter, entreated her to give herself to him, to wed secretly, to remain in concealment a while, and then to throw themselves at the feet of the parents, who, to be sure, would be touched finally by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and undoubtedly say to them, “Children, come to our arms!”

Maria Gavrilovna hesitated a long time; and several of the plans to run away she rejected. At last she consented. On the appointed day she was to do without supper and escape to her room on the plea of a headache. Her maid was in the plot. The two of them were to make their way into the garden by means of the back-stairs. Outside the garden a sledge would stand ready to take them straight to the church of Jadrino, a village five versts away, where Vladimir would await them.

On the eve of the decisive day Maria Gavrilovna hardly slept at all. She spent the night in packing some linens and dresses to take with her; and wrote a long letter to a sentimental girl friend, and another to her parents. She bade them farewell in the most touching terms, and excused her action on grounds of a terrible overruling passion, concluding by saying that she should consider it the most blessed moment of her life when she should be permitted to throw herself at the feet of her beloved parents. Having sealed both letters with a Toula seal, on which were engraved two flaming hearts, accompanied by an appropriate inscription, she threw herself on her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off.

Terrible dreams, however, kept crowding upon her and constantly awakened her. Now it seemed to her that the very moment she entered the sledge for her journey her father stopped her and with a most painful rapidity dragged her over the snow and cast her into a dark, bottomless abyss.... Then she flew about precipitately, with an indescribable oppression of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bleeding. Dying, he entreated her in shrill voice to make haste to wed him.... Still other shapeless, incoherent visions continued to pass before her. In the end she arose, looking more pale than usual, with a real headache. Her father and her mother noticed her agitation; their gentle solicitude and their ceaseless inquiries, “What is the matter with you, Masha? Are you ill, Masha?” rent her heart. She tried to quiet them, to appear cheerful, but she could not.

The evening came. The thought that this was the last day she would spend in the midst of her family oppressed her. She scarcely could breathe. Secretly she was bidding each one a separate farewell, as well as all the objects which surrounded her. When the supper was announced her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she said that she could not eat, and wished her father and her mother good-night. They kissed her and, according to their custom, also blessed her.

Once in her own room, she threw herself into the arm-chair and wept. Her maid tried to prevail upon her to be calm and to take courage; everything was ready--in another half-hour Masha would leave forever her paternal home, her room, her quiet, girlish life....

Outdoors, the snow was falling; the wind howled, the shutters rattled and shook; all seemed to her to assume the aspect of a warning, the sad presaging of disaster. Soon everything in the house grew quiet and sank into slumber.

Masha wrapped a shawl around her, put on a long, warm mantle, took into her hands her treasure-casket, and walked down the back-stairs. The maid followed her with two bundles. They entered the garden. The storm did not subside; the wind blew in their faces, as if it sought to stop the young culprit. With the greatest difficulty, they reached the end of the garden. On the road a sledge awaited them. The chilled horses would not stand still, and Vladimir’s coachman was restlessly walking in front of them, trying to quiet them. He assisted the young lady and her maid into the sledge, and in disposing of the bundles and the casket, then seized the reins, and off the horses flew.

Having thus committed the maiden to the care of fate and the skill of Tereshka, the coachman, we will now return to our young lover.

The whole day long Vladimir spent in driving about. His first morning errand was to the priest at Jadrino--it was with the greatest difficulty that he prevailed upon him; he then journeyed to find witnesses from among the neighboring land-owners. The first to whom he appeared was the retired, forty-year-old cornet Dravin, who consented with alacrity. This adventure, he assured Vladimir, recalled to him his earlier days and his pranks in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to remain for dinner, and assured him that there would be no trouble about the other two witnesses. Indeed, immediately after dinner there appeared Surveyor Schmidt, with mustaches and spurs, and the son of the chief of police, a youngster of sixteen years, who had only lately joined the Uhlans. Not only were they in sympathy with Vladimir’s plans, but they even swore to lay down their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them joyously, and returned home to get everything ready.

It had already been dark for some time. He sent off the trusty Tereshka to Nenaradova with his troika, after giving him most exact instructions; while for himself he ordered a small sledge with a single horse. He left alone for Jadrino, where two hours hence Maria Gavrilovna was also due to arrive. The road was familiar to him; and altogether it meant a twenty-minute journey.

Hardly, however, had Vladimir reached the open field, when the wind rose; immediately it developed into a blinding snow-storm, so that he could not see anything. In a remarkably short time the road became hidden under the snow, while the surrounding landmarks were obliterated in the nebulous, yellowish haze through which flew about great white flakes of snow. The sky and the earth merged into one. Vladimir found himself in the field, and it was in vain that he tried to find the road again. The horse advanced at random, and now drove into a snowdrift and now fell into a hole--the sledge kept on upsetting. Vladimir made an effort not to lose the right direction. It seemed strange to him, however, that after a half-hour’s driving he had not yet reached the Jadrino wood.

Another ten minutes passed--still no wood in sight. Vladimir drove across a field which was intersected by deep ditches. The storm did not abate, the sky did not clear. The horse began to grow tired, and the perspiration rolled down his body in large drops, notwithstanding the fact that he was being half-buried in snow almost continually.

At last Vladimir concluded that he was not driving in the right direction. He stopped, tried to recall, to consider, and decided that he ought to take to the right; which he did. His horse made way slowly. He had been on the road more than an hour. Jadrino could not be very distant. On and on he drove his horse, but there seemed to be no end to the field--only snowdrifts and ditches. The sledge kept on upsetting, he kept on righting it. Time passed; Vladimir began to fret.

At last a dark shape seemed to loom up ahead. Vladimir jerked the reins in that direction. On closer approach, he saw it was a wood. “Thank God!” he thought, “now it is near.” He kept going along the edge of the wood, hoping to strike the familiar road, or to make a detour of the forest. Jadrino, he knew, was situated somewhere behind it. He soon found the road, and drove into the darkness among the trees, which stood in their winter nakedness. The wind could not make much headway here; the road was smooth; the horse braced itself, and Vladimir regained confidence.

On and on he continued his journey--and still no Jadrino in sight; there was no end to the road. In consternation, Vladimir became aware that he had entered an unfamiliar forest. Despair seized hold of him. He lashed the horse; the poor animal went off at a canter, but soon slowed down, and after a quarter of an hour relapsed into a walk, despite all exertions on the part of the unhappy Vladimir.

Gradually the wood grew less dense, and Vladimir came out again into the open. No Jadrino in sight. It must have been about midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove about at random. The storm quieted down, the clouds dispersed; before him lay a valley, covered with a white, undulating carpet. The night was sufficiently clear. He discerned not far off a tiny village, consisting of some four or five houses. Vladimir drove towards it. At the very first cottage he sprang out of his sledge, ran to the window, and began to knock. In a few minutes the wooden shutter went up, and an old man stuck out his gray beard.

“What do you want?”

“Is Jadrino far from here?”

“Is Jadrino far from here!”

“Yes, yes, is it far?”

“Not far--ten versts or so!”

At this answer Vladimir caught hold of his hair and stood motionless, like one condemned to death.

“And where do you come from?” continued the old man.

Vladimir had no courage left to reply to the question.

“Can you, old man,” he asked, “procure me horses to take me to Jadrino?”

“How should we have horses?” answered the peasant.

“Can you at least give me a guide? I will pay as much as he wants.”

“Wait,” said the old man, lowering the shutter. “I’ll send my son out to you. He’ll guide you.”

Vladimir waited. A minute had not elapsed when he began knocking again. The shutter went up again, the same gray beard made its appearance.

“What do you want?”

“Well, where’s your son?”

“He’ll be out soon. He’s putting on his boots. Are you cold? Step in and warm yourself.”

“Thanks, send your son out quickly.”

The gate creaked; a lad came out with a heavy stick in hand. He went in front, now indicating, now searching for, the road hidden under snowdrifts.

“What hour 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 already light when they reached Jadrino. The church was closed. Vladimir paid his guide and drove to the priest’s house. His troika was not there. What news awaited him!

Let us return, however, to the good land-owners of Nenaradova and see what is passing there.

Nothing out of the way.

The old people had had their sleep and had gone to the dining-room--Gavrila Gavrilovich in his night-cap and flannel jacket, Prascovia Petrovna in her dressing-gown of wadding. The samovar was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent the maid to ask Maria Gavrilovna about her health and how she had rested. The maid returned, announcing that the young lady had slept badly, but was feeling better now, and that presently she would be in to breakfast. Very shortly, in fact, the door opened, and Maria Gavrilovna came forward to greet her papa and mamma.

“How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.

“Better, Papa,” replied Masha.

“Masha, you must have got a headache yesterday from the fumes of the heater,” said Prascovia Petrovna.

“Perhaps so, Mamma,” answered Masha.

The day passed happily, but by night Masha was taken ill. A doctor was sent for from town. He arrived towards evening and found the sick girl in delirium. She developed high fever, and for two weeks the poor girl was at death’s door.