Пиковая дама / The Queen of Spades. Александр Пушкин
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put my head out of the kibitka; all was darkness and confusion. The wind blew with such ferocity that it was difficult not to think it an animated being.
The snow drifted round and covered us. The horses went at a walk, and soon stopped altogether.
“Why don’t you go on?” I said, impatiently, to the driver.
“But where to?” he replied, getting out of the sledge. “Heaven only knows where we are now. There is no longer any road, and it is all dark.”
I began to scold him, but Savéliitch took his part.
“Why did you not listen to him?” he said to me, angrily. “You would have gone back to the post-house; you would have had some tea; you could have slept till morning; the storm would have blown over, and we should have started. And why such haste? Had it been to get married, now!”
Savéliitch was right. What was there to do? The snow continued to fall:a heap was rising around the kibitka. The horses stood motionless, hanging their heads and shivering from time to time.
The driver walked round them, settling their harness, as if he had nothing else to do. Savéliitch grumbled. I was looking all round in hopes of perceiving some indication of a house or a road; but I could not see anything but the confused whirling of the snowstorm.
All at once I thought I distinguished something black.
“Hullo, driver!” I exclaimed, “what is that black thing over there?”
The driver looked attentively in the direction I was pointing out.
“Heaven only knows, excellency,” replied he, resuming his seat.
“It is not a sledge, it is not a tree, and it seems to me that it moves. It must be a wolf or a man.”
I ordered him to move towards the unknown object, which came also to meet us. In two minutes I saw it was a man, and we met.
“Hey, there, good man,” the driver hailed him, “tell us, do you happen to know the road?”
“This is the road,” replied the traveller. “I am on firm ground; but what the devil good does that do you?”
“Listen, my little peasant,” said I to him, “do you know this part of the country? Can you guide us to some place where we may pass the night?”
“Do I know this country? Thank heaven,” rejoined the stranger, “I have travelled here, on horse and afoot, far and wide. But just look at this weather! One cannot keep the road. Better stay here and wait; perhaps the hurricane will cease and the sky will clear, and we shall find the road by starlight.”
His coolness gave me courage, and I resigned myself to pass the night on the steppe, commending myself to the care of Providence, when suddenly the stranger, seating himself on the driver’s seat, said:
“Grace be to God, there is a house not far off. Turn to the right, and go on.”
“Why should I go to the right?” retorted my driver, ill-humouredly.
“How do you know where the road is that you are so ready to say, ’other people’s horses, other people’s harness:whip away!’”
It seemed to me the driver was right.
“Why,” said I to the stranger, “do you think a house is not far off?”
“The wind blew from that direction,” replied he, “and I smelt smoke, a sure sign that a house is near.”
His cleverness and the acuteness of his sense of smell alike astonished me. I bid the driver go where the other wished. The horses ploughed their way through the deep snow. The kibitka advanced slowly, sometimes upraised on a drift, sometimes precipitated into a ditch, and swinging from side to side. It was very like a boat on a stormy sea.
Savéliitch groaned deeply as every moment he fell upon me. I lowered the tsinofka[16], I rolled myself up in my cloak and I went to sleep, rocked by the whistle of the storm and the lurching of the sledge. I had then a dream that I have never forgotten, and in which I still see something prophetic, as I recall the strange events of my life. The reader will forgive me if I relate it to him, as he knows, no doubt, by experience how natural it is for man to retain a vestige of superstition in spite of all the scorn for it he may think proper to assume.
I had reached the stage when the real and unreal begin to blend into the first vague visions of drowsiness. It seemed to me that the snowstorm continued, and that we were wandering in the snowy desert. All at once I thought I saw a great gate, and we entered the courtyard of our house. My first thought was a fear that my father would be angry at my involuntary return to the paternal roof, and would attribute it to a premeditated disobedience. Uneasy, I got out of my kibitka, and I saw my mother come to meet me, looking very sad.
“Don’t make a noise,” she said to me. “Your father is on his death-bed, and wishes to bid you farewell.”
Struck with horror, I followed her into the bedroom. I look round; the room is nearly dark. Near the bed some people were standing, looking sad and cast down. I approached on tiptoe. My mother raised the curtain, and said:
“Andréj Petróvitch, Petróusha has come back; he came back having heard of your illness. Give him your blessing.”
I knelt down. But to my astonishment instead of my father I saw in the bed a black-bearded peasant, who regarded me with a merry look. Full of surprise, I turned towards my mother.
“What does this mean?” I exclaimed. “It is not my father. Why do you want me to ask this peasant’s blessing?”
“It is the same thing, Petróusha,” replied my mother. “That person is your godfather[17]. Kiss his hand, and let him bless you.”
I would not consent to this. Whereupon the peasant sprang from the bed, quickly drew his axe from his belt, and began to brandish it in all directions. I wished to fly, but I could not. The room seemed to be suddenly full of corpses. I stumbled against them; my feet slipped in pools of blood. The terrible peasant called me gently, saying to me:
“Fear nothing, come near; come and let me bless you.”
Fear had stupified me....
At this moment I awoke. The horses had stopped; Savéliitch had hold of my hand.
“Get out, excellency,” said he to me; “here we are.”
“Where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“At our night’s lodging. Heaven has helped us; we came by chance right upon the hedge by the house. Get out, excellency, as quick as you can, and let us see you get warm.”
I got out of the kibitka. The snowstorm still raged, but less violently. It was so dark that one might, as we say, have as well been blind. The host received us near the entrance, holding a lantern beneath the skirt of his caftan, and led us into a room, small but prettily clean, lit by a loutchina[18]. On the wall hung a long carbine and a high Cossack cap.
Our host, a Cossack of the Yaïk[19], was a peasant of about sixty, still fresh and hale. Savéliitch brought the tea canister, and asked for a fire that he might make me a cup or two of tea, of which, certainly, I never had more need. The host hastened to wait upon him.
“What has become of our guide? Where is he?” I asked Savéliitch.
“Here, your excellency,” replied a voice from above.
I raised my eyes to the recess above the stove, and I saw a black beard and two sparkling eyes.
“Well, are you cold?”
“How could I not be cold,” answered he, “in a little caftan all holes? I had a touloup, but, it’s no good hiding it, I left it yesterday in pawn at the brandy shop; the cold did not seem to me then so keen.”
At
Curtain made of the inner bark of the limetree which covers the hood of a
Marriage godfather.
Torch of fir or birch.
Tributary of the River Ural.