Пиковая дама / The Queen of Spades. Александр Пушкин

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 this moment the host re-entered with the boiling samovar[20]. I offered our guide a cup of tea. He at once jumped down.

      I was struck by his appearance. He was a man about forty, middle height, thin, but broad-shouldered. His black beard was beginning to turn grey; his large quick eyes roved incessantly around. In his face there was an expression rather pleasant, but slightly mischievous. His hair was cut short. He wore a little torn armak[21], and wide Tartar trousers.

      I offered him a cup of tea; he tasted it, and made a wry face.

      “Do me the favour, your excellency,” said he to me, “to give me a glass of brandy; we Cossacks do not generally drink tea.”

      I willingly acceded to his desire. The host took from one of the shelves of the press a jug and a glass, approached him, and, having looked him well in the face:

      “Well, well,” said he, “so here you are again in our part of the world. Where, in heaven’s name, do you come from now?”

      My guide winked in a meaning manner, and replied by the well-known saying:

      “The sparrow was flying about in the orchard; he was eating hempseed; the grandmother threw a stone at him, and missed him. And you, how are you all getting on?”

      “How are we all getting on?” rejoined the host, still speaking in proverbs.

      “Vespers were beginning to ring, but the wife of the pope[22] forbid it; the pope went away on a visit, and the devils are abroad in the churchyard.”

      “Shut up, uncle,” retorted the vagabond. “When it rains there will be mushrooms, and when you find mushrooms you will find a basket to put them in. But now” (he winked a second time) “put your axe behind your back[23], the gamekeeper is abroad. To the health of your excellency.”

      So saying he took the glass, made the sign of the cross, and swallowed his brandy at one gulp, then, bowing to me, returned to his lair above the stove.

      I could not then understand a single word of the thieves’ slang they employed. It was only later on that I understood that they were talking about the army of the Yaïk, which had only just been reduced to submission after the revolt of 1772[24].

      Savéliitch listened to them talking with a very discontented manner, and cast suspicious glances, sometimes on the host and sometimes on the guide.

      The kind of inn where we had sought shelter stood in the very middle of the steppe, far from the road and from any dwelling, and certainly was by no means unlikely to be a robber resort. But what could we do? We could not dream of resuming our journey. Savéliitch’s СКАЧАТЬ