Пиковая дама / The Queen of Spades. Александр Пушкин

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СКАЧАТЬ down on the floor. They all soon began to snore, and I myself soon fell dead asleep.

      When I awoke, somewhat late, on the morrow I saw that the storm was over. The sun shone brightly; the snow stretched afar like a dazzling sheet. The horses were already harnessed. I paid the host, who named such a mere trifle as my reckoning that Savéliitch did not bargain as he usually did. His suspicions of the evening before were quite gone. I called the guide to thank him for what he had done for us, and I told Savéliitch to give him half a rouble as a reward.

      Savéliitch frowned.

      “Half a rouble!” cried he. “Why? Because you were good enough to bring him yourself to the inn? I will obey you, excellency, but we have no half roubles to spare. If we take to giving gratuities to everybody we shall end by dying of hunger.”

      I could not dispute the point with Savéliitch; my money, according to my solemn promise, was entirely at his disposal. Nevertheless, I was annoyed that I was not able to reward a man who, if he had not brought me out of fatal danger, had, at least, extricated me from an awkward dilemma.

      “Well,” I said, coolly, to Savéliitch, “if you do not wish to give him half a rouble give him one of my old coats; he is too thinly clad. Give him my hareskin touloup.”

      “Have mercy on me, my father, Petr’ Andréjïtch!” exclaimed Savéliitch. “What need has he of your touloup? He will pawn it for drink, the dog, in the first tavern he comes across.”

      “That, my dear old fellow, is no longer your affair,” said the vagabond, “whether I drink it or whether I do not. His excellency honours me with a coat off his own back[26]. It is his excellency’s will, and it is your duty as a serf not to kick against it, but to obey.”

      “You don’t fear heaven, robber that you are,” said Savéliitch, angrily. “You see the child is still young and foolish, and you are quite ready to plunder him, thanks to his kind heart. What do you want with a gentleman’s touloup? You could not even put it across your cursed broad shoulders.”

      “I beg you will not play the wit,” I said to my follower. “Get the cloak quickly.”

      “Oh! good heavens!” exclaimed Savéliitch, bemoaning himself. “A touloup of hareskin, and still quite new! And to whom is it given?:to a drunkard in rags.”

      However, the touloup was brought. The vagabond began trying it on directly. The touloup, which had already become somewhat too small for me, was really too tight for him. Still, with some trouble, he succeeded in getting it on, though he cracked all the seams. Savéliitch gave, as it were, a subdued howl when he heard the threads snapping.

      As to the vagabond, he was very pleased with my present. He ushered me to my kibitka, and saying, with a low bow, “Thanks, your excellency; may Heaven reward you for your goodness; I shall never forget, as long as I live, your kindnesses,” went his way, and I went mine, without paying any attention to Savéliitch’s sulkiness.

      I soon forgot the snowstorm, the guide, and my hareskin touloup.

      Upon arrival at Orenburg I immediately waited on the General. I found a tall man, already bent by age. His long hair was quite white; his old uniform reminded one of a soldier of Tzarina Anne’s[27] time, and he spoke with a strongly-marked German accent. I gave him my father’s letter. Upon reading his name he cast a quick glance at me.

      “Ah,” said he, “it was but a short time Andréj Petróvitch was your age, and now he has got a fine fellow of a son. Well, well: time, time.”

      He opened the letter, and began reading it half aloud, with a running fire of remarks:

      “‘Sir, I hope your excellency’: What’s all this ceremony? For shame! I wonder he’s not ashamed of himself! Of course, discipline before everything; but is it thus one writes to an old comrade? ‘Your excellency will not have forgotten’: Humph! ‘And when under the late Field Marshal Münich during the campaign, as well as little Caroline’: Eh! eh! bruder! So he still remembers our old pranks? ‘Now for business. I send you my rogue’: Hum! ‘Hold him with gloves of porcupine-skin’: What does that mean: ‘gloves of porcupine-skin?’ It must be a Russian proverb.

      “What does it mean, ‘hold with gloves of porcupine-skin?’” resumed he, turning to me.

      “It means,” I answered him, with the most innocent face in the world, “to treat someone kindly, not too strictly, to leave him plenty of liberty; that is what holding with gloves of porcupine-skin means.”

      “Humph! I understand.”

      “‘And not give him any liberty’:No; it seems that porcupine-skin gloves means something quite different.’ Enclosed is his commission’:Where is it then? Ah! here it is!:’in the roll of the Séménofsky Regiment’:All right; everything necessary shall be done. ‘Allow me to salute you without ceremony, and like an old friend and comrade’:Ah! he has at last remembered it all,” etc., etc.

      “Well, my little father,” said he, after he had finished the letter and put my commission aside, “all shall be done; you shall be an officer in the ::th Regiment, and you shall go to-morrow to Fort Bélogorsk, where you will serve under the orders of Commandant Mironoff, a brave and worthy man. There you will really serve and learn discipline. There is nothing for you to do at Orenburg; amusement is bad for a young man. To-day I invite you to dine with me.”

      “Worse and worse,” thought I to myself. “What good has it done me to have been a sergeant in the Guard from my cradle? Where has it brought me? To the ::th Regiment, and to a fort stranded on the frontier of the Kirghiz-Kaïsak Steppes!”

      I dined at Andréj Karlovitch’s, in the company of his old aide de camp. Strict German economy was the rule at his table, and I think that the dread of a frequent guest at his bachelor’s table contributed not a little to my being so promptly sent away to a distant garrison.

      The next day I took leave of the General, and started for my destination.

      Chapter III. The Little Poet

      The little fort of Bélogorsk lay about forty versts[28] from Orenburg. From this town the road followed along by the rugged banks of the R. Yaïk. The river was not yet frozen, and its lead-coloured waves looked almost black contrasted with its banks white with snow. Before me stretched the Kirghiz Steppes. I was lost in thought, and my reverie was tinged with melancholy. Garrison life did not offer me much attraction. I tried to imagine what my future chief, Commandant Mironoff, would be like. I saw in my mind’s eye a strict, morose old man, with no ideas beyond the service, and prepared to put me under arrest for the smallest trifle.

      Twilight was coming on; we were driving rather quickly.

      “Is it far from here to the fort?” I asked the driver.

      “Why, you can see it from here,” replied he.

      I began looking all round, expecting to see high bastions, a wall, and a ditch. I saw nothing but a little village, surrounded by a wooden palisade. On one side three or four haystacks, half covered with snow; on another a tumble-down windmill, whose sails, made of coarse limetree bark, hung idly down.

      “But where is the fort?” I asked, in surprise.

      “There it is yonder, to be sure,” rejoined the driver, СКАЧАТЬ