I had intended to write another screed for today, but on second thought decided that I would demonstrate what it is I love about mystery short stories by pointing out the things I admire about a great story.

Alexander Sergeievich Pushkin (1799-1836) is the greatest poet of Russia, a genius known for his romantic lyricism and sharp satirical wit. Aside from writing the most beloved poetry in Russian literature, he was also the first Russian short story writer, looking forward to Turgenev and Chekhov. The most famous of his stories is “Pikavoya Dama” (derived from the French “Pique Dame”): “The Queen of Spades”, a novelette written in 1834. It is most frequently classified as a ghost story because it contains ostensibly supernatural elements and a ghost appears in it — but only to one character, who at the end of the tale descends into gibbering madness. Personally, I regard it as a psychological crime story about obsession and greed, and the ghost as a guilt-driven hallucination.

The story is organized into six short chapters and a very brief epilogue. I’ve used a public domain translation by an uncredited translator, but I’ve modernized the spelling of the Russian names and with the help of my Russian-speaking wife, restored a couple of sentences that were in the original but not in the translation, and in one place (“Like hell!”) provided the English equivalent of a Russian idiom not used by the translator, probably because it was considered off-color. Chapter One appears below. In the following weeks, I will present the rest. At the bottom of the column, I’ve made a few comments.

—JLW

THE QUEEN OF SPADES

by Alexander Pushkin

The Queen of Spades means secret hostility.
—A New Book on Fortune-Telling

I.

In the cold, rain, and sleet
They together would meet
To play.
Lord, forgive them their sin:
Gambling, late to win
They’d stay.
They won and they lost,
And put down the cost
In chalk.
So on cold autumn days
They wasted no time
In talk.1

There was a card party at the rooms of Narumov, of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.

“And how did you fare, Surin?” asked the host.

“Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky. I play mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always lose!”

“And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red? Your firmness astonishes me.”

“But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing to a young engineer. “He has never had a card in his hand in his life, he has never in his life laid a wager; and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning watching our play.”

“Play interests me very much,” said Hermann, “but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.”

“Hermann is a German; he is economical — that is all!” observed Tomsky. “But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna!”

“How so?” inquired the guests.

“I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is that my grandmother does not punt.2”

“But what’s so surprising,” Narumov said, “in an eighty-year old lady not punting?”

“Then you don’t know the reason why?”

“No, really, we don’t.”

“Oh! Then listen:

You must know that about sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of la Vénus moscovite. Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches from her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind. He calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had spent half a million of francs; that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were in Paris; and, finally, refused point-blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life she entered into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between a prince and a coachmaker.

But it was all in vain, my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St. Germain, about whom so many marvelous stories are told. You know that he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man immediately waited upon her, and found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to him in the blackest colors the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.

St. Germain reflected.

‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he, ‘but I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.’

‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell you that I haven’t any money left.’

‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain. ‘Please listen to me.’

Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a good deal.”

The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment, and then continued: “That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the jeu de la reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused herself in an offhanded manner for not having yet paid her debt by inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other; all three won sonica3, and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she lost.”

“Mere chance!” said one of the guests.

“A tale!” observed Hermann.

“Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third.

“I do not think so,” replied Tomsky, gravely.

“What!” said Narumov, “you have a grandmother who knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded in getting the secret of it out of her?”

“Like hell!” replied Tomsky. “She had four sons, one of whom was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to one of them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have been a bad thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he assured me, on his honor, that it was true. The late Chaplitsky — the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions — once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand rubles — to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitsky. She gave him three cards telling him to play them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitsky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he staked fifty thousand rubles, and won sonica; he doubled the stake, and won again; till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back more than he had lost.”

“But it is time to go to bed, it is a quarter to six already.” And, indeed, it was already beginning to dawn; the young men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each other.

I love this opening. I especially like the matter-of-fact first sentence and its air of easy familiarity — the game is at the house of Narumov of the Horse Guards, don’t you know, and not at some other Narumov’s — as if the name belonged to one or more close acquaintance of the reader. “You know who I mean,” it says. And by way of its insistence on the commonplace, it is whispers in our ear, “Things all began quite normally, in the real world, the one that you and I both live in.”

Things won’t be normal for long.

The card game is an immediate hook. Everybody knows that gambling is a strong, alluring vice — a corrupting influence. Temptation is already present. And the game leads quite naturally to the attention-grabbing story of the once-beautiful Countess’s strange friendship with an infamous magician. Tomsky’s anecdote sets the stage brilliantly and casts an aura of greed and mystery over everything that follows.

The introduction of the central character is very subtly handled, too — Hermann is literally set apart from the rest of the crowd from the outset. He’s an outsider, a loner, proudly disdaining any direct participation — and he is immediately contrasted with the old Countess:

“Hermann is a German; he is economical — that is all!” observed Tomsky. “But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna!”

As the reader will discover, Hermann and the Countess shall be adversaries. But that’s enough for now. Next week, Chapter Two!

1. Poem translated by Natalie Duddington. [↩]
2. punt, v.

   [adaptation of French ponter, in same sense, of unknown origin. ]

   a. intr. At certain card-games, as basset, faro, and baccarat: To lay a stake against the bank.

   —Oxford English Dictionary

   [↩]

3. sonica, n. and adv. rare.

   [French, of obscure origin.]

   a. n. In the game of basset, a card having an immediate effect on the game. b. adv. Promptly, at once.

   —Oxford English Dictionary

   As above with punt, Pushkin uses the Russian version of the same originally French gambling term used in English. —JLW [↩]