Edited by Julian Hawthorne

 
  Russian Mystery Stories

 
  The Queen of Spades by
       Alexander Sergeievitch
       Pushkin

 
  I

    There was a card
          party at the rooms
               of Naroumoff,
           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,
           Souirin?"

    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."

    "Then you
          do not
              know the reason why?"

    "No,
           really;
        I haven't the faintest idea.

    But let me
          tell you the story.

    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 the
         'Muscovite Venus.'

    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 Saratoff estates
            were in Paris;
        and,
           finally,
         refused point-blank
              to pay the debt.

    My grandmother
        gave him a box
               on the ear