His stories do not seem to date... worth turning to again and again

- Nicholas Lezard, Guardian

In any language, The Captain's Daughter would be a miniature masterpiece

Daily Telegraph

The Captain's Daughter is one of the stories in which Pushkin created Russian prose... It is true poet's prose, absolutely clear, objective, unpretentious and penetrating

Spectator

Se alle

Pushkin's greatest stories include the famous supernatural tale 'The Queen of Spades' and the thrilling historical novel about the Pugachev rebellion, The Captain's Daughter. Everyone should read these

Washington Post

Time has done nothing to dull the excitement of the story, which, for all its romantic coincidences, is something more than a mere tale of adventure because its characters are something more than cardboard

New York Times

As complex as they are gripping, Pushkin's stories are some of the greatest and most influential ever written. Foundational to the development of Russian prose, they retain stunning freshness and clarity, more than ever in Anthony Briggs's finely nuanced translations. These are stories that upend expectations at every turn: in The Captain's Daughter, Pushkin's masterful novella of love and rebellion set during the reign of Catherine the Great, a mysterious encounter proves fatally significant during a brutal uprising, while in 'The Queen of Spades' a man obsessively pursues an elderly woman's secret for success at cards, with bizarre results.
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A dazzling new collection of Pushkin's most fiction, in definitive translations by the acclaimed Anthony Briggs.
His stories do not seem to date... worth turning to again and again
There was once a card game at the residence of Horse Guardsman Narumov. A long winter night had slipped by unnoticed, and it was past four o’clock when they sat down to dine. The winners thoroughly enjoyed their dinner; the others sat there at empty places, unable to concentrate on anything. But champagne was served, the conversation struck up again, and everybody was involved. “How’d you get on, Surin?” asked the host. “Lost. I always do. To be honest, I’m just not lucky. I don’t take any risks, I never raise the stakes, I don’t let anything put me off, and I still end up losing!” “And you’ve never been tempted? Never done any doubling up?… Your willpower amazes me.” “Well, what about Hermann?” said one of the guests, gesturing towards a young Engineers officer. “Never picked up a card since the day he was born, never doubled a stake, and he sits here till five in the morning just watching us gamble.” “I’m very interested in gambling,” said Hermann, “but I’m in no situation to sacrifice what is essential in the hope of winning something superfluous.” “Hermann’s from Germany. He calculates the odds. Nothing more to it than that,” put in Tomsky. “If there’s one person I don’t understand, it’s my grandmother, Countess Anna Fedotovna.” “Why? What d’you mean?” cried the company. “What I can’t work out,” Tomsky went on, “is why my grandmother never has a bet.” “What’s so funny about that?” said Narumov. “An old woman of eighty who doesn’t gamble?” “So, you’ve never heard anything about her?” “No! Honestly, I haven’t. Nothing at all!” “Oh, well, listen to this. You ought to know that, fifty-odd years ago, my grandmother used to go to Paris, where she was considered the latest thing. People flocked after her to get a glimpse of the ‘Venus from Moscow’. Richelieu pursued her, and Grandmother swears he nearly shot himself because of her hard heart. At that time the ladies liked to play faro. One day at court she lost to the Duke of Orléans on credit—it was a large sum of money. Back home, as she peeled off her beauty spots and unfastened her crinoline, Grandmother declared her loss to my grandfather and ordered him to pay it off. My late grandfather, I seem to recall, was like a butler to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire, but when he heard about this terrible loss of hers he lost his temper, brought out the accounts, pointing out that they had spent half a million in half a year, that living near Paris wasn’t the same as living on their own estates near Moscow or Saratov, and refused point-blank to pay. Grandmother slapped his face and went off to bed alone as a sign of her displeasure. The next morning she sent for her husband, hoping that marital punishment would have had its effect on him, but she found him intransigent. For the first time in her life she was reduced to persuasion and argument with him; her idea was to bring him to heel by deigning to point out that there are different kinds of debt, and that there is a difference between a prince and a coach-builder. No use! Grandfather was in revolt. Nothing more to be said. Grandmother had no idea what to do. “She numbered among her acquaintances one quite remarkable man. You will have heard the name of Count Saint-Germain, about whom such wonderful stories are told. You will know that he had claimed to be the Wandering Jew, the discoverer of the elixir of life, and the philosopher’s stone, and so on. He was ridiculed as a charlatan, but Casanova in his memoirs refers to him as a spy. Putting that aside, Saint-Germain, for all his air of mystery, had a handsome look about him and a charismatic personality. To this day Grandmother loves him to distraction, and she gets angry when disrespectful things are said about him. Grandmother knew that he had access to big money. Deciding to throw herself on his mercy, she wrote him a note asking him to come round and see her without delay. The old eccentric lost no time in getting there, and found her prostrate with grief. She described her husband’s barbarity in the darkest terms, and ended by placing all her hopes on his friendship and generosity. “Saint-Germain gave it some thought. ‘I can oblige you with that sum of money,’ he said, ‘but I know you will never rest until you have been able to pay me back, and I wouldn’t wish to cause you any more trouble. There is another solution: you can win it all back.’ “‘But, my dear Count,’ Grandmother replied, ‘I’m telling you—we have no money at all.’ “‘Money is not required,’ replied Saint-Germain. ‘Please let me finish.’ “At this point he told her a secret that any of us would pay a good deal to learn…” The young gamblers redoubled their interest. Tomsky lit his pipe, pulled on it, and spoke further. “That same evening Grandmother turned up at the jeu de la reine in Versailles. The Duke of Orléans was dealing. Grandmother muttered a word of apology for not bringing the money to pay off her debt, concocting a little story by way of excuse, and she began to bet against him. She chose three cards, and played them one after the other; all three won at the first turn of the cards, doubling up in series, and Grandmother had recouped her entire debt.” “Fluke!” said one of the guests. “Fairy story!” cried Hermann. “Could have been marked cards,” was the response from a third guest, eager to join in. “I think not,” observed Tomsky with some gravity. “What?” said Narumov. “You have a grandmother who can play three winning cards in sequence, and in all this time you haven’t got hold of her magic formula?” “Not much chance of that!” replied Tomsky. “She had four sons, one of them being my father. They were all desperate gamblers, and she never told her secret to any one of them, even though it could have done them a lot of good, and me, too, for that matter. But my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, told me something which he swore was true. That man Chaplitsky—he’s dead now, squandered millions and died in poverty—in his youth once lost about three hundred thousand—to Zorich, if memory serves. He was in despair. Grandmother always came down hard on young people’s stupid indiscretions, but for some reason she took pity on Chaplitsky. She told him the three cards, provided that he played them in the right sequence and gave his word never to gamble again. Chaplitsky turned up to face his victorious opponent; they sat down to play. Chaplitsky staked fifty thousand on the first card—a straight win—and by doubling and redoubling he recouped all his losses, with a bit left over… “Anyway, it’s bedtime. A quarter to six.” Yes, indeed, it was getting light. The young men downed their drinks and went their separate ways.
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Produktdetaljer

ISBN
9781782276388
Publisert
2021-02-25
Utgiver
Vendor
Pushkin Press
Høyde
165 mm
Bredde
120 mm
Aldersnivå
G, 01
Språk
Product language
Engelsk
Format
Product format
Heftet
Antall sider
256

Forfatter
Oversetter

Om bidragsyterne

Alexander Pushkin was born in 1799. He published his first poem when he was fifteen, and in 1820 his first long poem-Ruslan and Lyudmila-made him famous. His work, including the novel-in-verse Yevgeny Onegin, the poem The Bronze Horseman, the play Boris Godunov and the short story 'The Queen of Spades', has secured his place as one of the greatest writers, in any language, ever to have lived. He died aged just 37, having been wounded in a duel-Pushkin's 29th-by his brother-in-law.