I
In nasty weather
They would all get together
And play;
On the table now fifty
Or, God help them, twice fifty
They’d lay,
And whenever they won,
They chalked up the sum
On a slate.
So in nasty weather
Quite busy together
They played.1
Once they were playing cards at the horse guard Narumov’s. The long winter night passed unnoticed; they sat down to supper towards five in the morning. Those who came out winners ate with great appetite; the others sat absently before their empty plates. But champagne appeared, the conversation grew lively, and they all took part in it.
“How did you do, Surin?” asked the host.
“Lost, as usual. I must confess, I’m unlucky: I play mirandole,2 never get excited, nothing throws me off, and yet I keep losing!”
“And you weren’t tempted even once? You never once staked en routé?…I find your firmness astonishing.”
“What about Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing to the young engineer. “He’s never held cards in his life, never bent down a single paroli in his life, yet he sits with us and watches us play till five in the morning.”
“The game interests me greatly,” said Hermann, “but I am not in a position to sacrifice the necessary in hopes of acquiring the superfluous.”
“Hermann is a German: he’s calculating, that’s all!” Tomsky observed. “But if there’s anyone I don’t understand, it’s my grandmother, Countess Anna Fedotovna.”
“How? What?” the guests cried.
“I can’t comprehend,” Tomsky went on, “how it is that my grandmother doesn’t punt!”
“What’s so surprising,” said Narumov, “about an eighty-year-old woman not punting?”
“So you know nothing about her?”
“No, nothing at all!”
“Oh, then listen:
“You should know that sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris and became all the fashion there. People ran after her, to catch a glimpse of la Vénus moscovite; Richelieu3 dangled after her, and my grandmother assures me that he nearly shot himself on account of her cruelty.
“In those days ladies played faro. Once at court she lost quite a lot on credit to the duc d’Orléans. Having come home, my grandmother, while unsticking the beauty spots from her face and untying her farthingales, announced her loss to my grandfather and ordered him to pay.
“My late grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of butler to my grandmother. He was mortally afraid of her; however, on hearing of such a terrible loss, he flew into a rage, fetched an abacus, demonstrated to her that in half a year they had spent half a million, that they had no estates near Paris, as they had near Moscow and Saratov, and flatly refused to pay. Grandmother slapped him in the face and went to bed alone as a token of his disgrace.
“The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that the domestic punishment had had an effect on him, but she found him unshakeable. For the first time in her life she stooped to discussions and explanations with him; she hoped to appeal to his conscience, indulgently pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and there is a difference between a prince and a coach maker. No use! Grandfather was in rebellion. No, and that’s final! Grandmother didn’t know what to do.
“She was closely acquainted with a very remarkable man. You’ve heard of the comte de Saint-Germain, of whom so many wonders are told. You know that he passed himself off as the Wandering Jew, the inventor of the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone, and so on. He was laughed at as a charlatan, and Casanova in his memoirs says he was a spy;4 however, despite his mysteriousness, Saint-Germain was of very dignified appearance and was very amiable in society. Grandmother still loves him to distraction and gets angry if he is spoken of disrespectfully. Grandmother knew that Saint-Germain could have large sums at his disposal. She decided to resort to him. She wrote him a note and asked him to come to her immediately.
“The old eccentric appeared at once and found her in terrible distress. She described her husband’s barbarity in the blackest colors, and said finally that all her hope now rested on his friendship and amiability.
“Saint-Germain reflected.
“ ‘I could oblige you with this sum,’ he said, ‘but I know you will not be at peace until you have repaid it, and I do not wish to bring new troubles upon you. There is another way: you can win it back.’
“ ‘But, my gentle comte,’ grandmother replied, ‘I tell you we have no money at all.’
“ ‘Money’s not needed here,’ Saint-Germain rejoined. ‘Kindly listen to me.’ Here he revealed to her a secret for which any of us would give a great deal…”
The young gamblers redoubled their attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed on it, and went on.
“That same evening grandmother appeared at Versailles, au jeu de la Reine.*1 The duc d’Orléans kept the bank; grandmother lightly apologized for not having brought her debt, concocting a little story as an excuse, and began to punt against him. She chose three cards, played them one after the other: all three won straight off and grandmother recovered all her losses.”
“Pure chance!” said one of the guests.
“A fairy tale!” observed Hermann.
“Marked cards, maybe?” chimed in a third.
“I don’t think so,” Tomsky replied imposingly.
“What!” said Narumov. “You have a grandmother who can guess three cards in a row, and you still haven’t taken over her cabbalistics from her?”
“The devil she’d tell me!” Tomsky replied. “She had four sons, including my father, all four of them desperate gamblers, and she didn’t reveal her secret to a one of them; though it wouldn’t have been a bad thing for them, or for me either. But here is what my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, told me, and he assured me of it on his honor. The late Chaplitsky, the one who died a pauper after squandering millions, in his youth once lost—to Zorich, as I recall—around three hundred thousand. He was in despair. Grandmother, who was always severe towards young people’s follies, somehow took pity on Chaplitsky. She gave him three cards, which he was to play one after the other, and made him swear on his honor that he would never gamble afterwards. Chaplitsky appeared before his vanquisher: they sat down to play. Chaplitsky staked fifty thousand on the first card and won straight off; bent down a paroli, a double paroli—recovered everything and wound up winning even more…
“But it’s time for bed; it’s a quarter to six.”
Indeed, dawn was breaking. The young men finished their glasses and went their ways.
II
—Il paraît que monsieur est décidément pour les suivantes.
—Que voulez-vous, madame? Elles sont plus fraîches.*2
SOCIETY CONVERSATION5
The old countess * * * was sitting in her dressing room before the mirror. Three maids surrounded her. One held a jar of rouge, another a box of hairpins, the third a tall bonnet with flame-colored ribbons. The countess had not the slightest pretension to a beauty faded long ago, but she preserved all the habits of her youth, held strictly to the fashion of the seventies, and dressed just as slowly and just as painstakingly as sixty years ago. By the window a young lady, her ward, sat over her embroidery.
“Greetings, grand’maman,” said a young officer, coming in. “Bonjour, mademoiselle Lise. Grand’maman, I’ve come to you with a request.”
“What is it, Paul?”
“Allow me to introduce one of my friends to you and to bring him to your ball on Friday.”
“Bring him straight to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at * * *’s last night?”
“What else! It was very merry. We danced till five in the morning. How pretty Eletskaya was!”
“Come, my dear! What’s so pretty about her? Is she anything like her grandmother, Princess Darya Petrovna?…By the way, I fancy she’s aged a lot, Princess Darya Petrovna?”
“Aged, you say?” Tomsky replied distractedly. “She died seven years ago.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young man. He remembered that they were to conceal from the old countess the deaths of women her age, and he bit his tongue. But the countess heard the news, which was new to her, with great indifference.
“Died!” she said. “And I didn’t know! We were made ladies-in-waiting together, and when we were presented, the empress…”
And for the hundredth time the countess told her grandson the story.
“Well, Paul,” she said afterwards, “now help me up. Lizanka, where’s my snuffbox?”
And the countess went behind the screen with her maids to finish her toilette. Tomsky remained with the young lady.
“Who is it you want to introduce?” Lizaveta Ivanovna asked softly.
“Narumov. Do you know him?”
“No! Is he military or civilian?”
“Military.”
“An engineer?”
“No, a cavalryman. What made you think he was an engineer?”
The young lady laughed and made no reply.
“Paul!” the countess called out from behind the screen. “Send me some new novel, only, please, not like they write nowadays.”
“How do you mean, grand’maman?”
“I mean the kind of novel where the hero doesn’t strangle his father or mother, and where there are no drowned bodies. I’m terribly afraid of drowned bodies!”
“There are no such novels nowadays. Or maybe you’d like a Russian one?”
“You mean there are Russian novels?…Send me one, old boy, please do send me one!”
“Excuse me, grand’maman, I’m in a hurry…Excuse me, Lizaveta Ivanovna! What made you think Narumov was an engineer?”
And Tomsky left the dressing room.
Lizaveta Ivanovna remained alone: she abandoned her work and started looking out the window. Soon a young officer appeared from around the corner of a house on the other side of the street. A flush came to her cheeks: she picked up her work again and bent her head over the canvas. Just then the countess came out, fully dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lizanka,” she said, “and we’ll go for a ride.”
Lizanka got up from her embroidery and started putting her work away.
“What is it, old girl? Are you deaf or something?” the countess cried. “Tell them to hurry up with the carriage.”
“At once!” the young lady replied quietly and ran to the front hall.
A servant came in and handed the countess some books from Count Pavel Alexandrovich.
“Very good! Thank him,” said the countess. “Lizanka, Lizanka! Where are you running to?”
“To get dressed.”
“There’s no rush, old girl. Sit here. Open the first volume; read aloud…”
The young lady took the book and read out a few lines.
“Louder!” said the countess. “What’s wrong with you, old girl? Lost your voice, or something?…Wait: move that footstool towards me…closer…really!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna read two more pages. The countess yawned.
“Enough of this book,” she said. “What nonsense! Send it back to Prince Pavel and tell them to thank him…Well, what about the carriage?”
“The carriage is ready,” Lizaveta Ivanovna said, looking outside.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” said the countess. “I always have to wait for you! It’s quite insufferable, old girl!”
Liza ran to her room. Two minutes had not gone by before the countess began to ring with all her might. Three maids came running through one door and the valet through the other.
“Why don’t you come when you’re called?” said the countess. “Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna I’m waiting for her.”
Lizaveta Ivanovna came in wearing a cape and a bonnet.
“At last, old girl!” said the countess. “What an outfit! Why this?…Whom do you want to entice?…And what’s the weather like? Windy, it seems.”
“Not at all, Your Ladyship! It’s quite calm!” replied the valet.
“You always talk at random! Open the window. Just so: wind! And very cold, too! Unhitch the carriage! We’re not going, Lizanka: there was no point dressing up.”
“And that’s my life!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
Indeed, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a most unfortunate creature. Bitter is another’s bread, says Dante, and hard it is climbing another’s stairs,6 and who knows the bitterness of dependency if not the poor ward of an aristocratic old woman? Countess * * *, of course, did not have a wicked soul; but she was capricious, as a woman spoiled by high society, stingy, and sunk in cold egoism, like all old people, whose time for love is in the past, and who are strangers to the present. She took part in all the vain bustle of high society, dragged herself to balls, where she sat in a corner, all rouged and dressed in the old fashion, like an ugly but necessary ornament of the ballroom. The arriving guests, as if by an established ritual, approached her with low bows, and afterwards no one paid any attention to her. She received the whole town at her house, observing strict etiquette and not recognizing anyone’s face. Her numerous servants, having grown fat and gray in her front hall and maids’ quarters, did whatever they liked, outdoing each other in robbing the dying old woman. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the household martyr. She poured tea and was reprimanded for using too much sugar; she read novels aloud and was to blame for all the author’s mistakes; she accompanied the countess on her walks and was answerable for the weather and the pavement. She had a fixed salary, which was never paid in full; and meanwhile she was required to dress like everyone else—that is, like the very few. In society she played a most pitiable role. Everyone knew her and no one noticed her; at balls she danced only when there was a lack of vis-à-vis,*3 and ladies took her under the arm each time they had to go to the dressing room to straighten something in their outfits. She was proud, felt her position keenly, and looked about—waiting impatiently for a deliverer; but the young men, calculating in their frivolous vanity, did not deem her worthy of attention, though Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times nicer than the cold and insolent brides they dangled after. So many times, quietly leaving the dull and magnificent drawing room, she went to weep in her poor room, where stood a folding wallpaper screen, a chest of drawers, a small mirror, and a painted bed, and where a tallow candle burned dimly in a brass candlestick!
Once—this happened two days after the evening described at the start of this story and a week before the scene where we paused—once Lizaveta Ivanovna, sitting by the window over her embroidery, inadvertently glanced out and saw a young engineer standing motionless and with his eyes fixed on her window. She lowered her head and went back to work; five minutes later she glanced again—the young officer was standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of flirting with passing officers, she stopped glancing outside and went on stitching for about two hours without raising her head. Dinner was served. She got up, began to put her embroidery away, and, glancing outside inadvertently, again saw the officer. This seemed rather strange to her. After dinner she went to the window with the feeling of a certain uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there—and she forgot about him…
Some two days later, going out with the countess to get into the carriage, she saw him again. He was standing just by the front door, covering his face with his beaver collar: his dark eyes flashed from under his hat. Lizaveta Ivanovna felt frightened, not knowing why herself, and got into the carriage with an inexplicable trembling.
On returning home, she ran to the window—the officer was standing in the former place, his eyes fixed on her: she stepped away, tormented by curiosity and stirred by a feeling that was entirely new to her.
Since then no day went by that the young man did not appear at a certain hour under the windows of their house. Unspoken relations were established between them. Sitting at her place over her work, she felt him approach—raised her head, looked at him longer and longer each day. The young man seemed to be grateful to her for that: with the keen eyes of youth, she saw a quick blush cover his pale cheeks each time their eyes met. After a week she smiled at him…
When Tomsky asked permission to introduce his friend to the countess, the poor girl’s heart leaped. But learning that Narumov was a horse guard and not an engineer, she regretted that an indiscreet question had given away her secret to the featherbrained Tomsky.
Hermann was the son of a Russified German, who had left him a small capital. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of ensuring his independence, Hermann did not even touch the interest, lived on his pay alone, and did not allow himself the slightest whimsy. However, he was secretive and ambitious, and his comrades rarely had the chance to laugh at his excessive frugality. He was a man of strong passions and fiery imagination, but firmness saved him from the usual errors of youth. Thus, for instance, though he was a gambler at heart, he never touched cards, for he reckoned that in his position he could not afford (as he used to say) to sacrifice the necessary in hopes of acquiring the superfluous—and meanwhile he spent whole nights at the card tables and followed with feverish trembling the various turns of the game.
The story of the three cards had a strong effect on his imagination and did not leave his mind the whole night. “What if,” he thought the next evening, roaming about Petersburg, “what if the old countess should reveal her secret to me! Or tell me the names of those three sure cards! Why not try my luck?…Get introduced to her, curry favor with her—maybe become her lover—but all that takes time—and she’s eighty-seven years old—she could die in a week—in two days!…And the story itself…Can you trust it?…No! Calculation, moderation, and diligence: those are my three sure cards, there’s what will triple, even septuple my capital, and provide me with peace and independence!”
Reasoning thus, he found himself on one of the main streets of Petersburg, in front of a house of old-style architecture. The street was crammed with vehicles; carriages, one after another, rolled up to the brightly lit entrance. Every other minute the slim foot of a young beauty, or a jingling jackboot, or a striped stocking and diplomatic shoe extended from a carriage. Fur coats and cloaks flashed past the majestic doorman. Hermann stopped.
“Whose house is this?” he asked the sentry at the corner.
“Countess * * *’s,” replied the sentry.
Hermann trembled. The amazing story arose again in his imagination. He started pacing around near the house, thinking about its mistress and about her wondrous ability. He returned late to his humble corner; for a long time he could not fall asleep, and when sleep did come over him, he dreamed of cards, a green table, stacks of banknotes, and heaps of gold coins. He played one card after another, resolutely bent down corners, kept on winning, raked in the gold, and put the banknotes in his pocket. Waking up late, he sighed at the loss of his phantasmal riches, again went roaming about the city, and again found himself in front of Countess * * *’s house. Some unknown force seemed to draw him to it. He stopped and began to look at the windows. In one of them he saw a dark-haired little head, bent, probably, over a book or some needlework. The head rose. Hermann saw a fresh face and dark eyes. That moment decided his fate.
III
Vous m’écrivez, mon ange, des lettres de quatre pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.*4
CORRESPONDENCE
Lizaveta Ivanovna had only just taken off her cape and bonnet when the countess sent for her and again ordered the carriage brought. They went out to take their seats. At the same moment as two lackeys picked up the old woman and put her through the door, Lizaveta Ivanovna saw her engineer just by the wheel; he seized her hand; before she could get over her fear, the young man disappeared: a letter remained in her hand. She hid it in her glove and during the whole ride neither heard nor saw anything. The countess had a habit of constantly asking questions as she drove: “Who was that we just passed?” “What’s the name of this bridge?” “What’s written on that signboard?” This time Lizaveta Ivanovna answered randomly and inaptly and made the countess angry.
“What’s the matter with you, old girl! Are you in a stupor or something? Either you don’t hear me or you don’t understand?…Thank God, I don’t mumble and haven’t lost my mind yet!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna was not listening to her. On returning home, she ran to her room, took the letter from her glove: it was not sealed. Lizaveta Ivanovna read it. The letter contained a declaration of love: it was tender, respectful, and taken word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta Ivanovna did not know German and was very pleased with it.
However, the letter she had accepted troubled her greatly. It was the first time she had entered into secret, close relations with a young man. His boldness horrified her. She reproached herself for her imprudent behavior and did not know what to do: to stop sitting by the window and by her inattention cool the young officer’s desire for further pursuit? To send his letter back? To reply coldly and resolutely? There was no one to advise her, she had neither friend nor preceptress. Lizaveta Ivanovna decided to reply.
She sat down at her little writing table, took a pen, paper—and fell to thinking. Several times she began her letter—and tore it up: the expression seemed to her now too indulgent, now too severe. At last she managed to write a few lines that left her satisfied. “I am sure,” she wrote, “that you have honorable intentions and that you did not wish to insult me by a thoughtless act; but our acquaintance should not begin in such a way. I return your letter to you and hope that in future I will have no reason to complain of undeserved disrespect.”
The next day, seeing Hermann coming, Lizaveta Ivanovna got up from her embroidery, went to the reception room, opened a window, and threw the letter out, trusting in the young officer’s agility. Hermann ran, picked up the letter, and went into a pastry shop. Tearing off the seal, he found his own letter and Lizaveta Ivanovna’s reply. He had expected just that and returned home quite caught up in his intrigue.
Three days after that a sharp-eyed young mam’selle brought Lizaveta Ivanovna a note from a dress shop. Lizaveta Ivanovna opened it with trepidation, anticipating a demand for payment, and suddenly recognized Hermann’s handwriting.
“You’re mistaken, dearest,” she said, “this note isn’t for me.”
“No, it’s precisely for you!” the bold girl answered, not concealing a sly smile. “Kindly read it!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna ran through the note. Hermann demanded a rendezvous.
“It can’t be!” said Lizaveta Ivanovna, frightened both by the hastiness of the demand and by the means employed. “This surely wasn’t written to me!” And she tore the letter into little pieces.
“If the letter wasn’t for you, why did you tear it up?” said the mam’selle. “I would have returned it to the one who sent it.”
“Please, dearest,” said Lizaveta Ivanovna, flaring up at her remark, “in the future don’t bring me any notes! And tell the person who sent you that he ought to be ashamed…”
But Hermann would not quiet down. Lizaveta Ivanovna received letters from him each day, by one means or another. They were no longer translations from the German. Hermann wrote them, inspired by passion, and spoke a language that was all his own: in them were expressed both the inflexibility of his desires and the disorder of an unbridled imagination. Lizaveta Ivanovna no longer thought of sending them back: she reveled in them; she started replying to them—and her notes grew longer and tenderer by the hour. Finally, she threw the following letter to him from the window:
Tonight there is a ball at the * * * Embassy. The countess will be there. We will stay till about two o’clock. This is your chance to see me alone. As soon as the countess goes out, her servants will probably retire; there will be a doorman in the entryway, but he, too, usually goes to his closet. Come at 11:30. Go straight up the stairs. If you meet someone in the front hall, ask if the countess is at home. The answer will be no—and there will be nothing to do. You will have to go away. But you will probably not meet anyone. The maids stay in their quarters, all in one room. From the front hall turn left and go straight on to the countess’s bedroom. In the bedroom, behind the screen, you will see two small doors: the right one to the study, where the countess never goes; the left one to a corridor, where there is a narrow winding stairway: it leads to my room.
Hermann trembled like a tiger, waiting for the appointed time. By ten o’clock in the evening he was already standing in front of the countess’s house. The weather was awful: wind howled, wet snow fell in big flakes; the streetlamps shone dimly; the streets were deserted. Now and then a cabby dragged by with his scrawny nag, looking for a late customer. Hermann stood in nothing but his frock coat, feeling neither wind nor snow. At last the countess’s carriage was brought. Hermann saw how the lackeys carried the bent old woman out under the arms, wrapped in a sable fur coat, and how, after her, her ward flashed by in a light cloak, her head adorned with fresh flowers. The doors slammed. The carriage rolled off heavily over the loose snow. The doorman shut the front door. The windows went dark. Hermann started pacing around by the now deserted house: he went up to a streetlamp, looked at his watch—it was twenty past eleven. He stayed under the streetlamp, his eyes on the hands of the watch, counting the remaining minutes. At exactly half past eleven, Hermann stepped onto the countess’s porch and went into the brightly lit entryway. The doorman was not there. Hermann ran up the stairs, opened the door to the front hall, and saw a servant sleeping under a lamp in an old, soiled armchair. Hermann walked past him with a light and firm step. The reception room and drawing room were dark. The lamp in the front hall shone faintly on them. Hermann went into the bedroom. Before a stand filled with old icons flickered a golden lamp. Faded damask armchairs and sofas with down cushions and worn-off gilding stood in mournful symmetry against the walls covered with Chinese silk. On the walls hung two portraits painted in Paris by Mme Lebrun.7 One of them portrayed a man of about forty, red-cheeked and portly, in a light green uniform and with a decoration; the other a young beauty with an aquiline nose, her hair brushed back at the temples, powdered and adorned with a rose. Every corner was jammed with porcelain shepherdesses, table clocks made by the famous Leroy, little boxes, bandalores, fans, and various ladies’ knickknacks, invented at the end of the last century along with Montgolfier’s balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism.8 Hermann went behind the screen. There stood a small iron bed; to the right was the door leading to the study; to the left the other, to the corridor. Hermann opened it, saw the narrow winding stairway leading to the poor ward’s room…But he came back and went into the dark study.
Time passed slowly. All was quiet. In the drawing room it struck twelve; in all the rooms one after another the clocks rang twelve—and all fell silent again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat regularly, as in a man who has ventured upon something dangerous but necessary. The clocks struck one and then two in the morning—and he heard the distant clatter of a carriage. An involuntary agitation came over him. The carriage drove up and stopped. He heard the clatter of the flipped-down steps. There was bustling in the house. Servants ran, voices rang out, and the house lit up. Three elderly maids rushed into the bedroom, and the countess, barely alive, came in and sank into the Voltaire armchair. Hermann watched through a chink: Lizaveta Ivanovna walked past him. Hermann heard her hurrying steps on the stairs. Something like remorse of conscience stirred in his heart and died down again. He turned to stone.
The countess started to undress before the mirror. They unpinned her bonnet, decorated with roses; took the powdered wig from her gray and close-cropped head. Pins poured down like rain around her. The yellow gown embroidered with silver fell at her swollen feet. Hermann witnessed the repulsive mysteries of her toilette; finally, the countess was left in a bed jacket and nightcap; in this attire, more suitable to her old age, she seemed less horrible and ugly.
Like all old people generally, the countess suffered from insomnia. Having undressed, she sat down by the window in the Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken away, the room was again lit only by the icon lamp. The countess sat all yellow, moving her pendulous lips, swaying from side to side. Her dull eyes showed a complete absence of thought; looking at her, one might have thought that the frightful old woman’s swaying came not from her will, but from the action of some hidden galvanism.
Suddenly that dead face changed inexplicably. Her lips stopped moving, her eyes came to life: before the countess stood an unknown man.
“Don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid!” he said in a clear and low voice. “I have no intention of harming you; I’ve come to beg you for a favor.”
The old woman silently looked at him and seemed not to hear him. Hermann thought she might be deaf, and, bending close to her ear, repeated the same words. The old woman was silent as before.
“You can make for the happiness of my life,” Hermann continued, “and it won’t cost you anything: I know that you can guess three cards in a row…”
Hermann stopped. The countess seemed to have understood what was asked of her; it seemed she was seeking words for her reply.
“That was a joke,” she said at last. “I swear to you! It was a joke!”
“This is no joking matter,” Hermann retorted angrily. “Remember Chaplitsky, whom you helped to win back his losses.”
The countess was visibly disconcerted. Her features showed strong emotion, but she soon lapsed into her former insensibility.
“Can you name those three sure cards for me?” Hermann continued.
The countess said nothing; Hermann went on.
“Whom are you keeping your secret for? Your grandchildren? They’re rich without that; and besides, they don’t know the value of money. Your three cards won’t help a squanderer. A man who can’t hold on to his paternal inheritance will die a pauper anyway, for all the devil’s efforts. I’m not a squanderer; I know the value of money. Your three cards won’t be wasted on me. Well?…”
He stopped and waited in trembling for her reply. The countess said nothing; Hermann went on his knees.
“If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” he said, “if you remember its raptures, if you smiled even once at the cry of your newborn son, if anything human has ever beaten in your breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a mistress, a mother—by all that is sacred in life—do not refuse my request! Reveal your secret to me! What good is it to you?…Perhaps it’s connected with a terrible sin, with the forfeit of eternal bliss, a pact with the devil…Think: you’re old; you don’t have long to live—I’m ready to take your sin upon my soul. Only reveal your secret to me. Think: a man’s happiness is in your hands; not only I, but my children, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, will bless your memory and revere it as sacred…”
The old woman did not say a word.
Hermann stood up.
“Old witch!” he said, clenching his teeth. “Then I’ll make you answer…”
With those words he took a pistol from his pocket.
At the sight of the pistol, the countess showed strong emotion for the second time. She shook her head and raised her hand as if to shield herself from the shot…Then she fell backwards and remained motionless.
“Stop being childish,” said Hermann, taking her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you name your three cards for me—yes or no?”
The countess did not reply. Hermann saw that she had died.
IV
7 Mai 18––
Homme sans moeurs et sans religion!*5
CORRESPONDENCE9
Lizaveta Ivanovna, still in her ball gown, sat in her room deep in thought. On coming home she had hastily dismissed the sleepy maid, who had reluctantly offered her services, saying that she would undress herself, and, trembling, had gone into her room, hoping to find Hermann there and wishing not to find him. With the first glance she was convinced of his absence, and she thanked fate for the obstacle that had prevented their rendezvous. She sat down without undressing and began to think back over all the circumstances that had lured her so far in so short a time. Three weeks had not passed since she first saw the young man from the window—and she was already in correspondence with him, and he had managed to obtain a night rendezvous from her! She knew his name only because some of his letters were signed; she had never spoken with him, nor heard his voice, nor heard anything about him…until that evening. Strange thing! That same evening, at the ball, Tomsky, pouting at the young princess Polina, who, contrary to her usual habit, was flirting with someone else, had wished to revenge himself by a show of indifference: he had invited Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka with her. He joked all the while about her partiality for engineer officers, assured her that he knew much more than she might suppose, and some of his jokes were so well aimed that Lizaveta Ivanovna thought several times that her secret was known to him.
“Who told you all that?” she asked, laughing.
“A friend of a person known to you,” Tomsky replied, “a very remarkable man!”
“Who is this remarkable man?”
“His name is Hermann.”
Lizaveta Ivanovna said nothing, but her hands and feet turned to ice…
“This Hermann,” Tomsky went on, “is a truly romantic character: he has the profile of Napoleon and the soul of Mephistopheles. I think there are at least three evil deeds on his conscience. How pale you’ve turned!…”
“I have a headache…What did Hermann—or whatever his name is—tell you?…”
“Hermann is very displeased with his friend: he says that in his place he would act quite differently…I even suspect that Hermann himself has designs on you; at least he’s far from indifferent when he listens to his friend’s amorous exclamations.”
“But where has he seen me?”
“In church, maybe—or on a promenade!…God knows with him! Maybe in your room while you were asleep: he’s quite capable of…”
Three ladies who came up to them with the question Oubli ou regret?10 interrupted the conversation, which had become agonizingly interesting for Lizaveta Ivanovna.
The lady Tomsky chose was the princess Polina herself. She managed to have a talk with him, making an extra turn with him and twirling an extra time in front of her chair. Going back to his place, Tomsky no longer thought either of Hermann or of Lizaveta Ivanovna. She was intent on renewing their interrupted conversation; but the mazurka ended, and soon afterwards the old countess left.
Tomsky’s words were nothing but mazurka banter, but they lodged themselves deeply in the young dreamer’s soul. The portrait sketched by Tomsky resembled the picture she had put together herself, and, thanks to the latest novels, this already banal character frightened and captivated her imagination. She sat, her bare arms crossed, bowing her head, still adorned with flowers, over her uncovered bosom…Suddenly the door opened and Hermann came in. She trembled…
“Where were you?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“In the old countess’s bedroom,” Hermann replied. “I’ve just come from her. The countess is dead.”
“My God!…What are you saying?…”
“And it seems,” Hermann went on, “that I’m the cause of her death.”
Lizaveta Ivanovna looked at him, and Tomsky’s words echoed in her heart: This man has at least three evil deeds on his soul. Hermann sat down on the windowsill beside her and told her everything.
Lizaveta Ivanovna listened to him with horror. So those passionate letters, those ardent demands, that bold, tenacious pursuit, all of it was not love! Money—that was what his soul hungered for! It was not she who could appease his desires and make him happy! The poor ward was nothing but the blind assistant of a robber, the murderer of her old benefactress!…She wept bitterly in her belated, painful repentance. Hermann looked at her in silence: his heart was torn as well, but neither the poor girl’s tears nor the astonishing charm of her grief troubled his hardened soul. He felt no remorse of conscience at the thought of the dead old woman. One thing horrified him: the irretrievable loss of the secret by means of which he had expected to make himself rich.
“You’re a monster!” Lizaveta Ivanovna said at last.
“I did not wish her death,” Hermann replied. “My pistol wasn’t loaded.”
They fell silent.
Day was breaking. Lizaveta Ivanovna put out the burnt-down candle: a pale light filled her room. She wiped her tearful eyes and raised them to Hermann: he was sitting on the windowsill, his arms folded, frowning terribly. In that pose he bore an astonishing resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. The likeness even struck Lizaveta Ivanovna.
“How are you going to get out of the house?” Lizaveta Ivanovna said at last. “I thought of leading you by the secret stairway, but we would have to go past the bedroom, and I’m afraid.”
“Tell me how to find this secret stairway; I’ll let myself out.”
Lizaveta Ivanovna stood up, took a key from the chest of drawers, handed it to Hermann, and gave him detailed instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, unresponsive hand, kissed her bowed head, and left.
He went down the winding stairway and again entered the countess’s bedroom. The dead old woman sat turned to stone; her face expressed a deep calm. Hermann stopped in front of her, looked at her for a long time, as if wishing to verify the awful truth; finally he went into the study, felt for the door behind the wall-hanging, and began to descend the dark stairway, troubled by strange feelings. “Maybe by this same stairway,” he thought, “sixty years ago, at this same hour, into this same bedroom, in an embroidered kaftan, his hair dressed à l’oiseau royal,*6 pressing his cocked hat to his heart, a lucky young fellow stole, who has long since turned to dust in his grave, and today the heart of his aged mistress stopped beating…”
At the foot of the stairway Hermann came to a door, unlocked it with the same key, and found himself in a through corridor which brought him out to the street.
V
That night the late baroness von W* * * appeared to me. She was dressed all in white and said to me: “How do you do, mister councilor!”
SWEDENBORG11
Three days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann went to the * * * convent, where the funeral service was to be held over the body of the deceased countess. Though he felt no remorse, he still could not completely stifle the voice of conscience, which kept repeating to him: “You’re the old woman’s murderer.” Having little true faith, he had a great many superstitions. He believed that the dead countess could have a harmful influence on his life, and decided to attend her funeral in order to ask her forgiveness.
The church was full. Hermann was barely able to make his way through the crowd of people. The coffin stood on a rich catafalque under a velvet canopy. The deceased woman lay in it, her hands folded on her breast, in a lace cap and a white satin dress. Around her stood her household: servants in black kaftans with armorial ribbons on their shoulders and candles in their hands; relations in deep mourning—children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. No one wept; tears would have been une affectation. The countess was so old that her death could not surprise anyone, and her relations had long looked upon her as having outlived her time. A young bishop gave a funeral oration. In simple and moving words he presented the peaceful passing of the righteous woman, whose long life had been a quiet, sweet preparation for a Christian ending. “The angel of death found her,” said the orator, “vigilant in blessed thoughts and in expectation of the midnight Bridegroom.”12 The service was performed with sorrowful decorum. The relations went first to take leave of the body. Then the numerous guests went up to bow to the one who for so long had participated in their vain amusements. After them came the entire household. And finally the old housekeeper, who was the same age as the deceased. Two young girls led her by the arms. She was unable to bow down to the ground, and was alone in shedding a few tears as she kissed her mistress’s cold hand. After her, Hermann decided to approach the coffin. He bowed to the ground and for a few minutes lay on the cold floor strewn with fir branches. He finally got up, pale as the old woman herself, climbed the steps of the catafalque, and bent over…At that moment it seemed to him that the dead woman glanced mockingly at him, winking one eye. Hermann, hurriedly stepping away, stumbled and went crashing down on his back. They picked him up. At the same time, Lizaveta Ivanovna was carried out to the porch in a swoon. This episode disturbed the solemnity of the somber ritual for a few minutes. A dull murmur arose among those present, and a lean chamberlain, a close relation of the deceased, whispered in the ear of an Englishman standing next to him that the young officer was her natural son, to which the Englishman replied coldly: “Oh?”
Hermann was extremely upset the whole day. Dining in an out-of-the-way tavern, he, contrary to his custom, drank a great deal, in hopes of stifling his inner agitation. But the wine fired his imagination still more. Returning home, he threw himself on the bed without undressing and fell fast asleep.
When he woke up, it was already night: his room was filled with moonlight. He glanced at the clock: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had left him; he sat on his bed and thought about the old countess’s funeral.
Just then someone peeked through his window from outside—and stepped away at once. Hermann paid no attention to it. A moment later he heard the door in his front room being opened. Hermann thought it was his orderly, drunk as usual, coming back from a night out. But he heard unfamiliar steps: someone was walking about, quietly shuffling in slippers. The door opened and a woman in a white dress came in. Hermann took her for his old wet nurse and wondered what could have brought her at such an hour. But the white woman, gliding about, suddenly turned up in front of him—and Hermann recognized the countess!
“I have come to you against my will,” she said in a firm voice, “but I have been ordered to fulfill your request. Three, seven, and ace, in that order, will win for you—but on condition that you do not stake on more than one card in twenty-four hours, and after that never play again for the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, on condition that you marry my ward Lizaveta Ivanovna…”
With those words she quietly turned around, went to the door, and disappeared, shuffling her slippers. Hermann heard the door in the front hall slam, and saw someone peek again through his window.
For a long time Hermann could not come to his senses. He went to the other room. His orderly was asleep on the floor; Hermann was barely able to wake him up. He was drunk as usual: there was no getting any sense out of him. The door to the front hall was locked. Hermann went back to his room, lit a candle, and wrote down his vision.
VI
“Attendez!”
“How dare you say attendez to me?”
“Your Excellency, I said attendez, sir!”13
Two fixed ideas cannot coexist in the moral realm, just as in the physical world two bodies cannot occupy the same place. Three, seven, ace—soon eclipsed the image of the dead old woman in Hermann’s imagination. Three, seven, ace—never left his head and hovered on his lips. Seeing a young girl, he said: “How shapely! A real three of hearts!” When asked, “What time is it?” he said, “Five minutes to the seven.” Every pot-bellied man reminded him of the ace. Three, seven, ace—pursued him in his sleep, assuming all possible shapes: the three blossomed before him as a luxuriant grandiflora, the seven looked like a Gothic gate, the ace like an enormous spider. All his thoughts merged into one—to make use of the secret that had cost him so dearly. He began to think about retiring from the army and traveling. He wanted to force enchanted Fortuna to yield up her treasure in the open gambling houses of Paris. Chance spared him the trouble.
A company of rich gamblers had been formed in Moscow, presided over by the famous Chekalinsky, who had spent all his life at cards and had once made millions, taking winnings in promissory notes and paying losses in ready cash. Long experience had earned him the trust of his comrades, and his open house, fine chef, affable and cheerful disposition the respect of the public. He came to Petersburg. Young men flocked to him, forgetting balls for cards and preferring the temptations of faro to the allurements of philandering. Narumov brought Hermann to him.
They walked through a succession of magnificent rooms, filled with courteous attendants. Several generals and privy councilors were playing whist; young men sat sprawled on the damask sofas, ate ice cream and smoked pipes. In the drawing room, at a long table around which some twenty players crowded, the host sat keeping the bank. He was a man of about sixty, of very dignified appearance; his head was covered with a silvery gray; his full and fresh face was a picture of good nature; his eyes sparkled, enlivened by a perpetual smile. Narumov presented Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook his hand amicably, asked him not to stand on ceremony, and went back to dealing.
The round lasted a long time. There were more than thirty cards on the table. Chekalinsky paused after each stake to give the players time to make their arrangements, wrote down their losses, courteously listened to their requests, still more courteously unbent the superfluous corner bent down by a distracted hand. At last the round was over. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal another.
“Allow me to play a card,” said Hermann, reaching out his hand from behind a fat gentleman who was there punting. Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of his obedient consent. Narumov, laughing, congratulated Hermann for breaking his lengthy fast and wished him a lucky start.
“Here goes!” said Hermann, chalking a large sum above his card.
“How much, sir?” the host asked, narrowing his eyes. “Excuse me, sir, I can’t make it out.”
“Forty-seven thousand,” replied Hermann.
At these words all heads turned instantly, and all eyes were fixed on Hermann.
“He’s gone mad!” thought Narumov.
“Allow me to point out to you,” Chekalinsky said with his invariable smile, “that you are playing a strong game. No one here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five on a simple.”
“What of it?” Hermann retorted. “Will you cover my card or not?”
Chekalinsky bowed with the same air of humble consent.
“I only wished to inform you,” he said, “that, honored by my comrades’ trust, I cannot bank otherwise than on ready cash. I’m sure, for my part, that your word is enough, but for the good order of the game and the accounting I beg you to place cash on the card.”
Hermann took a bank note from his pocket and handed it to Chekalinsky, who gave it a cursory glance and placed it on Hermann’s card.
He began to deal. On the right lay a nine, on the left a three.
“Mine wins!” said Hermann, showing his card.
Whispering arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned, but the smile at once returned to his face.
“Would you like it now?” asked Chekalinsky.
“If you please.”
Chekalinsky drew several bank notes from his pocket and settled up at once. Hermann took his money and left the table. Narumov could not get over it. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and went home.
The next evening he appeared again at Chekalinsky’s. The host was dealing. Hermann went up to the table; the punters made room for him at once. Chekalinsky bowed affably to him.
Hermann waited for the new round, put down a card, placed on it his forty-seven thousand and the previous day’s winnings.
Chekalinsky began to deal. A jack fell to the right, a seven to the left. Hermann turned over his seven.
Everyone gasped. Chekalinsky was visibly disconcerted. He counted out ninety-four thousand and handed the money to Hermann. Hermann took it with great coolness and immediately withdrew.
On the following evening Hermann again appeared at the table. Everyone was expecting him. The generals and privy councilors abandoned their whist, so as to see such extraordinary play. The young officers leaped up from the sofas; all the attendants gathered in the drawing room. Everyone surrounded Hermann. The other players did not play their cards, waiting impatiently for the outcome. Hermann stood at the table, preparing to punt alone against the pale but still smiling Chekalinsky. They each unsealed a deck of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann drew and put down his card, covering it with a heap of bank notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned all around.
Chekalinsky began to deal, his hands trembling. On the right lay a queen, on the left an ace.
“The ace wins!” said Hermann, and he turned over his card.
“Your queen loses,” Chekalinsky said affably.
Hermann shuddered: indeed, instead of an ace, the queen of spades stood before him. He did not believe his eyes, did not understand how he could have drawn the wrong card.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades winked and grinned. The extraordinary likeness struck him…
“The old woman!” he cried in horror.
Chekalinsky drew the bank notes to him. Hermann stood motionless. When he left the table, noisy talk sprang up.
“Beautifully punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards again: the game went on.
CONCLUSION
Hermann went mad. He sits in the Obukhov Hospital, room 17, does not answer any questions, and mutters with extraordinary rapidity: “Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!…”
Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man; he is in government service somewhere and has a decent fortune: he is the son of the old countess’s former steward. Lizaveta Ivanovna is bringing up a poor girl from her family.
Tomsky has been promoted to captain and is marrying Princess Polina.
*1 at the Queen’s gaming table
*2 It seems that the gentleman decidedly prefers the lady’s maids. / What do you want, madam? They’re fresher.
*3 Literally “face-to-face,” i.e., partners.
*4 You write me, my angel, four-page letters more quickly than I can read them.
*5 A man without morals and without religion!
*6 in “royal bird fashion” (a men’s hairstyle with massive curls over the ears)