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THE QUEEN OF
SPADES The Queen of Spades means secret hostility. CHAPTER
I
In the cold, rain, and sleet THEY were playing cards at the
house of Narumov, an officer in the Horse Guards.
The long winter night passed imperceptibly; it was after four in the morning
when they sat down to supper. Those who had won enjoyed their food; the
others sat absent-mindedly with empty plates before them. But champagne
appeared, the conversation grew livelier, and every one took part in it. 'How have you been doing, Surin?' Narumov asked. 'Losing, as usual. I must
confess, I have no luck: I play cautiously, never get excited, never lose my
head, and yet I go on losing!' 'And you 've
never been carried away? Never risk a high stake? I marvel at your
self-control.' 'But look at Hermann!' said one
of the visitors, pointing to a young engineer; 'he has never held a card in
his hands, never staked a penny on one, and yet he sits with us till five
o'clock in the morning watching us play.' 'I am very much interested in
cards,' Hermann said, 'but I am not in a position to sacrifice the essential
in the hope of acquiring the superfluous.' 'Hermann is a German; he is
prudent—that's all!' Tomsky remarked. '
But the person I really can't understand is my grandmother, Countess
Anna Fedorovna.' 'How 's that?' the guests cried. 'I cannot conceive why my
grandmother does not play,' Tomsky went on. 1.
'But surely there
's nothing wonderful in an old lady of eighty not gambling?' Narumov said. 'So you know nothing about
her?' 'No! We certainly don't.' 'Oh, then listen! I must tell
you that some sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris and was very popular
there. People ran after her to catch a glimpse of la Vénus
moscovite; Richelieu paid his addresses to her, and
grand-mamma assures me that he very nearly shot himself through her cruelty.
In those days ladies used to play faro. One day at the court she lost a very
big sum to the Duke of Orleans. When she came home she told her husband about
her loss while untying her farthingale, and taking
off her beauty spots, and ordered him to pay her debt. My grand-father, so
far as I remember, was a kind of butler to my grandmother. He was terrified
of her; and yet when he heard of such a fearful debt he lost his temper,
fetched the bills they owed and, proving to her that they had spent half a
million in six months, and had neither their Moscow nor their Saratov estate
near Paris, flatly refused to pay. Grandmamma gave him a box on the ear, and
went to bed alone as a sign of her displeasure. The following morning she
sent for her husband, hoping that these homely measures had had an effect on
him, but found him as firm as ever. For the first time in her life she went
so far as to reason with him and explain; she tried to put him to shame,
pointing out with condescension that there were debts and debts, and that
there was a difference between a prince and a coach-builder. But it wasn't a
bit of good! Grandpapa was in open revolt. 'No'—and that was the end of it.
Grandmamma did not know what to do. She counted among her intimate friends a
very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St. Germain,
of whom they tell so many marvels. You know that he claimed to have lived for
centuries, to have invented the elixir of life and the philosopher's stone,
and so on. People laughed at him as a charlatan, and Casanova says in his
Memoirs that he was a spy; but in spite of his mysterious ways St. Germain looked a perfect gentleman, and had a very
pleasant manner. Grandmamma is still devoted to him, and gets angry if any
one speaks of him with disrespect. Grandmamma knew that
St. Germain had plenty of money. She decided to
appeal to him, and wrote a note asking him to come to her at once. The
eccentric old man came immediately, and found her in terrible distress. She
described in the blackest colours her husband's
barbarity, and said at last that she rested all her hopes on his friendship
and kindness. St. Germain pondered. 'I could provide you with that
sum,' he said,' but I know you wouldn't be happy till you paid me, and I
don't like to cause you fresh worry. There 's
another way: you can win it back.' 'But, dear Count,' grandmamma replied, 'I
tell you I have no money at all.' 'It's not a case of money,' St. Germain replied; 'please listen to what I 'm going to
tell you.' And he revealed to her a secret which every one of us would give a
great deal to know. . . .' The young gamblers redoubled
their attention. Tomsky lighted his pipe, and
taking a pull at it, continued: 'That very evening grandmamma appeared at
Versailles, at the jeu de la reine.
The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; grandmamma made a slight apology for not
having brought the money, and telling some little story to excuse herself, began playing against him. She selected three
cards and played them one after the other: all three won, and she retrieved
her loss completely.' 'Accident!' said one of the
guests. 'A fairy tale,' remarked
Hermann. 'Marked cards, perhaps,' a third chimed in. 'I don't think so,' Tomsky replied impressively. 'What!' said Narumov,' you have a grandmother who can guess three
cards in succession and you haven't leamt her
secret yet?' 2.
'Learnt it, indeed!' Tomsky replied; 'she had four sons, one of whom was my
father; all four were desperate gamblers, but she did not reveal her secret
to one of them, though it wouldn't have been a bad thing for them, or even
for me. But this is what my Uncle Count Ivan Ilyitch
told me, assuring me on his honour that it was
true. Tchaplitsky, you know, the one who died a
beggar after squandering millions, as a young man once lost three hundred
thousand, to Zoritch if I remember rightly. He was
in despair. Grandmamma was always severe on young men's follies, but somehow
she took pity on Tchaplitsky. She gave him three
cards, which he was to play one after another, and made him promise on his honour never to play again. Tchaplitsky
went to Zoritch's; they sat down to play. Tchaplitsky staked fifty thousand on his first card and
won; doubled his stake and won; did the same again, won back his loss, and
had something left him into the bargain. . . .' 'I say, it's time to go to bed;
it's a quarter to six.' It was daylight indeed. The young men emptied their
glasses and went home. CHAPTER
II
'II parait que
monsieur est décidément
pour les suivantes. THE old Countess X. was sitting
before a mirror in her dressing-room. Three maids were standing round her.
One held a pot of rouge, another a box of hairpins,
and the third a tall cap with flame-coloured
ribbons. The Countess had not the slightest pretension to beauty-- all that had
faded long ago-- but she preserved all the habits of her youth, followed
strictly the fashions of the seventies, and dressed as slowly and carefully
as sixty years before. A young lady whom she had brought up from a child was
sitting at an embroidery frame by the window. 'Good morning, grand'maman,' said a young officer, coming in. 'Bon jour,
mademoiselle Lise. Grand'maman,
I have a favour to ask of you.' 'What is it, Paul?' 'Allow me to introduce to you a
friend of mine and to bring him to your ball on Friday.' 'Bring him straight to the ball
and introduce him to me then. Were you at the N.s' last night?' 'Of course! It was very
enjoyable; we danced till five in the morning. Miss Yeletsky
looked perfectly charming.' 'Come, my dear! What do you see
in her? She isn't a patch on her grandmother. Princess Darya Petrovna! By the way, I expect Darya Petrovna
is looking much older, isn't she?' 'How do you mean; looking much
older?' Tomsky answered absent-mindedly. ' She 's been dead for the last seven years.' The young lady raised her head
and made a sign to the young man. He bit his lip, recalling that they
concealed from the Countess the deaths of her old friends. But the Countess
heard the news with the utmost indifference. 'Dead! I didn't know,' she
said. 'We were maids of honour together, and as we
were being presented, the Empress . . .' And for the hundredth time the
Countess told the anecdote to her grandson. 'Well, Paul, now help me to get
up,' she said afterwards. 'Lizanka, where is my
snuff-box?' And the Countess went behind
the screen with her maids to finish dressing. Tomsky
was left with the young lady. 3.
'Whom
is it you want to introduce?' Lizaveta Ivanovna asked quietly. 'Narumov.
Do you know him?' 'No! Is he in the army?' 'Yes.' 'In the Engineers?' 'No, he is in the Horse Guards.
What made you think he was in the Engineers?' The young lady laughed and made
no answer. 'Paul!' the Countess called
from behind the screen. 'Send me some new novel,
only please not a modern one.' 'How do you mean, grand'maman?' 'I mean,
a novel in which the hero does not strangle his father or mother and there
are no drowned corpses. I am terribly afraid of them.' 'There are no such novels
nowadays. But perhaps you would like a Russian novel?' 'Are there any Russian novels?
Send me one, my dear, please do!' 'Excuse me, grand'maman, I am in a
hurry. . . . Good-bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna!
What made you think, then, that Narumov was in the
Engineers?' And Tomsky
went away. Lizaveta Ivanovna
was left alone; she abandoned her work and looked out of the window. Soon a
young officer came from behind a corner-house on the other side of the road. Colour came into her cheeks; she took up her work again,
bending low over the embroidery. At that moment the Countess came in, fully
dressed. 'Order the carriage, Lizanka,' she said, 'and let us go for a drive.' Liza got up from her embroidery
frame and began putting away her work. 'What's the matter with you, my
dear? Are you deaf?' the Countess shouted. 'Be quick and order the carriage.' 'Certainly,' the young lady
answered quietly, and ran to the hall. A servant came in, and gave the
Countess a parcel of books from Prince Pavel Alexandrovitch. 'Good, thank him,' the Countess
said. ' Lizanka, Lizanka, where are you off to?' 'To dress.' 'There's plenty of time, my
dear. Stay here. Open the first volume and read to me.' The girl took the book and read
a few lines. 'Louder!' the Countess said.
'What's the matter with you, my dear? Have you lost your voice, or what? Wait
a minute . . . give me the footstool. Bring it nearer. . . . Well?' Lizaveta Ivanovna
read two more pages. The Countess yawned. 'Leave off,'she
said. ' What rubbish it is! Send the books back to
Prince Pavel with my thanks. . . . What about the carriage?' 'The carriage is ready,' said Lizaveta Ivanovna, peeping out
into the street. 'And why aren't you dressed?'
the Countess said. 'One always has to wait for you. It's too much of a good
thing, my dear.' Liza ran to her room. Two
minutes had not passed when the Countess began ringing violently. Three maids
rushed in at one door and a footman at the other. 'Why don't you come when you
are called?' the Countess said to them. 'Tell Lizaveta
Ivanovna that I am waiting.' Lizaveta Ivanovna
came in, wearing a hat and a pelisse. 4.
'At last, my dear!' the
Countess said. 'What finery What is it for? For whose benefit? And what is
the weather like? I believe it's windy.' 'No, madam,' the footman
replied. 'There 's no wind at all.' 'You say anything that comes
into your head! Open the window! I thought so: there 's
a wind, and a very cold wind, too! Unharness the horses! Lizanka,
we aren't going: you needn't have dressed after all.' 'And this is my
life!' Lizaveta Ivanovna
thought. Indeed, she had a
wretched time of it. Bitter is the bread of others, said Dante, and hard the
steps of another man's house; and who should know the bitterness of
dependence better than a poor orphan brought up by a rich and worldly old
woman? The
Countess certainly was not bad-hearted, but she was capricious as a woman
spoiled by society, stingy, and sunk into cold egoism like all old people who
have done with love and are out of touch with the life around them. She took
part in all the vanities of the fashionable world; she went to dances, where she
sat in a corner, rouged and dressed up in the ancient fashion like some
hideous but indispensable ornament of the ball-room. The guests, on arriving,
went up to her with low bows, as though carrying out an old-established rite, and after that no one took any notice of her. She
received the whole town at her house, observing a strict etiquette and not
recognizing any of her guests. Her numerous house-serfs, grown fat and grey
in her entrance hall and the maids' room, did what they liked, and vied with
one another in robbing the decrepit old woman. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the domestic martyr. She poured out tea and
was reprimanded for wasting sugar; she read novels aloud, and was blamed for
all the author's mistakes; she accompanied the Countess on her drives— and
was responsible for the state of the roads and the weather. She was supposed
to receive a salary, which was never paid her in full, and yet she was
expected to be as well dressed as every one
else—that is, as the very few. She played a most pitiable part in society. Every one knew her and no one noticed her; at balls she
danced only when someone was short of a partner, and ladies took her arm each
time they wanted to go to the cloak-room to put something right m their
attire. She was proud, she keenly felt her position and looked about her
waiting impatiently for someone to rescue her; but the young men, vain and
calculating in their very frivolity, did not deign to notice her, though LizavetaIvanovna was a hundred
times more charming than the cold and insolent heiresses on whom they danced
attendance. Many times, leaving quietly the dull and sumptuous drawing-room,
she went to weep in her humble attic, where there was a paper-covered screen,
a chest of drawers, a small mirror, and a painted bedstead, dimly lighted by
a tallow candle in a copper candlestick. One morning, two days after the
evening described at the beginning of this story, and a week before the scene
that has just been described—one morning Lizaveta Ivanovna, sitting at her embroidery frame by the window
had happened to glance into the street. She saw a young officer in the
Engineer's uniform who stood gazing at her window.
She bent over her work again; five minutes later she looked out once more—the
young man was standing on the same spot. Not being in the habit of flirting
with passers-by, she looked out no more and worked for a couple of hours
without raising her head. Dinner was served. She got up to put away her
embroidery frame and, glancing casually into the street, saw the officer
again. It struck her as rather strange. After dinner she went up to the
window feeling somewhat uneasy, but the officer was no longer there, and she
forgot about him. . . . A couple of days later she saw
him again as she was leaving the house with the Countess. He was standing by
the front door, his face hidden by his beaver collar; his black eyes gleamed
from under his hat. 5.
Lizaveta Ivanovna
felt alarmed, she did not know why, and stepped into the carriage
indescribably agitated. When she came home she ran to
the window—the officer was standing in the same place, his eyes fixed on her;
she walked away, consumed with curiosity and excited by a feeling entirely
new to her. Since then not a day had passed
without the young man appearing at a certain hour before the windows of their
house. A contact had arisen between them of itself, as it were. Sitting in
her usual place at work she felt his approach —and, lifting her head, looked
at him longer and longer every day. The young man seemed to be grateful to
her for it: with the keen eyes of youth she saw a flush overspread his pale
cheeks every time their eyes met. Before the end of the week she had smiled
at him. When Tomsky
asked the Countess's permission to introduce a friend of his, the poor girl's
heart beat fast. But hearing that Narumov
was in the Horse Guards and not in the Engineers, she was sorry, by an
indiscreet question, to have betrayed her secret to a thoughtless man like Tomsky. Hermann was the son
of a German who had settled in Russia and left him a small fortune. Firmly
convinced that he must secure his independence, Hermann did not touch even
the interest, but lived on his pay without indulging in the slightest
extravagance. But since he was reserved and ambitious his friends rarely had
occasion to laugh at his being too careful with his money. He had strong
passions and an ardent imagination, but strength of character saved him from
the usual vagaries of youth. Thus, for instance, though a gambler at heart,
he never touched cards, having decided that his means did not allow him (as
he put it) to sacrifice the essential in the hope of acquiring the
superfluous —and yet he spent night after night at the gambling tables
watching with a feverish tremor the vicissitudes of the game. The story about the
three cards greatly affected his imagination and haunted his mind all night.
'What if,' he thought the following evening as he wandered about Petersburg,
'what if the old Countess revealed her secret to me? or
told me the three winning cards? Why shouldn't I try my luck? ... be introduced to her, win her favour,
become her lover, perhaps; but then all this takes time, and she is
eighty-seven, she may die in a week, in a couple of days! And, the story itself
... is it likely? No! economy, calculation, and hard work—those are my three
winning cards, that's what will increase my capital threefold, sevenfold, and
secure me leisure and independence!' Arguing in this way he found himself in
one of the main streets of Petersburg in front of a house of old-fashioned
architecture The street was crowded with carriages which, one after another,
drove up to the lighted porch. Every minute the shapely ankle of a young
beauty, a military boot with a clinking spur, or a diplomat's striped stocking and shoe appeared on a carriage step. Fur coats
and cloaks flitted past the majestic looking porter. Hermann stopped. 'Whose house is that?' he asked
the policeman at the corner. 'Countess X.'s,' the policeman
answered. Hermann shuddered. The marvellous story came into his mind again. He walked up and down the street past the house, thinking of its owner and her wonderful faculty. It was late when he returned to his humble lodgings; he could not go to sleep for hours, and when at last sleep overpowered him lie dreamt of cards, of a green-baize-covered table, bundles of notes, and piles of gold. He played card after card, resolutely turning down the corners and won all the time, raking in the gold and stuffing his pockets with notes.
Waking up rather late, he
sighed at the loss of his fantastic wealth, and, setting out once more to
wander about the town, found himself again
opposite the Countess's house. It was as though some mysterious power drew him
to it. 6.
He stopped and gazed at the
windows. In one of them he saw a dark-haired girl's head, bent over a book or
needle-work. The head was raised. Hermann saw a rosy face and black eyes.
That moment decided his fate. CHAPTER
III
Vous
m'ecrivez, mon ange, des lettres de quatre pages THE moment Lizaveta
Ivanovna had taken off her hat and mantle, the
Countess sent for her and ordered the carriage again. They went out. Just as
the two footmen lifted the old lady and put her through the carriage door, Lizaveta Ivanovna saw the
officer close to the wheel; he seized her hand; before she had recovered from
her fright, the young man had disappeared: a letter was left in her hand. She
hid it inside her glove, and heard and saw nothing during the drive. The
Countess had the habit of asking every moment while they were out: 'Who was
it we met? What is this bridge called? What's written on that signboard?'
This time Lizaveta Ivanovna
answered inappropriately and at random, so that the Countess was angry. 'What's the matter with you, my
dear? Are you asleep? Don't you hear or understand what I 'm saying? I speak
distinctly enough, thank Heaven, and am not in my dotage yet!' Lizaveta Ivanovna
did not listen. When they came home she ran to her room and pulled the letter
out of her glove; it was not sealed. She read it. It contained a declaration
of love: it was respectful, tender, and had been taken word for word out of a
German novel. But Lizaveta Ivanovna
did not know German and was very much pleased with it. And yet the letter troubled her
greatly. It was the first time in her life that she had entered into intimate
and secret relations with a young man. His presumption terrified her. She reproached
herself for having behaved thoughtlessly and did not know what to do: ought
she to give up sitting at the window, and by a show of indifference make the
young officer less eager to pursue her? Ought she to return the letter? or to answer him coldly and resolutely? There was no one
to advise her: she had neither a governess nor a girl friend. Lizaveta Ivanovna decided to
answer the letter. She sat down to a
writing-table, took up a pen and a sheet of paper—and sank into thought. She
began the letter more than once, and tore it up: the wording seemed to her
either too lenient or too harsh. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines
that pleased her. ' I am sure,' she wrote, 'that
your intentions are honourable, and that you had no
wish to wound me by your thoughtless action; but our acquaintance ought not
to have begun in this manner. I return you your letter and hope that in the
future I shall have no cause to complain of undeserved disrespect.' When next day Lizaveta Ivanovna saw Hermann
approach she got up from her embroidery frame, went into the next room and,
opening the window, threw her letter into the street, trusting to the young
officer's agility. Running up, Hermann picked up the letter, and went into a
confectioner's shop. Tearing off the seal he found his own note and Lizaveta Ivanovna's reply. It
was just what he had expected, and he returned home very much interested in
the affair. Three days later a sharp-eyed
young girl brought Lizaveta Ivanovna
a letter from a milliner's shop. Lizaveta Ivanovna opened it anxiously, thinking it was a bill, and
suddenly recognized Hermann's handwriting. 7.
'You have made a mistake, my
dear,' she said; 'this note is not for me.' 'Yes, it is!' the bold girl
answered without concealing a sly smile; 'please read it!' Lizaveta Ivanovna
read the letter. In it Hermann begged her to meet him. 'It cannot be,' said Lizaveta Ivanovna, alarmed at
the request coming so soon and at the means of transmitting it. 'I am sure
this was not addressed to me.' And she tore the letter into little bits. 'If the letter is not for you
why did you tear it?' the shop-assistant said. 'I would have taken it back to
the sender.' 'Please, my dear,' said Lizabeta Ivanovna, flushing
crimson at her remark, 'don't bring any more letters. And tell him who sent
you that he should be ashamed of himself.' But Hermann would not give in.
Every day Lizaveta Ivanovna
received a letter from him by one means or another. They were no longer
translated from the German. Hermann wrote them inspired by passion, and in
the style natural to him: they reflected the intensity of his desires and the
disorder of an unbridled imagination. Lizaveta Ivanovna never thought of returning them now: she drank them in eagerly, and took to answering them—and her letters
grew longer and more tender every hour. At last she
threw out of the window the following note to him: There is a ball
to-night at the N. ambassador's; the Countess will be there. We shall stay
till about one o'clock. Here is an opportunity for you to see me alone. As
soon as the Countess leaves, the servants will probably go to their quarters;
the porter will be left in the hall, but he, too, usually goes to his room.
Come at half-past eleven. Walk straight up the stairs. If you meet any one in
the hall, ask if the Countess is at home. They will say no—and then there is
no help for it, you will have to go home. But probably you will not meet any
one. The maids all sit together in their room. Turn to the left from the hall
and go straight on till you reach the Countess's bedroom. In the bedroom,
behind the screen, you will see two small doors: to the right, into the study
where the Countess never goes; and to the left, into the passage with a
narrow winding staircase in it; it leads to my room." Hermann waited for the
appointed hour like a tiger for its prey. At ten in the evening he was
already standing by the Countess's house. It was a terrible night. The wind howled, wet snow fell in big flakes; the street lamps
burned dimly; the streets were empty. From time to time a sledge driver,
looking out for a belated fare, went slowly by, urging on his wretched nag.
Hermann stood there without his overcoat, feeling neither the wind nor the
snow. At last the Countess's carriage came round. He saw the old woman in a
sable coat being lifted into the carriage by two footmen: then Liza in a
light cloak, with fresh flowers in her hair, flitted by. The carriage door
banged. The carriage rolled heavily over the wet snow. The porter closed the
doors. The lights in the windows went out. Hermann walked up and down the
road by the deserted house; going up to a street lamp he glanced at his
watch: it was twenty past eleven. He stopped by the lamp-post, and waited for
ten minutes, his eyes fixed on the hand of the watch. Precisely at half-past
eleven Hermann walked up the steps of the house and entered the brightly lit
hall. The porter was not there. Hermann ran up the
stairs, and opening the nearest door saw a servant asleep under a lamp in a
dirty old-fashioned arm-chair. Hermann walked past him with a light firm
step. The dark reception rooms were dimly lit by the lamp in the hall. Hermann entered the bedroom. A golden sanctuary lamp was
burning before the ikon-stand filled with ancient ikons. Arm-chairs upholstered in faded brocade and sofas
with down cushions were ranged with depressing symmetry round the walls
covered with Chinese wall-paper. Two portraits painted in Paris by Madame
Lebrun hung on the wall. One was that of a stout, ruddy-cheeked man of about
forty, in a light-green uniform with a star on his breast; the 8.
other was a young beauty with an aquiline nose and arose in her powdered hair, which was piled high up on her head. Every corner
was crowded with china shepherdesses, clocks made by the famous Leroy,
caskets, roulettes, fans, and various ladies' toys invented at the end of the
last century together with Montgolfier's balloon and Mesmer's magnetism. Hermann went behind the screen.
A small iron bedstead stood there: to the right was the door into the study,
to the left the door into the passage. Opening it Hermann saw a narrow
spiral staircase that led to poor Liza's room. But he returned and went into
the dark study. The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet. The clock in
the drawing-room struck twelve; the clocks in all the other rooms, one after
the other, chimed twelve—and all was still again. Hermann stood leaning
against the cold stove. He was calm; his heart was beating as evenly as that
of a man who is determined on a dangerous but necessary course of action. The
clock struck the first and then the second hour of the morning, and he heard
the distant rumble of a carriage. In spite of himself he was overcome with
agitation. The carriage drove up to the house and stopped. He
heard the rattle of the step being lowered. There was commotion in the house.
People ran to and fro, voices could be heard, lights were lit. Three old
maid-servants ran into the bedroom, and the Countess, tired to death, came in
and sank into an arm-chair. Hermann looked through a crack in the door. Lizaveta Ivanovna walked past
him. He heard her hurried footsteps on the stairs leading to her room. Something like remorse stirred in his heart, but died down
again. He seemed turned to stone. The Countess began undressing in front of
the mirror. The maids took off her cap trimmed with roses; they removed the
powdered wig from her grey, closely cropped head. Pins fell about her in
showers. The silver-embroidered yellow dress fell at her swollen feet.
Hermann witnessed the hideous mysteries of her toilet; at last the Countess
put on a bed jacket and a nightcap; in that attire, more suited to her age,
she seemed less terrible and hideous. Like all old people, the Countess
suffered from sleeplessness. Having undressed, she sat down by the window in
a big arm-chair and dismissed her maids. They took away the candles; the room
was again lighted only by the sanctuary lamp. The Countess sat there, her
face quite yellow, her flabby lips moving, her body
rocking to and fro. Her dim eyes showed a complete
absence of thought; looking at her one might have imagined that the horrible
old woman was moving not of her own will, but under the influence of some
hidden galvanic power. Suddenly an extraordinary
change came over that dead face. Her lips ceased moving, her eyes brightened;
a stranger was standing before her. 'Don't be alarmed, for Heaven's
sake, don't be alarmed!' he said in a low and clear voice. 'I don't mean to do
you any harm, I have come to beg a favour of you.' The old woman stared at him in
silence, looking as though she had not heard him. Hermann thought she was
deaf, and, bending right over her ear, repeated what he had just said. The
old woman said nothing. 'You can bring about my
happiness,' Hermann went on, 'and it will cost you nothing. I know you can
guess three cards in succession. . . .' He stopped. The Countess seemed
to have grasped what was required of her and was trying to frame her answer.
'It was a joke,' she said at last. 'I swear it was a joke!' 'It's no joking
matter,' Hermann answered angrily. 'Think of Tchaplitsky
whom you helped to win back his loss.' The Countess was obviously
confused. Her features expressed profound agitation; but she soon relapsed
into her former insensibility. 'Will you tell me those three
winning cards?' Hermann went on. The Countess said nothing; Hermann
continued: 9.
'For whom do you want to
preserve your secret? For your grandchildren? They are rich already, and
besides they don't know the value of money. Your three cards would not help a
spendthrift. A man who doesn't take care of his inheritance will die a beggar
if all the demons in the world take his part. I am not a spendthrift: I know
the value of money. Your three cards will not be wasted on me. Well?' He paused, waiting for her
answer with trepidation. The Countess was silent. Hermann knelt down. 'If your heart has ever known
the feeling of love,' he said, 'if you remember the delights of it, if you
have ever smiled at the cry of your new-born son, if anything human has ever
stirred in your breast, I implore you by the feelings of wife, mother,
beloved, by all that is holy in life, don't deny me my request, tell me your
secret—what does it matter to you? Perhaps the price of it was some terrible
sin, the loss of eternal bliss, a compact with the devil. . . . Just think:
you are old; you haven't long to live—and I am ready to take your sin upon my
soul. Only tell me your secret. Think, a man's
happiness is in your hands; not only I, but my children, grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren will bless your memory and hold it sacred.' . . . The old woman did not answer a
word. Hermann got up. 'Old witch!' he said, clenching
his teeth; 'I'll make you speak, then. . . .' With these words he took a
pistol out of his pocket. At the sight of the pistol the Countess once more
showed signs of agitation. She nodded her head and raised a hand as though to
protect herself, then fell back . . . and remained still. 'Don't be childish,' said
Hermann, taking her hand. 'I ask you for the last time—will you name me your
three cards? Yes or no?' The Countess made no answer.
Hermann saw that she was dead. CHAPTER
IV
Homme sans moeurs
et sans religion. LIZAVETA IVANOVNA, still
wearing her ball dress, sat in her room, plunged in deep thought. On arriving
home she had hastened to send away the sleepy maid who had reluctantly
offered her services, and, saying she would undress by herself, had gone,
trembling, into her room, hoping to find Hermann there and wishing not to
find him. The first glance assured her of his absence, and she thanked fate
for having prevented their meeting. Without undressing she sat down and began
recalling all the circumstances that had led her so far in so short a time.
It was not three weeks since she had for the first time seen the young man
from the window—and she was carrying on a correspondence with him, and he had
already obtained from her a tryst at night! She knew his name simply because
some of his letters were signed by it; she had never spoken to him, had never
heard his voice, had never heard of him . . . until
that evening. It was a strange thing! That very evening, at the ball, Tomsky, vexed with Princess Pauline who, contrary to her
habit, flirted with somebody else, decided to revenge himself by a show of
indifference: he engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced the endless mazurka with her. He
jested all the time about her weakness for officers of the Engineers,
assuring her that he knew much more than she 10.
could suppose. Some of his jokes
were so much to the point that several times Lizaveta
Ivanovna thought he must know her secret. 'Who told you all this?' she
asked, laughing. 'A friend of the person you
know,' Tomsky answered; 'a very remarkable man.' 'And who is this remarkable
man?' 'His name is Hermann.' Lizaveta Ivanovna
said nothing, her hands and feet turned ice-cold. . . . 'That Hermann,' Tomsky went on, 'is a truly romantic figure; he has the
profile of Napoleon and the soul of Mephistopheles. I think he must have at
least three crimes on his conscience. How pale you look!' 'I have a headache. . . . Well,
and what did this Hermann ... or whatever he is called, tell you?' 'Hermann strongly disapproves
of his friend; he says he would have acted quite differently in that man's
place. . . . I suspect in fact that Hermann has designs upon you himself; at
any rate he listens to his friend's ecstatic exclamations with anything but
indifference.' 'But where has he seen me?' 'In church, perhaps, or when
you were out driving— Heaven only knows! in your own
room maybe, while you were asleep; he is quite capable of it.' Three ladies coming up to them
with the question: ' Oubli ou
regret?' interrupted the conversation, which was growing painfully
interesting to Lizaveta Ivanovna. The lady chosen by Tomsky proved to be Princess Pauline. She managed to have
an explanation with him while dancing an extra turn and flirting for a few
minutes before she sat down. Returning to his seat, Tomsky
no longer thought of Hermann or Lizaveta Ivanovna. She was very anxious to resume the interrupted
conversation, but the mazurka was over, and the old Countess left the ball
soon after. Tomsky's words were just ordinary
ball-room chatter, but they sank deep into the romantic girl's heart. The
portrait sketched by Tomsky resembled the picture
she herself had drawn, and the figure, made commonplace by modem fiction,
both terrified and fascinated her. She sat there in her low-cut dress, with
her bare arms crossed and her flowerdecked head
bowed low. . . . Suddenly the door opened and Hermann came in. She shuddered. 'Where have you been?' she
asked in a frightened whisper. 'In the old Countess's
bedroom,' Hermann answered. 'I have just come from there. The Countess is
dead.' 'Good heavens! What are you
saying?' 'And I think I was the cause of
her death.' Lizaveta Ivanovna
glanced at him, and Tomsky's words re-echoed in her
mind: 'That man has at least three crimes on his conscience!' Hermann sat
down in the window beside her and told her the whole story. Lizaveta Ivanovna listened to him with horror. And so those
passionate letters and ardent requests, that insolent, relentless
persistence—did not mean love! Money—that was what he hungered for! It was
not she who could satisfy his desires and make him happy! The poor orphan was
merely the blind accomplice of a robber, of her old benefactress's murderer.
She wept bitterly in the vain agony of repentance. Hermann looked at her in
silence; he too was suffering, but neither the poor girl's tears nor her
wonderful charm in her sorrow disturbed his stony heart. He felt no remorse
at the thought of the dead woman. One thing horrified him; the irrevocable
loss of the secret which was to have brought him wealth. 'You are a
monster!' Lizaveta Ivanovna
said at last. 11.
'I did not desire her death,'
Hermann answered; 'my pistol was not loaded.' Both were silent. Morning came. Lizaveta Ivanovna blew out the
burnt down candle. A pale light filled the room. Wiping her tear-stained
eyes, she looked up at Hermann; he was sitting on the window-sill with his
arms folded, a gloomy frown on his face. In that position he had a remarkable
likeness to a portrait of Napoleon. Even Lizaveta Ivanovna was struck by the resemblance! 'How will you leave the house? she said at last. 'I had thought of taking you down the
secret staircase, but that means going past the bedroom, and I am afraid.' 'Tell me how to
find this secret staircase; I’ll go out that way.' Getting up, Lizaveta Ivanovna took a key
out of her chest of drawers and gave it to Hermann with detailed
instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, irresponsive hand, kissed her bowed
head, and went out. He walked down the spiral
staircase and entered once more the Countess's bedroom. The dead woman sat as
though turned to stone. Her face wore a look of profound calm. Stopping
before her, Hermann gazed at her for a few minutes, as though wishing to make
sure of the terrible truth; at last he went into the study and, fumbling for
a door concealed by the wall-paper, descended a dark staircase, disturbed by
a strange emotion. ' Maybe at this very hour sixty years ago,' he thought,
'some happy youth— long since turned to dust—was stealing into that very
bedroom, in an embroidered jacket, his hair done d I'oiseau
royal, pressing his three-cornered hat to his breast; and to-day the heart of
his aged mistress has ceased to beat. . . .' At the bottom of the stairs
Hermann found a door which he opened with the same key, coming out into a
passage that led into the street. CHAPTER
V
That night the dead Baroness von W. appeared to me. THREE days after that fateful
night, at nine o'clock in the morning, Hermann went to the N. monastery where
the dead Countess was to be buried. Though he felt no remorse, he could not
altogether stifle the voice of conscience that kept repeating to him: 'You
are the old woman's murderer!' Having but little true faith, he had a number
of superstitions. He believed that the dead Countess might have a baneful
influence on his life, and decided to go to her funeral to obtain her
forgiveness. The church was
full. Hermann had difficulty in making his way through the crowd. The coffin
stood on a richly decorated platform under a dais of velvet. The dead woman
lay with her arms folded on her breast, in a lace cap and a white satin
dress. Members of her household stood around:
servants
in black clothes, with ribbons with coats of arms on their shoulders and
lighted candles in their hands; relatives 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 have surprised any one, and her relatives had long ceased to consider her
as one of the living.
A young bishop made a funeral speech. In simple and moving words he sketched
the peaceful end of the saintly woman whose long life had been a touching and
quiet preparation for a Christian death. 'The angel of death,' he said,
'found her vigilant in pious thoughts, awaiting the midnight bridegroom.' The
service went on with melancholy solemnity. The relatives were the first to
give the farewell kiss to the deceased. They were followed by numerous guests
who had come to 12.
pay the last homage to one who had
for so many years taken part in their frivolous amusements. After
them came the members of the household. At last the old woman-jester, of the
same age as the Countess, drew near. Two young girls supported her by the
arms. She had not the strength to bow to the ground—and was the only one to
shed a few tears, kissing her mistress's cold hand. Hermann
made up his mind to go up to the coffin after her. He bowed down to the
ground and lay for a few moments on the cold floor strewn with pine branches;
at last he got up and, pale as the dead woman herself, went up the steps
leading to the coffin and bowed. ... At that moment it seemed to him that the
dead woman glanced at him ironically, screwing up one eye. Hastily drawing
back, he missed his footing and crashed headlong on the floor. They picked
him up. At the same time Lizaveta Ivanovna was carried out of the church in a swoon. This
episode disturbed for a few minutes the solemnity of the mournful rite. There
was a dull murmur among the congregation; a thin man in the uniform of a Kammerherr, a near relative of the deceased, whispered to
an Englishman standing close to him that the young officer was her
illegitimate son, to which the Englishman answered
coldly: 'Oh?' Hermann felt greatly troubled
the whole of that day. Dining in a quiet little tavern, he drank a great
deal, contrary to his habit, in the hope of stifling his
inner agitation. But wine excited his imagination all the more. Returning
home, he threw himself on his bed without undressing and dropped fast asleep. It was night when he woke up:
his room was flooded with moonlight. He glanced at the clock: it was a
quarter to three. He no longer felt sleepy; sitting down on the bed he began
thinking of the old Countess's funeral. At that moment someone peeped
in at his window from the Street and immediately walked away. Hermann did not
pay the slightest attention to this. A minute later he heard the door of the
next room being opened. Hermann thought that it was his orderly, drunk as
usual, coming home from a night walk. But he heard an unfamiliar footstep:
someone was softly shuffling along in slippers. The door opened: a woman
in a white dress came in. Hermann took her for his old nurse and wondered
what could have brought her at such an hour. But gliding across the floor the
white woman suddenly stood before him—and Hermann recognized the Countess! 'I have come to you against my
will,' she said in a clear voice, ' but I am commanded to grant your request.
Three, seven, and ace will win for you in succession, provided that you stake
only one card each day and never in your life play again. I forgive you my
death, on condition that you marry my ward, Lizaveta
Ivanovna. . . .' With these words she slowly
turned and walked to the door, shuffling with her slippers. Hermann heard the outer door
bang and again saw someone peeping in at his window. It was some time before Hermann
could recover. He went into the next room. His orderly was asleep on the
floor; Hermann had difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as usual.
There was no getting any sense out of him. The outer door was shut. Hermann
returned to his room and, lighting a candle, wrote down his vision. CHAPTER
VI
Two fixed ideas cannot coexist
in the mind, any more than two physical bodies can
occupy the same space. Three, seven, and ace soon made Hermann forget the
dead woman. Three, seven, and ace were always in his mind and on his lips. If
he saw a young girl he said: 'How graceful she is! A regular three of
hearts'. When he was 13.
asked: 'What time is it?' he answered: 'Five
minutes to a seven'. Every stout man made him think of an ace. Three, seven, and
ace pursued him in his dreams, taking all kinds of shapes: the three
blossomed before him like a luxurious flower; the seven took the form of a
Gothic gateway; the ace, of a big spider. All his thoughts were merged into
one—to make use of the secret that had cost him so much. He began to think of
resigning his commission and travelling. He wanted to snatch from fortune his
magical treasure in the public gambling dens of Paris. An accident saved him
the trouble. A society of rich gamblers was
formed in Moscow under the chairmanship of the famous Tchekalinsky,
who had spent his life in gambling, and made millions winning I.O.U.s, and
paying his losses in cash. His long experience inspired the confidence of his
companions, and his hospitality, his excellent cook, his cheerful and
friendly manner, won him the respect of the general public. He came to
Petersburg. Young men flocked to his house, giving up dances for cards, and
preferring the temptations of faro to the delights of flirting. Narumov brought Hermann to him. They walked through a
succession of magnificent rooms full of attentive servants. All the rooms
were crowded. Several generals and privy councillors
were playing whist; young men lounged about on the brocaded sofas, eating
ice-creams and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room some twenty gamblers
crowded round a long table, at which Tchekalinsky
was keeping bank. He was a man of aboul sixty, of
the most venerable appearance; his hair was silvery-grey, his full, rosy face
had a kindly expression, his sparkling eyes were
always smiling. Narumov introduced Hermann to him. Tchekalinsky shook hands with him cordially and, asking
him to make himself at home, went on playing. The game went on for some time.
There were more than thirty cards on the table. Tchekalinsky
stopped after every round to give the players time
to make their arrangements, put down the losses, politely listened to their
requests, and still more politely straightened the corner of a card that some
careless hand had turned back. At last the game was over. Tchekalinsky
shuffled the cards, and made ready to begin another. 'Allow me to have a card,' said
Hermann, stretching his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was also
playing. Tchekalinsky smiled and bowed in silence in
token of agreement. Narumov, laughing,
congratulated Hermann on breaking his long fast and wished him luck. 'Here goes,' said Hermann,
chalking the figures over his card. 'How much is it?' Tchekalinsky asked, screwing up his eyes. ' Excuse me, I cannot see.' 'Forty-seven thousand,' Hermann
answered. At these words every head was turned, and all eyes were fixed on
Hermann. 'He 's gone off his head,' Narumov thought. 'Allow me to point out to you,' Tchekalinsky said with his perpetual smile, 'that you are
playing for a very high stake: no one here has staked more than two hundred
and seventy-five at a time.' 'Well?' Hermann asked,' will
you accept my card or not?' Tchekalinsky bowed with the same expression
of humble obedience. 'I only meant to inform you,'
he said,' that being honoured with my partners'
confidence, I can only play for cash. For my own part I am of course
convinced that your word is sufficient, but for the sake of order and our
accounts I must ask you to put the money on your card.' Hermann took a bank-note out of
his pocket, and gave it to Tchekalinsky, who
glanced at it and put it down on Hermann's card. The game began. A nine fell
on the right, a three on the left. 14.
'Won!' said Hermann, pointing
to his card. There was a murmur among the company. Tchekalinsky
frowned, but soon his usual smile appeared on his face. 'Would you like to
have it now?' he asked Hermann. 'If you would be so kind.' Tchekalinsky took a few bank-notes out of
his pocket and settled his debt there and then. Hermann took his money and
left the table. Narumov could not believe his
senses. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and went home. The following evening he
appeared at Tchekalinsky's again. He walked up to
the table; room was immediately made for him. Tchekalinsky,
who was keeping the bank, greeted him with a friendly bow. Hermann waited for
a break in the game, and played a card, putting over it his original
forty-seven thousand and his gain of the day before. Tchekalinsky
began dealing. A knave fell on the right, a seven on the left. Hermann showed his card—it was
a seven. Every one cried out. Tchekalinsky was
obviously disconcerted. He counted out ninety-four thousand and passed them
to Hermann. Hermann coolly accepted the money and instantly withdrew. The following evening Hermann
appeared at the gambling table once more. Everyone was waiting for him;
generals and privy councillors left their whist to
look on at so unusual a game. Young officers jumped off. the
sofas, and the waiters collected in the drawing-room. All crowded round
Hermann. Other gamblers did not put down their cards, eagerly waiting to see
what he would do. Hermann stood at the table preparing to play alone against Tchekalinsky, who was pale, but still smiling. Each
unsealed a pack of cards. Tchekalinsky shuffled his
pack, Hermann cut his and played his card, covering
it with a heap of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned
around. Tchekalinsky began dealing; his hands
trembled. A queen fell on the right, an ace on the left. 'The ace has won!' Hermann
said, and showed his card. 'Your queen has lost,' Tchekalinsky
said kindly. Hermann shuddered; in fact, instead of an ace there lay before him a Queen of Spades. He could not believe his
eyes or think how he could have made a mistake. At that moment it
seemed to him that the Queen of Spades screwed up her eyes and gave a meaning
smile. He was struck by the extraordinary likeness. . . . 'The old woman!' he
cried in terror. Tchekalinsky drew the money towards him.
Hermann stood motionless. When he walked away from the table every one began
talking loudly. 'A fine game, that!' the
gamblers said. Tchekalinsky shuffled the cards once more;
the game went on as usual. CONCLUSION
HERMANN lost his reason. He is
in the Obuhovsky hospital, room Number Seventeen;
he does not answer any questions, but keeps muttering with astonishing
rapidity: 'Three, seven, ace! three, seven, queen!' Lizaveta Ivanovna
married a very amiable young man; he is in the civil service, and is a man of
means: he is the son of the old Countess's former steward. Lizaveta Ivanovna is bringing
up a poor cousin. Tomsky has been promoted captain, and
has married Princess Pauline. 15.
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