Who is Mlle Blanche? Among us here they say she’s a French noblewoman, who goes around with her mother and has a colossal fortune. It is also known that she is some sort of relation of our marquis, only a very distant one, some sort of cousin or second cousin. They say that before my trip to Paris, contacts between the Frenchman and Mlle Blanche were somehow much more ceremonious, they seemed to be on a much more refined and delicate footing; while now their acquaintance, friendship, and family connection have emerged as somehow more coarse, more intimate. Maybe our situation seems so bad to them that they no longer find it necessary to be too ceremonious with us and to hide things. I noticed two days ago how Mr. Astley was studying Mlle Blanche and her mother. It seemed to me that he knew them. It even seemed to me that our Frenchman had met Mr. Astley previously as well. However, Mr. Astley is so shy, prudish, and reserved that one can virtually count on him—he won’t wash any dirty linen in public. The Frenchman, at any rate, barely greets him and almost doesn’t look at him; which means he’s not afraid of him. That’s understandable; but why is it that Mlle Blanche almost doesn’t look at him either? The more so as yesterday the marquis let something slip: in general conversation he suddenly said, I don’t remember on what occasion, that Mr. Astley was colossally rich and he knew it for a fact; and so Mlle Blanche might well look at Mr. Astley! The general is now thoroughly worried. It’s clear what a telegram about his aunt’s death could mean for him now!
Though it seemed certain to me that Polina was avoiding conversation with me, as if on purpose, I myself assumed a cold and indifferent air as well: I kept thinking she was just about to approach me. Instead, yesterday and today I turned all my attention predominantly to Mlle Blanche. The poor general, he’s utterly lost! To fall in love with such strong passion at the age of fifty-five is of course a misfortune. Add to that his widowerhood, his children, his completely ruined estate, his debts, and, finally, the woman he had to fall in love with. Mlle Blanche is quite beautiful. But I don’t know whether I’ll be understood if I say that hers is one of those faces that can be frightening. At any rate I have always been afraid of such women. She must be about twenty-five. She is tall and well built, with shapely shoulders; her neck and bosom are luxuriant; her complexion is a swarthy yellow; her hair is black as ink, and there is a terrible amount of it, enough for two coiffures. Her eyes are black, the whites are yellowish, her gaze is insolent, her teeth are very white, her lips always rouged; she smells of musk. She dresses showily, richly, with chic, but with great taste. Her feet and hands are astonishing. Her voice is a husky contralto. She sometimes bursts out laughing, and with that shows all her teeth, but usually she looks on silently and insolently—at any rate in the presence of Polina and Marya Filippovna. (A strange rumor: Marya Filippovna is leaving for Russia.) It seems to me that Mlle Blanche is without any education, is maybe not even intelligent, but instead is suspicious and cunning. It seems to me that her life has not been without adventures. If we’re to say all, it may be that the marquis is no relation of hers, and her mother is not her mother. But there is information that in Berlin, where we met them, she and her mother had some respectable acquaintances. As for the marquis himself, though to this day I have my doubts that he is a marquis, his belonging to decent society, as with us, for example, in Moscow, and in some places in Germany, does not seem open to doubt. I don’t know what he is in France. They say he has a château. I thought that in these two weeks a lot of water would have flowed, and yet I still don’t know for certain whether anything decisive has been said between Mlle Blanche and the general. Everything now depends generally on our fortune, that is, on whether the general can show them a lot of money. If, for instance, news came that grandmother hasn’t died, I’m sure Mlle Blanche would disappear at once. I find it astonishing and ridiculous, however, that I’ve become such a gossip. Oh, how disgusting this all is to me! With what pleasure I’d drop everyone and everything! But how can I leave Polina, how can I stop spying around her? Spying is mean, of course, but—what do I care!
I also found Mr. Astley curious yesterday and today. Yes, I’m convinced that he is in love with Polina! It’s curious and ridiculous how much the gaze of a prudish and painfully chaste man, touched by love, can sometimes express, and that precisely at a moment when the man would, of course, sooner be glad to fall through the earth than say or express anything with a word or a look. We run into Mr. Astley very often during our walks. He doffs his hat and passes by, dying, naturally, from the desire to join us. If he’s invited, he immediately declines. At resting places, in the vauxhall, at a concert, or near the fountain, he unfailingly stops somewhere not far from our bench, and wherever we may be, in the park, in the woods, or on the Schlangenberg—you need only raise your eyes, look around, and unfailingly somewhere, on the nearest path, or behind a bush, a little corner of Mr. Astley will appear. He seems to be seeking an occasion to speak with me privately. This morning we met and exchanged a couple of words. He sometimes speaks somehow extremely abruptly. Without even a “good morning,” he began by declaring:
“Ah, Mlle Blanche!…I’ve seen many women like Mlle Blanche!”
He fell silent, looking at me significantly. What he wanted to say by that, I don’t know, because when I asked him what it meant, he nodded with a sly smile and added: “Quite so. Is Mlle Pauline very fond of flowers?”
“I don’t know, I simply don’t know,” I replied.
“What? You don’t know that either?” he cried in great amazement.
“I don’t know, I simply never noticed,” I repeated, laughing.
“Hm, that gives me a particular thought.” Here he nodded and walked on. He looked pleased, however. We speak to each other in the most vile French.
CHAPTER IV
TODAY WAS A RIDICULOUS, outrageous, absurd day. Now it’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m sitting in my little room and remembering. It started with my having to go in the morning and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. I took all her hundred and sixty friedrichs d’or, but on two conditions: first, that I did not want to go halves, that is, if I won, I’d take nothing for myself; and second, that in the evening Polina would explain to me precisely why she has such a need to win and precisely how much money. I still can in no way suppose that it is simply for the sake of money. Money is obviously necessary here, and as soon as possible, for some particular purpose. She promised to explain, and I went. There was a terrible crowd in the gaming rooms. How insolent they all are, and how greedy! I pushed my way to the middle and stood right next to the croupier; then I began timidly to play, staking two or three coins. Meanwhile I observed and took note; it seemed to me that calculation meant rather little in itself and had none of the importance many gamblers attach to it. They sit with ruled sheets of paper, note down the stakes, calculate, deduce the chances, reckon up, finally place their bet, and—lose in exactly the same way as we simple mortals, who play without calculation. But, on the other hand, I drew one conclusion that seems to be correct: in the sequence of accidental chances, there is indeed, if not a system, at any rate the semblance of some order—which, of course, is very strange. For instance, it happens that after the twelve middle numbers come the twelve last ones; twice, let’s say, the ball lands on these twelve last ones, and then goes on to the twelve first. Having landed on the twelve first, it goes on again to the twelve middle numbers, lands three or four times on the twelve middle ones, then again goes on to the twelve last, from where again, after landing twice, it goes on to the first, lands there once, goes on to land three times on the middle ones, and so it continues for an hour and a half, for two hours. One, three, and two; one, three, and two. It’s very amusing. One day or one morning it goes, for instance, so that red alternates with black and vice versa, every moment almost without any order, so that the ball doesn’t land on the same color more than two or three times in a row. But the next day, or the next evening, it happens, for instance, that it lands on red alone up to twenty-two times in a row, and it’s sur
e to go on that way for some time—a whole day, for instance. A lot of this was explained to me by Mr. Astley, who spent the whole morning at the gaming tables, but did not stake once himself. As for me, I lost everything, and very quickly. I straight away staked twenty friedrichs d’or on evens and won, staked five and won again, and so it went two or three more times. I think about four hundred friedrichs d’or came into my hands in some five minutes. I should have walked away right then, but some strange sensation was born in me, some defiance of fate, some desire to give it a flick, to stick my tongue out at it. I placed the biggest stake permitted, four thousand guldens, and lost. Then, getting excited, I took out all I had left, staked it in the same way, and lost again, after which I left the table as if stunned. I didn’t even understand what had happened to me, and announced my loss to Polina Alexandrovna only just before dinner. The time till then I spent loitering in the park.
At dinner I was again in an agitated state, just as three days ago. The Frenchman and Mlle Blanche were again dining with us. It turned out that Mlle Blanche had been in the gaming rooms that morning and had seen my exploits. This time she talked with me somehow more attentively. The Frenchman was more straightforward and simply asked me if I had really gambled away my own money. It seems to me he suspects Polina. In short, there’s something there. I lied at once and said it was my money.
The general was extremely surprised: where had I gotten so much money? I explained that I had begun with ten friedrichs d’or, that six or seven wins in a row, doubled, gained me five or six thousand guldens, and that I had then lost it all in two turns.
All that, of course, was probable. While explaining it, I looked at Polina, but could make out nothing in her face. However, she let me lie and did not correct me; from that I concluded that I did have to lie and conceal that I was playing for her. In any case, I thought to myself, she owed me an explanation and this morning had promised to reveal something or other to me.
I thought the general would make some remark, but he kept silent; instead I noticed worry and uneasiness in his face. Maybe, in his tough circumstances, it was simply hard for him to hear that such a respectable pile of gold had come and gone in a quarter of an hour for such a wasteful fool as me.
I suspect that a heated controversy had taken place between him and the Frenchman yesterday evening. They had locked themselves in and talked hotly about something for a long time. The Frenchman had come out looking vexed at something, and early this morning had gone to the general again—probably in order to continue yesterday’s conversation.
Hearing of my loss, the Frenchman observed to me caustically and even spitefully that I ought to be more sensible. He added, I don’t know why, that while many Russians gamble, in his opinion, Russians are incapable even of gambling.
“And in my opinion, roulette is just made for Russians,” I said, and when the Frenchman smirked scornfully at my response, I observed to him that, of course, the truth was on my side, because, in speaking of Russians as gamblers, I was abusing them much more than praising them, and that meant I could be believed.
“On what do you base your opinion?” asked the Frenchman.
“On the fact that the ability to acquire capital entered the catechism of virtues and merits of the civilized Western man historically and almost as the main point. While a Russian is not only incapable of acquiring capital, but even wastes it somehow futilely and outrageously. Nevertheless, we Russians also need money,” I added, “and therefore we are very glad of and very prone to such methods as, for instance, roulette, where one can get rich suddenly, in two hours, without any work. We find that very attractive; but since we also gamble futilely, without working at it, we lose!”
“That is partly true,” the Frenchman observed smugly.
“No, it’s not true, and it’s shameful to speak that way of your fatherland,” the general observed sternly and imposingly.
“For pity’s sake,” I answered him, “is it really not clear yet which is more vile—Russian outrageousness, or the German way of accumulation through honest work?”
“What an outrageous thought!” exclaimed the general.
“What a Russian thought!” exclaimed the Frenchman.
I laughed, I wanted terribly to egg them on.
“And I’d rather spend all my life roaming about in a Kirghiz tent,” I cried, “than worship a German idol.”
“What idol?” cried the general, beginning to get seriously angry.
“The German way of accumulating wealth. I haven’t been here long, but, nevertheless, all the same, what I’ve managed to observe and verify here arouses the indignation of my Tartar blood. By God, I don’t want such virtues! I managed to make a seven-mile tour here yesterday. Well, it’s exactly the same as in those moralizing little German picture books: everywhere here each house has its Vater, terribly virtuous and extraordinarily honest. So honest it’s even frightening to go near him. I can’t stand honest people whom it’s frightening to go near. Each such Vater has a family, and in the evening they all read edifying books aloud. Over their little house, elms and chestnuts rustle. A sunset, a stork on the roof, and all of it extraordinarily poetic and touching…
“Now, don’t be angry, General, let me tell it as touchingly as possible. I myself remember my late father reading such books aloud to me and my mother in the evenings, under the lindens, in the front garden…I can judge it properly myself. Well, so every such family here is in total slavery and obedience to a Vater. They all work like oxen, and they all save money like Jews. Suppose the Vater has already saved up so many guldens and is counting on passing on his trade or bit of land to the elder son. For that the daughter is deprived of a dowry, and she remains an old maid. For that the younger son is sold into bondage or the army, and the money is joined to the family capital. Really, they do that here; I’ve asked around. All this is done not otherwise than out of honesty, out of exaggerated honesty, to the point that the sold younger son piously believes he was sold not otherwise than out of honesty—and that is the ideal thing, when the victim himself rejoices that he is being led to the slaughter. What next? Next is that for the elder son it’s also not easy: he’s got this Amalchen there, with whom his heart is united—but they can’t get married, because they haven’t saved so many guldens yet. They wait befittingly and sincerely, and with a smile go to the slaughter. Amalchen’s cheeks are sunken by now; she’s wasting away. Finally, after some twenty years, their fortune has multiplied; the guldens have been honestly and virtuously saved up. The Vater blesses the forty-year-old elder son and the thirty-five-year-old Amalchen, with her dried-up breasts and red nose…With that he weeps, pronounces a moral, and dies. The elder son himself turns into a virtuous Vater, and the same story begins all over again. In some fifty or seventy years the grandson of the first Vater is indeed possessed of a considerable capital and passes it on to his son, he to his, he to his, and in some five or six generations out comes Baron Rothschild himself, or Hoppe and Co.,{6} or the devil knows what. Well, sir, isn’t that a majestic sight: a hundred- or two-hundred-year succession of work, patience, intelligence, honesty, character, firmness, calculation, a stork on the roof! What more do you want, there’s nothing higher than that, and they themselves begin to judge the whole world from that standpoint, and the guilty, that is, those just slightly unlike themselves, they punish at once. Well, sir, the thing is this: I’d rather debauch Russian-style or win at roulette. I don’t want to be a Hoppe and Co. in five generations. I need money for myself, and I don’t consider myself as something necessary to and accessory to capital. I know I’ve said a whole heap of terrible things, but so be it. Such are my convictions.”
“I don’t know if there’s much truth in what you’ve said,” the general observed pensively, “but I know for certain that you begin showing off insufferably as soon as you’re allowed to forget yourself the least bit…”
As was usual with him, he did not finish what he was saying. If our general began speaking about s
omething just a bit more significant than ordinary conversation, he never finished. The Frenchman listened carelessly, goggling his eyes slightly. He understood almost nothing of what I said. Polina looked on with some sort of haughty indifference. It seemed she heard nothing that was said, not only by me, but by anyone else at the table this time.
CHAPTER V
SHE WAS UNUSUALLY PENSIVE, but as soon as we left the table, she told me to accompany her on a walk. We took the children and went to the fountain in the park.
As I was particularly agitated, I blurted out a question stupidly and crudely: why is it that our marquis des Grieux, the little Frenchman, not only doesn’t accompany her now, when she goes out somewhere, but doesn’t even speak to her for whole days at a time?
“Because he’s a scoundrel,” she answered strangely. I had never before heard such an opinion about des Grieux from her, and I kept silent, afraid to understand this irritability.
The Gambler Page 4