‘But it’s time we went to bed. It’s already quarter to six.’
Indeed, day was dawning. The young men drained their glasses and left in their carriages.
2
‘Il paraît que monsieur est décidément pour les suivantes.’
‘Que voulez-vous, madame? Elles sont plus fraîches.’4
from a society conversation
The old Countess —— was in her dressing room, sitting in front of the mirror. Three maids were standing round her. One was holding a pot of rouge, the second a box of pins, the third a tall bonnet with flame-coloured ribbons. The Countess had no pretensions to beauty, her own having faded long ago, but she maintained all the habits of her youth, still kept strictly to the fashions of the seventies and took as much time and trouble over her toilette as she had done sixty years before. By the window, sitting at an embroidery frame, was a young lady, her ward.
‘Good morning, Grand’maman,’ said a young officer as he entered the room. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grand’maman, I have a favour to ask you.’
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Will you 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. You can introduce him to me there. Were you at N.‘s last night, may I ask?’
‘Of course I was! It was very gay; we danced until five in the morning. Yeletskaya looked ever so pretty.’
‘My dear fellow! What’s pretty about her? You should have seen her grandmother, Princess Darya Petrovna… But I suppose she must have aged a great deal by now, Princess Darya Petrovna?’
‘What do you mean “aged”?’ Tomsky replied carelessly. ‘She’s been dead seven years.’
The young lady looked up and made a sign to the young man. He remembered that the deaths of her contemporaries were kept secret from the old Countess and bit his lip. The Countess, however, greeted this news with considerable indifference.
‘Dead!’ she said. ‘And I didn’t know. We were appointed maids of honour together, and when we were presented at Court, the Empress…’
And for the hundredth time, the Countess repeated this story to her grandson.
‘Well, Paul,’ she said afterwards, ‘now you can help me to my feet. Lizanka, where’s my snuffbox?’
And the Countess went behind the screen with her maids to finish her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.
‘Who is it you want to introduce?’ Lizaveta Ivanovna asked quietly.
‘Narumov. Do you know him?’
‘No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?’
‘A soldier.’
‘An engineer?’
‘No, he’s in the Cavalry. What made you think he’s an engineer?’
The young lady laughed but did not answer.
‘Paul!’ the Countess shouted from behind the screen. ‘Send me some new novel or other – only, please, not the kind they write nowadays.’
‘What do you mean, Grand’maman?’
‘I want the kind of novel where the hero doesn’t strangle either his father or his mother, and where there are no drowned bodies. I have a terrible fear of drowned bodies!’
‘Your kind of novel doesn’t exist any longer. Unless you’d like a Russian one?’
‘A Russian novel? I didn’t know there were any. Send me some, old boy, please do!’
‘Goodbye, Grand’maman: I must hurry. Goodbye, Lizaveta Ivanovna! What made you think Narumov was an engineer?’
And Tomsky left the dressing room.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was now on her own. She stopped her work and began gazing out of the window. After a short while, a young officer appeared from behind the house on the opposite corner of the street. A blush spread over her cheeks: she returned to her work, bending low over the canvas. Just then the Countess came in, fully dressed.
‘Order the carriage, Lizanka,’ she said. ‘We’ll go for a drive.’
Lizanka got up from behind her frame and began putting away her work.
‘What’s the matter with you, old girl? Have you gone deaf?’ shouted the Countess. ‘Order the horses to be harnessed at once!’
‘Yes!’ the young lady said quietly and hurried out into the ante-room.
A servant came in and handed the Countess some books from Prince Pavel Aleksandrovich.
‘Good! Thank him,’ said the Countess. ‘Lizanka, Lizanka! Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘To dress.’
‘There’s time enough for that, my dear. Stay here. Open the first volume. Read to me.’
The young lady took the book and read a few lines.
‘Louder!’ said the Countess. ‘What’s the matter with you, old girl? Lost your voice or something? Wait. Bring me my footstool. Closer… There!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna read two pages. The Countess yawned.
‘Enough of that,’ she said. ‘What nonsense! Send it back to Prince Pavel, with our thanks… Well, where’s the carriage?’
‘The carriage is ready,’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna, looking out on to the street.
‘Then why aren’t you dressed?’ said the Countess. ‘I’m always having to wait for you. It’s intolerable.’
Liza ran off to her room. Within three minutes the Countess was ringing her bell with all her might. The three maids rushed in through one door, a manservant through the other.
‘Why don’t you come when you’re called?’ said the Countess. ‘Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna I’m waiting for her.’
In came Lizaveta Ivanovna, wearing a cape and bonnet.
‘About time too, old girl,’ said the Countess. ‘And what finery! Whatever for? Whose eye are you hoping to catch? And what’s it like outside? Windy, I suppose?’
‘Not at all, your ladyship,’ said the manservant, ‘it’s very still.’
‘Think before you speak. Open the top pane. Just as I said: wind, and an extremely cold wind at that! I shan’t be wanting the carriage. Lizanka, we’re not going anywhere – you needn’t have got all dressed up.’
‘And such is my life,’ thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was indeed a most unfortunate creature. Bitter is a stranger’s bread, says Dante, and steep the steps to a stranger’s door – and who can better understand all the bitterness of dependency than the poor ward of a highborn old woman? The Countess did not, of course, have an evil soul, but she had the self-will of a woman who has been spoilt by society; she was miserly and had sunk into a cold egotism, in the way of old people who are done with loving and who have become strangers to the present day. She took part in all the vanities of high society, dragging herself along to balls, where she sat in a corner, heavily rouged and dressed in the fashion of an age gone by, like some hideous but indispensable ballroom ornament; newly arrived guests went up to her with low bows and curtsies, as if according to some established ritual, and after that no one took any more notice of her. She still received the entire city, observing strict etiquette and not recognizing anyone’s face. Her numerous servants, grown stout and grey in the maids’ room and the ante-room, did as they pleased, competing with one another in robbing the dying old woman. Lizaveta Ivanovna was a domestic martyr. She poured out tea and was scolded for using too much sugar; she read novels out loud and was blamed for all the author’s mistakes; she accompanied the Countess on her outings and was responsible for the weather and the state of the roads. She was supposed to receive an allowance, which was never paid in full; and she was required to dress like everyone – that is to say, like extremely few. In society she played the most pitiable of roles. Everyone knew her and no one noticed her; at balls she would dance only when someone was without a partner, and ladies would take her arm each time they had to go out and set something right in their dress. She was proud, she felt her position keenly and she was constantly looking around, waiting impatiently for a saviour; but the young men, calculating in their flighty vanity, judged her unworthy of their attention, even though Li
zaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times sweeter than the cold yet immodest maidens whose favours they courted. How many, many times, slipping out of the tedious and splendid salon, she had gone off to weep in her own poor room, with its papered screen, its chest of drawers, its little mirror and painted bedstead, and its tallow candle burning darkly in a brass candlestick.
One morning – this was two days after the evening recorded at the beginning of this tale, and one week before the scene from which we have digressed – Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting by the window at her embroidery frame when, chancing to look out on to the street, she saw a young engineer: he was standing there stock-still, his eyes fixed on her window. She bowed her head and went on with her work; five minutes later she looked out again – the young officer was still standing on the same spot. Not being in the habit of flirting with passing officers, she stopped looking out and went on sewing for another two hours without once raising her head. Lunch was announced. She got up, began putting away her embroidery frame and, chancing to look out on to the street, she once again saw the officer. This seemed rather strange. After lunch she went up to the window with a certain unease, but the officer was no longer there – and she forgot about him.
A couple of days later, as she was leaving the house to go for a drive with the Countess, she saw him again. He was standing right by the front porch, his face hidden by a beaver collar: black eyes glittered from beneath his cap. Lizaveta Ivanovna felt frightened, not knowing why, and sat down in the carriage with a quiver of ineffable agitation.
On her return home she ran to the window – the officer was standing in the same place as before, eyes fixed upon her; she turned away, tormented by curiosity and troubled by a feeling entirely new to her.
Since then not a day had passed without the young man appearing, always at the same hour, beneath the windows of their house. An unspoken understanding was established between them. Sitting and working in her usual place, she would sense his approach, raise her head and look at him – for a little longer each day. The young man, it seemed, was grateful to her for this: with the keen sight of youth she noticed a quick flush pass over his pale cheeks each time their eyes met. After a week she smiled at him.
When Tomsky asked the Countess for permission to introduce a friend, the poor girl’s heart had begun to beat faster. Discovering, however, that Narumov was not an engineer but a Horse Guard, she regretted that her indiscreet question had let the flighty Tomsky know of her secret.
Hermann was the son of a Russified German who had left him a small inheritance. Firmly convinced of the need to buttress his independence, Hermann did not even touch the interest on this sum; he lived on his salary alone and did not allow himself the smallest extravagance. He was secretive and proud, however, and his comrades seldom had occasion to joke about his excessive thrift. He had strong passions and a fiery imagination, but his self-discipline saved him from the usual errors of youth. Thus, for example, having the soul of a gambler, he never touched cards, believing that he could not afford (as he used to say) ‘to sacrifice the essential in the hope of acquiring the superfluous’; nevertheless, he would sit whole nights by the card tables, following the ups and downs of the game with quivering agitation.
The story of the three cards had affected his imagination powerfully and had stayed in his mind all through the night. ‘What if,’ he thought as he wandered about Petersburg the following evening, ‘what if the old Countess were to reveal her secret to me? Or tell me those three sure cards? Why shouldn’t I try my luck? I could be introduced to her, win her favour, maybe become her lover – but that all takes time, and she’s eighty-seven, she might be dead in a week, even in a couple of days! And what of the story itself? Is it to be believed? No! Calculation, moderation, and hard work – those are my three sure cards, they are what will treble my capital, increase it sevenfold and win me peace and independence!’
Taken up by such thoughts, he found himself on one of the main streets of Petersburg in front of a house built a long time ago. The street was packed with carriages; one after another, they drew up by the lit porch. From out of these carriages would appear the shapely leg of a young beauty, a boot with clinking spurs, the shoe and striped stocking of a diplomat… Fur coats and capes flitted past a majestic hall porter. Hermann stopped.
‘Whose house is this?’ he asked a policeman in his box at the corner of the street.
‘The Countess N.‘s,’ answered the policeman.
Hermann gave a start. The surprising story presented itself once again to his imagination. He began to pace about in front of the house, thinking of its mistress and her miraculous ability. It was late when he returned to his own humble quarters; he was unable to get to sleep for a long time and, when sleep did overtake him, he dreamed of cards, a green table, heaps of bank notes and piles of gold coins. He played card after card, resolutely kept doubling his stakes, and went on and on winning, raking the gold coins across the table and pocketing the bank notes. He woke up late, sighed over the loss of his fantastic wealth, again began wandering about the city and again found himself in front of the Countess N.‘s house. A mysterious force seemed to be drawing him towards it. He stopped and looked at the windows. In one he saw a dark-haired head: bent down, probably over a book or some work. The head looked up. Hermann saw a fresh young face and black eyes. This moment decided his fate.
3
Vous m’écrivez, mon ange, des lettres de quatre pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.5
from a personal correspondence
No sooner had Lizaveta Ivanovna taken off her cape and bonnet than the Countess sent for her and was ordering the carriage again. They went out on to the street. Just as two footmen lifted the old woman up and pushed her through the carriage door, Lizaveta Ivanovna saw her engineer standing by one of the wheels; he seized her hand; she was overcome by fright – the young man vanished: in her hand lay a letter. She slipped it inside her glove and, throughout the drive, heard nothing and saw nothing. The Countess was in the habit, when they were in a carriage, of constantly asking questions: Who was that, going the other way? What’s the name of this bridge? What’s written there on that sign? On this occasion, Lizaveta Ivanovna’s answers were random and nonsensical, and the Countess grew angry:
‘What’s up with you, old girl? Are you in a daze? Can’t you hear? Or is it that you don’t understand? I don’t mumble, thank God, and I haven’t lost my mind yet!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna was not listening. Back at home, she ran straight to her room and took the letter out of her glove: it had not been sealed. Lizaveta Ivanovna read it. The letter contained a confession of love: it was tender, respectful and taken word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta Ivanovna knew no German and was very content with the confession.
Nevertheless, she was extremely troubled by what she had done. She was entering for the first time into close, secret relations with a young man. His audacity appalled her. She reproached herself for her imprudent conduct and didn’t know what to do. Should she stop sitting by the window and, through a show of indifference, chill the young officer’s desire to make further advances? Should she return his letter? Answer coldly and resolutely? There was no one she could turn to for advice; she had neither close friend nor mentor. Lizaveta Ivanovna made up her mind to reply.
She sat down at her little writing-table, took up pen and paper – and thought. Several times she began her letter – then tore it up: her words seemed either too forbearing or too cruel. In the end she managed to write a few lines she was content with. I am certain, she wrote, that you have honourable intentions and that you did not wish to insult me by a thoughtless act; but our acquaintance ought not to begin in this manner. I am returning your letter to you, and I hope I shall not again have reason to complain of an undeserved lack of respect.
The following day, seeing Hermann approach, Lizaveta Ivanovna got up from her embroidery frame, went into the hall, opened the little window and threw the letter out on to the stre
et, trusting in the young officer’s alertness. Hermann ran forward, picked up the letter and went into a confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal, he found his own letter and Lizaveta Ivanovna’s reply. This was as he had expected and he returned home, much taken up with his scheming.
Three days after this, a quick-eyed young mamselle brought Lizaveta Ivanovna a note from a milliner’s. Lizaveta Ivanovna opened it apprehensively, anticipating a demand for payment, and suddenly recognized the hand of Hermann.
‘You’ve made a mistake, my dear,’ she said. ‘This note isn’t for me.’
‘It most certainly is!’ replied the bold girl, not attempting to hide a knowing smile. ‘Do please read it!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna quickly read the note through. Hermann was asking for a tryst.
‘It’s not possible!’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna, frightened by both the precipitateness of the request and the means used to convey it. ‘No, it really can’t be addressed to me.’ And she tore the letter into little pieces.
‘If the letter wasn’t addressed to you, then why have you torn it up?’ said the young mamselle. ‘I could have returned it to the person who sent it.’
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 3