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 o
n.
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)
Kirdjali
A Story
Kirdjali was Bulgarian by birth. Kirdjali in Turkish means “warrior,” “daredevil.” I do not know his real name.
Kirdjali, with his banditry, brought terror to the whole of Moldavia. To give some idea of him, I will recount one of his exploits. One night he and the Arnaut*1 Mikhailaki raided a Bulgarian village together. They set fire to it from both ends and started going from hut to hut. Kirdjali wielded the knife and Mikhailaki carried the booty. They both shouted “Kirdjali! Kirdjali!” The whole village took to its heels.
When Alexander Ypsilanti proclaimed the insurrection1 and began to recruit his army, Kirdjali brought him several of his old comrades. The real goal of the Hetairists was scarcely known to them, but the war provided an occasion for getting rich at the expense of the Turks, and maybe also of the Moldavians—and that they found clear enough.
Novels, Tales, Journeys Page 27