The Countess began to undress before the looking-glass. Her rose-bedecked cap was unfastened; her powdered wig was removed from her grey, closely-cropped hair. Pins fell in showers around her. Her yellow dress, embroidered with silver, fell at her swollen feet. Hermann witnessed all the loathsome mysteries of her dress; at last the Countess stood in her dressing-gown and night-cap; in this attire, more suitable to her age, she seemed less hideous and revolting.
Like most old people, the Countess suffered from insomnia. Having undressed; she sat down by the window in the Voltairean armchair and dismissed her maidservants. The candles were carried out; once again the room was lit by a single sanctuary lamp. Looking quite yellow, the Countess sat rocking to and fro in her chair, her flabby lips moving. Her dim eyes reflected a complete absence of thought and, looking at her, one would have thought that the awful old woman’s rocking came not of her own volition, but by the action of some hidden galvanism.
Suddenly, an indescribable change came over her death-like face. Her lips ceased to move, her eyes came to life: before the Countess stood an unknown man.
“Don’t be alarmed, for God’s sake, don’t be alarmed,” he said in a clear, low voice. “I have no intention of harming you; I have come to beseech a favour of you.”
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard him. Hermann imagined that she was deaf, and bending right down over her ear, he repeated what he had said. The old woman kept silent as before.
“You can ensure the happiness of my life,” Hermann continued, “and it will cost you nothing: I know that you can guess three cards in succession….”
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared to understand what was demanded of her; she seemed to be seeking words for her reply.
“It was a joke,” she said at last. “I swear to you, it was a joke.”
“There’s no joking about it,” Hermann retorted angrily. “Remember Chaplitskii whom you helped to win.”
The Countess was visibly disconcerted, and her features expressed strong emotion; but she quickly resumed her former impassivity.
“Can you name these three winning cards?” Hermann continued.
The Countess was silent. Hermann went on:
“For whom do you keep your secret? For your grandsons? They are rich and they can do without it; they don’t know the value of money. Your three cards will not help a spend-thrift. He who cannot keep his paternal inheritance will die in want, even if he has the devil at his side. I am not a spendthrift; I know the value of money. Your three cards will not be lost on me. Come …!”
He stopped and awaited her answer with trepidation. The Countess was silent. Hermann fell upon his knees.
If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” he said, “if you remember its ecstasies, if you ever smiled at the wailing of your new-born son, if ever any human feeling has run through your breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by everything that is sacred in life, not to deny my request! Reveal your secret to me! What is it to you …? Perhaps it is bound up with some dreadful sin, with the loss of eternal bliss, with some contract made with the devil … Consider: you are old; you have not long to live—I am prepared to take your sins on my own soul. Only reveal to me your secret. Realise that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only I, but my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren will bless your memory and will revere it as something sacred….”
The old woman answered not a word.
Hermann stood up.
“You old witch!” he said, clenching his teeth. “I’ll force you to answer….”
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket. At the sight of the pistol, the Countess, for the second time, exhibited signs of strong emotion. She shook her head and raising her hand as though to shield herself from the shot, she rolled over on her back and remained motionless.
“Stop this childish behaviour now,” Hermann said, taking her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you name your three cards or won’t you?”
The Countess made no reply. Hermann saw that she was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
7 Mai 18**
Homme sans mœurs et sans religion!
CORRESPONDENCE
Still in her ball dress, Lisaveta Ivanovna sat in her room, lost in thought. On her arrival home, she had quickly dismissed the sleepy maid who had reluctantly offered her services, had said that she would undress herself, and with a tremulous heart had gone up to her room, expecting to find Hermann there and yet hoping not to find him. Her first glance assured her of his absence and she thanked her fate for the obstacle that had prevented their meeting. She sat down, without undressing, and began to recall all the circumstances which had lured her so far in so short a time. It was not three weeks since she had first seen the young man from the window—and yet she was already in correspondence with him, and already he had managed to persuade her to grant him a nocturnal meeting! She knew his name only because some of his letters had been signed; she had never spoken to him, nor heard his voice, nor heard anything about him…until that very evening. Strange thing! That very evening, Tomskii, vexed with the Princess Polina *** for not flirting with him as she usually did, had wished to revenge himself by a show of indifference: he had therefore summoned Lisaveta Ivanovna and together they had danced an endless mazurka. All the time they were dancing, he had teased her about her partiality to officers of the Engineers, had assured her that he knew far more than she would have supposed possible, and indeed, some of his jests were so successfully aimed that on several occasions Lisaveta Ivanovna had thought that her secret was known to him.
“From whom have you discovered all this?” she asked, laughing.
“From a friend of the person whom you know so well,” Tomskii answered; “from a most remarkable man!”
“Who is this remarkable man?”
“He is called Hermann.”
Lisaveta made no reply, but her hands and feet turned quite numb.
“This Hermann,” Tomskii continued, “is a truly romantic figure: he has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I should think that he has at least three crimes on his conscience…. How pale you have turned.…!”
‘I have a headache…. What did this Hermann—or whatever his name is—tell you?”
“Hermann is most displeased with his friend: he says that he would act quite differently in his place … I even think that Hermann himself has designs on you; at any rate he listens to the exclamations of his enamoured friend with anything but indifference.”
“But where has he seen me?”
“At church, perhaps; on a walk—God only knows! Perhaps in your room, whilst you were asleep: he’s quite capable of it …”
Three ladies approaching him with the question: “oublie ou regret?” interrupted the conversation which had become so agonisingly interesting to Lisaveta Ivanovna.
The lady chosen by Tomskii was the Princess Polina *** herself. She succeeded in clearing up the misunderstanding between them during the many turns and movements of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. Tomskii returned to his own place. He no longer had any thoughts for Hermann or Lisaveta Ivanovna, who desperately wanted to renew her interrupted conversation; but the mazurka came to an end and shortly afterwards the old Countess left.
Tomskii’s words were nothing but ball-room chatter, but they made a deep impression upon the mind of the young dreamer. The portrait, sketched by Tomskii, resembled the image she herself had formed of Hermann, and thanks to the latest romantic novels, Hermann’s quite commonplace face took on attributes that both frightened and captivated her imagination. Now she sat, her uncovered arms crossed, her head, still adorned with flowers, bent over her bare shoulders…. Suddenly the door opened, and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
“Where have you been?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“In the old Countess’ bedroom,” Hermann answered: “I have ju
st left it. The Countess is dead.”
“Good God! What are you saying?”
“And it seems,” Hermann continued, “that I am the cause of her death.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna looked at him, and the words of Tomskii echoed in her mind: “he has at least three crimes on his conscience”! Hermann sat down beside her on the window sill and told her everything.
Lisaveta Ivanovna listened to him with horror. So those passionate letters, those ardent demands, the whole impertinent and obstinate pursuit—all that was not love! Money—that was what his soul craved for! It was not she who could satisfy his desire and make him happy! The poor ward had been nothing but the unknowing assistant of a brigand, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! … She wept bitterly, in an agony of belated repentance. Hermann looked at her in silence; his heart was also tormented; but neither the tears of the poor girl nor the astounding charm of her grief disturbed his hardened soul. He felt no remorse at the thought of the dead old lady. He felt dismay for only one thing: the irretrievable loss of the secret upon which he had relied for enrichment.
“You are a monster!” Lisaveta Ivanovna said at last.
“I did not wish for her death,” Hermann answered. “My pistol wasn’t loaded.”
They were silent.
The day began to break. Lisaveta Ivanovna extinguished the flickering candle. A pale light lit up her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them to Hermann: he sat by the window, his arms folded and with a grim frown on his face. In this position he bore an astonishing resemblance to a portrait of Napoleon. Even Lisaveta Ivanovna was struck by the likeness.
“How am I going to get you out of the house?” Lisaveta Ivanovna said at last. “I had thought of leading you along the secret staircase, but that would mean going past the Countess’ bedroom, and I am afraid.”
“Tell me how to find this secret staircase; I’ll go on my own.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna stood up, took a key from her 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 descended the winding staircase and once more entered the Countess’ bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if turned to stone; her face expressed a deep calm. Hermann stopped before her and gazed at her for a long time, as if wishing to assure himself of the dreadful truth; finally, he went into the study, felt for the door behind the silk wall hangings, and, agitated by strange feelings, he began to descend the dark staircase.
“Along this very staircase,” he thought, “perhaps at this same hour sixty years ago, in an embroidered coat, his hair dressed à l’oiseau royal, his three-cornered hat pressed to his heart, there may have crept into this very bedroom a young and happy man now long since turned to dust in his grave—and today the aged heart of his mistress ceased to beat.”
At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened with the key Lisaveta Ivanovna had given him, and he found himself in a corridor which led into the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
That evening there appeared before me the figure of the late Baroness von V**.
She was all in white and she said to me: “How are you, Mr. Councillor!”
SWEDENBORG
Three days after the fateful night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann set out for the *** monastery, where a funeral service for the dead Countess was going to be held. Although unrepentant, he could not altogether silence the voice of conscience, which kept on repeating: “You are the murderer of the old woman!” Having little true religious belief, he was extremely superstitious. He believed that the dead Countess could exercise a harmful influence on his life, and he had therefore resolved to be present at the funeral, in order to ask her forgiveness.
The church was full. Hermann could scarcely make his way through the crowd of people. The coffin stood on a rich catafalque beneath a velvet canopy. Within it lay the dead woman, her arms folded upon her chest, and dressed in a white satin robe, with a lace cap on her head. Around her stood the members of her household: servants in black coats, with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders and candles in their hands; the relatives—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—in deep mourning. Nobody cried; tears would have been une affectation. The Countess was so old that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives had long considered her as having outlived herself. A young bishop pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple, moving words, he described the peaceful end of the righteous woman, who for many years had been in quiet and touching preparation for a Christian end. “The angel of death found her,” the speaker said, “waiting for the midnight bridegroom, vigilant in godly meditation.” The service was completed with sad decorum. The relatives were the first to take leave of the body. Then the numerous guests went up to pay final homage to her who had so long participated in their frivolous amusements. They were followed by all the members of the Countess’ household, the last of whom was an old housekeeper of the same age as the Countess. She was supported by two young girls who led her up to the coffin. She had not the strength to bow down to the ground—and merely shed a few tears as she kissed the cold hand of her mistress. After her, Hermann decided to approach the coffin. He knelt down and for several minutes lay on the cold floor, which was strewn with fir branches; at last he got up, as pale as the dead woman herself; he went up the steps of the catafalque and bent his head over the body of the Countess…. At that very moment it seemed to him that the dead woman gave him a mocking glance, and winked at him. Hermann, hurriedly stepping back, missed his footing, and crashed on his back against the ground. He was helped to his feet. At the same moment, Lisaveta Ivanovna was carried out in a faint to the porch of the church. These events disturbed the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony for a few moments. A subdued murmur rose among the congregation, and a tall, thin chamberlain, a near relative of the dead woman, whispered in the ear of an Englishman standing by him that the young officer was the Countess’ illegitimate son, to which the Englishman replied coldly: “Oh?”
For the whole of that day Hermann was exceedingly troubled. He went to a secluded inn for dinner and, contrary to his usual custom and in the hope of silencing his inward agitation, he drank heavily. But the wine fired his imagination still more. Returning home, he threw himself on to his bed without undressing, and fell into a heavy sleep.
It was already night when he awoke: the moon lit up his room. He glanced at his watch; it was a quarter to three. He found he could not go back to sleep; he sat down on his bed and thought about the funeral of the old Countess.
At that moment somebody in the street glanced in at his window, and immediately went away again. Hermann paid no attention to the incident. A minute or so later, he heard the door into the front room being opened. Hermann imagined that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some nocturnal outing. But he heard unfamiliar footsteps and the soft shuffling of slippers. The door opened: a woman in a white dress entered. Hermann mistook her for his old wet-nurse and wondered what could have brought her out at that time of the night. But the woman in white glided across the room and suddenly appeared before him—and Hermann recognised the Countess!
“I have come to you against my will,” she said in a firm voice, “but I have been ordered to fulfil your request. Three, seven, ace, played in that order, will win for you, but only on condition that you play not more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play again for the rest of your life. I’ll forgive you my death if you marry my ward, Lisaveta Ivanovna….”
With these words, she turned round quietly, walked towards the door and disappeared, her slippers shuffling. Hermann heard the door in the hall bang, and again saw somebody look in at him through the window.
For a long time Hermann could not collect his senses. He went out into the next room. His orderly was lying asleep on the floor; Hermann could scarcely wake him. The orderly was, as usual, drunk, and it was impossible to get any sen
se out of him. The door into the hall was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit a candle, and recorded the details of his vision.
CHAPTER SIX
“Attendez!”
“How dare you say to me: ‘Attendez’?”
“Your Excellency, I said: ‘Attendez, sir’!”
Two fixed ideas can no more exist in one mind than, in the physical sense, two bodies can occupy one and the same place. “Three, seven, ace” soon eclipsed from Hermann’s mind the form of the dead old lady. “Three, seven, ace” never left his thoughts, were constantly on his lips. At the sight of a young girl, he would say: “How shapely she is! Just like the three of hearts.” When asked the time, he would reply: “About seven.” Every potbellied man he saw reminded him of an ace. “Three, seven, ace,” assuming all possible shapes, persecuted him in his sleep: the three bloomed before him in the shape of some luxuriant flower, the seven took on the appearance of a Gothic gateway, the ace—of an enormous spider. To the exclusion of all others, one thought alone occupied his mind—making use of the secret which had cost him so much. He began to think of retirement and of travel. He wanted to try his luck in the public gaming-houses of Paris. Chance spared him the trouble.
There was in Moscow a society of rich gamblers, presided over by the celebrated Chekalinskii, a man whose whole life had been spent at the card-table, and who had amassed millions long ago, accepting his winnings in the form of promissory notes and paying his losses with ready money. His long experience had earned him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, his famous cook and his friendliness and gaiety had won him great public respect. He arrived in Petersburg. The younger generation flocked to his house, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the enticements of faro to the fascinations of courtship. Narumov took Hermann to meet him.
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