The riff-raff indeed play a very dirty game. I even would not object to the suggestion that the most ordinary sort of thievery takes place there at the table. The croupiers, who sit at the ends of the table, keep track of the stakes and settle up – it’s a terrible lot of work. And what riff-raff they are as well – for the most part Frenchmen. However, I was watching and noting everything not so that I could describe roulette; I was acclimatizing myself so that I would know how to conduct myself in the future. I noticed, for example, that there is nothing more commonplace than when somebody’s hand stretches out suddenly from the other side of the table and takes your winnings for himself. An argument ensues, sometimes shouting and – then just imagine finding witnesses and proving that the stake was yours.
At first this was all double Dutch to me; by guessing I had just somehow determined that the bets were placed on numbers, both odd and even, and on colours. I made up my mind to try my luck this evening with a hundred gulden of Polina Alexandrovna’s money. The thought that I was about to begin gambling not for myself somehow threw me off track. It was an extraordinarily unpleasant sensation, and I wanted to have done with it as soon as possible. I kept thinking that by playing for Polina I was undermining my own luck. Is it really impossible to come into contact with the gaming table without at once becoming infected with superstition? I began by taking out five friedrichs d’or, that is, fifty gulden, and staked them on even. The wheel turned round and came up thirteen – I had lost. With a sickening sensation, solely somehow to have done with it and leave, I staked another five friedrichs d’or on red. And it came up red. I staked all ten friedrichs d’or – and it came up red again. I staked all one more time, and it came up red again. After receiving forty friedrichs d’or, I staked twenty on the twelve middle numbers, not knowing what would come of it. They paid out three times my stake. Thus from ten friedrichs d’or I suddenly had eighty. I was overcome by an unusual and strange sensation, which I found so unbearable that I decided to leave. It seemed to me that I would not have played at all like that if I had been playing for myself. However, I staked all eighty friedrichs d’or once more on even. This time it came up four; they counted out another eighty friedrichs d’or, and after gathering up the whole pile of 160 friedrichs d’or, I set off to find Polina Alexandrovna.
They were all out for a stroll somewhere in the park and I didn’t manage to see her until dinner. This time the Frenchman wasn’t there and the general was in an expansive mood: among other things, he thought it necessary to remark to me once again that he didn’t wish to see me at the gaming tables. In his opinion, he would be greatly compromised if I were somehow to lose too much; ‘but even if you were to win a great deal, even then I would be compromised too,’ he added significantly. ‘Of course, I do not have the right to dictate your actions, but you yourself must agree …’ As was his wont, he didn’t finish what he was saying. I answered him drily that I had very little money and that consequently I couldn’t lose too noticeably even if I did play. As I was going upstairs to my room, I managed to deliver her winnings to Polina and informed her that I would not play for her another time.
‘But why not?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘Because I want to play for myself,’ I answered, scrutinizing her with surprise, ‘and it holds me back.’
‘So you absolutely continue to be convinced that roulette is your only way out and your salvation?’ she asked sarcastically. I answered again very seriously that yes, I did; and as far as my certainty of winning without fail, though I agreed that it might be ridiculous, ‘I wished to be left in peace.’
Polina Alexandrovna insisted that we divide today’s winnings fifty–fifty, and she gave me eighty friedrichs d’or, suggesting that we continue playing on these terms in future. I refused the half share absolutely and finally, and informed her that I could not play for other people, not because I didn’t wish to do so, but because I would certainly lose.
‘And yet, no matter how silly it seems, I too have put almost all my hopes on roulette,’ she said, deep in thought. ‘And so you must without fail continue playing for me and go halves, and – it goes without saying – that you will do so.’ At this point she walked away from me, without listening to my further objections.
CHAPTER 3
And yet, yesterday she did not say a word to me about gambling all day long. And in general she avoided talking to me yesterday. Her former manner with me had not changed. There was the same utter indifference in her treatment of me when we met, and even something scornful and hateful. In general, she makes no secret of her revulsion for me; I can see this. Nevertheless, she also makes no secret of the fact that she needs me for something and that she is saving me for something. A strange sort of relationship has developed between us, which in many ways I find incomprehensible – if one takes into consideration her pride and arrogance towards everyone. She knows, for example, that I love her to distraction, she even allows me to speak of my passion – and of course she could not have better expressed her scorn to me than this permission to speak of my love freely and unchecked. It is as if she were saying, ‘You see, I take so little notice of your feelings that it’s absolutely all the same to me what you talk about with me and what your feelings are towards me.’ She had spoken to me about her own affairs before as well, but she had never been completely candid. Moreover, in her contempt for me there were, for example, such refinements as these: she knows, let’s say, that I am aware of some circumstance in her life or something of the sort that worries her a great deal; she even tells me herself something of her circumstances if she needs to use me somehow for her purposes, like a slave, or to run some errand; but she always tells me only as much as a person who is being used to run an errand needs to know, and if I am still unaware of the entire chain of events, if she herself sees how I am tormented and worried by her torments and worries, she never deigns to reassure me with friendly candour, even though by frequently employing me for commissions that are not only bothersome but also dangerous, in my opinion she was obliged to be candid with me. But is it worth troubling about my feelings, about whether I am also worried, and perhaps am three times as concerned and tormented by her cares and failures as she is herself!
I knew about her intention to play roulette three weeks ago. She had even warned me that I must play in her stead, because it would be unseemly for her to do so herself. I had noticed then by her tone of voice that she had some serious concern, not merely a desire to win some money. What is money to her in and of itself! There must be a purpose, there must be some circumstances, which I might guess, but which so far I do not know. It goes without saying that the humiliation and the slavery in which she keeps me might have given me (it very often does) the opportunity to question her myself rudely and directly. Since I am her slave and so insignificant in her eyes, she has no reason to take offence at my rude curiosity. But the fact of the matter is that, while she allows me to ask questions, she doesn’t answer them. Sometimes she doesn’t even notice them at all. That’s how it is between us!
Yesterday there was a lot of talk among us about the telegram that had been sent to Petersburg four days ago and to which there had been no reply. The general is visibly worried and glum. It has to do with Grandmother, of course. The Frenchman is worried, too. Yesterday, for example, after dinner the two men had a long and serious talk. The Frenchman’s tone with all of us was unusually arrogant and offhand. Just like in the proverb: ‘Seat a pig at the table and he’ll put his feet on it.’ He was even offhand with Polina to the point of rudeness; however, he was happy to take part in the walks to the casino and in the cavalcades and rides into the country. I have known for a long time something of the circumstances that bind the Frenchman to the general: in Russia they were going to start up a factory together; I don’t know whether their project went bust or whether there’s still talk of it. Besides, by chance I came to know part of a family secret: last year the Frenchman did indeed come to the general’s rescue and gave him 30
,000 roubles to make up a deficit in the government funds when he retired from his post. And it goes without saying that the general is in his clutches; but now, right now, the main role in all this is nevertheless being played by Mlle Blanche, and I am certain that I am not mistaken in this.
Who is Mlle Blanche? They say that she’s a French noble-woman, here with her mother, and that she has a colossal fortune. It is also known that she is somehow related to our marquis, only very distantly, some sort of cousin or second cousin. People say that before my trip to Paris relations between the Frenchman and Mlle Blanche were much more formal; they seemed to be on a more refined and delicate footing; but now their acquaintance, friendship and family ties appear somehow coarser, somehow more intimate. Perhaps our affairs appear to be in such a poor state that they don’t consider it necessary to stand on ceremony with us or dissemble. The day before yesterday I had taken note of how Mr Astley would scrutinize Mlle Blanche and her mother. It seemed that he knew them. It even seemed that our Frenchman had met Mr Astley before as well. However, Mr Astley is so reserved, bashful and taciturn that one can almost certainly rely on him not to wash any dirty linen in public. In any case, the Frenchman barely speaks to him and almost never looks at him, which must mean that he’s not afraid of him. That’s understandable; but why does Mlle Blanche almost never look at him either? Particularly since the marquis let something slip yesterday: he suddenly said in the course of the general conversation, I don’t remember in what connection, that Mr Astley was colossally rich and that he knew this for a fact; at this point Mlle Blanche might well have looked at Mr Astley! On the whole, the general is anxious. One can appreciate what a telegram about his aunt’s death would mean to him now!
Although it seemed certain to me that Polina was avoiding conversation with me, to make some point, as it were, I assumed a cold and indifferent air myself; I kept thinking that she was about to come to me of herself. But then yesterday and today I turned all my attention, for the most part, to Mlle Blanche. The poor general, he’s completely done for! To fall in love at the age of fifty-five with such strong passion, of course, is a misfortune. Additionally you need to take into account that he’s a widower, his children, his utterly ruined estate, debts, and, finally, the woman with whom he happened to fall in love. Mlle Blanche is beautiful. But I don’t know whether I’ll be understood if I say that she has one of those faces that can be frightening. At least I’ve always been afraid of such women. She’s probably about twenty-five years old. She’s tall with sloping shoulders; her neck and bosom are magnificent; her skin is a dusky yellow colour, her hair is as black as India ink, and she has an awful lot of hair, enough for two coiffures. Her eyes are black, the whites of her eyes are yellowish, she has an insolent look, her teeth are very white, and her lips are always painted; she smells of musk. She dresses strikingly, richly, with chic, but with great taste. Her feet and hands are marvellous. Her voice is a husky contralto. She sometimes bursts into laughter and then she’ll show all her teeth, but usually she looks on silently and insolently – at least when she’s in the presence of Polina and Marya Filippovna. (A strange rumour: Marya Filippovna is leaving for Russia.) Mlle Blanche seems not to have had any education, perhaps she’s not even very intelligent, but she is suspicious and cunning. Her life seems not to have been without its adventures. If one were to tell the whole truth, then perhaps the marquis is not related to her at all, and the 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 far as the marquis himself is concerned, even though I still have doubts that he is a marquis, the fact that he belongs to respectable society among us, for example, in Moscow and in some places in Germany, does not seem subject to doubt. I wonder what his standing is in France? They say he has a château. I thought that during these two weeks a lot of water would flow under the bridge, and yet I still don’t know for certain whether anything definite has been said between Mlle Blanche and the general. On the whole, everything now depends on our fortune, that is, on whether the general can show them a lot of money. If, for instance, news comes that Grandmother is not dead, then I’m certain that Mlle Blanche will immediately disappear. I find it surprising and funny, however, what a gossip I’ve become. Oh, how it all disgusts me! What pleasure it would give me to wash my hands of everybody and everything! But can I really leave Polina, can I really quit spying on her? Spying, of course, is vile, but – what do I care!
Yesterday and today I’ve also been curious about Mr Astley. Yes, I’m convinced that he’s in love with Polina! It’s curious and ridiculous how much can sometimes be expressed in the look of a bashful and painfully chaste man, who has been touched by love, and precisely just when that man would rather vanish into thin air than say or express anything with a word or a look. Mr Astley quite often meets us on our walks. He takes off his hat and passes by, it goes without saying, dying with the desire to join us. If he’s invited, then he immediately declines. Whenever we stop to rest at the casino, at a concert or by the fountain, he without fail is to be found not far from our bench, and no matter where we are – in the park, in the forest or on the Schlangenberg – you need only raise your eyes, look around and without fail somewhere, either on a nearby path or behind a bush, a little piece of Mr Astley comes into view. It seems that he’s looking for an opportunity to talk with me in private. This morning we met and exchanged a few words. At times he speaks extremely curtly. Without even a ‘good morning’, he began by saying: ‘Ah, Mlle Blanche! … I’ve seen a great many women like Mlle Blanche!’
He fell silent, looking at me significantly. I don’t know what he wanted to say by this, because when I asked him what he meant, he shook his head with a sly smile and added: ‘So that’s how it is. Is Mlle Pauline very fond of flowers?’
‘I don’t know, I really don’t know,’ I replied.
‘What! You don’t know that either!’ he cried out in great amazement.
‘I don’t know, I’ve never really noticed,’ I repeated, laughing.
‘Hm, that gives me a special idea.’ Then he nodded and walked on. He, however, had a satisfied air about him. He and I speak the most wretched French.
CHAPTER 4
Today was a ridiculous, outrageous and absurd day. It’s now eleven o’clock at night. I’m sitting in my little closet of a room and remembering. It began with having to play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna this morning. I took all her 160 friedrichs d’or, but on two conditions: first of all, that I don’t want to play for half, that is, if I win, I won’t take anything for myself, and secondly, that this evening Polina will explain to me exactly why she needs to win and exactly how much money is necessary. All the same, I can by no means imagine that it’s solely for the sake of the money. Clearly the money is needed and as soon as possible for some particular purpose. She promised to explain, and I set off. It was awfully crowded in the gaming rooms. They’re all so insolent and so greedy! I elbowed my way through to the middle and stood right next to the croupier; then I timidly began to try my hand at the game, staking two or three coins. Meanwhile, I observed and took note; it seemed that calculation as such meant very little and did not at all have the importance that players attributed to it. They sit with slips of paper ruled into columns, note down the numbers that come up, count, figure their chances, calculate, finally place their stake and – lose precisely as much as we mere mortals who play without calculating. But I did draw one conclusion that seems to be correct: although there is no system in the course of random chance, there really does appear to be some sort of order, which, of course, is very peculiar. For example, it does happen that first the twelve middle numbers come up, followed by the twelve last ones; let’s say these twelve last numbers come up twice and then it passes to the twelve first numbers. After landing on the twelve first numbers, it passes to the twelve middle numbers, they come up three or four times, and it again passes to the twelve last numbers, where again after landing there
twice, it passes to the first numbers, and after landing on the first numbers it again lands on the middle numbers three times, and it goes on in this way for the course of half the morning or a couple of hours. One, three and two; one, three and two. It’s very amusing. Another day or another morning it might, for example, happen that red is followed by black and back again almost without any order, constantly, so that it doesn’t land more than two or three times in a row on either the red or the black. The very next day or next evening, red comes up time after time; and this might happen, for example, more than twenty-two times in a row and will certainly continue like this for some time, for instance, during a whole day. A great deal of this was explained to me by Mr Astley, who spent the morning at the gaming tables but who didn’t place a stake himself even once. As for me, I lost absolutely everything and very quickly. I straightaway staked twenty friedrichs d’or on even and won, I staked five and again I won, and so it went for another two or three times. I think that about 400 friedrichs d’or came into my hands in some five minutes. At that point I should have walked away, but some strange sensation arose within me, some sort of challenge to fate, some desire to give it a flick on the nose or to stick my tongue out at it. I staked the largest sum allowed, 4,000 gulden, and lost. Then, flushed with excitement, I took out everything that I had left, staked my money on the same thing and lost again, after which I walked away from the table, stunned. I couldn’t even understand what had happened to me and didn’t inform Polina Alexandrovna of my losses until just before dinner. In the meantime I had been roaming about in the park.
The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.) Page 20