The Gambler
been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d’hôte, at
once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted
when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in
1812, a French ‘hero’ fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket.
That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in
Moscow.”
“Impossible!” the Frenchman spluttered. “No French soldier would fire
at a child!”
“Nevertheless the incident was as I say,” I replied. “A very respected
ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on
his cheek.”
The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported
him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from
the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the
hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to
interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having
started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr.
Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and,
rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink
together. The same afternoon, at four o’clock, I went to have my
customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to
a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina
seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a
little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I
dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we—that is to
say, Polina and myself—contrived to find ourselves alone.
Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed
furious when I handed her only 700 gülden, for she had thought to
receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at
least 2000 gülden, or even more.
“Come what may, I _must_ have money,” she said. “And get it somehow I
will—otherwise I shall be ruined.”
I asked her what had happened during my absence.
“Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St.
Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and
unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy
Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are
expecting to receive news of the end.”
“All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?” I queried.
“Of course—all of us, and every minute of the day. For a
year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this.”
“Looking for it?”
“Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know—I am merely
the General’s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has
remembered me in her will.”
“Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal,” I said with
some assurance.
“Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?”
I answered this question with another one. “That Marquis of yours,” I
said, “—is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?”
“And why are you yourself so interested in them?” was her retort as she
eyed me with dry grimness.
“Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in
borrowing money of the Marquis.”
“It may be so.”
“Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not
known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too,
that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her
‘La Baboulenka’?[1]. What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!”
[1] Dear little Grandmother.
“Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to
inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought
you ought to know that.”
“Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been
doing so a long while!”
“You _know_ he has not,” retorted Polina angrily. “But where on earth
did you pick up this Englishman?” She said this after a pause.
“I _knew_ you would ask about him!” Whereupon I told her of my previous
encounters with Astley while travelling.
“He is very shy,” I said, “and susceptible. Also, he is in love with
you.”
“Yes, he _is_ in love with me,” she replied.
“And he is ten times richer than the Frenchman. In fact, what does the
Frenchman possess? To me it seems at least doubtful that he possesses
anything at all.”
“Oh, no, there is no doubt about it. He does possess some château or
other. Last night the General told me that for certain. _Now_ are you
satisfied?”
“Nevertheless, in your place I should marry the Englishman.”
“And why?” asked Polina.
“Because, though the Frenchman is the handsomer of the two, he is also
the baser; whereas the Englishman is not only a man of honour, but ten
times the wealthier of the pair.”
“Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of the
two,” remarked Polina imperturbably.
“Is that so?” I repeated.
“Yes; absolutely.”
Polina was not at all pleased at my questions; I could see that she was
doing her best to irritate me with the brusquerie of her answers. But I
took no notice of this.
“It amuses me to see you grow angry,” she continued. “However, inasmuch
as I allow you to indulge in these questions and conjectures, you ought
to pay me something for the privilege.”
“I consider that I have a perfect right to put these questions to you,”
was my calm retort; “for the reason that I am ready to pay for them,
and also care little what becomes of me.”
Polina giggled.
“Last time you told me—when on the Shlangenberg—that at a word from me
you would be ready to jump down a thousand feet into the abyss. Some
day I may remind you of that saying, in order to see if you will be as
good as your word. Yes, you may depend upon it that I shall do so. I
hate you because I have allowed you to go to such lengths, and I also
hate you and still more—because you are so necessary to me. For the
time being I want you, so I must keep you.”
Then she made a movement to rise. Her tone had sounded very angry.
Indeed, of late her talks with me had invariably ended on a note of
temper and irritation—yes, of real temper.
“May I ask you who is this Mlle. Blanche?” I inquired (since I did not
wish Polina to depart without an explanation).
“You _know_ who she is—just Mlle. Blanche. Nothing further has
transpired. Probably she will soon be Madame General—that is to say, if
the rumours that Grandmamma is nearing her end should prove true. Mlle.
Blanche, with her mother and her cousin, the Marquis, know very well
that, as things now stand, we are ruined.”
“And is the General at last in love?”
“That has nothing to do with it. Listen to me. Take these 700 florins,
and go and play roulette with them. Win as much for me as you can, for
I am badly in need of money.”
So saying, she called Nadia back to her side, and entered the Casino,
where she joined the rest of our party. For myself, I took, in musing
astonishment, the first path to the left. Something had seemed to
strike my brain when she told me to go and play roulette. Strangely
enough, that something had also seemed to make me hesitate, and to set
me analysing my feelings with regard to her. In fact, during the two
weeks of my absence I had felt far more at my ease than I did now, on
the day of my return; although, while travelling, I had moped like an
imbecile, rushed about like a man in a fever, and actually beheld her
in my dreams. Indeed, on one occasion (this happened in Switzerland,
when I was asleep in the train) I had spoken aloud to her, and set all
my fellow-travellers laughing. Again, therefore, I put to myself the
question: “Do I, or do I not love her?” and again I could return myself
no answer or, rather, for the hundredth time I told myself that I
detested her. Yes, I detested her; there were moments (more especially
at the close of our talks together) when I would gladly have given half
my life to have strangled her! I swear that, had there, at such
moments, been a sharp knife ready to my hand, I would have seized that
knife with pleasure, and plunged it into her breast. Yet I also swear
that if, on the Shlangenberg, she had _really_ said to me, “Leap into
that abyss,” I should have leapt into it, and with equal pleasure. Yes,
this I knew well. One way or the other, the thing must soon be ended.
She, too, knew it in some curious way; the thought that I was fully
conscious of her inaccessibility, and of the impossibility of my ever
realising my dreams, afforded her, I am certain, the keenest possible
pleasure. Otherwise, is it likely that she, the cautious and clever
woman that she was, would have indulged in this familiarity and
openness with me? Hitherto (I concluded) she had looked upon me in the
same light that the old Empress did upon her servant—the Empress who
hesitated not to unrobe herself before her slave, since she did not
account a slave a man. Yes, often Polina must have taken me for
something less than a man!”
Still, she had charged me with a commission—to win what I could at
roulette. Yet all the time I could not help wondering _why_ it was so
necessary for her to win something, and what new schemes could have
sprung to birth in her ever-fertile brain. A host of new and unknown
factors seemed to have arisen during the last two weeks. Well, it
behoved me to divine them, and to probe them, and that as soon as
possible. Yet not now: at the present moment I must repair to the
roulette-table.
II
I confess I did not like it. Although I had made up my mind to play, I
felt averse to doing so on behalf of some one else. In fact, it almost
upset my balance, and I entered the gaming rooms with an angry feeling
at my heart. At first glance the scene irritated me. Never at any time
have I been able to bear the flunkeyishness which one meets in the
Press of the world at large, but more especially in that of Russia,
where, almost every evening, journalists write on two subjects in
particular—namely, on the splendour and luxury of the casinos to be
found in the Rhenish towns, and on the heaps of gold which are daily to
be seen lying on their tables. Those journalists are not paid for doing
so: they write thus merely out of a spirit of disinterested
complaisance. For there is nothing splendid about the establishments in
question; and, not only are there no heaps of gold to be seen lying on
their tables, but also there is very little money to be seen at all. Of
course, during the season, _some_ madman or another may make his
appearance—generally an Englishman, or an Asiatic, or a Turk—and (as
had happened during the summer of which I write) win or lose a great
deal; but, as regards the rest of the crowd, it plays only for petty
gülden, and seldom does much wealth figure on the board.
When, on the present occasion, I entered the gaming-rooms (for the
first time in my life), it was several moments before I could even make
up my mind to play. For one thing, the crowd oppressed me. Had I been
playing for myself, I think I should have left at once, and never have
embarked upon gambling at all, for I could feel my heart beginning to
beat, and my heart was anything but cold-blooded. Also, I knew, I had
long ago made up my mind, that never should I depart from Roulettenberg
until some radical, some final, change had taken place in my fortunes.
Thus, it must and would be. However ridiculous it may seem to you that
I was expecting to win at roulette, I look upon the generally accepted
opinion concerning the folly and the grossness of hoping to win at
gambling as a thing even more absurd. For why is gambling a whit worse
than any other method of acquiring money? How, for instance, is it
worse than trade? True, out of a hundred persons, only one can win; yet
what business is that of yours or of mine?
At all events, I confined myself at first simply to looking on, and