The Gambler
“No; I am afraid I could not.”
“What a strange thing! For I know no Russians at all here, so it cannot
have been a Russian who befriended me. In Russia we Orthodox folk _do_
go bail for one another, but in this case I thought it must have been
done by some English stranger who was not conversant with the ways of
the country.”
Mr. Astley seemed to listen to me with a sort of surprise. Evidently he
had expected to see me looking more crushed and broken than I was.
“Well,” he said—not very pleasantly, “I am none the less glad to find
that you retain your old independence of spirit, as well as your
buoyancy.”
“Which means that you are vexed at not having found me more abased and
humiliated than I am?” I retorted with a smile.
Astley was not quick to understand this, but presently did so and
laughed.
“Your remarks please me as they always did,” he continued. “In those
words I see the clever, triumphant, and, above all things, cynical
friend of former days. Only Russians have the faculty of combining
within themselves so many opposite qualities. Yes, most men love to see
their best friend in abasement; for generally it is on such abasement
that friendship is founded. All thinking persons know that ancient
truth. Yet, on the present occasion, I assure you, I am sincerely glad
to see that you are _not_ cast down. Tell me, are you never going to
give up gambling?”
“Damn the gambling! Yes, I should certainly have given it up, were it
not that—”
“That you are losing? I thought so. You need not tell me any more. I
know how things stand, for you have said that last in despair, and
therefore, truthfully. Have you no other employment than gambling?”
“No; none whatever.”
Astley gave me a searching glance. At that time it was ages since I had
last looked at a paper or turned the pages of a book.
“You are growing blasé,” he said. “You have not only renounced life,
with its interests and social ties, but the duties of a citizen and a
man; you have not only renounced the friends whom I know you to have
had, and every aim in life but that of winning money; but you have also
renounced your memory. Though I can remember you in the strong, ardent
period of your life, I feel persuaded that you have now forgotten every
better feeling of that period—that your present dreams and aspirations
of subsistence do not rise above pair, impair rouge, noir, the twelve
middle numbers, and so forth.”
“Enough, Mr. Astley!” I cried with some irritation—almost in anger.
“Kindly do not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember
things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only
until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled.
When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead.”
“Then you will have to be here another ten years,” he replied. “Should
I then be alive, I will remind you—here, on this very bench—of what I
have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so.”
“Say no more,” I interrupted impatiently. “And to show you that I have
not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If
it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet
never have I heard a word concerning her.”
“No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in
Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these
questions about her.” Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry,
air.
“Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?” I burst out with
an involuntary sneer.
“Mlle. Polina,” he continued, “Is the best of all possible living
beings; but, I repeat, that I shall thank you to cease questioning me
about her. You never really knew her, and her name on your lips is an
offence to my moral feeling.”
“Indeed? On what subject, then, have I a better right to speak to you
than on this? With it are bound up all your recollections and mine.
However, do not be alarmed: I have no wish to probe too far into your
private, your secret affairs. My interest in Mlle. Polina does not
extend beyond her outward circumstances and surroundings. About them
you could tell me in two words.”
“Well, on condition that the matter shall end there, I will tell you
that for a long time Mlle. Polina was ill, and still is so. My mother
and sister entertained her for a while at their home in the north of
England, and thereafter Mlle. Polina’s grandmother (you remember the
mad old woman?) died, and left Mlle. Polina a personal legacy of seven
thousand pounds sterling. That was about six months ago, and now Mlle.
is travelling with my sister’s family—my sister having since married.
Mlle.’s little brother and sister also benefited by the Grandmother’s
will, and are now being educated in London. As for the General, he died
in Paris last month, of a stroke. Mlle. Blanche did well by him, for
she succeeded in having transferred to herself all that he received
from the Grandmother. That, I think, concludes all that I have to
tell.”
“And De Griers? Is he too travelling in Switzerland?”
“No; nor do I know where he is. Also I warn you once more that you had
better avoid such hints and ignoble suppositions; otherwise you will
assuredly have to reckon with me.”
“What? In spite of our old friendship?”
“Yes, in spite of our old friendship.”
“Then I beg your pardon a thousand times, Mr. Astley. I meant nothing
offensive to Mlle. Polina, for I have nothing of which to accuse her.
Moreover, the question of there being anything between this Frenchman
and this Russian lady is not one which you and I need discuss, nor even
attempt to understand.”
“If,” replied Astley, “you do not care to hear their names coupled
together, may I ask you what you mean by the expressions ‘this
Frenchman,’ ‘this Russian lady,’ and ‘there being anything between
them’? Why do you call them so particularly a ‘Frenchman’ and a
‘Russian lady’?”
“Ah, I see you are interested, Mr. Astley. But it is a long, long
story, and calls for a lengthy preface. At the same time, the question
is an important one, however ridiculous it may seem at the first
glance. A Frenchman, Mr. Astley, is merely a fine figure of a man. With
this you, as a Britisher, may not agree. With it I also, as a Russian,
may not agree—out of envy. Yet possibly our good ladies are of another
opinion. For instance, one may look upon Racine as a broken-down,
hobbledehoy, perfumed individual—one may even be unable to read him;
and I too may think him the same, as well as, in some respects, a
subject for ridicule. Yet about him, Mr. Astley, there is a certain
charm, and, above all things, he is a great poet—though one might like
to deny it. Yes, the Frenchman, the Parisian, as a national figure, was
in process of developing into a figure of elegance before we Russians
had even ceased to be bears. The Revolution bequeathed to the French
nobility its heritage, and now every whipper-snapper of a Parisian may
possess manners, methods of expression, and even thoughts that are
above reproach in form, while all the time he himself may share in that
form neither in initiative nor in intellect nor in soul—his manners,
and the rest, having come to him through inheritance. Yes, taken by
himself, the Frenchman is frequently a fool of fools and a villain of
villains. Per contra, there is no one in the world more worthy of
confidence and respect than this young Russian lady. De Griers might so
mask his face and play a part as easily to overcome her heart, for he
has an imposing figure, Mr. Astley, and this young lady might easily
take that figure for his real self—for the natural form of his heart
and soul—instead of the mere cloak with which heredity has dowered him.
And even though it may offend you, I feel bound to say that the
majority also of English people are uncouth and unrefined, whereas we
Russian folk can recognise beauty wherever we see it, and are always
eager to cultivate the same. But to distinguish beauty of soul and
personal originality there is needed far more independence and freedom
than is possessed by our women, especially by our younger ladies. At
all events, they need more _experience_. For instance, this Mlle.
Polina—pardon me, but the name has passed my lips, and I cannot well
recall it—is taking a very long time to make up her mind to prefer you
to Monsieur de Griers. She may respect you, she may become your friend,
she may open out her heart to you; yet over that heart there will be
reigning that loathsome villain, that mean and petty usurer, De Griers.
This will be due to obstinacy and self-love—to the fact that De Griers
once appeared to her in the transfigured guise of a marquis, of a
disenchanted and ruined liberal who was doing his best to help her
family and the frivolous old General; and, although these transactions
of his have since been exposed, you will find that the exposure has
made no impression upon her mind. Only give her the De Griers of former
days, and she will ask of you no more. The more she may detest the
present De Griers, the more will she lament the De Griers of the
past—even though the latter never existed but in her own imagination.
You are a sugar refiner, Mr. Astley, are you not?”
“Yes, I belong to the well-known firm of Lovell and Co.”
“Then see here. On the one hand, you are a sugar refiner, while, on the
other hand, you are an Apollo Belvedere. But the two characters do not
mix with one another. I, again, am not even a sugar refiner; I am a
mere roulette gambler who has also served as a lacquey. Of this fact
Mlle. Polina is probably well aware, since she appears to have an
excellent force of police at her disposal.”
“You are saying this because you are feeling bitter,” said Astley with
cold indifference. “Yet there is not the least originality in your
words.”
“I agree. But therein lies the horror of it all—that, how trepidation,
playing ever mean and farcical my accusations may be, they are none the
less _true_. But I am only wasting words.”
“Yes, you are, for you are only talking nonsense!” exclaimed my
companion—his voice now trembling and his eyes flashing fire. “Are you
aware,” he continued, “that wretched, ignoble, petty, unfortunate man
though you are, it was at _her_ request I came to Homburg, in order to
see you, and to have a long, serious talk with you, and to report to
her your feelings and thoughts and hopes—yes, and your recollections of
her, too?”
“Indeed? Is that really so?” I cried—the tears beginning to well from
my eyes. Never before had this happened.
“Yes, poor unfortunate,” continued Astley. “She _did_ love you; and I
may tell you this now for the reason that now you are utterly lost.
Even if I were also to tell you that she still loves you, you would
none the less have to remain where you are. Yes, you have ruined
yourself beyond redemption. Once upon a time you had a certain amount
of talent, and you were of a lively disposition, and your good looks
were not to be despised. You might even have been useful to your
country, which needs men like you. Yet you remained here, and your life
is now over. I am not blaming you for this—in my view all Russians
resemble you, or are inclined to do so. If it is not roulette, then it
is something else. The exceptions are very rare. Nor are you the first
to learn what a taskmaster is yours. For roulette is not exclusively a
Russian game. Hitherto, you have honourably preferred to serve as a
lacquey rather than to act as a thief; but what the future may have in
store for you I tremble to think. Now good-bye. You are in want of
money, I suppose? Then take these ten louis d’or. More I shall not give
you, for you would only gamble it away. Take care of these coins, and
farewell. Once more, _take care_ of them.”