The Gambler
captiousness. “You are aware, are you not, that the General is
mortgaged to the Marquis, with all his property? Consequently, if the
General’s mother does not die, the Frenchman will become the absolute
possessor of everything which he now holds only in pledge.”
“Then it is really the case that everything is mortgaged? I have heard
rumours to that effect, but was unaware how far they might be true.”
“Yes, they _are_ true. What then?”
“Why, it will be a case of ‘Farewell, Mlle. Blanche,’” I remarked; “for
in such an event she would never become Madame General. Do you know, I
believe the old man is so much in love with her that he will shoot
himself if she should throw him over. At his age it is a dangerous
thing to fall in love.”
“Yes, something, I believe, _will_ happen to him,” assented Polina
thoughtfully.
“And what a fine thing it all is!” I continued. “Could anything be more
abominable than the way in which she has agreed to marry for money
alone? Not one of the decencies has been observed; the whole affair has
taken place without the least ceremony. And as for the grandmother,
what could be more comical, yet more dastardly, than the sending of
telegram after telegram to know if she is dead? What do you think of
it, Polina Alexandrovna?”
“Yes, it is very horrible,” she interrupted with a shudder.
“Consequently, I am the more surprised that _you_ should be so
cheerful. What are _you_ so pleased about? About the fact that you have
gone and lost my money?”
“What? The money that you gave me to lose? I told you I should never
win for other people—least of all for you. I obeyed you simply because
you ordered me to; but you must not blame me for the result. I warned
you that no good would ever come of it. You seem much depressed at
having lost your money. Why do you need it so greatly?”
“Why do _you_ ask me these questions?”
“Because you promised to explain matters to me. Listen. I am certain
that, as soon as ever I ‘begin to play for myself’ (and I still have
120 gülden left), I shall win. You can then take of me what you
require.”
She made a contemptuous grimace.
“You must not be angry with me,” I continued, “for making such a
proposal. I am so conscious of being only a nonentity in your eyes that
you need not mind accepting money from me. A gift from me could not
possibly offend you. Moreover, it was I who lost your gülden.”
She glanced at me, but, seeing that I was in an irritable, sarcastic
mood, changed the subject.
“My affairs cannot possibly interest you,” she said. “Still, if you
_do_ wish to know, I am in debt. I borrowed some money, and must pay it
back again. I have a curious, senseless idea that I am bound to win at
the gaming-tables. Why I think so I cannot tell, but I do think so, and
with some assurance. Perhaps it is because of that assurance that I now
find myself without any other resource.”
“Or perhaps it is because it is so _necessary_ for you to win. It is
like a drowning man catching at a straw. You yourself will agree that,
unless he were drowning he would not mistake a straw for the trunk of a
tree.”
Polina looked surprised.
“What?” she said. “Do not you also hope something from it? Did you not
tell me again and again, two weeks ago, that you were certain of
winning at roulette if you played here? And did you not ask me not to
consider you a fool for doing so? Were you joking? You cannot have
been, for I remember that you spoke with a gravity which forbade the
idea of your jesting.”
“True,” I replied gloomily. “I always felt certain that I should win.
Indeed, what you say makes me ask myself—Why have my absurd, senseless
losses of today raised a doubt in my mind? Yet I am _still_ positive
that, so soon as ever I begin to play for myself, I shall infallibly
win.”
“And why are you so certain?”
“To tell the truth, I do not know. I only know that I _must_ win—that
it is the one resource I have left. Yes, why do I feel so assured on
the point?”
“Perhaps because one cannot help winning if one is fanatically certain
of doing so.”
“Yet I dare wager that you do not think me capable of serious feeling
in the matter?”
“I do not care whether you are so or not,” answered Polina with calm
indifference. “Well, since you ask me, I _do_ doubt your ability to
take anything seriously. You are capable of worrying, but not deeply.
You are too ill-regulated and unsettled a person for that. But why do
you want money? Not a single one of the reasons which you have given
can be looked upon as serious.”
“By the way,” I interrupted, “you say you want to pay off a debt. It
must be a large one. Is it to the Frenchman?”
“What do you mean by asking all these questions? You are very clever
today. Surely you are not drunk?”
“You know that you and I stand on no ceremony, and that sometimes I put
to you very plain questions. I repeat that I am your slave—and slaves
cannot be shamed or offended.”
“You talk like a child. It is always possible to comport oneself with
dignity. If one has a quarrel it ought to elevate rather than to
degrade one.”
“A maxim straight from the copybook! Suppose I _cannot_ comport myself
with dignity. By that I mean that, though I am a man of self-respect, I
am unable to carry off a situation properly. Do you know the reason? It
is because we Russians are too richly and multifariously gifted to be
able at once to find the proper mode of expression. It is all a
question of mode. Most of us are so bounteously endowed with intellect
as to require also a spice of genius to choose the right form of
behaviour. And genius is lacking in us for the reason that so little
genius at all exists. It belongs only to the French—though a few other
Europeans have elaborated their forms so well as to be able to figure
with extreme dignity, and yet be wholly undignified persons. That is
why, with us, the mode is so all-important. The Frenchman may receive
an insult—a real, a venomous insult: yet, he will not so much as frown.
But a tweaking of the nose he cannot bear, for the reason that such an
act is an infringement of the accepted, of the time-hallowed order of
decorum. That is why our good ladies are so fond of Frenchmen—the
Frenchman’s manners, they say, are perfect! But in my opinion there is
no such thing as a Frenchman’s manners. The Frenchman is only a
bird—the _coq gaulois_. At the same time, as I am not a woman, I do not
properly understand the question. Cocks may be excellent birds. If I am
wrong you must stop me. You ought to stop and correct me more often
when I am speaking to you, for I am too apt to say everything that is
in my head.
“You see, I have lost my manners. I agree that I have none, nor yet any
dignity. I will tell you why. I set no store upon such things.
Everything in me has undergone a cheek. You know the reason. I have not
a single human thought in my head. For a long while I have been
ignorant of what is going on in the world—here or in Russia. I have
been to Dresden, yet am completely in the dark as to what Dresden is
like. You know the cause of my obsession. I have no hope now, and am a
mere cipher in your eyes; wherefore, I tell you outright that wherever
I go I see only you—all the rest is a matter of indifference.
“Why or how I have come to love you I do not know. It may be that you
are not altogether fair to look upon. Do you know, I am ignorant even
as to what your face is like. In all probability, too, your heart is
not comely, and it is possible that your mind is wholly ignoble.”
“And because you do not believe in my nobility of soul you think to
purchase me with money?” she said.
“_When_ have I thought to do so?” was my reply.
“You are losing the thread of the argument. If you do not wish to
purchase me, at all events you wish to purchase my respect.”
“Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain
myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You
know why you ought not to be angry with me—that I am simply an
imbecile. However, I do not mind if you _are_ angry. Sitting in my
room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of
your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should
you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray
you, in my slavery—revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill
you?—not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because
I feel as though I could simply devour you... You are laughing!”
“No, I am not,” she retorted. “But I order you, nevertheless, to be
silent.”
She stopped, well nigh breathless with anger. God knows, she may not
have been a beautiful woman, yet I loved to see her come to a halt like
this, and was therefore, the more fond of arousing her temper. Perhaps
she divined this, and for that very reason gave way to rage. I said as
much to her.
“What rubbish!” she cried with a shudder.
“I do not care,” I continued. “Also, do you know that it is not safe
for us to take walks together? Often I have a feeling that I should
like to strike you, to disfigure you, to strangle you. Are you certain
that it will never come to that? You are driving me to frenzy. Am I
afraid of a scandal, or of your anger? Why should I fear your anger? I
love without hope, and know that hereafter I shall love you a thousand
times more. If ever I should kill you I should have to kill myself too.
But I shall put off doing so as long as possible, for I wish to
continue enjoying the unbearable pain which your coldness gives me. Do
you know a very strange thing? It is that, with every day, my love for
you increases—though that would seem to be almost an impossibility. Why
should I not become a fatalist? Remember how, on the third day that we
ascended the Shlangenberg, I was moved to whisper in your ear: ‘Say but
the word, and I will leap into the abyss.’ Had you said it, I should
have leapt. Do you not believe me?”
“What stupid rubbish!” she cried.
“I care not whether it be wise or stupid,” I cried in return. “I only
know that in your presence I must speak, speak, speak. Therefore, I am
speaking. I lose all conceit when I am with you, and everything ceases
to matter.”
“Why should I have wanted you to leap from the Shlangenberg?” she said
drily, and (I think) with wilful offensiveness. “_That_ would have been
of no use to me.”
“Splendid!” I shouted. “I know well that you must have used the words
‘of no use’ in order to crush me. _I_ can see through you. ‘Of no use,’
did you say? Why, to give pleasure is _always_ of use; and, as for
barbarous, unlimited power—even if it be only over a fly—why, it is a
kind of luxury. Man is a despot by nature, and loves to torture. You,
in particular, love to do so.”
I remember that at this moment she looked at me in a peculiar way. The
fact is that my face must have been expressing all the maze of
senseless, gross sensations which were seething within me. To this day
I can remember, word for word, the conversation as I have written it
down. My eyes were suffused with blood, and the foam had caked itself
on my lips. Also, on my honour I swear that, had she bidden me cast
myself from the summit of the Shlangenberg, I should have done it. Yes,
had she bidden me in jest, or only in contempt and with a spit in my
face, I should have cast myself down.
“Oh no! Why so? I believe you,” she said, but in such a manner—in the
manner of which, at times, she was a mistress—and with such a note of
disdain and viperish arrogance in her tone, that God knows I could have
killed her.
Yes, at that moment she stood in peril. I had not lied to her about
that.
“Surely you are not a coward?” suddenly she asked me.
“I do not know,” I replied. “Perhaps I am, but I do not know. I have
long given up thinking about such things.”