The Queen of Spades, and other stories
the arm, and lead her out of the room if their dress required attending
to. She had her portion of self-respect, and felt deeply the misery
of her position. She looked with impatience for a liberator to break
her chain. But the young men, prudent in the midst of their affected
giddiness, took care not to honour her with their attentions, though
Lisaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than the shameless or
stupid girls whom they surrounded with their homage. More than once
she slunk away from the splendour of the drawing-room to shut herself
up alone in her little bed-room, furnished with an old screen and a
pieced carpet, a chest of drawers, a small looking-glass, and a wooden
bedstead. There she shed tears at her ease by the light of a tallow
candle in a tin candlestick.
One morning--it was two days after the party at Narumoff's, and a
week before the scene we have just sketched--Lisaveta was sitting at
her embroidery before the window, when, looking carelessly into the
street, she saw an officer, in the uniform of the Engineers, standing
motionless with his eyes fixed upon her. She lowered her head, and
applied herself to her work more attentively than ever. Five minutes
afterwards she locked mechanically into the street, and the officer was
still in the same place. Not being in the habit of exchanging glances
with young men who passed by her window, she remained with her eyes
fixed on her work for nearly two hours, until she was told that lunch
was ready. She got up to put her embroidery away, and while doing so,
looked into the street, and saw the officer still in the same place.
This seemed to her very strange. After lunch she went to the window
with a certain emotion, but the officer of Engineers was no longer in
the street.
She thought no more of him. But two days afterwards, just as she was
getting into the carriage with the Countess, she saw him once more,
standing straight before the door. His face was half concealed by a fur
collar, but his black eyes sparkled beneath his helmet. Lisaveta was
afraid, without knowing why, and she trembled as she took her seat in
the carriage.
On returning home, she rushed with a beating heart towards the
window. The officer was in his habitual place, with his eyes fixed
ardently upon her. She at once withdrew, burning at the same time with
curiosity, and moved by a strange feeling which she now experienced for
the first time.
No day now passed but the young officer showed himself beneath the
window. Before long a dumb acquaintance was established between them.
Sitting at her work she felt his presence, and when she raised her head
she looked at him for a long time every day. The young man seemed full
of gratitude for these innocent favours.
She observed, with the deep and rapid perceptions of youth, that a
sudden redness covered the officer's pale cheeks as soon as their eyes
met. After about a week she would smile at seeing him for the first
time.
When Tomski asked his grandmother's permission to present one of his
friends, the heart of the poor young girl beat strongly, and when she
heard that it was Narumoff, she bitterly repented having compromised
her secret by letting it out to a giddy young man like Paul.
Hermann was the son of a German settled in Russia, from whom he had
inherited a small sum of money. Firmly resolved to preserve his
independence, he had made it a principle not to touch his private
income. He lived on his pay, and did not allow himself the slightest
luxury. He was not very communicative; and his reserve rendered it
difficult for his comrades to amuse themselves at his expense.
Under an assumed calm he concealed strong passions and a
highly-imaginative disposition. But he was always master of himself,
and kept himself free from the ordinary faults of young men. Thus, a
gambler by temperament, he never touched a card, feeling, as he himself
said, that his position did not allow him to "risk the necessary in
view of the superfluous." Yet he would pass entire nights before a
card-table, watching with feverish anxiety the rapid changes of the
game. The anecdote of Count St. Germaines three cards had struck his
imagination, and he did nothing but think of it all that night.
"If," he said to himself next day as he was walking along the streets
of St. Petersburg, "if she would only tell me her secret--if she would
only name the three winning cards! I must get presented to her, that I
may pay my court and gain her confidence. Yes! And she is eighty-seven!
She may die this week--to-morrow perhaps. But after all, is there a
word of truth in the story? No! Economy, Temperance, Work; these are
my three winning cards. With them I can double my capital; increase it
tenfold. They alone can ensure my independence and prosperity."
Dreaming in this way as he walked along, his attention was attracted by
a house built in an antiquated style of architecture. The street was
full of carriages, which passed one by one before the old house, now
brilliantly illuminated. As the people stepped out of the carriages
Hermann saw now the little feet of a young woman, now the military boot
of a general. Then came a clocked stocking; then, again, a diplomatic
pump. Fur-lined cloaks and coats passed in procession before a gigantic
porter.
Hermann stopped. "Who lives here?" he said to a watchman in his box.
"The Countess Anna Fedotovna." It was Tomski's grandmother.
Hermann started. The story of the three cards came once more upon his
imagination. He walked to and fro before the house, thinking of the
woman to whom it belonged, of her wealth and her mysterious power. At
last he returned to his den. But for some time he could not get to
sleep; and when at last sleep came upon him, he saw, dancing before
his eyes, cards, a green table, and heaps of rubles and bank-notes.
He saw himself doubling stake after stake, always winning, and then
filling his pockets with piles of coin, and stuffing his pocket-book
with countless bank-notes. When he awoke, he sighed to find that his
treasures were but creations of a disordered fancy; and, to drive such
thoughts from him, he went out for a walk. But he had not gone far when
he found himself once more before the house of the Countess. He seemed
to have been attracted there by some irresistible force. He stopped,
and looked up at the windows. There he saw a girl's head with beautiful
black hair, leaning gracefully over a book or an embroidery-frame. The
head was lifted, and he saw a fresh complexion and black eyes.
This moment decided his fate.
CHAPTER III.
Lisaveta was just taking off her shawl and her bonnet, when the
Countess sent for her. She had had the horses put in again.
While two footmen were helping the old lady into the carriage, Lisaveta
saw the young officer at her side. She felt him take her by the hand,
lost her head, and found, when the young officer had walked away, that
he had left a paper between her fingers. She hastily concealed it in
her glove.
During the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard. When they were
in the carriage together the Countess was in the habit of questioning
Lisaveta perpetually.
"Who is that man that bowed to us? What is the name of this bridge?
What is there written on that signboard?"
Lisaveta now gave the most absurd answers, and was accordingly scolded
by the Countess.
"What is the matter with you, my child?" she asked. "What are you
thinking about? Or do you really not hear me? I speak distinctly
enough, however, and I have not yet lost my head, have I?"
Lisaveta was not listening. When she got back to the house, she ran to
her room, locked the door, and took the scrap of paper from her glove.
It was not sealed, and it was impossible, therefore, not to read it.
The letter contained protestations of love. It was tender, respectful,
and translated word for word from a German novel. But Lisaveta did
not read German, and she was quite delighted. She was, however,
much embarrassed. For the first time in her life she had a secret.
Correspond with a young man! The idea of such a thing frightened her.
How imprudent she had been! She had reproached herself, but knew not
now what to do.
Cease to do her work at the window, and by persistent coldness try and
disgust the _young_ officer? Send him back his letter? Answer him in
a firm, decided manner? What line of conduct was she to pursue? She
had no friend, no one to advise her. She at last decided to send an
answer. She sat down at her little table, took pen and paper, and began
to think. More than once she wrote a sentence and then tore up the
paper. What she had written seemed too stiff, or else it was wanting in
reserve. At last, after much trouble, she succeeded in composing a few
lines which seemed to meet the case.
"I believe," she wrote, "that your intentions are those of an
honourable man, and that you would not wish to offend me by any
thoughtless conduct. But you must understand that our acquaintance
cannot begin in this way. I return your letter, and trust that you will
not give me cause to regret my imprudence."
Next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lisaveta left her
embroidery, and went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator, and
threw her letter into the street, making sure that the young officer
would pick it up.
Hermann, in fact, at once saw it, and picking it up, entered a
confectioner's shop in order to read it. Finding nothing discouraging
in it, he went home sufficiently pleased with the first step in his
love adventure.
Some days afterwards, a young person with lively eyes called to see
Miss Lisaveta, on the part of a milliner. Lisaveta wondered what she
could want, and suspected, as she received her, some secret intention.
She was much surprised, however, when she recognised, on the letter
that was now handed to her, the writing of Hermann.
"You make a mistake," she said; "this letter is not for me."
"I beg your pardon," said the milliner, with a slight smile; "be kind
enough to read it."
Lisaveta glanced at it. Hermann was asking for an appointment.
"Impossible!" she cried, alarmed both at the boldness of the request,
and at the manner in which it was made. "This letter is not for me,"
she repeated; and she tore it into a hundred pieces.
"If the letter was not for you, why did you tear it up? You should have
given it me back, that I might take it to the person it was meant for."
"True," said Lisaveta, quite disconcerted.
"But bring me no more letters, and tell the person who gave you this
one that he ought to blush for his conduct."
Hermann, however, was not a man to give up what he had once undertaken.
Every day Lisaveta received a fresh letter from him, sent now in one
way, now in another. They were no longer translated from the German.
Hermann wrote under the influence of a commanding passion, and spoke a
language which was his own. Lisaveta could not hold out against such
torrents of eloquence. She received the letters, kept them, and at last
answered them. Every day her answers were longer and more affectionate,
until at last she threw out of the window a letter couched as follows:--
"This evening there is a ball at the Embassy. The Countess will be
there. We shall remain until two in the morning. You may manage to
see me alone. As soon as the Countess leaves home, that is to say
towards eleven o'clock, the servants are sure to go out, and there
will be no one left but the porter, who will be sure to be asleep in
his box. Enter as soon as it strikes eleven, and go upstairs as fast
as possible. If you find anyone in the ante-chamber, ask whether the