The Queen of Spades, and other stories
Countess is at home, and you will be told that she is out, and, in
that case, you must resign yourself, and go away. In all probability,
however, you will meet no one. The Countess's women are together in a
distant room. When you are once in the ante-chamber, turn to the left,
and walk straight on, until you reach the Countess's bedroom. There,
behind a large screen, you will see two doors. The one on the right
leads to a dark room. The one on the left leads to a corridor, at the
end of which is a little winding staircase, which leads to my parlour."
At, ten o'clock Hermann was already on duty before the Countess's door.
It was a frightful night. The winds had been unloosed, and the snow was
falling in large flakes; the lamps gave an uncertain light; the streets
were deserted; from time to time passed a sledge, drawn by a wretched
hack, on the look-out for a fare. Covered by a thick overcoat, Hermann
felt neither the wind nor the snow. At last the Countesses carriage
drew up. He saw two huge footmen come forward and take beneath the arms
a dilapidated spectre, and place it on the cushions well wrapped up in
an enormous fur cloak. Immediately afterwards, in a cloak of lighter
make, her head crowned with natural flowers, came Lisaveta, who sprang
into the carriage like a dart. The door was closed, and the carriage
rolled on softly over the snow.
The porter closed the street door, and soon the windows of the first
floor became dark. Silence reigned throughout the house. Hermann walked
backwards and forwards; then coming to a lamp he looked at his watch.
It was twenty minutes to eleven. Leaning against the lamp-post, his
eyes fixed on the long hand of his watch, he counted impatiently the
minutes which had yet to pass. At eleven o'clock precisely Hermann
walked up the steps, pushed open the street door, and went into the
vestibule, which was well lighted. As it happened the porter was not
there. With a firm and rapid step he rushed up the staircase and
reached the ante-chamber. There, before a lamp, a footman was sleeping,
stretched out in a dirty greasy dressing-gown. Hermann passed quickly
before him and crossed the dining-room and the drawing-room, where
there was no light. But the lamp of the ante-chamber helped him to see.
At last he reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a screen covered with
old icons (sacred pictures) a golden lamp was burning. Gilt arm-chairs,
sofas of faded colours, furnished with soft cushions, were arranged
symmetrically along the walls, which were hung with China silk. He
saw two large portraits painted by Madame le Brun. One represented a
man of forty, stout and full coloured, dressed in a light green coat,
with a decoration on his breast. The second portrait was that of an
elegant young woman, with an aquiline nose, powdered hair rolled back
on the temples, and with a rose over her ear. Everywhere might be seen
shepherds and shepherdesses in Dresden china, with vases of all shapes,
clocks by Leroy, work-baskets, fans, and all the thousand playthings
for the use of ladies of fashion, discovered in the last century, at
the time of Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's animal magnetism.
Hermann passed behind the screen, which concealed a little iron
bedstead. He saw the two doors; the one on the right leading to the
dark room, the one on the left to the corridor. He opened the latter,
saw the staircase which led to the poor little companion's parlour, and
then, closing this door, went into the dark room.
The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet in the house. The
drawing-room clock struck midnight, and again there was silence.
Hermann was standing up, leaning against the stove, in which there was
no fire. He was calm; but his heart beat with quick pulsations, like
that of a man determined to brave all dangers he might have to meet,
because he knows them to be inevitable. He heard one o'clock strike;
then two; and soon afterwards the distant roll of a carriage. He now,
in spite of himself, experienced some emotion. The carriage approached
rapidly and stopped. There was at once a great noise of servants
running about the staircases, and a confusion of voices. Suddenly the
rooms were all lit up, and the Countess's three antiquated maids came
at once into the bed-room. At last appeared the Countess herself.
The walking mummy sank into a large Voltaire arm-chair. Hermann looked
through the crack in the door; he saw Lisaveta pass close to him, and
heard her hurried step as she went up the little winding staircase.
For a moment he felt something like remorse; but it soon passed off,
and his heart was once more of stone.
The Countess began to undress before a looking-glass. Her head-dress of
roses was taken off, and her powdered wig separated from her own hair,
which was very short and quite white. Pins fell in showers around
her. At last she was in her dressing-gown and night cap, and in this
costume, more suitable to her age, was less hideous than before.
Like most old people, the Countess was tormented by sleeplessness. She
had her armchair rolled towards one of the windows, and told her maids
to leave her. The lights were put out, and the room was lighted only by
the lamp which burned before the holy images. The Countess, sallow and
wrinkled, balanced herself gently from right to left. In her dull eyes
could be read an utter absence of thought; and as she moved from side
to side, one might have said that she did so not by any action of the
will, but through some secret mechanism.
Suddenly this death's-head assumed a new expression; the lips ceased to
tremble, and the eyes became alive. A strange man had appeared before
the Countess!
It was Hermann.
"Do not be alarmed, madam," said Hermann, in a low voice, but very
distinctly. "For the love of Heaven, do not be alarmed. I do not wish
to do you the slightest harm; on the contrary, I come to implore a
favour of you."
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she did not understand.
Thinking she was deaf, he leaned towards her ear and repeated what he
had said; but the Countess still remained silent.
"You can ensure the happiness of my whole life, and without its costing
you a farthing. I know that you can name to me three cards----"
The Countess now understood what he required.
"It was a joke," she interrupted. "I swear to you it was only a joke."
"No, madam," replied Hermann in an angry tone. "Remember Tchaplitzki,
and how you enabled him to win."
The Countess was agitated. For a moment her features expressed strong
emotion; but they soon resumed their former dulness.
"Cannot you name to me," said Hermann, "three winning cards?"
The Countess remained silent. "Why keep this secret for your
great-grandchildren," he continued. "They are rich enough without;
they do not know the value of money. Of what profit would your three
cards be to them? They are debauchees. The man who cannot keep his
inheritance will die in want, though he had the science of demons at
his command. I am a steady man. I know the value of money. Your three
cards will not be lost upon me. Come!"
He stopped tremblingly, awaiting a reply. The Countess did not utter a
word. Hermann went upon his knees.
"If your heart has ever known the passion of love; if you can remember
its sweet ecstasies; if you Pave ever been touched by the cry of a
newborn babe; if any human feeling has ever caused your heart to beat,
I entreat you by the love of a husband, a lover, a mother, by all
that is sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Tell me your secret!
Reflect! You are old; you Pave not long to live! Remember that the
happiness of a man is in your hands; that not only myself, but my
children and my grandchildren will bless your memory as a saint."
The old Countess answered not a word.
Hermann rose, and drew a pistol from his pocket.
"Hag!" he exclaimed, "I will make you speak."
At the sight of the pistol the Countess for the second time showed
agitation. Her head shook violently she stretched out her hands as if
to put the weapon aside. Then suddenly she fell back motionless.
"Come, don't be childish!" said Hermann. "I adjure you for the last
time; will you name the three cards?"
The Countess did not answer. Hermann saw that she was dead!
CHAPTER IV.
Lisaveta was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in
the deepest meditation. On her return to the house, she had sent away
her maid, and had gone upstairs to her room, trembling at the idea of
finding Hermann there; desiring, indeed, _not_ to find him. One glance
showed her that he was not there, and she gave thanks to Providence
that he had missed the appointment. She sat down pensively, without
thinking of taking off her cloak, and allowed to pass through her
memory all the circumstances of the intrigue which had begun such a
short time back, and had already advanced so far. Scarcely three weeks
had passed since she had first seen the young officer from her window,
and already she had written to him, and he had succeeded in inducing
her to make an appointment. She knew his name, and that was all. She
had received a quantity of letters from him, but he had never spoken to
her; she did not know the sound of his voice, and until that evening,
strangely enough, she had never heard him spoken of.
But that very evening Tomski, fancying he had noticed that the young
Princess Pauline, to whom he had been paying assiduous court, was
flirting, contrary to her custom, with, another man, had wished to
revenge himself by making a show of indifference. With this noble
object he had invited Lisaveta to take part in an interminable mazurka;
but he teased her immensely about her partiality for Engineer officers,
and pretending all the time to know much more than he really did,
hazarded purely in fun a few guesses which were so happy that Lisaveta
thought her secret must have been discovered.
"But who tells you all this?" she said with a smile. "A friend of the
very officer you know, a most original man."
"And who is this man that is so original?"
"His name is Hermann."
She answered nothing, but her hands and feet seemed to be of ice.
"Hermann is a hero of romance," continued Tomski. "He has the profile
of Napoleon, and the soul of Mephistopheles. I believe he has at least
three crimes on his conscience.... But how pale you are!"
"I have a bad headache. But what did this Mr. Hermann tell you? Is not
that his name?"
"Hermann is very much displeased with his friend, with the Engineer
officer who has made your acquaintance. He says that in his place he
would behave very differently. But I am quite sure that Hermann himself
has designs upon you. At least, he seems to listen with remarkable
interest to all that his friend tells him about you."
"And where has he seen me?"
"Perhaps in church, perhaps in the street; heaven knows where."
At this moment three ladies came forward according to the custom of
the mazurka, and asked Tomski to choose between "forgetfulness and
regret."[1]
[1] The figures and fashions of the mazurka are reproduced in
the cotillon of Western Europe.--TRANSLATOR.]
And the conversation which had so painfully excited the curiosity of
Lisaveta came to an end.
The lady who, in virtue of the infidelities permitted by the mazurka,
had just been chosen by Tom ski, was the Princess Pauline. During the
rapid evolutions which the figure obliged them to make, there was a
grand explanation between them, until at last he conducted her to a
chair, and returned to his partner.
But Tomski could now think no more, either of Hermann or Lisaveta, and