The Queen of Spades, and other stories
he tried in vain to resume the conversation. But the mazurka was coming
to an end, and immediately afterwards the old Countess rose to go.
Tomski's mysterious phrases were nothing more than the usual platitudes
of the mazurka, but they had made a deep impression upon the heart of
the poor little companion. The portrait sketched by Tomski had struck
her as very exact; and with her romantic ideas, she saw in the rather
ordinary countenance of her adorer something to fear and admire. She
was now sitting down with her cloak off, with bare shoulders; her head,
crowned with flowers, falling forward from fatigue, when suddenly the
door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
"Where were you?" she said, trembling all over.
"In the Countess's bedroom. I have just left her," replied Hermann.
"She is dead."
"Great Heavens! What are you saying?"
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am the cause of her death."
Lisaveta looked at him in consternation, and remembered Tomski's words:
"He has at least three crimes on his conscience."
Hermann sat down by the window, and told everything. The young girl
listened with terror.
So those letters so full of passion, those burning expressions, this
daring obstinate pursuit--all this had been inspired by anything but
love! Money alone had inflamed the man's soul. She, who had nothing
but a heart to offer, how could she make him happy? Poor child! she
had been the blind instrument of a robber, of the murderer of her old
benefactress. She wept bitterly in the agony of her repentance. Hermann
watched her in silence; but neither the tears of the unhappy girl, nor
her beauty, rendered more touching by her grief, could move his heart
of iron. He had no remorse in thinking of the Countess's death. One
sole thought distressed him--the irreparable loss of the secret which
was to have made his fortune.
"You are a monster!" said Lisaveta, after a long silence.
"I did not mean to kill her," replied Hermann coldly. "My pistol was
not loaded."
They remained for some time without speaking, without looking at one
another. The day was breaking, and Lisaveta put out her candle. She
wiped her eyes, drowned in tears, and raised them towards Hermann. He
was standing close to the window, his arms crossed, with a frown on
his forehead. In this attitude he reminded her involuntarily of the
portrait of Napoleon. The resemblance overwhelmed her.
"How am I to get you away?" she said at last. "I thought you might go
out by the back stairs. But it would be necessary to go through the
Countess's bedroom, and I am too frightened."
"Tell me how to get to the staircase, and I will go alone."
She went to a drawer, took out a key, which she handed to Hermann, and
gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann took her icy hand, kissed
her on the forehead, and departed.
He went down the staircase, and entered the Countess's bedroom. She was
seated quite stiff in her armchair; but her features were in no way
contracted. He stopped for a moment, and gazed into her face as if to
make sure of the terrible reality. Then he entered the dark room, and,
feeling behind the tapestry, found the little door which, opened on
to a staircase. As he went down it, strange ideas came into his head.
"Going down this staircase," he said to himself, "some sixty years ago,
at about this time, may have been seen some man in an embroidered coat
with powdered wig, pressing to his breast a cocked hat: some gallant
who has long been buried; and now the heart of his aged mistress has
ceased to beat."
At the end of the staircase he found another door, which his key
opened, and he found himself in the corridor which led to the street.
CHAPTER V.
Three days after this fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,
Hermann entered the convent where the last respects were to be paid
to the mortal remains of the old Countess. He felt no remorse, though
he could not deny to himself that he was the poor woman's assassin.
Having no religion, he was, as usual in such cases, very superstitious;
believing that the dead Countess might exercise a malignant influence
on his life, he thought to appease her spirit by attending her funeral.
The church was full of people, and it was difficult to get in. The
body had been placed on a rich catafalque, beneath a canopy of velvet.
The Countess was reposing in an open coffin, her hands joined on her
breast, with a dress of white satin, and head-dress of lace. Around
the catafalque the family was assembled, the servants in black caftans
with a knot of ribbons on the shoulder, exhibiting the colours of
the Countesses coat of arms. Each of them held a wax candle in his
hand. The relations, in deep mourning--children grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren--were all present; but none of them wept.
To have shed tears would have looked like affectation. The Countess was
so old that her death could have taken no one by surprise, and she had
long been looked upon as already out of the world. The funeral sermon
was delivered by a celebrated preacher. In a few simple, touching
phrases he painted the final departure of the just, who had passed
long years of contrite preparation, for a Christian end. The service
concluded in the midst of respectful silence. Then the relations went
towards the defunct to take a last farewell After them, in a long
procession, all who had been, invited to the ceremony bowed, for the
last time, to her who for so many years had been a scarecrow at their
entertainments. Finally came the Countess's household; among them was
remarked an old governess, of the same age as the deceased, supported
by two woman. She had not strength enough to kneel down, but tears
flowed from her eyes, as she kissed the hand of her old mistress.
In his turn Hermann advanced towards the coffin. He knelt down for a
moment on the flagstones, which were strewed with branches of yew. Then
he rose, as pale as death, and walked up the steps of the catafalque.
He bowed his head. But suddenly the dead woman seemed to be staring at
him; and with a mocking look she opened and shut one eye. Hermann by
a sudden movement started and fell backwards. Several persons hurried
towards him. At the same moment, close to the church door, Lisaveta
fainted.
Throughout the day Hermann suffered from a strange indisposition. In a
quiet restaurant, where he took his meals, he, contrary to his habit,
drank a great deal of wine, with the object of stupefying himself. But
the wine had no effect but to excite his imagination, and give fresh
activity to the ideas with which he was preoccupied.
He went home earlier than usual, lay down with his clothes on upon
the bed, and fell into a leaden sleep. When he woke up it was night,
and the room was lighted up by the rays of the moon. He looked at his
watch; it was a quarter to three. He could sleep no more. He sat up on
the bed and thought of the old Countess. At this moment someone in
the street passed the window, looked into the room, and then went on.
Hermann scarcely noticed it; but in another minute he heard the door of
the ante-chamber open. He thought, that his orderly, drunk as usual,
was returning from some nocturnal excursion; but the step was one to
which he was not accustomed. Somebody seemed to be softly walking over
the floor in slippers.
The door opened, and a woman, dressed entirely in white, entered the
bedroom. Hermann thought it must be his old nurse, and he asked himself
what she could want at that time of night.
But the woman in white, crossing the room with a rapid step, was now at
the foot of his bed, and Hermann recognised the Countess.
"I come to you against my wish," she said in a firm voice. "I am forced
to grant your prayer. Three, seven, ace, will win, if played one after
the other; but you must not play more than one card in twenty-four
hours, and afterwards, as long as you live, you must never touch a
card again. I forgive you my death on condition of your marrying my
companion, Lisaveta Ivanovna."
With these words she walked towards the door, and gliding with her
slippers over the floor, disappeared. Hermann heard the door of the
ante-chamber open, and soon afterwards saw a white figure pass along
the street. It stopped for a moment before his window, as if to look
at him.
Hermann remained, for some time astounded. Then he got up and went into
the next room. His orderly, drunk as usual, was asleep on the floor. He
had much difficulty in waking him, and then could not obtain from him
the least explanation. The door of the ante-chamber was locked.
Hermann went back to his bedroom, and wrote down all the details of his
vision.
CHAPTER VI.
Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world, than in
the physical two bodies can occupy the same place at the same time; and
"Three, seven, ace" soon drove away Hermann's recollection of the old
Countess's last moments. "Three, seven, ace" were now in his head to
the exclusion of everything else.
They followed him in his dreams, and appeared to him under strange
forms. Threes seemed to be spread before him like magnolias, sevens
took the form of Gothic doors, and aces became gigantic spiders.
His thoughts concentrated themselves on one single point. How was he
to profit by the secret so dearly purchased? What if he applied for
leave to travel? At Paris, he said to himself, he would find some
gambling-house where, with his three cards, he could at once make his
fortune.
Chance soon came to his assistance. There was at Moscow a society of
rich gamblers, presided over by the celebrated Tchekalinski, who had
passed all his life playing at cards, and had amassed millions. For
while he lost silver only, he gained bank-notes. His magnificent house,
his excellent kitchen, his cordial manners, had brought him numerous
friends and secured for him general esteem.
When he came to St. Petersburg, the young men of the capital filled
his rooms, forsaking balls for his card-parties, and preferring the
emotions of gambling to the fascinations of flirting. Hermann was taken
to Tchekalinski by Narumoff. They passed through a long suite of rooms,
full of the most attentive, obsequious servants. The place was crowded.
Generals and high officials were playing at whist; young men were
stretched out on the sofas, eating ices and smoking long pipes. In the
principal room at the head of a long table, around which were assembled
a score of players, the master of the house held a faro bank.
He was a man of about sixty, with a sweet and noble expression of
face, and hair white as snow. On his full, florid countenance might
be read good humour and benevolence. His eyes shone with a perpetual
smile. Narumoff introduced Hermann. Tchekalinski took him by the hand,
told him that he was glad to see him, that no one stood on ceremony
in his house; and then went on dealing. The deal occupied some time,
and stakes were made on more than thirty cards. Tchekalinski waited
patiently to allow the winners time to double their stakes, paid what
he had lost, listened politely to all observations, and, more politely
still, put straight the corners of cards, when in a fit of absence some
one had taken the liberty of turning them down. At last when the game
was at an end, Tchekalinski collected the cards, shuffled them again,
had them cut, and then dealt anew.
"Will you allow me to take a card?" said Hermann, stretching out his
arm above a fat man who occupied nearly the whole of one side of the
table. Tchekalinski, with a gracious smile, bowed in consent. Naroumoff
complimented Hermann, with a laugh, on the cessation of the austerity
by which his conduct had hitherto been marked, and wished him all kinds