OUT OF SHEER RESPECT for tradition one ought to begin any selection from Pushkin’s oeuvre by offering at least one of his lyrical poems simply because he is considered to this day Russia’s foremost poet. Every Russian schoolchild knows that Pushkin’s favorite season was autumn, hence our first choice—his most famous autumnal poem—Autumn: a Fragment. The trouble with received knowledge is that it often petrifies thinking, and the average Russian schoolchild rarely gets beyond the poem’s first stanza (the only one published in school anthologies) to the entire text which embodies Pushkin’s musings on the Romantics’ notion of the “moment of inspiration,” during which unseen forces guide the poet as he creates a new and fantastic world of verbal brilliance. Writing this work on his beloved estate Boldino in the early 1830’s, Pushkin reveals later on in the poem that he is no longer enslaved by ordinary Romantic themes or satisfied by the tenets of Romantic discovery, which for him had already become cliches. To illustrate this he chooses one of the most characteristic Romantic genres—the fragment—and describes the process that normally induces the inspired state of mind for his persona, and which happens for him most naturally in the autumn months. Yet when he reaches this creative state the poet’s persona is paradoxically left with no path to follow. A ship under way is the work’s culminating metaphor for poetic inspiration, but the unanswered question “Where shall we sail?” ends the poem; these words are followed not by a complete stanza, but by a series of dotted lines which verbally express nothingness rather than a higher or revealed truth. A prescient note of modern absurdity is struck by Pushkin. Reaching this end-point, the reader is forced to reflect upon the beginning—the incomparable description of a Russian October with which the poem opens—and to recognize in this “fragment” an exquisite poetic artifact, grander than any obscure fantastic world.
As epigraph to “Autumn” Pushkin chose the line “What nimble thoughts do not them brim my sleep-drowned mind?” from Derzhavin’s pastoral masterpiece To Eugene. Life at Zvanka: Just as Pushkin a generation later was to celebrate the Russian landscape at Boldino, Derzhavin in this 1807 work unscrolls before the reader an enchanting celebratory catalogue of Zvanka’s virtues, describing the course of one idyllic early summer’s day on the estate. The concluding stanzas of Derzhavin’s poem were long considered “flawed,” given their abrupt shift in tone from the idyllic to the fey as the poet imagines the estate’s eventual decay and an indifferent Nature’s obliteration of his own tomb. In choosing as “Autumn’s” epigraph the very line that begins this final section of Zvanka, Pushkin signals his understanding that this “flaw” was in fact the poem’s essence, just as the “unfinished” stanza of “Autumn” carries that text’s ultimate—absurd and, hence, fantastic—meaning.
A similar level of absurdity is struck in The Bronze Horseman, also set in autumn, but with prodigiously different workings of its agency. Written roughly at the same time and subtitled “A Petersburg Tale” this work is hailed in Russia as Pushkin’s greatest narrative poem. Moreover the story has a dimension—its locale: the city of St. Petersburg—which embodies a theme of considerable wealth. One of the city’s most potent symbols is the famed equestrian statue of Peter by Falconet, which in The Bronze Horseman becomes the incarnation of the monarch’s great achievement, or more precisely of Peter’s implacable will. His presence so charges the atmosphere of the poem’s opening lines that, like the God of the Old Testament, he is not at first named directly, but referred to by the pronoun He. Further on Peter is called “The Idol,” a deity embodying the vastness and colossal power of the Russian Empire to be sure, but also associated with History—and with Eternity itself.
The plot establishes a contrastive parallelism with Falconet’s Horseman on one side and the narrative’s protagonist Eugene on the other. The resulting juxtapposition comes perilously close to parody. Peter the Great’s god-like musings as he plans his city recall the first chapter of Genesis, and in fact Petersburg seems almost to spring into being at his word, created in his image. But Eugene is a man writ small, reduced to virtual non-entity. His family name is not given; he has lost any connection with his forbears and lineage, has no history himself and aspires to create none. He occupies a lowly position on any scale used to measure such things: he is poor, with no great ambitions or talents, his needs are modest and his dream of marital bliss and small comforts fulfills them all.
Eugene does have one quality that the Horseman lacks, and which is essential for our sympathy. He is human: the statue is literally and figuratively inhuman. Larger than life, Peter’s image is a demi-god, the Idol, the master of Destiny who inspires adulation, awe and also terror. And here we must feel the great historical impact on Russia—for good or ill—of Peter’s reforms, and of their steep price. Peter’s dream city on the banks of the Neva is juxtaposed with the real city in which Eugene must live, and which is subject to devastating floods: the great monarch’s conquest of Nature is not without its setbacks. The Horseman remains secure in his saddle, but the powerless Eugene, distractedly mounted backwards on a stone lion, sees all his dreams literally washed away. The particular form of Eugene’s resulting madness with its echoes of Don Juan heightens this contrast to an absurd degree.
There are, however, not two but three personages occupying the narrative space of The Bronze Horseman, the last represented by the poet-narrator himself. Incidentally, the original is fully executed in verse. We have chosen to render only the prologue in its rhymed iambic tetrameter, rendering its narrative section in metered (iambic octameter) prose. The poet’s paean to Peter’s city (beginning with “I love thee, Peter’s own creation …”) comprises some of the most famous lines in all of Russian literature and establishes the poet as mediator between Peter and Eugene. He celebrates the former’s indisputable accomplishment: this expression of St. Petersburg’s uncanny beauty has never been equaled. Yet he also acknowledges the human tragedy that Peter’s unwavering and merciless will made inevitable. The poet holds these two aspects in a delicate balance, with no attempt at resolution. And it is precisely the irreconcilability, the irreducible complexity of life, which is, if anything, the meaning of the poem. To insist on resolving the dilemma in Bronze Horseman is in fact to impoverish the poem—even to misread it, since its meaning in the profoundest sense is the dilemma it constructs.
Our third Pushkin selection, The Queen of Spades, is a fully representative sample of Pushkin’s experimentation with the prose narrative, a form which he felt was produced by a creative process radically different from poetic inspiration. Elegant to the point of dryness, with a minimum use of descriptive modifiers (especially prevalent in Romantic poetry), the Queen of Spades succeeds in its kaleidoscopic density of narrative information, its unexpected twists of plot and meanings, shifts in the narrative time-line, and in the very meaning of concepts presented. The story, to which Petersburg again functions as an important backdrop, is a splendid victory of Pushkin’s verbal narrative craft, involving a mock story of the supernatural (à la Hoffman), a mock romance, a mock murder with a mock weapon, a mock mystery—all framed by an elegantly symmetrical beginning and ending, both of which involve a depiction of a closed room in which different people play cards with very different outcomes. The Queen of Spades is also Pushkin’s glorious achievement in the portraiture of the exceptional man (exceptional not in the term’s superlative sense, but rather in the sense of an outsider) as the varied permutations of his persona appear to others and to himself. It is also one of the first major Russian prose works dealing with the subject of madness—a state of mind vibrantly explored in the volume by such varied writers as Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, et al—but also a state of mind elevated to the level of exceptionality by the Romantic movement itself. The focus of the plot revolves around the secret of three winning cards, a secret of unique interest to the protagonist of the story, Herman. A descendant of Germans (implicitly of those who helped Peter to found the city) who, instead of following reason and the disciplined work for which his forefathers were famous in Russia, goes insane due to his fixation on the three-card sequence and the idea of enriching himself with it. Petersburg functions as the midpoint as well as the final disposition of the protagonist’s march towards insanity.
We thus have two narratives in which Pushkin’s protagonists are driven to madness within (and perhaps by) this eerie locale. Such are, however, only the explicit degrees of madness Pushkin explores in these narratives. Switching our focus back to the first, we must note that this “Petersburg Tale” speaks to the motif so important in planning for any future, namely the irrational foundation of a utopian city built in the middle of nowhere and the historical consequences of this. Considering the fact that Peter chose the most inhospitable site—a place of swamps, shifting river banks, and floods—we must conclude it was a priori Peter’s madness that forced future inhabitants of his creation to succumb to the same malady. Note that although we have preserved the poem’s standard English title, Pushkin in fact does not use the word bronze. The poem’s true title is The Copper Horseman and Peter’s fame is thus rung not on sonorous bronze—a noble metal and a metaphor for lasting fame—but on tinny copper. Aware of its hollow sound, Pushkin may have intended Falconet’s equestrian figure to morph in readers’ minds into a tin soldier, or as Ecclesiastes would say: vanitas vanitatum. The city as a utopian and dystopian space for human habitation is richly represented in this volume—especially in the section devoted to Russian early modern utopian works, the writings of Gogol’ and Dostoevsky, as well as in the fiction of the Symbolists—but The Bronze Horseman is the first major elaboration of such a theme in Russia.
(fragment)
What nimble thoughts do not then brim my sleep-drowned mind?
Derzhavin
I
October’s long been here—and the grove’s already shaking
From off its naked boughs the leaves that cling there still;
The road grows harder as it feels the fall wind’s raking.
The stream still runs its course and babbles past the mill,
But icebound lies the pond; my neighbor now is taking
His hunting pack in haste to fields far over hill,
The fall crop suffers from their wild and reckless playing,
And drowsing woods are startled by the hound’s sharp baying.
II
The Autumn is my time: Spring’s never to my taste;
The weary thaw, the slush, the reek—spring sets me sneezing;
My blood is roused, by sadness heart and mind oppressed.
Gruff Winter by my seasoned count is far more pleasing,
I love her snows; when by the moon your sleigh glides fast
And free and light—there is your sweetheart’s ardor teasing;
How fresh and warm she is, wrapped in that sable bed,
She grips your hand, she trembles, and her cheeks glow red.
III
How gay, our boots now shod with well-honed iron crescents,
To glide across the frozen rivers’ mirror-glow!
And when the sparkling holidays demand our presence?…
But draw the line; full half a year of snow on snow—
When all is said and done, the very burrow’s tenant,
The bear, grows bored with that. We can’t forever go
A-sleighing with Armidas, however young and handsome,
Or sour at the stove, behind a double transom.
IV
O Summer fair! Alas, my love for you might grow,
Were not your heat and dust, your insects so assailing.
All higher sentiments of ours you soon bring low,
You harrow us, we wither like the meadows parched and failing.
How best to slake our thirst, how cool refreshment know,
No other thoughts have we—Dame Winter’s end bewailing,
With wine and pancakes having sent her on her way,
We make her requiem with ice and with sorbet.
V
The days of waning Autumn almost none admires,
And yet, dear reader, I’ll admit to you I’m drawn
To her calm beauty, to her softly glowing fires;
A slighted child, of whom her family’s not fond,
She lures me to her side. If anyone inquires,
With Autumn’s days alone I feel a joyous bond.
She offers much that’s good; a not vainglorious lover,
I find my fancy really quite enamoured of her.
VI
How to explain this? She appeals to me, I think,
As might perhaps a delicate consumptive lass be
Appealing just to you. Condemned in death to sink,
Her days without revolt or rage serenely passing,
Her fading lips are smiling. And, on its very brink,
The chasm she sees not, her peril not yet grasping;
Life’s crimson tincture on her visage yet may play.
Alive this moment, but tomorrow—lifeless clay.
VII
Enchantment of the eyes! O sweet yet mournful season,
Your splendors as they fade grow dear, and make me glad—
For in her waning days is Nature sumptuous, pleasing,
The forests all in crimson and in gold are clad;
Beneath their shade—the wind-rush, and a freshness breathing,
With coils of swirling haze are now the heavens spread,
A ray of sun is rare, the early frosts come searing,
And other still-faint signs disclose gray winter’s nearing.
VIII
I bloom anew each time the leaves come whirling down;
Our frigid Russian air for me is healthy, bracing;
Anew I come to love my habits’ daily round:
Sleep, wakefulness and hunger come in timely pacing;
With joy and lightness in my heart the humors bound,
I’m young again and blithe—desires through me are racing,
Again I brim with life—such is my organism.
(Kind reader, pardon this intrusive prosaism.)
IX
They bring my horse to me, and through the distant clearing
With flowing mane a-toss, he bears his rider on,
Beneath his gleaming hoof resounds with icy pealing
The valley floor, now frozen, and the crackling pond.
But then the brief day wanes, the hearthside embers yielding
A fiery glow—it brightly flares and then is gone,
But slowly gone—and here before it I sit reading,
The while with long-spun thoughts my fancy feeding.
X
And I forget the world—in sweet serenity
Then sweetly am I lulled by my imagination,
And thereupon does poetry awake in me:
My soul is stirred, opressed by lyric agitation,
It shivers and it chimes, and seeks, as in a dream,
To issue forth at last in streams of free creation.
And many guests then visit me in unseen swarm,
All old acquaintances, my musings gave them form.
XI
And through my slumbering mind do thoughts then boldly caper,
And nimble, flowing rhymes to meet them lightly course,
My eager fingers long for pen, my pen for paper,
An instant more—and forth comes freely flowing verse.
Thus sleep-drowned lies a ship becalmed in breathless vapor,
But look!—the boatswain calls, the crewmen stir, disperse,
Swarm up and down the masts, with sails at full wind’s power
The giant now awakes, the cresting swell devours.
XII
It sails. Where shall we sail?………………
………………………………………………..
A Petersburg Tale
(The event described in this tale is based on fact. Details of the flood have been borrowed from contemporary journals. The curious may have recourse to the acccount captured by V. N. Berkh)
FOREWORD
Upon a shore of trackless waves
Stood HE; immersed in thoughts, his gaze
Was fixed afar. The river’s current
Rushed broadly by. A skiff made way
Along it on some lonely errand.
Along the mossy, marshy strand
Small blackened huts were wont to stand
In which the starveling Finn took cover,
And forest—midst this darkened land
Where mist-cloaked sun but dimly hovered—
Still murmured ‘round.
And thus HE thought:
From here the prideful Swede we menace,
Here shall a city-fort be wrought
To forge our haughty neighbor’s penance.
Here Fate and Nature both ordain
We mount a westward window-pane,
Stand fast beside this ocean channel.
New flags, through once uncharted swells
To visit us now Fate compels,
And we shall keep our feast untrammeled.
A hundred years the city stood,
Once fledgling fort, now Northlands’ wonder,
From marshy fen and shady wood
It rose in all its pride and splendor;
Where once, Creation’s foster-child,
The Finn in humble skiff would wallow,
As he, alone on shorelines wild,
Cast wide upon the empty billow
His tattered nets—those shores along,
Now newly animate, there throng
Our comely mansions, lofty spires.
A horde of ships comes here to berth
From every corner of the Earth,
Each one rich mooring now requires.
In granite garments goes Neva;
Above it bridges arc, suspended;
With verdant gardens greenly splendid
Are nowadays her islands clad.
And now before this youthful city
Old Moscow dips her age-dimmed shield,
Thus to a new queen is befitting
That royal Dowager should yield.
I love Thee, Peter’s true creation,
I love Thy grave and graceful cast,
Neva’s majestic undulation
Within its stone embankments clasped,
Thy iron railings’ artful twining,
Thy midnights, pensive, dimly lit—
Transparent dusk and moonless shining—
When I within my chamber sit,
And write or turn to reading, lampless,
As clearly gleam the sleeping mansions
Along Thine empty streets, and bright
The Admiralty mast’s alight,
When all nocturnal shade forbidding
Upon the golden skies to lour,
One dawn hies to another’s bidding,
And bates to night but half an hour.
I love thy winters cruelly bracing,
Their frosts, that bite when no wind blows,
The sleighs that by Neva go racing,
Girls’ cheeks more bright than any rose.
The flash, the stir of ballroom chatter,
The hiss as goblets foam and flow
When bachelors meet to feast and clatter,
The flaming punch, its pale blue glow.
I love the war-like animation
Where strife is play in Martial fields,
When Foot and Horse troops clash and wheel,
Their pleasing, ordered coloration
As in their serried ranks they sway,
Their flags, victorious though tattered,
The gleam upon their helms of copper,
Shot through and riddled in the fray.
I love Thee, Russia’s bastion-city,
Thy ramparts’ smoke and fearsome roar
When Northland’s Queen—a gift most fitting—
A scion to the scepter bore,
When triumph o’er the foe once more
Rossiya hymns with joyful voices,
Or when Neva sheds Winter’s vise,
And casts asea her dark blue ice.
And, sensing vernal days, rejoices.
Be splendid then, Great Peter’s Port,
Unshakable, as is our nation.
The elements Thy favor court,
Untamed and wild from their creation,
The Finnish billows’ will to thwart,
Their ancient quarrels, be forgotten.
Let not their fury ill-begotten
Disquiet Peter’s timeless dream!
A time of terror it has been,
Still fresh in painful recollection …
Of it, my friends—for amity—
I now take up my retrospection.
My story will be full of woe.
PART I
Above a gloomy Petrograd November breathed the chill of autumn. Confined by handsome granite banks and splashing them with noisy billows, Neva was thrashing like a patient in a bed that gives no ease. It grew quite late and dark, the raindrops lashed the panes as if in anger. A doleful wind was blowing, howling. Young Evgeny by this time had left his friends and started home. I think we’ll have our hero carry that name, it has a sound that’s pleasing to the ear; and what is more, my pen has long been easy with its sound. His surname we won’t need, though ages past it may perhaps have borne a luster, once resounding (thanks here to Karamzin) down through the annals of our native land. But nowadays it’s quite forgotten by le monde and our young man lives in Kolomna, holds his place, avoids the swells and doesn’t vex his head about his sleeping sires, or times forgotten long ago.
Thus, once at home, Evgeny shed his cloak, undressed, and went to bed. But it was long before he slept, as many troubling thoughts beset him. What were these thoughts? The fact that he was poor, and therefore through much labor would be constrained to win himself both independence and repute: that Heaven might have granted him more gold and wit—he had encountered God knows, his share of lucky clods, of muddle-headed layabouts who had an easy row to hoe, while he’d logged just two years in service. He noticed then the storm was not abating, and the river’s crest had risen, was still rising, that some bridges must be down by now. Parasha and himself for two days, maybe three, must now be parted. Evgeny sighed a heartfelt sigh, sank deep in dreams, as poets do:
“To marry? Well, why ever not? It is, of course, a solemn step, but what of that—I’m young and hale, I’ll gladly toil from morn to evening. Somehow or other I’ll procure a simple, quiet little nest and lodge Parasha snugly there. I’ll put in one more year, perhaps, then get a better berth—and let Parasha manage family matters and raise our sons and daughters … With her hand in mine we’ll start life’s journey, and go our ways, until we die, a grandchild then may bury us …”
Such were his dreams. And all that night he felt oppressed, and willed—but vainly—the wind to howl less gloomily, the rain to beat upon the pane less angrily …
His weary eyes no sooner closed in sleep than the stormy mists of night dispersed, and pallid dawn announced the day… A frightful day!
All night Neva had battled seawards, fought the storm, yet failed to overcome its wild caprice … and lost the will to struggle … That dawn then found the river’s banks aswarm with teeming crowds. They marveled at the spray, the towering waves, the waters’ wrathful foam. But now Neva, its outlet to the gulf debarred by lashing northers, surged backwards in its course, enraged, aggrieved, and flooded all the isles; the weather rose from bad to worse, the swollen spate set up a roar, it seethed and steamed, a mighty cauldron—then suddenly in bestial frenzy, fell on the city. And before it all at once took flight, retreated, and all was empty—then the waters found their way into the vaults and rose to flood canals. Petropolis was whelmed like Triton, wading waist-deep in the main.
Assault! Attack! Malignant waves like thieves break through the window casements, as prows of empty boats now smash the glazing. Now hawker’s trays with awnings sodden, with bits of shops, of beams and roofs, the goods attained through prudent trade, and destitution’s faded trifles, and bridges borne off by the tempest, and coffins washed from flooded tombs—all swim the streets!
The people see God’s wrath and bide His rod. Alas! All vanished, food and hearth, and shelter! What can we do?
In that same year of dread did Russia’s Tsar, now gone. with all due glory reign. He stepped onto his balcony, cast down and grieved. He said “To countermand what God ordains no Tsar has warrant.” He pensive sat, with mournful eye he gazed on this calamity. The city squares now stood like lakes, and streets into them broadly rushed like rivers, wild. The palace loomed, resembling then a gloomy island. From end to end, from streets nearby and far, the Tsar sent word: despite the peril of the rising spate, his generals set out to save the city folk, bemused by terror, and drowning at their very hearthsides.
Then—on the square that bore great Peter’s name, just where a new built mansion had been raised up, and on its perron crouched, with paws up thrust, two Lion sentries keeping watch—astride now on a beast of marble, Evgeny sat, his arms crossed on his breast, immobile, hatless, pale. Poor man, his heart was overcome by deadly fear. Not for his own sake. He did not hear the now voracious wave that rose to lick his soles, nor heed the rain that lashed his features, nor yet the wildly howling wind that suddenly had filched his hat. His gaze, full of a bleak despairing, was fixed in one and only one direction, did not turn aside. Like mountains from the depths, bestirred and angered still, the waves reared up. Most fiercely then the wind was howling, wreckage churned … Great Heaven!
Alas—just on that very spot, right where those savage waves now break, just on the Gulf, had stood a fence in need of paint, a willow tree, the shabby cote where they had lived, the widow and her child, Parasha, his sweetest hope! Or but a dream? Is human life, perhaps, an empty vision, a thing of nothingness, a joke on Heaven’s part that Earth must bear? And he, as if bewitched, as if enchained upon the marble Lion, cannot dismount. Around him now is nothing to be seen but waves! And with its back to him, uplifted on a height as yet unshaken, above Neva now sorely vexed, still looms with mighty arm outstretched the Idol on his steed of bronze.
But then, well sated with destruction, weary of this crude rebellion, Neva crept backwards, as she made her way surveyed with pride her doings; and heedlessly she let her booty drop. So might a highwayman, who with his savage band storms through a town: he breaks and enters, slashing, he crushes and despoils; then—shrieks and gnashing, rapine, fear and howls!… Yet burdened by his spoil, and fearing close pursuit, at last he falters. And now the bandits hurry homeward, dropping loot along the way.
The water ebbed, the pavement came to light once more, and our young man makes haste, his spirit quailing as he goes—with hope, with dread and longing—straight to the river, barely tamed. Yet prideful of their victory, the waters seethed in malice, just as if beneath them flames still burned, the foam still overspread them as before. Neva drew ragged breath, a charger returned from battle. My Evgeny looks, espies a skiff—thank God! He runs towards it, calls the boatman to his aid, who scorns the risk and for a mite agrees to ferry him across the fearsome billows.
Then long with practiced oar the boatman brooked the stormy combers. And every moment saw the little skiff and daring oarsmen seem to disappear in their troughs—at last they made safe landing on the distant beach-head.
The hapless youth flies down the well-known street to find familiar spots. He looks, there’s naught to fix on. Horrid sight! Whatever meets his vision is heaped up, tumbled down, or simply gone. Some houses there were knocked askew, some quite destroyed, and others there the waves had overturned; and all about, as on a battlefield, the bodies lay. Evgeny, uncomprehending, rushes on. Now near to swooning with his fear, he flies to where—a folded missive tightly sealed, its news unknown and unforeseen—his Fate awaits. And now he races through the outskirts, and there’s the bay, the nearby cote … But what is this?
He stops, returns, retraces every step and looks, in this spot should their dwelling stand. The willow’s there… the gate beside it—gone, it seems. But where’s the house gone? And, full of dark presentiment he walks the circuit, twice he walks it, debating loudly with himself—then strikes his forehead, starts to laugh.
The mists of night came down and cloaked the anxious byways; the city folk delayed their rest as all together they recalled the day just past.
The rays of morning gleamed from pale and weary cloudbanks upon the quiet capital, already found no lasting trace of yesterday’s despair. The royal glow of dawn disguised the woe. All took up its accustomed course. Along the streets, now unencumbered, the people went their ways with cool aplomb. The tribe of penmen quit their nightly lodgings, set forth to their work. Tradesmen, hail and brash, tenaciously uncovered all their stores Neva had drowned and rifled. They schemed to make their losses good, and gouge their neighbors. From the yards the boats are carried.
Count Khvostov,
a bard, beloved of the gods, already hymned in deathless verse the fate Neva’s embankments suffered.
But poor Evgeny, my poor youth … Alas, his mind was now unbalanced, could not prevail, prove master of this horrid shock. The stormy roar Neva and all the winds had made still echoed in his ears. Black musings, but wordless, drove him on. He was beset by a tormenting dream. A week went by, and then a month—he never sought his former lodgings. The lease expired, the landlord let his corner out to some poor bard. Evgeny never happened by to get his things. He soon became a stranger to the world. He wandered throughout the day, slept on the dockside, and lived on scraps from kitchen windows. The threadbare clothing that he wore grew frayed, and moldered. Spiteful urchins threw their stones as he passed by. Not seldom did the coachman’s whiplash cut him, for he never seemed to see them, or mark the roadway—simply failed to notice. He was made deaf by inner tumult and its din. And thus his wretched life dragged on, not beast, not man—no more at home with living men, not yet a specter …
He slept
once down among the wharves. The summer days were winding downward towards the fall. A chill wind blew. The murky rolling waves would splash upon the wharf with restive foam, and tap the rain-slicked stairs, but feebly, as plaintiffs vainly tap the doors of judges who refuse to hear. The poor tramp woke. How dreary: raindrops fell, a mournful wind was keening, and through the dark of night, from far-off streets, the watchman gave reply … Evgeny flinched: the memories of horrors past for him were real; he rose to wander off, then halted suddenly, and fell to gazing quite slowly all around, a freakish terror on his face. He found himself before the columns of a stately house. Its perron bore, with paws upthrust as though alive, two Lion sentries keeping vigil. And opposite, against a darkened sky, atop the warded cliff the Idol with his out-flung arm still sat upon his steed of bronze.
Evgeny shuddered, then his reason cleared. In fear-struck recognition he knew the spot where once the flood had played, where predatory billows had surged around him, mutinous and cruel. The Lions and the square, and He who in the murk, unshaken, held his bronzen head uplifted, the One whose fatal will had built this city on the ocean verges…How fearsome was He in the circling mists! Upon his brow what thoughts are gathered, what power is in Him concealed! What fire animates his steed! Where do you gallop, prideful steed? Where will your hoof-beats land their mark? O mighty lord of Destiny—above the depthless void, did you not, with iron bit, make Rus to caracole on high and leap?
Around the idol’s pedestal of stone the wretched madman paced, his wild eyes fixed upon the One whose gaze had once swayed half the planet. His breast contracted as he lent his head against the iron pale, his eyes were clouded over, a flame was coursing through his heart, the blood within him seethed. Morose before the haughty bronzen image, he clenched his teeth and made a fist, as if demonic force possessed him: “Take care, you wonder-builder,” he then hissed, atremble in his spite, “I’ll get you yet…!” Then suddenly he fled, in desperate haste retreating. It seemed to him the awesome Tsar, upon an instant flaming up in wrath, had slowly turned to face him… And Evgeny through the square, now emptied, ran headlong, hearing at his back—a sound like rolling thunder peals—the heavy, ringing hoof-beats clatter down the shaken cobble-stones. And by the pallid moon illumined, arm out-flung and pointing upwards, the Bronzen Horseman now pursues him on His thunder-gaited steed; and that whole night the wretched madman fled, at every turn he took the Bronzen Horseman followed him, pursued him with a heavy hoof-beat.
And from that day when, as might be, Evgeny came across that square, his face reflected inner consternation. Quickly to his heart he’d press his hand, as if to soothe the torment that he felt within. He’d doff his tattered forage cap, forbear to lift his flustered glances, and sidle off.
A tiny island can be seen
offshore. At times a fisherman out trolling late will moor there with his net and tackle to cook his meager meal. Or else a civil servant comes to see this barren islet on his Sunday pleasure sail. No blade of grass now will grace this spot. The playful spate had driven there a shabby hut. It stood above the water, looking like a blackened hedge. Last Spring they hauled it off by barge. Inside the dwelling there was nothing but wreckage and decay. Stretched out upon the threshold of the hut they found my madman. Then and there they laid to rest his frozen corpse for kindness sake.
Translated by A.L. and M. K.
The Queen of Spades signifies a secret misfortune.
FROM A RECENT BOOK ON FORTUNE-TELLING
CHAPTER ONE
And on rainy days
They gathered
Often;
Their stakes—God help them!—
Wavered from fifty
To a hundred,
And they won
And marked up their winnings
With chalk.
Thus on rainy days
Were they
Busy.
There was a card party one day in the rooms of Narumov, an officer of the Horse Guards. The long winter evening slipped by unnoticed; it was five o’clock in the morning before the assembly sat down to supper. Those who had won ate with a big appetite; the others sat distractedly before their empty plates. But champagne was brought in, the conversation became more lively, and everyone took a part in it.
“And how did you get on, Surin?” asked the host.
“As usual, I lost. I must confess, I have no luck: I never vary my stake, never get heated, never lose my head, and yet I always lose!”
“And weren’t you tempted even once to back on a series …? Your strength of mind astonishes me.”
“What about Hermann then,” said one of the guests, pointing at the young Engineer. “He’s never held a card in his hand, never doubled a single stake in his life, and yet he sits up until five in the morning watching us play.”
“The game fascinates me,” said Hermann, “but I am not in the position to sacrifice the essentials of life in the hope of acquiring the luxuries.”
“Hermann’s a German: he’s cautious—that’s all,” Tomskii observed. “But if there’s one person I can’t understand, it’s my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna.”
“How? Why?” the guests inquired noisily.
“I can’t understand why it is,” Tomskii continued, “that my grandmother doesn’t gamble.”
“But what’s so astonishing about an old lady of eighty not gambling?” asked Narumov.
“Then you don’t know…?”
“No, indeed; I know nothing.”
“Oh well, listen then:
“You must know that about sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she made something of a hit. People used to chase after her to catch a glimpse of la vénus moscovite; Richelieu paid court to her, and my grandmother vouches that he almost shot himself on account of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play faro. On one occasion at the Court, my grandmother lost a very great deal of money on credit to the Duke of Orleans. Returning home, she removed the patches from her face, took off her hooped petticoat, announced her loss to my grandfather and ordered him to pay back the money. My late grandfather, as far as I can remember, was a sort of lackey to my grandmother. He feared her like fire; on hearing of such a disgraceful loss, however, he completely lost his temper; he produced his accounts, showed her that she had spent half a million francs in six months, pointed out that neither their Moscow nor their Saratov estates were in Paris, and refused point-blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and went off to sleep on her own as an indication of her displeasure. In the hope that this domestic infliction would have had some effect on him, she sent for her husband the next day; she found him unshakeable. For the first time in her life she approached him with argument and explanation, thinking that she could bring him to reason by pointing out that there are debts and debts, that there is a big difference between a Prince and a coach-maker. But my grandfather remained adamant, and flatly refused to discuss the subject any further. My grandmother did not know what to do. A little while before, she had become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St-Germain, about whom so many marvelous stories are related. You know that he held himself out to be the Wandering Jew, and the inventor of the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone and so forth. Some ridiculed him as a charlatan and in his memoirs Casanova declares that he was a spy. However, St-Germain, in spite of the mystery which surrounded him, was a person of venerable appearance and much in demand in society. My grandmother is still quite infatuated with him and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks of him with disrespect. My grandmother knew that he had large sums of money at his disposal. She decided to have recourse to him, and wrote asking him to visit her without delay. The eccentric old man at once called on her and found her in a state of terrible grief. She depicted her husband’s barbarity in the blackest light, and ended by saying that she pinned all her hopes on his friendship and kindness.
“St-Germain reflected. ‘I could let you have this sum,’ he said, ‘but I know that you would not be at peace while in my debt, and I have no wish to bring fresh troubles upon your head. There is another solution — you can win back the money.’
“‘But, my dear Count,’ my grandmother replied, ‘I tell you —we have no money at all.’
“‘In this case money is not essential,’ St-Germain replied. ‘Be good enough to hear me out.’
“And at this point he revealed to her the secret for which any one of us here would give a very great deal…”
The young gamblers listened with still greater attention. Tomskii lit his pipe, drew on it and continued:
“That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles, au jeu de la Reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; inventing some small tale, my grandmother lightly excused herself for not having brought her debt, and began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won and my grandmother recouped herself completely.”
“Pure luck!” said one of the guests.
“A fairy-tale,” observed Hermann.
“Perhaps the cards were marked!” said a third.
“I don’t think so,” Tomskii replied gravely.
“What!” cried Narumov. “You have a grandmother who can guess three cards in succession, and you haven’t yet contrived to learn her secret.”
“No, not much hope of that!” replied Tomskii. “She had four sons, including my father; all four were desperate gamblers, and yet she did not reveal her secret to a single one of them, although it would have been a good thing if she had told them—told me, even. But this is what I heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Il’ich, and he gave me his word for its truth. The late Chaplitskii—the same who died a pauper after squandering millions—in his youth once lost nearly 300,000 roubles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was most strict in her attitude towards the extravagances of young men, for some reason took pity on Chaplitskii. She told him the three cards on condition that he played them in order; and at the same time she exacted his solemn promise that he would never play again as long as he lived. Chaplitskii appeared before his victor; they sat down to play. On the first card Chaplitskii staked 50,000 roubles and won straight off; he doubled his stake, redoubled—and won back more than he had lost….
“But it’s time to go to bed; it’s already a quarter to six.”
Indeed, the day was already beginning to break. The young men drained their glasses and dispersed.
CHAPTER TWO
“Il paraît que monsieur est décidément pour les suivantes.”
“Que voulez-vous, madame? Elles sont plus fraîches.”
FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION
The old Countess *** was seated before the looking-glass in her dressing-room. Three lady’s maids stood by her. One held a jar of rouge, another a box of hairpins, and the third a tall bonnet with flame-coloured ribbons. The Countess no longer had the slightest pretensions to beauty, which had long since faded from her face, but she still preserved all the habits of her youth, paid strict regard to the fashions of the seventies, and devoted to her dress the same time and attention as she had done sixty years before. At an embroidery frame by the window sat a young lady, her ward.
“Good morning, grand’maman!” said a young officer as he entered the room. “Bonjour, mademoiselle Lise. Grand’maman, I have a request to make of you.”
“What is it, Paul?”
“I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow me to bring him to the ball on Friday.”
“Bring him straight to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at ***’s yesterday?”
“Of course. It was very gay; we danced until five in the morning. How charming Eletskaia was!”
“But, my dear, what’s charming about her? Isn’t she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna …? By the way, I dare say she’s grown very old now, the Princess Daria Petrovna …?”
“What do you mean, ‘grown old’?” asked Tomskii thoughtlessly. “She’s been dead for seven years.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young man. He remembered then that the death of any of her contemporaries was kept secret from the old Countess, and he bit his lip. But the Countess heard the news, previously unknown to her, with the greatest indifference.
“Dead!” she said. “And I didn’t know it. We were maids of honour together, and when we were presented, the Empress …”
And for the hundredth time the Countess related the anecdote to her grandson.
“Come, Paul,” she said when she had finished her story, “help me to stand up. Lisanka, where’s my snuff-box?”
And with her three maids the Countess went behind a screen to complete her dress. Tomskii was left alone with the young lady.
“Whom do you wish to introduce?” Lisaveta Ivanovna asked softly.
“Narumov. Do you know him?”
“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”
“A soldier.”
“An Engineer?”
“No, he’s in the Cavalry. What made you think he was an Engineer?”
The young lady smiled but made no reply.
“Paul!” cried the Countess from behind the screen. “Bring along a new novel with you some time, will you, only please not one of those modern ones.”
“What do you mean, grand’maman?”
“I mean not the sort of novel in which the hero strangles either of his parents or in which someone is drowned. I have a great horror of drowned people.”
“Such novels don’t exist nowadays. Wouldn’t you like a Russian one?”
“Are there such things? Send me one, my dear, please send me one.”
“Will you excuse me now, grand’maman, I’m in a hurry. Good-bye, Lisaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?”
And Tomskii left the dressing-room.
Lisaveta Ivanovna was left on her own; she put aside her work and began to look out of the window. Presently a young officer appeared from behind the corner house on the other side of the street. A flush spread over her cheeks; she took up her work again and lowered her head over the frame. At this moment, the Countess returned, fully dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lisanka,” she said, “and we’ll go for a drive.”
Lisanka got up from behind her frame and began to put away her work.
“What’s the matter with you, my child? Are you deaf?” shouted the Countess. “Order the carriage this minute.”
“I’ll do so at once,” the young lady replied softly and hastened into the ante-room.
A servant entered the room and handed the Countess some books from the Prince Pavel Alexandrovich.
“Good, thank him,” said the Countess. “Lisanka, Lisanka, where are you running to?”
“To get dressed.”
“Plenty of time for that, my dear. Sit down. Open the first volume and read to me.”
The young lady took up the book and read a few lines.
“Louder!” said the Countess. “What’s the matter with you, my child? Have you lost your voice, or what …? Wait … move that footstool up to me … nearer … that’s right!”
Lisaveta Ivanovna read a further two pages. The Countess yawned.
“Put the book down,” she said; “what rubbish! Have it returned to Prince Pavel with my thanks…. But where is the carriage?”
“The carriage is ready,” said Lisaveta Ivanovna, looking out into the street.
“Then why aren’t you dressed?” asked the Countess. “I’m always having to wait for you—it’s intolerable, my dear!” Lisa ran up to her room. Not two minutes elapsed before the Countess began to ring with all her might. The three lady’s maids came running in through one door and the valet through another.
“Why don’t you come when you’re called?” the Countess asked them. “Tell Lisaveta Ivanovna that I’m waiting for her.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna entered the room wearing her hat and cloak.
“At last, my child!” said the Countess. “But what clothes you’re wearing …! Whom are you hoping to catch? What’s the weather like? It seems windy.”
“There’s not a breath of wind, your Ladyship,” replied the valet.
“You never know what you’re talking about! Open that small window. There; as I thought: windy and bitterly cold. Unharness the horses. Lisaveta, we’re not going out—there was no need to dress up like that.”
“And this is my life,” thought Lisaveta Ivanovna.
And indeed Lisaveta Ivanovna was a most unfortunate creature. As Dante says: “You shall learn the salt taste of another’s bread, and the hard path up and down his stairs”; and who better to know the bitterness of dependence than the poor ward of a well-born old lady? The Countess *** was far from being wicked, but she had the capriciousness of a woman who has been spoiled by the world, and the miserliness and cold-hearted egotism of all old people who have done with loving and whose thoughts lie with the past. She took part in all the vanities of the haut-monde; she dragged herself to balls, where she sat in a corner, rouged and dressed in old-fashioned style, like some misshapen but essential ornament of the ballroom; on arrival, the guests would approach her with low bows, as if in accordance with an established rite, but after that, they would pay no further attention to her. She received the whole town at her house, and although no longer able to recognise the faces of her guests, she observed the strictest etiquette. Her numerous servants, grown fat and grey in her hall and servants’ room, did exactly as they pleased, vying with one another in stealing from the dying old lady. Lisaveta Ivanovna was the household martyr. She poured out the tea, and was reprimanded for putting in too much sugar; she read novels aloud, and was held guilty of all the faults of the authors; she accompanied the Countess on her walks, and was made responsible for the state of the weather and the pavement. There was a salary attached to her position, but it was never paid; meanwhile, it was demanded of her to be dressed like everybody else—that is, like the very few who could afford to dress well. In society she played the most pitiable role. Everybody knew her, but nobody took any notice of her; at balls she danced only when there was a partner short, and ladies only took her arm when they needed to go to the dressing-room to make some adjustment to their dress. She was proud and felt her position keenly, and looked around her in impatient expectation of a deliverer; but the young men, calculating in their flightiness, did not honour her with their attention, despite the fact that Lisaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than the cold, arrogant but more eligible young ladies on whom they danced attendance. Many a time did she creep softly away from the bright but wearisome drawing-room to go and cry in her own poor room, where stood a papered screen, a chest of drawers, a small looking-glass and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow candle burned dimly in its copper candle-stick.
One day—two days after the evening described at the beginning of this story, and about a week previous to the events just recorded—Lisaveta Ivanovna was sitting at her embroidery frame by the window, when, happening to glance out into the street, she saw a young Engineer, standing motionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered her head and continued with her work; five minutes later she looked out again—the young officer was still standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of flirting with passing officers, she ceased to look out of the window, and sewed for about two hours without raising her head. Dinner was announced. She got up and began to put away her frame, and, glancing casually out into the street, she saw the officer again. She was considerably puzzled by this. After dinner, she approached the window with a feeling of some disquiet, but the officer was no longer outside, and she thought no more of him.
Two days later, while preparing to enter the carriage with the Countess, she saw him again. He was standing just by the front-door, his face concealed by a beaver collar; his dark eyes shone from beneath his cap. Without knowing why, Lisaveta Ivanovna felt afraid, and an unaccountable trembling came over her as she sat down in the carriage.
On her return home, she hastened to the window—the officer was standing in the same place as before, his eyes fixed upon her; she drew back, tormented by curiosity and agitated by a feeling that was quite new to her.
Since then, not a day had passed without the young man appearing at the customary hour beneath the windows of their house. A sort of mute acquaintance grew up between them. At work in her seat, she used to feel him approaching, and would raise her head to look at him—for longer and longer each day.
The young man seemed to be grateful to her for this: she saw, with the sharp eye of youth, how a sudden flush would spread across his pale cheeks on each occasion that their glances met. After a week she smiled at him…. When Tomskii asked leave of the Countess to introduce one of his friends to her, the poor girl’s heart beat fast. But on learning that Narumov was in the Horse Guards, and not in the Engineers, she was sorry that, by an indiscreet question, she had betrayed her secret to the light-hearted Tomskii.
Hermann was the son of a Russianised German, from whom he had inherited a small amount of money. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of ensuring his independence, Hermann did not draw on the income that this yielded, but lived on his pay, forbidding himself the slightest extravagance. Moreover, he was secretive and ambitious, and his companions rarely had occasion to laugh at his excessive thrift. He had strong passions and a fiery imagination, but his tenacity of spirit saved him from the usual errors of youth. Thus, for example, although at heart a gambler, he never took a card in his hand, for he reckoned that his position did not allow him (as he put it) “to sacrifice the essentials of life in the hope of acquiring the luxuries”—and meanwhile, he would sit up at the card table for whole nights at a time, and follow the different turns of the game with feverish anxiety.
The story of the three cards had made a strong impression on his imagination, and he could think of nothing else all night.
“What if the old Countess should reveal her secret to me?” he thought the following evening as he wandered through the streets of Petersburg. “What if she should tell me the names of those three winning cards? Why not try my luck …? Become introduced to her, try to win her favour, perhaps become her lover …? But all that demands time, and she’s eighty-seven; she might die in a week, in two days …! And the story itself …? Can one really believe it …? No! Economy, moderation and industry; these are my three winning cards, these will treble my capital, increase it sevenfold, and earn for me ease and independence!”
Reasoning thus, he found himself in one of the principal streets of Petersburg, before a house of old-fashioned architecture. The street was crowded with vehicles; one after another, carriages rolled up to the lighted entrance. From them there emerged, now the shapely little foot of some beautiful young woman, now a rattling jack-boot, now the striped stocking and elegant shoe of a diplomat. Furs and capes flitted past the majestic hall-porter. Hermann stopped.
“Whose house is this?” he asked the watchman at the corner.
“The Countess ***’s,” the watchman replied.
Hermann started. His imagination was again fired by the amazing story of the three cards. He began to walk around near the house, thinking of its owner and her mysterious faculty. It was late when he returned to his humble rooms; for a long time he could not sleep, and when at last he did drop off, cards, a green table, heaps of banknotes and piles of golden coins appeared to him in his dreams. He played one card after the other, doubled his stake decisively, won unceasingly, and raked in the golden coins and stuffed his pockets with the banknotes. Waking up late, he sighed at the loss of his imaginary fortune, again went out to wander about the town and again found himself outside the house of the Countess ***. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted him to it. He stopped and began to look at the windows. At one he saw a head with long black hair, probably bent down over a book or a piece of work. The head was raised. Hermann saw a small, fresh face and a pair of dark eyes. That moment decided his fate.
CHAPTER THREE
Vous m’écrivez, mon ange, des lettres de quatre
pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.
CORRESPONDENCE
Scarcely had Lisaveta Ivanovna taken off her hat and cloak when the Countess sent for her and again ordered her to have the horses harnessed. They went out to take their seats in the carriage. At the same moment as the old lady was being helped through the carriage doors by two footmen, Lisaveta Ivanovna saw her Engineer standing close by the wheel; he seized her hand; before she could recover from her fright, the young man had disappeared—leaving a letter in her hand. She hid it in her glove and throughout the whole of the drive neither heard nor saw a thing. As was her custom when riding in her carriage, the Countess kept up a ceaseless flow of questions: “Who was it who met us just now? What’s this bridge called? What’s written on that signboard?” This time Lisaveta Ivanovna’s answers were so vague and inappropriate that the Countess became angry.
“What’s the matter with you, my child? Are you in a trance or something? Don’t you hear me or understand what I’m saying …? Heaven be thanked that I’m still sane enough to speak clearly.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna did not listen to her. On returning home, she ran up to her room and drew the letter out of her glove; it was unsealed. Lisaveta Ivanovna read it through. The letter contained a confession of love; it was tender, respectful and taken word for word from a German novel. But Lisaveta Ivanovna had no knowledge of German and was most pleased by it.
Nevertheless, the letter made her feel extremely uneasy. For the first time in her life she was entering into a secret and confidential relationship with a young man. His audacity shocked her. She reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour, and did not know what to do. Should she stop sitting at the window and by a show of indifference cool off the young man’s desire for further acquaintance? Should she send the letter back to him? Or answer it with cold-hearted finality? There was nobody to whom she could turn for advice: she had no friend or preceptress. Lisaveta Ivanovna resolved to answer the letter.
She sat down at her small writing-table, took a pen and some paper, and lost herself in thought. Several times she began her letter—and then tore it up; her manner of expression seemed to her to be either too condescending or too heartless. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines that satisfied her:
I am sure that your intentions are honourable, and that you did not wish to offend me by your rash behaviour, but our acquaintance must not begin in this way. I return your letter to you and hope that in the future I shall have no cause to complain of undeserved disrespect.
The next day, as soon as she saw Hermann approach, Lisaveta Ivanovna rose from behind her frame, went into the ante-room, opened a small window, and threw her letter into the street, trusting to the agility of the young officer to pick it up. Hermann ran forward, took hold of the letter and went into a confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found his own letter and Lisaveta Ivanovna’s answer. It was as he had expected, and he returned home, deeply preoccupied with his intrigue.
Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl brought Lisaveta Ivanovna a letter from a milliner’s shop. Lisaveta Ivanovna opened it uneasily, envisaging a demand for money, but she suddenly recognised Hermann’s handwriting.
“You have made a mistake, my dear,” she said: “this letter is not for me.”
“Oh, but it is!” the girl answered cheekily and without concealing a sly smile. “Read it.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna ran her eyes over the note. Hermann demanded a meeting.
“It cannot be,” said Lisaveta Ivanovna, frightened at the haste of his demand and the way in which it was made: “this is certainly not for me.”
And she tore the letter up into tiny pieces.
“If the letter wasn’t for you, why did you tear it up?” asked the girl. “I would have returned it to the person who sent it.”
“Please, my dear,” Lisaveta Ivanovna said, flushing at the remark, “don’t bring me any more letters in future. And tell the person who sent you that he should be ashamed of …”
But Hermann was not put off. By some means or other, he sent a letter to Lisaveta Ivanovna every day. The letters were no longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them inspired by passion, and used a language true to his character; these letters were the expression of his obsessive desires and the disorder of his unfettered imagination. Lisaveta Ivanovna no longer thought of returning them to him: she revelled in them, began to answer them, and with each day, her replies became longer and more tender. Finally, she threw out of the window the following letter:
This evening there is a ball at the *** Embassy. The Countess will be there. We will stay until about two o’clock. Here is your chance to see me alone. As soon as the Countess has left the house, the servants will probably go to their quarters—with the exception of the hall-porter, who normally goes out to his closet anyway. Come at half-past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody in the ante-room, ask whether the Countess is at home. You will be told ‘No’—and there will be nothing you can do but go away. But it is unlikely that you will meet anybody. The lady’s maids sit by themselves, all in the one room. On leaving the hall, turn to the left and walk straight on until you come to the Countess’ bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will see two small doors: the one on the right leads into the study, which the Countess never goes into; the one on the left leads into a corridor and thence to a narrow winding staircase: this staircase leads to my bedroom.
Hermann quivered like a tiger as he awaited the appointed hour. He was already outside the Countess’ house at ten o’clock. The weather was terrible; the wind howled, and a wet snow fell in large flakes upon the deserted streets, where the lamps shone dimly. Occasionally a passing cabdriver leaned forward over his scrawny nag, on the look-out for a late passenger. Feeling neither wind nor snow, Hermann waited, dressed only in his frock-coat. At last the Countess’ carriage was brought round. Hermann saw two footmen carry out in their arms the bent old lady, wrapped in a sable fur, and immediately following her, the figure of Lisaveta Ivanovna, clad in a light cloak, and with her head adorned with fresh flowers. The doors were slammed and the carriage rolled heavily away along the soft snow. The hall-porter closed the front door. The windows became dark. Hermann began to walk about near the deserted house; he went up to a lamp and looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes past eleven. He remained beneath the lamp, his eyes fixed upon the hands of his watch, waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At exactly half-past eleven, Hermann ascended the steps of the Countess’ house and reached the brightly-lit porch. The hall-porter was not there. Hermann ran up the stairs, opened the door into the ante-room and saw a servant asleep by the lamp in a soiled antique armchair. With a light, firm tread Hermann stepped past him. The drawing-room and reception-room were in darkness, but the lamp in the ante-room sent through a feeble light. Hermann passed through into the bedroom. Before an icon-case, filled with old-fashioned images, glowed a gold sanctuary lamp. Faded brocade armchairs and dull gilt divans with soft cushions were ranged in sad symmetry around the room, the walls of which were hung with Chinese silk. Two portraits, painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun, hung from one of the walls. One of these featured a plump, red-faced man of about forty, in a light-green uniform and with a star pinned to his breast; the other—a beautiful young woman with an aquiline nose and powdered hair, brushed back at the temples and adorned with a rose. In the corners of the room stood porcelain shepherdesses, table clocks from the workshop of the celebrated Leroy, little boxes, roulettes, fans and the various lady’s playthings which had been popular at the end of the last century, when the Montgolfiers’ balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism were invented. Hermann went behind the screen, where stood a small iron bedstead; on the right was the door leading to the study; on the left the one which led to the corridor. Hermann opened the latter, and saw the narrow, winding staircase which led to the poor ward’s room…. But he turned back and stepped into the dark study.
The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet. The clock in the drawing-room struck twelve; one by one the clocks in all the other rooms sounded the same hour, and then all was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat evenly, like that of a man who has decided upon some dangerous but necessary action. One o’clock sounded; two o’clock; he heard the distant rattle of the carriage. He was seized by an involuntary agitation. The carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of the carriage-steps being let down. The house suddenly came alive. Servants ran here and there, voices echoed through the house and the rooms were lit. Three old maid-servants hastened into the bedroom, followed by the Countess, who, tired to death, lowered herself into a Voltairean armchair. Hermann peeped through a crack. Lisaveta Ivanovna went past him. Hermann heard her hurried steps as she went up the narrow staircase. In his heart there echoed something like the voice of conscience, but it grew silent, and his heart once more turned to stone.
The Countess began to undress before the looking-glass. Her rose-bedecked cap was unfastened; her powdered wig was removed from her grey, closely-cropped hair. Pins fell in showers around her. Her yellow dress, embroidered with silver, fell at her swollen feet. Hermann witnessed all the loathsome mysteries of her dress; at last the Countess stood in her dressing-gown and night-cap; in this attire, more suitable to her age, she seemed less hideous and revolting.
Like most old people, the Countess suffered from insomnia. Having undressed; she sat down by the window in the Voltairean armchair and dismissed her maidservants. The candles were carried out; once again the room was lit by a single sanctuary lamp. Looking quite yellow, the Countess sat rocking to and fro in her chair, her flabby lips moving. Her dim eyes reflected a complete absence of thought and, looking at her, one would have thought that the awful old woman’s rocking came not of her own volition, but by the action of some hidden galvanism.
Suddenly, an indescribable change came over her death-like face. Her lips ceased to move, her eyes came to life: before the Countess stood an unknown man.
“Don’t be alarmed, for God’s sake, don’t be alarmed,” he said in a clear, low voice. “I have no intention of harming you; I have come to beseech a favour of you.”
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard him. Hermann imagined that she was deaf, and bending right down over her ear, he repeated what he had said. The old woman kept silent as before.
“You can ensure the happiness of my life,” Hermann continued, “and it will cost you nothing: I know that you can guess three cards in succession….”
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared to understand what was demanded of her; she seemed to be seeking words for her reply.
“It was a joke,” she said at last. “I swear to you, it was a joke.”
“There’s no joking about it,” Hermann retorted angrily. “Remember Chaplitskii whom you helped to win.”
The Countess was visibly disconcerted, and her features expressed strong emotion; but she quickly resumed her former impassivity.
“Can you name these three winning cards?” Hermann continued.
The Countess was silent. Hermann went on:
“For whom do you keep your secret? For your grandsons? They are rich and they can do without it; they don’t know the value of money. Your three cards will not help a spend-thrift. He who cannot keep his paternal inheritance will die in want, even if he has the devil at his side. I am not a spendthrift; I know the value of money. Your three cards will not be lost on me. Come …!”
He stopped and awaited her answer with trepidation. The Countess was silent. Hermann fell upon his knees.
If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” he said, “if you remember its ecstasies, if you ever smiled at the wailing of your new-born son, if ever any human feeling has run through your breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by everything that is sacred in life, not to deny my request! Reveal your secret to me! What is it to you …? Perhaps it is bound up with some dreadful sin, with the loss of eternal bliss, with some contract made with the devil … Consider: you are old; you have not long to live—I am prepared to take your sins on my own soul. Only reveal to me your secret. Realise that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only I, but my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren will bless your memory and will revere it as something sacred….”
The old woman answered not a word.
Hermann stood up.
“You old witch!” he said, clenching his teeth. “I’ll force you to answer….”
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket. At the sight of the pistol, the Countess, for the second time, exhibited signs of strong emotion. She shook her head and raising her hand as though to shield herself from the shot, she rolled over on her back and remained motionless.
“Stop this childish behaviour now,” Hermann said, taking her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you name your three cards or won’t you?”
The Countess made no reply. Hermann saw that she was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
7 Mai 18**
Homme sans mœurs et sans religion!
CORRESPONDENCE
Still in her ball dress, Lisaveta Ivanovna sat in her room, lost in thought. On her arrival home, she had quickly dismissed the sleepy maid who had reluctantly offered her services, had said that she would undress herself, and with a tremulous heart had gone up to her room, expecting to find Hermann there and yet hoping not to find him. Her first glance assured her of his absence and she thanked her fate for the obstacle that had prevented their meeting. She sat down, without undressing, and began to recall all the circumstances which had lured her so far in so short a time. It was not three weeks since she had first seen the young man from the window—and yet she was already in correspondence with him, and already he had managed to persuade her to grant him a nocturnal meeting! She knew his name only because some of his letters had been signed; she had never spoken to him, nor heard his voice, nor heard anything about him…until that very evening. Strange thing! That very evening, Tomskii, vexed with the Princess Polina *** for not flirting with him as she usually did, had wished to revenge himself by a show of indifference: he had therefore summoned Lisaveta Ivanovna and together they had danced an endless mazurka. All the time they were dancing, he had teased her about her partiality to officers of the Engineers, had assured her that he knew far more than she would have supposed possible, and indeed, some of his jests were so successfully aimed that on several occasions Lisaveta Ivanovna had thought that her secret was known to him.
“From whom have you discovered all this?” she asked, laughing.
“From a friend of the person whom you know so well,” Tomskii answered; “from a most remarkable man!”
“Who is this remarkable man?”
“He is called Hermann.”
Lisaveta made no reply, but her hands and feet turned quite numb.
“This Hermann,” Tomskii continued, “is a truly romantic figure: he has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I should think that he has at least three crimes on his conscience…. How pale you have turned.…!”
‘I have a headache…. What did this Hermann—or whatever his name is—tell you?”
“Hermann is most displeased with his friend: he says that he would act quite differently in his place … I even think that Hermann himself has designs on you; at any rate he listens to the exclamations of his enamoured friend with anything but indifference.”
“But where has he seen me?”
“At church, perhaps; on a walk—God only knows! Perhaps in your room, whilst you were asleep: he’s quite capable of it …”
Three ladies approaching him with the question: “oublie ou regret?” interrupted the conversation which had become so agonisingly interesting to Lisaveta Ivanovna.
The lady chosen by Tomskii was the Princess Polina *** herself. She succeeded in clearing up the misunderstanding between them during the many turns and movements of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. Tomskii returned to his own place. He no longer had any thoughts for Hermann or Lisaveta Ivanovna, who desperately wanted to renew her interrupted conversation; but the mazurka came to an end and shortly afterwards the old Countess left.
Tomskii’s words were nothing but ball-room chatter, but they made a deep impression upon the mind of the young dreamer. The portrait, sketched by Tomskii, resembled the image she herself had formed of Hermann, and thanks to the latest romantic novels, Hermann’s quite commonplace face took on attributes that both frightened and captivated her imagination. Now she sat, her uncovered arms crossed, her head, still adorned with flowers, bent over her bare shoulders…. Suddenly the door opened, and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
“Where have you been?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“In the old Countess’ bedroom,” Hermann answered: “I have just left it. The Countess is dead.”
“Good God! What are you saying?”
“And it seems,” Hermann continued, “that I am the cause of her death.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna looked at him, and the words of Tomskii echoed in her mind: “he has at least three crimes on his conscience”! Hermann sat down beside her on the window sill and told her everything.
Lisaveta Ivanovna listened to him with horror. So those passionate letters, those ardent demands, the whole impertinent and obstinate pursuit—all that was not love! Money—that was what his soul craved for! It was not she who could satisfy his desire and make him happy! The poor ward had been nothing but the unknowing assistant of a brigand, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! … She wept bitterly, in an agony of belated repentance. Hermann looked at her in silence; his heart was also tormented; but neither the tears of the poor girl nor the astounding charm of her grief disturbed his hardened soul. He felt no remorse at the thought of the dead old lady. He felt dismay for only one thing: the irretrievable loss of the secret upon which he had relied for enrichment.
“You are a monster!” Lisaveta Ivanovna said at last.
“I did not wish for her death,” Hermann answered. “My pistol wasn’t loaded.”
They were silent.
The day began to break. Lisaveta Ivanovna extinguished the flickering candle. A pale light lit up her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them to Hermann: he sat by the window, his arms folded and with a grim frown on his face. In this position he bore an astonishing resemblance to a portrait of Napoleon. Even Lisaveta Ivanovna was struck by the likeness.
“How am I going to get you out of the house?” Lisaveta Ivanovna said at last. “I had thought of leading you along the secret staircase, but that would mean going past the Countess’ bedroom, and I am afraid.”
“Tell me how to find this secret staircase; I’ll go on my own.”
Lisaveta Ivanovna stood up, took a key from her chest of drawers, handed it to Hermann, and gave him detailed instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, unresponsive hand, kissed her bowed head and left.
He descended the winding staircase and once more entered the Countess’ bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if turned to stone; her face expressed a deep calm. Hermann stopped before her and gazed at her for a long time, as if wishing to assure himself of the dreadful truth; finally, he went into the study, felt for the door behind the silk wall hangings, and, agitated by strange feelings, he began to descend the dark staircase.
“Along this very staircase,” he thought, “perhaps at this same hour sixty years ago, in an embroidered coat, his hair dressed à l’oiseau royal, his three-cornered hat pressed to his heart, there may have crept into this very bedroom a young and happy man now long since turned to dust in his grave—and today the aged heart of his mistress ceased to beat.”
At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened with the key Lisaveta Ivanovna had given him, and he found himself in a corridor which led into the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
That evening there appeared before me the figure of the late Baroness von V**.
She was all in white and she said to me: “How are you, Mr. Councillor!”
SWEDENBORG
Three days after the fateful night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann set out for the *** monastery, where a funeral service for the dead Countess was going to be held. Although unrepentant, he could not altogether silence the voice of conscience, which kept on repeating: “You are the murderer of the old woman!” Having little true religious belief, he was extremely superstitious. He believed that the dead Countess could exercise a harmful influence on his life, and he had therefore resolved to be present at the funeral, in order to ask her forgiveness.
The church was full. Hermann could scarcely make his way through the crowd of people. The coffin stood on a rich catafalque beneath a velvet canopy. Within it lay the dead woman, her arms folded upon her chest, and dressed in a white satin robe, with a lace cap on her head. Around her stood the members of her household: servants in black coats, with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders and candles in their hands; the relatives—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—in deep mourning. Nobody cried; tears would have been une affectation. The Countess was so old that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives had long considered her as having outlived herself. A young bishop pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple, moving words, he described the peaceful end of the righteous woman, who for many years had been in quiet and touching preparation for a Christian end. “The angel of death found her,” the speaker said, “waiting for the midnight bridegroom, vigilant in godly meditation.” The service was completed with sad decorum. The relatives were the first to take leave of the body. Then the numerous guests went up to pay final homage to her who had so long participated in their frivolous amusements. They were followed by all the members of the Countess’ household, the last of whom was an old housekeeper of the same age as the Countess. She was supported by two young girls who led her up to the coffin. She had not the strength to bow down to the ground—and merely shed a few tears as she kissed the cold hand of her mistress. After her, Hermann decided to approach the coffin. He knelt down and for several minutes lay on the cold floor, which was strewn with fir branches; at last he got up, as pale as the dead woman herself; he went up the steps of the catafalque and bent his head over the body of the Countess…. At that very moment it seemed to him that the dead woman gave him a mocking glance, and winked at him. Hermann, hurriedly stepping back, missed his footing, and crashed on his back against the ground. He was helped to his feet. At the same moment, Lisaveta Ivanovna was carried out in a faint to the porch of the church. These events disturbed the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony for a few moments. A subdued murmur rose among the congregation, and a tall, thin chamberlain, a near relative of the dead woman, whispered in the ear of an Englishman standing by him that the young officer was the Countess’ illegitimate son, to which the Englishman replied coldly: “Oh?”
For the whole of that day Hermann was exceedingly troubled. He went to a secluded inn for dinner and, contrary to his usual custom and in the hope of silencing his inward agitation, he drank heavily. But the wine fired his imagination still more. Returning home, he threw himself on to his bed without undressing, and fell into a heavy sleep.
It was already night when he awoke: the moon lit up his room. He glanced at his watch; it was a quarter to three. He found he could not go back to sleep; he sat down on his bed and thought about the funeral of the old Countess.
At that moment somebody in the street glanced in at his window, and immediately went away again. Hermann paid no attention to the incident. A minute or so later, he heard the door into the front room being opened. Hermann imagined that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some nocturnal outing. But he heard unfamiliar footsteps and the soft shuffling of slippers. The door opened: a woman in a white dress entered. Hermann mistook her for his old wet-nurse and wondered what could have brought her out at that time of the night. But the woman in white glided across the room and suddenly appeared before him—and Hermann recognised the Countess!
“I have come to you against my will,” she said in a firm voice, “but I have been ordered to fulfil your request. Three, seven, ace, played in that order, will win for you, but only on condition that you play not more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play again for the rest of your life. I’ll forgive you my death if you marry my ward, Lisaveta Ivanovna….”
With these words, she turned round quietly, walked towards the door and disappeared, her slippers shuffling. Hermann heard the door in the hall bang, and again saw somebody look in at him through the window.
For a long time Hermann could not collect his senses. He went out into the next room. His orderly was lying asleep on the floor; Hermann could scarcely wake him. The orderly was, as usual, drunk, and it was impossible to get any sense out of him. The door into the hall was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit a candle, and recorded the details of his vision.
CHAPTER SIX
“Attendez!”
“How dare you say to me: ‘Attendez’?”
“Your Excellency, I said: ‘Attendez, sir’!”
Two fixed ideas can no more exist in one mind than, in the physical sense, two bodies can occupy one and the same place. “Three, seven, ace” soon eclipsed from Hermann’s mind the form of the dead old lady. “Three, seven, ace” never left his thoughts, were constantly on his lips. At the sight of a young girl, he would say: “How shapely she is! Just like the three of hearts.” When asked the time, he would reply: “About seven.” Every potbellied man he saw reminded him of an ace. “Three, seven, ace,” assuming all possible shapes, persecuted him in his sleep: the three bloomed before him in the shape of some luxuriant flower, the seven took on the appearance of a Gothic gateway, the ace—of an enormous spider. To the exclusion of all others, one thought alone occupied his mind—making use of the secret which had cost him so much. He began to think of retirement and of travel. He wanted to try his luck in the public gaming-houses of Paris. Chance spared him the trouble.
There was in Moscow a society of rich gamblers, presided over by the celebrated Chekalinskii, a man whose whole life had been spent at the card-table, and who had amassed millions long ago, accepting his winnings in the form of promissory notes and paying his losses with ready money. His long experience had earned him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, his famous cook and his friendliness and gaiety had won him great public respect. He arrived in Petersburg. The younger generation flocked to his house, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the enticements of faro to the fascinations of courtship. Narumov took Hermann to meet him.
They passed through a succession of magnificent rooms, full of polite and attentive waiters. Several generals and privy councillors were playing whist; young men, sprawled out on brocade divans, were eating ices and smoking their pipes. In the drawing-room, seated at the head of a long table, around which were crowded about twenty players, the host kept bank. He was a most respectable-looking man of about sixty; his head was covered with silvery grey hair, and his full, fresh face expressed good nature; his eyes, enlivened by a perpetual smile, shone brightly. Narumov introduced Hermann to him. Chekalinskii shook his hand warmly, requested him not to stand on ceremony, and went on dealing.
The game lasted a long time. More than thirty cards lay on the table. Chekalinskii paused after each round in order to give the players time to arrange their cards, wrote down their losses, listened politely to their demands, and more politely still allowed them to retract any stake accidentally left on the table. At last the game finished. Chekalinskii shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
“Allow me to place a stake,” Hermann said, stretching out his hand from behind a fat gentleman who was punting there.
Chekalinskii smiled and nodded silently, as a sign of his consent. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on forswearing a longstanding principle and wished him a lucky beginning. “I’ve staked,” Hermann said, as he chalked up the amount, which was very considerable, on the back of his card.
“How much is it?” asked the banker, screwing up his eyes. “Forgive me, but I can’t make it out.”
“47,000 roubles,” Hermann replied.
At these words every head in the room turned, and all eyes were fixed on Hermann.
“He’s gone out of his mind!” Narumov thought.
“Allow me to observe to you,” Chekalinskii said with his invariable smile, “that your stake is extremely high: nobody here has ever put more than 275 roubles on any single card.”
“What of it?” retorted Hermann. “Do you take me or not?”
Chekalinskii, bowing, humbly accepted the stake.
“However, I would like to say,” he said, “that, being judged worthy of the confidence of my friends, I can only bank against ready money. For my own part, of course, I am sure that your word is enough, but for the sake of the order of the game and of the accounts, I must ask you to place your money on the card.”
Hermann drew a banknote from his pocket and handed it to Chekalinskii who, giving it a cursory glance, put it on Hermann’s card.
He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, on the left a three.
“The three wins,” said Hermann, showing his card.
A murmur arose among the players. Chekalinskii frowned, but instantly the smile returned to his face.
“Do you wish to take the money now?” he asked Hermann.
“If you would be so kind.”
Chekalinskii drew a number of banknotes from his pocket and settled up immediately. Hermann took up his money and left the table. Narumov was too astounded even to think. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and went home.
The next evening he again appeared at Chekalinskii’s. The host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the players already there immediately gave way to him. Chekalinskii bowed graciously.
Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed on it his 47,000 roubles together with the winnings of the previous evening.
Chekalinskii began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on the left.
Hermann showed his seven.
There was a general cry of surprise, and Chekalinskii was clearly disconcerted. He counted out 94,000 roubles and handed them to Hermann, who pocketed them coolly and immediately withdrew.
The following evening Hermann again appeared at the table. Everyone was expecting him; the generals and privy councillors abandoned their whist in order to watch such unusual play. The young officers jumped up from their divans; all the waiters gathered in the drawing-room. Hermann was surrounded by a crowd of people. The other players held back their cards, impatient to see how Hermann would get on. Hermann stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale but still smiling Chekalinskii. Each unsealed a pack of cards. Chekalinskii shuffled. Hermann drew and placed his card, covering it with a heap of banknotes. It was like a duel. A deep silence reigned all around.
His hands shaking, Chekalinskii began to deal. On the right lay a queen, on the left an ace.
“The ace wins,” said Hermann and showed his card. “Your queen has lost,” Chekalinskii said kindly.
Hermann started: indeed, instead of an ace, before him lay the queen of spades. He could not believe his eyes, could not understand how he could have slipped up.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades winked at him and smiled. He was struck by an unusual likeness …
“That old hag!” he shouted in terror.
Chekalinskii gathered up his winnings. Hermann stood motionless. When he left the table, people began to converse noisily.
“Famously punted!” the players said.
Chekalinskii shuffled the cards afresh; play went on as usual.
CONCLUSION
Hermann went mad. He is now installed in Room 17 at the Obukhov Hospital; he answers no questions, but merely mutters with unusual rapidity: “Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!”
Lisaveta Ivanovna has married a very agreeable young man, who has a good position in the service somewhere; he is the son of the former steward of the old Countess. Lisaveta Ivanovna is bringing up a poor relative.
Tomskii has been promoted to the rank of Captain, and is going to marry Princess Polina.
Translated by Gillon R. Aitken; Edited by A. L.